2014.04.20:HuntingInTheDark

Hunting in the Dark
Oswald's Granddaugter goes missing!
IC Date	April 20th, 2014.
IC Time	2am.
Players	Connor, Oswald, Sara McMurrough
Location	Sara's and Connor's apartment, the Chill Marsh of Blockeldur. Courtyard of the Castle of the Pale Court.
Prp/Tp	Echoes from the Past.
Spheres	Changeling and Gaian Garou.
Theme Song	Metallica - Of Wolf and Man

Oswald's been having more of those bad dreams as of late, each ending with a deeper, darker feeling of loss, dishonor, and hopelessness. The girl wasn't even present in this last one, instead, he's been on a quest to locate her and it feels as rough as the search for the elusive Holy Grail. Connor's been dealing with his own demons. His night watches have grown longer as the things moving in shadow grow more bold and brazen, now from just before duck until just past dawn - like poltergeist.. they open drawers, break things, and threaten Sara with little bumps under the bed, in the closet. Leaving him exhausted from the constant state of watchfulness. Tonight's not been much different. Except that Sara was called in to work on an emergency shift. There's a deep sense of for boding about the whole place. Shadows feel darker. The rooms are all colder than they ought to be. The noise of scratching and gnawing comes from the closet in the bedroom.

Oswald didn't have to go in to 215 tonight, or maybe he's taking a personal day. Either way he's had about enough of these shenanigans and is sitting still in a corner and watching the bedroom door, listening carefully for something to move out from the closet enough for him to act. He has his sword out, resting across his knees.

Connor was sitting at his place at the foot of the bed, having become more and more agitated each night he's finally taken his spear to his side, it sat at his side now and rested on the bed, he seemed to be working with a mortar and pestle though grinding up a mixture of plants as his gaze flickers back and forth

The door of the closet rattles again, those pesky noises - more flirtation and annoyance then any true connection between the worlds. The house phone rings as the two brave souls sit watch in the room. In response to the shrill brrriiiiiing-brrrrriiiiiiiiing.. the scuffling noises in the dark all sunder to stillness. The phone continues to ring.

Oswald looks over at Connor at the sudden and jarring noise, quirking an eyebrow at him and nodding at the phone before turning his attention back to the closet door.

Connor grunts, setting aside his tools before making his way over to the phone, scooping it off the hook "Hello?"

On the other end of the phone a familiar voice, Tom Sullivan from the PPD. "Hey Connor.." he greets, his tone irritable as anyone else at thisGod forsaken hour. "Slide over and kick Robinson out of bed? We need her on an explosives call." The silence in the closet is broken by the sound of eerie giggles, a fragrance slowly fills your nostrils with the scent of rotting flowers and decay.

Connor glances backwards over to an empty bed, a snarl crossing his features though he keeps the growl from escaping his chest "Ya jerkin' me around right? Ya guys called in her two hours ago." his hand had a white knuckled grip on the phone though and the reciever would be shaking at the strain

Oswald might be quiet the wonderous being but super hearing isn't one of his powers so he has to wait for Connor to share what's going on with the phone. Meanwhile he's creaking to his feet, the scent being the last straw as he decides to head for the closet. Then when Connor mentions what he does Oz shoots him a concerned look.

Over the phone, Sullivan flips some paperwork and responds. "I got nothin' here man, garage is closed for Easter Weekend - we're on skeleton crew. Her phone's turned off, radio's cold. She's not home?" There's a sound of concern from Sullivan too now. The door to the closet remains closed, but the closer Oswald gets to the portal the colder it feels, a puff of mist seeps from beneath the ill fitting down jamb.

Connor couldn't help but let a small growl out at his thoughts being confirmed "Nope, but I have a feeling I know where she could be. I'll go and find her."

Oswald is now seriously considering putting his foot through the closet door. Then he thinks of Sara and Connor's security deposit and shifts the sword to his left hand so he can whip the door open with his right.

"Right then," Sullivan says calmly, "You just watch yourself man." Clearly assuming there's some personal business going on between the two lovers, Sullivan adds, "Have her call in." He hangs up on his end. The door is torn open, revealing that the security deposit is already spend. Thousands of tiny little claw and chew marks tear up the back side of the cheap interior wooden door. Meanwhile, within the closet, a swirling mist churns and quivers like a wall of dense cloud. It feels like dry ice, sucking the warmth from the room and the men within it - obscuring all view of what lay within. It starts to tumble down slowly, leeching into the bedroom, a figure standing within not yet fully revealed. The stench of rot and fetid nature washes over Oswald almost overpowering.. and reaches for Connor across the room.

Connor flares his nostrils at the scent, turning towards it scource, he can't hide that snarl any longer, his hand moving to snatch up his spear from it's place on the bed

Oswald gives a low rumble of a growl as he shakes his head as if to clear it. He plunges the blade of his chimerical sword into the cloud bank and brings its flames to life.

The sword pierces the fog, and the light tears it like a fabric pouch, sending the mists puddling forth, seeping endlessly from the space that's so small Connor and Sara have to stack their shoes on top of one another to make space. But it's no longer a closet, it's a doorway, a portal to a land of marshes, bogs, and in the distance over the treacherous cliff you find yourself standing apron as the fog eats away at the reality of the bedroom you had been in.. shallow rivers meander through sickly scrubs. A carnivorous looking vulturesque winged denizen floats far overhead and the fluorescent lights are replaced by moonlight as the ceiling is gone and you find yourself in the realm of Blotkeldur. On the edge of the cliff, at a distance of some yards, it looks as if Sara, dressed in a mourning gown of tattered cloth, is contemplating leaping from the edge onto the craggy rocks below. You can only see her from behind.

Connor growls from his chest, flicking his gaze over the immediate area before his emerald eyes lock on Sara's form, he takes a few steps forwards before catching himself, his eyes closing as his nostrils flaring outwards drawing in the scent, he's learned to trust his other senses more than his eyes in his time as a theurge. He turns towards Oswald "This feels tha umbra, but I'm not familiar with it. and that's not Sara's scent. Where are we?"

Oswald frowns deeply and freezes himself absolutely still, shaping the stillness into a gift of motion. A hopscotch cantrip to call 'Sara' back towards the portal with a leap through the air. Not answering Connor for the moment, moving his mouth and lungs to speak would sill be moving and break the bunk for the magic's sacrifice.

The beautiful girl, snatched from the edge of the cliff, is deposited before the pair in a whirl of air and magic. Her eyes wide, she lands unsteadily before the pair without the grace and poise that Connor knows so well. Yet she appears just as Sara. Minus one little detail. There is no scar. Sara reaches for Connor slowly, "My love.." she whispers achingly, and her breathe is like spoiled marsh rot. Both of you can feel your body temperatures dropping, the closer she is, the quicker the warmth is leeched from you. "Help me.."

Connor flashes his eys over Sara's neck, noting the absence of the scar, he then levels the point of his spear to press against Sara's neck "You are not my love!" the muscles in his back and arms wound tightly beneath his skin "But you -will- tell me where she is!" his voiced was laced with seething rage, the scent, the loss of the scar, all pushing his nerves to the edge

Oswald scowls at the figure wearing his granddaughter's face and he draws himself up and LOOMS over the figure with his burning sword "Discard my granddaughter's Visage Keremet or face the consequences of our Wrath."

The ache is so real, the heartbreak then a sudden flickering of the image as Oswald and Connor call the thing out. She slips her fingers into her hair, stroking the silken locks of gold. "But she's so pretty, and beloved.." whines the spirit-like Kerement.. tangling long fingers, then tearing free whole patches of hair as the visage begins to melt. "She'll be disappointed when you fail her, you know." The creature slips like a movie strip, flickering in and out until a winsome child of twelve or so stands before you in tattered waifs rags. Flat eyes and dark, tangled hair. "They always die so disappointed."

Connor never let that spear-tip waver, just lowering it to continue to point at the creature's neck "You've no idea the lengths I'd go ta ta claim her back. Where has seen been taken?"

Oswald gives a condescending booming laugh and only just barely resists to pat the childling on the head with his flaming blade. "Sorrow is the lot of your tale not of hers. The tenacity of the Storm and the relentless force of the Falling Stars are her birthright. She will have a happier ending because -we- will it so."

The darkling slips it's coalish gaze to Connor, exuding an aire of unruffled complacency in the wake of the threats. Her cheeks gain a little more color with each wash of rage. "I've never seen one like you on the Silver Path.." she answers, turning to the massive troll. "But they whisper of you Fist of the North. Seek the Moirae, through the rotting bog beyond the bone bridge, on the Black Path of Balor. They know where the Fir-bholg have taken the wolf's beloved." She smiles back at Connor with a sorrowful intonation. "Plant flowers on her grave, and water them with your tears."

Connor growls low, just barely keeping himself in check enough to pull away his spear from the darkling, planting the haft against the ground "We'll see those responsible dealt with instead."

Oswald nods and grins fiercely as he moves his blade away from the darkling child "We will water them with the blood of our enemies soaking the earth to make their graves rather than hers." is his reply before he moves off.

The ghostly child watches as Connor stands down, her dreary and melancholic expression holding ground with the bubbling of his rage. She lifts a gaunt hand to point at a white span in the distance lofted over wide river adding as the two move off. "I would hurry. They might not stop at eating her fingers and toes. And that cage she was in looked very uncomfortable."

Connor let out a huff of breath, bleeding off a bit of his rage, though his soulder's are wound tigher then a drum as he moves. He shifts his weight, turning to follow off after Oswald in the direction mentioned

Overhead, the skies looms dark - thunder rumbles through the air, and only with the crack of lightening like a whip from the clouds does the dark-kin run off. The trail you pick up meanders down a broken cliffside, bleached bones and putrid moss litter the walk. You can tell from the recent tracks that you're following a convoy of some sort, heavily geared and numbering somewhere close to a dozen. At the base of the cliffs you pass a beastly looking carcass, the twisted remains of a pack of snaggletoothed formorian-touched hound like creatures, and one downed Fir-bhlog. At least the lands here are as treacherous to your enemies as they are to you.

Connor fished around in a rough leather pouch at his waist pulling out a beat up tin can. Slinging his spear across his back a moment he began to dip his fingers into the can before coming back out covered in bright blue dye. He was itching for a fight and had to steady his nerves, he began to smear the blue in haphazard stripes and swirls down across his face and chest. Besides going to war improperly dressed was a crime in and of itself. He huffed out another breath, offering the tin to Oswald as they marched along

Oswald when the move away from the darkling to make their way the sword flickers out and Oswald puts it away to accept the paint with a grateful nod. He doesn't bother pointing out the tracks unless there's something about them a werewolf wouldn't notice.

Oddly enough, it's as if Connor's enchanted as he travels with the Troll, seeing, hearing, and aware of the sensory aspects of the environment as any Kinain. It's the lore that Oswald has leverage with, and the signs that come along with it. This place, old, even by the measure of the realms, is an ancient battle ground that has swallowed whole armies. As they pair marches on, closer to the marshes, the view of the bone white bridge is obscured by the deans growth of underbrush. The cloying scent of rot provides excellent coverage for the tracking of the group you hunt by scent, but there are signs to be found. A broken branch, a muddy footprint. Up ahead, the path splits two ways. One through a meadow, the other around a copse of withered trees.

Connor stopped at the fork, kneeling down to look over the tracks, his nostrils flaring out again, trying to trace any bit of scent beneath the rot

Oswald nods and waits, surveying the perimeter when Connor stops to sniff. After the paint is done on him self he caps the container and pockets it for the moment, drawing his sword back out.

There, the highest sensitivity of the lupine nose is both blessing and curse. The scent of motor oil, it's clearly moving in the direction of the copse. A faint odor of blood, mixed with the stench of sweat trails into the meadow from when eeks too the scent of mild smoke. And over it all, that fetid rot, causing Connor to deal with an uneasy queasiness. His gift protecting him from the noxious poisons of the swamp gasses.

Connor frowns glancing back and forth between the paths "Motor oil, that's her, though." he flases his gaze down towards the meadow "Blood, sweat, smoke. Could be her as well." he shakes his head, digging around in his pocket "God damnit Connor! You made it the first day you were here!" he fishes out that lock of Sara's hair, braided and threaded through a deep green edged piece of connemara marble

Oswald chuckles and grins "Tracking charm? I'm reminded of a cantrip we could be using as well. The cold when we first arrived must have numbed what we use for brains."

Connor would give a dip of his head "I made it almost as soon as I arrived. It's not perfect, but it'll give me tha direction." he frowns though rolling his shoulders in a shrug "It's just general though." he gives a wide grin though "We'll we're on tha trail now atleast and thinkin' a bit more."

The rite Connor performs is quite.. something. Maybe it's the strange location, the way the ground seems to consume his ritual markings, or just that he needs to grow a little. The stone he has hovers general north west.. by north, by northeast, and maybe a little more to the west again. Yeah she's uh.. over in that general direction.

Oswald stomps his feet as he stand around waiting for Connor, the chill starting to seep into his old bones. Rubbing his hands together to warm them he's struck by something funny and grins to himself, before blowing into his hands to try and conjure a will-o-whisp to track her with but there's not even a flicker.

But the stomping is to all for nothing, in the distance, someone giggles, watching the hapless duo at the crossroads. The bushes rustle, and then quiet again as the hidden watcher goes quiet and still.

Connor sighs standing upright, his nostrils flaring again "I'm leanin' towards tha smell of motor oil, though..blood and sweat and smoke, that seems more her. As if tha oil is tryin' ta throw me off." he cocks his head to the side hearing the giggle, gaze tracking for the sound and some movement

Oswald looks off in the direction of the giggles and then shrugs at Connor "I would go for the blood as well. I mean, its Sara that's been taken. Someone got their clock cleaned for that already."

In the brush there's nothing more or less than the rustling expected in dense scrub. Overhead the skies are still dark and loathsome. And even though it looks like Connor's straining to do something, he just passes a little gas. Fortunately the bog already covers that smell.

Connor seemed to concentrate a moment, though he rocks back on his heels a frown crossing his features "Right...blood and sweat." he nods, though watches briefly behind them trying to listen for anything else

Oswald in absence of much of a tracking rite and his own cantrip having been a total failure Oswald will start heading off in the direction Connor indicated leaded to the blood and smoke.

Nothing but the eerie silence, and then some shouting and grumbling from the clearing. As you two enter it, you come upon a thatched grass hut, with a fire ring on the outside. Something clearly human in size and shape is being roasted on the spit, some cages are strew about the 'yard' with an assortment of beasts, a small sprite, and one very sad looking pooka inside. A hobgoblin encampment. Off to one side of the hut is a cart with harnesses for a beast to pull it. Two grizzled old hobgoblins are scraping it out over something shiny as you walk up on the camp - "It's mine!" "NO It's MINE" "I saw it first!" "But I made the trade!"

Connor pads forward, unslinging his spear from his back, he seems to be constantly frowing today, taking in the scent of the area, making sure to thump his spear as if it were a walking stick as he approaches

Oswald has his hand resting on the pommel of his sword but he doesn't draw it out, his lumbering steps making enough of a disturbance to announce his approach.

One of the hobgoblins thumbs the other in the head with a piece of wood and snatches up the wrench from the ground, stuffing it triumphantly in his pocket. A wrench? Here? It's got to be Sara's. The 'winner' of the fray turns to bow deeply to the pair of strangers, grinning broadly. "Welcome to Camp-" "WhaWhaNeeNee!" Chimes in the second of the two as he scrambles to his feet. "What a day for strangers! Come on-" "Over and take refuge at our fire!" the first bumbles into the second, trading off sentences as they flash too bright smiles and sharp teeth. "Yes welcome to our home, accept our" - "hospitality.." they chime together. "We have goods and services for all travelers. No request too big," "And no bag of coin too small! We deal in barter and trade."

Connor would step forward at the mention of hospitality, though he still seemed tense and ready to spring at a moment's notice "Ya catch me a bit unprepared for tha journey I find myself on." his nostrils flare out again taking in the scent as he eyeballs the wrench

Oswald fishes out a belt purse and grins as he steps forward to take a seat by the fire "Greetings good merchants. Its an interesting evening that finds us all on the road together, I'm interested in the story of how you came to possess that wrench."

The hobgoblin with the wrench places a hand protectively over his 'treasure' as Connor eyes his pocket, "Oh prepared are we!" chimes the other with open arms. "Come come - we have everything for the adventuring party. Come in come in!" The pooka in the cage rolls forward, "Yes yes! Trust them to give you most excellent deals!" The first hobgoblin picks up a rock and throws it at the caged fae. "Shut your trap or we'll feed you to the redcap." Connor can scent Sara, faintly, as if a passing. The faintest traces of motor oil. The blood much stronger. But not hers. The one with the wrench toddles forward and displays his trophy proudly at the view of the coin purse. "Oh yes fine warrior, it is a precious thing indeed from through the Hedge it came to me. Cost dear it did! I shall never part with it."

Connor holds the scent to him, he paces though clearly agitated before he finally settles down, decidedly out of his depth he lets Oswald do the talking now, this isn't his world. Settling back in behind Oswald, he leans up against his spear

Oswald grins and shrugs as he settles back and waves off the wrench itself, not missing what the pooka said but having to stay focused for the moment "I come from beyond the Mists, things such as that are easy for me to get. I just want the story of how you came to have it."

In her cage the pooka retreats to the back corner and huddles there, puling her hands over her head and flattening her feline ears. "Stories.. stories are hard to come by on this road, are they not brother?" answers one to the other with nods back and forth. They point together at Connor. "We can trade the story for the .. temporary use of your slave?"

Connor snorts faintly with a chuckle, turning his gaze over to the pair of hobgoblins. He continues to say nothing though and just continues to lean against his spear, peering back down at the questing stone tied about his wrist

Oswald shakes his head "This is not a slave but a fosterling, I'm seeing to his education in the Dreaming." Jingling the pouch he says "I can pay in the coin of our people, or coins from beyond the mists if you'd rather those being such discerning collectors."

The rock lay dormant now against Connor's wrist, as the rite requires continuous concentration to keep it going. The flitting sprites dart agitatedly back and forth in the willow bark cages, making almost silenced sounds like tiny bells. The two merchants are raptured by the sound of the coin, and one puffs up at the honorific bestowed. "We are collectors, yes yes." They hold up the wrench and show it in the light. "It is a very good story.. two stories. It was collected from another in our collection." The Hobgoblin nods excitedly and puts out his hand. "Taken from a slave.. it was!"

Connor's eye twitches at the mention of another slave, and he bites down on the inside of his cheek until he tastes the coppery tang of his own blood to keep himself quiet

Oswald nods and shrugs, internally suppressing another twitch as he adds a tally mark to his mental 'bill' for these merchants "And I can pay for two tales, unless you are not looking to make the sale....."

"Oh yes, pretty-pretty, it leaked from the eyes. Pre-salted it was! Companion to dinner, but sold too quickly to eat! We captured it with nets and sticks, was fierce battle! But stopped it did to helping the Pooka. Such a good plan, the Pooka bait, best my brother ever had!" The Hobgoblin sounds almost disappointed as he adds, "We were to taking the lave to central market, but the Duke's man did come through and took fancy to it's golden hair. Traded Kemert and coin, letting us to eat the other." He nods at the spur again. "You are hungry?" Then the other leaps up and toddles back to the spit to turn the roasting denizen or unlucky foreigner that was potentially traveling with Sara. "Feisty slave, did not know it's place no." The second brother looks to the first and pats the air with laughter. "The Duke's Knight put it down, easy brother mine. And did he too pay for package. He was generous yes, but getting great deal. Wagon, cage, chains, collar, and beast to drag it all away. The slave will be in the keep dungeons before nightfall tomorrow."

Well that must have been too much for the garou, every instinct screamed out at him to rip these animals to shreds and for once he couldn't hold himself back, he impaled his spear into the ground before letting his rage take over, body exploding outward in fur and muscle mass, he stormed forward moving to grab the nearest hobgoblin's neck in his claws, his voice one of snarling rage "WHERE?!"

Oswald whips his sword out to cover the other Hobgoblin and grins fiercely "This young cousin is a Gallian Prodigal, not a pooka. You can believe he means every word he says. The golden haired girl is his beloved. He is a Hero, on a Quest. I do not suggest opposing him."

The little bastard might have been caught off guard, but that hardly makes him easy pickings. The hobgoblin squeals like a little girl, while the other starts to dive at the werewolf's thigh. Stopped short by the sword. The pooka is cheering as she watches her captors attacked, digging at the padlock on her cage with a nimble little claw. The nasty little goblins are fierce, and much stronger than they look. The pooka calls out, "Help me and I won't tell you anything important!" The hobgoblin pinned by Oswald glares at the little bitch but his brother is apparently more important for the moment. Almost as important as coin. "We haven't been paid for our stories. You can't kill him till you pay!" The squeaky one is waving his arms as his face turns all shades of red, "The Duke's Castle! The Duke's Castle!"

Connor grunts and struggles a bit before using his extra bulk of muscle mass to gain a bit more leverage over the hobgoblin, his fanged mouth grinds a bit as he struggles to speak out in english "Your..lives may...be...ample...payment!" his body coils and shivers at the rage he feels "STOLE MY LOVE!" his claws go to tighten down fiercly against the creature's neck

Oswald laughs menacingly as he takes a handful of coins from his chimerical pouch "So ready to sell out your brother? Then you've earned a traitor's wage. Thirty pieces of silver......and to die not knowing the tale of what that means."

The creature getting choked kicks and thrashes wildly, clawing at the arms of the werewolf and starting to draw blood. "We're only merchants heroes!" The hobgoblin retorts, but the sparkle of coin just keeps his eyes locked. "That's not enough!" The pooka struggles with her cage. "We didn't steal her, we just sold her!" squeaks the choked up little weasel.

Oh, because that just makes it so much better! He snarls in anger at the latest words, and the scratching at his arm, he wrenches his arm back taking the hobgoblin with it before slamming him back down into the ground. Usually Connor is all for talking and sorting things out, now he's just very angry.

As the hobgoblin is slammed into the ground, his coin purse breaks, the coins flying with the spray of blood from his mouth. "Mine!" he screams, and the brother actually starts to lurch for the gold as well. But remembers the sword and looks beseeching at Oswald. "Come now.. you wouldn't begrudge me my brother's death coin?" There's something about the coins that Oswald will find ... familiar, at a distance. The pooka springs her cage and scrambles free.. running to the sprites' instead of fleeing the clearing.

Oswald keeps the sword on the hobgoblin as he bends to catch up one of the coins for a closer look. Resting the blade on the hobgoblin's shoulder so he doesn't get ideas, Oswald turns his attention to the coin, not answering either way.

Connor grinds the palm of his heel against the creature's neck, his emerald gaze flickers and flares over towards the pooka as it scampers, though he turns his maw over toward Oswald "You..know way...ta Duke?"

The feline pooka is breaking open the willow cages, the sprites freed, flutter up into the night sky like floating stars. The hobgoblin with the Troll's blade on his shoulder is still torn between life and "That's my coin - by right.." the one on the ground weakly spits blood at his treacherous brother. "I'm not dead yet you bastard.." he croaks.

Oswald frowns fiercely at the coin "This mark should not be this far west. This lordling dwells in the kingdom of Willows, what is his gold doing here?!"

The hobgoblins looks confused as the Troll barks nonsense. The one who was reaching for the coin draws his hand back.. the one seeking to save his own skills squeaks, "Promise to let me live and I'll tell you who's mark is on the coin!" The pooka darts around to cower behind Oswald - trust them, trust them!" she squeaks, peeking out beneath the Oswald's arm. "I can't tell you anything. You should let them both live!"

Connor growls in the hobgoblins face before slowly releasing the thing from his grasp, back peddling a few paces on digigrade clawed paws, he was seething but he needed answers and dead things didn't talk.

Oswald speaks fluent pooka and really has had enough of these creatures and all their shenanigans "I know the mark already, you have nothing to barter with." And he gives both the slimy punks the chop.

The Pooka almost panics as Connor lets go of the beastly merchant.. but when Oswald comes down on them with the wrath of Troll, she leaps on his back, cloning to the massive troll like a furry backpack, burrowing into his clothing as if it could hide her safely. "I hate you I hate you!" She certainly sounds chipper for an angry kitten.. "The mark belongs to everyone except for the Duke's Mother! She's a wonderful, weak willed beauty who will treat the ugly slave with kindness and never sacrifice her to the pale lords of the bog! The bone bridge is not heavily guarded, and no one is expecting you and your companion. Waste no time watching for traps along the northern trail around the copse, and do not sneak up the river!" She crawls up until she's peeking over Oswald's shoulder at the dead slavers, and spits on them before she adds, "I never pretended to be knocked out and spied on the Duke's men. The Pale Knight had a story you should never hear."

Connor paced back towards his spear, snatching it up, his furred brow cocked upwards towards the pair of fae "A..trail then?"

Oswald turns to the pooka and nods as he listens. Settling back down he grabs up a rag to clean his sword with "Then I will just be standing here not listening at all."

The furry girl squats down nearby. She flashes her golden eyes toward Connor and giggles, "The hero is so smart." The little feline girl then remembers where she was at, chittering to Oswald, "When the Pale Knight was old, there wasn't a duel with the grandfather of the ugly kinain. He was true to his King, and used only the wits and brawn afforded him by station, birthright, and hard training. There was never a spell, carried as a favor, that did effect only the eyes of the most righteous defender." She hesitates a moment, leaping down and skittering back to gain some distance. "He has no plans to ravage the girl to bring further dishonor on the family wronged so long ago, or to kill the warrior he cheated out of title, land, and honor."

Connor bares his teeth briefly, he was still puzzling out the creatures speech "Then..we should take...our time..gettin' there..and not use ...tha secret path."

The little pooka, having done her part, disappears in a soft pop and a brief sparkle of magic, leaving the troll and the hero to make do as they will.

Oswald takes a long couple of moments to process all the things the little pooka said, he speaks pooka sure but sometimes filtering out all the flowery prose and making the correct logical transpositions ties his brain meats in knots. Once he figures it out he only has one thing to say "That son of a bitch."

Connor snorts faintly with a toss of his head "Right. That was...as bad..as I understood it then?" he turns, flaring out his nostrils to take in a brief scent before padding his way towards the river

The fire continues to burn, the flesh being charred over it smells sickly sweet. There clearing otherwise silent as the two dead bleed out on the cold bog ground. Sara's wrench and the coins lay scattered about.

Oswald nods to Connor as he grabs up the wrench and hands it over "He defeated me by cheating, he got me out of the war by falsehood. I'd beat him bloody just for that. Now he took Sara? There will be a reckoning."

When we last left our Hero and his erstwhile companion, there were two dead hobgoblins, an unknown on a spit, and a plan. Somewhere in the distance, war drums beat.. the sky looms heavy with clouds covering the stars, and the murky swamp prepares to receive the offerings of dead. A few droplets of heavy rain begin to fall, sizzling on the fire.

Connor gathers up his spear, padding over to bring down the roasting corpse, he looked for any identifying marks but wasn't hopful in the least

Oswald is a veteran of many battles and one of the things he knows to do is to scavenge efficiently for supplies. Anything that even seems like it might be useful is getting took.

The blackened flesh peels from constricted muscles, the scream of agony on the man's face and the soot gathered around the lips and nose tell a horrible story - this wretched victim was roasted alive. There are no clear identifying features on the corpse, a human adult male. Oswald finds rope, grappling hooks, torches, assorted crap weaponry and the cache of 'treasures' the hobgoblins hoarded - amidst which is a Prospect Police Department Badge for one Officer Frank O'Mally. One of the guys Sara worked with frequently. A man she would have trusted at 2 in the morning.

Connor frowns stepping away from the corpse "Not a good way ta die." he shook out his head glance over to Oswald "Through tha river and get close enough ta cut off tha head? Or plow right through tha front gates?"

Oswald gathers up the rope and grappling hook, looping it properly and securing it across his chest. The badge is picked up with a scowl and he looks off in the direction of the castle "How do you think they'd like it if we just appeared in Sara's cell and ripped the door off from the inside? I think I'm done screwing around."

The rain continues to fall, picking up speed and density from a dripping to a near deluge.. the war drums beat louder, stronger.. and the sounds of a great army preparing for battle echo across the seemingly empty marshes.

Connor gives a savage grin, lips peeling back in that snarl of his "I'd like that very much." he would nod off in the direction of the sounds of the drums "Ta tear that apart from tha inside."

Oswald draws his sword and starts dragging it point down to draw a circle large enough for him and Connor to stand in, gesturing with his free hand for Connor to hop in and says "Lets be about it." as he finishes carving the circle in the earth.

There are divots made and Oswald holds Sara's wrench in his free hand, using it as a focus to anchor the cantrip to sara on the far end.

It is as if nature itself in this place has been warped to the will of a darker master, as Oswald draws the circle, the storm unleashes in a fury. Lightening cracks across the heavens and the thunder rolls like a bellowing dragon across the skies. The wind whips and howls, screaming in fury as the ritual is enacted. Connor can see and feel the cold claws of the ancient banshees as sure as if he were standing on the moor. As the Troll toils - so the Werewolf must protect him from shadows come to life, striving to interrupt the ancient rite.

Connor upends his spear again, planting it behind him and he had a very bad need to tear something to shreds at the moment "Come then! And see what awaits those who try ta stop one blessed by both Luna and Helios!" his maw splits into that savage grin and he offers his warpainted chest outwards to the creatures before tilting his head back into a hunting howl

Oswald keeps chanting and carving his teleportation circle while Connor runs interference, battling off the shadow creatures trying to stop them. The energy of the spell is building along with the desperation of the attackers when Oswald calls out a single intelligible word. "NOW!"

With paper wings and savage claws the shadows dive and attack, they struggle to get at Oswald, battering their way against Connor.. scratching and clawing like old women. His claws tear and shred, rending the crazed spirits even as they gouge at his eyes and face. Faster they come, like a growing brood.. they pile at the Fianna's clawed feet. swarming in a final desperate attempt to overcome the pair. Even as all grows black, there's a burning flash and for a moment, the pair of you are alone in a spinning splice of light and sound and cacophonous beauty - if one could exists inside of this thing called glamour, perhaps this is it.

Though a Theurge, all wolves were warriors under Gaia and Connor reveled in it, he darted back and forth, sweeping his claws, seemingly unconcerned for his own safety, taking a fair share of his own bruises and gouges along his furred flesh, with another howl he quickly stepped back into the circle, claiming his spear once more before being sucked away by the power of the arts

Oswald finds the waiting not as hard as another kith might. Knowing it takes longer for a group to move through the magic, Oswald takes a breath and gathers himself for what's to come.

And from beauty to the darkness in it's most ghastly form. You appear in the courtyard of the castle, the weathered white stones seen from a distance now pressed close around you. The war drums thereunder outside the gates you did not have to cross, as Oswald holds high the wrench just feet from the owner. Sara's face is bruised and pale, her eyes fierce with the fire you both know so well. Her hair is spilled forward over her shoulder, and it takes only a moment to realize why she's taller than her beloved, and almost eye level with her Grandfather. The Kinain is suspended from a gallows by ropes binding her arms over her head, leaving her body free to jerk and spasm as the whip comes down across her back in a savage crack. Connor may not understand what he sees, but Oswald knows the chimerical weapon is ranging glamour from the girl. The man who wields it.. no man at all. A Troll as pale as the bone white walls of the castle, as large as Oswald himself.. and known by title as the Pale Knight. "Nine of my men! And a Lashing for every one of them you will have you wretched.. low born.. common.. piece.. of.." his words are broken off by the arrival of the pair.. his rage swelling to a broad and toothy grin. "..and so you return to face your better, the Night of Iron Knives will be a pity tale to this." There are perhaps a dozen armed Changelings within the courtyard, a jester, some ladies.. and a handful of commoners. Everyone stops to watch.

Connor gave another savage grin, flashing his emerald gaze between Oswald and the Pale Knight "That tha one tha cheated you of your place? He's all yours." he set his feral gaze on the armed warriors "One step forward and I'll tear tha throats from each and every last one of you."

Oswald lets out a wordless bellow at the Pale Knight and then he speaks with the cadence of ritual and the great and immeasurable weight of his many long years of this life and centuries of Remembrance "Oathbreaker I name you, for turning from the path that mother Danu laid down for us to Guard all her children. Traitor to the Code of Dagda for the use of a spell wrought favor in what was SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN A DUEL OF HONOR. And worst of all...." He fishes the badge out of his pocket and brandishes it like a talisman "For the murder of a mortal who had done you no wrong I name you Ogre and blood traitor to all our Kith is supposed to be."

"So it comes to pass, the coward I banished from lands, title, the rebellious whelp with LIES and No Liege... comes crawling back to loose the little value left of his pathetic life!" The pale knight tosses the whip aside, leaving the kithain to dangle as he steps forward, massive steel boot grinding the badge into the dirt. "Light the torches and sound the trumpets... I wish for ALL MY LORD'S MEN to Bare witness to the unmaking of this pathetic FOOL!" The massive white Troll's directions are followed, there's great scrambling and busy work, it's almost as if a dual was expected. As excited word spreads, nobles and commoners trickle in on the balconies above and the grounds below. Everyone's coming to see the event. The Pale Knight gestures at Sara, "Squire, cut the prisoner down and take her to the dungeon. I'll finish her after I wipe my boots on this dog." Squires are usually eager to obey their lords, it's true, but this one is looking between the Pale Knight and Connor, clearly uncertain the wisest course of action is to obey.

Connor let out a low savage growl as he eyed the squire dangerously, he leveled off his spear to point towards the squire "I am Connor McMurrough, The Shining-Walker, born under Luna, Blessed by father Helios, warrior for Gaia and Hyperion and I swear by everything I hold dear, if anyone moves to touch her, it -will- be tha last thing any of you do. I will personally scatter your corpses to the cornors of my world."

As the squire fails to act immediately on his Knight's command with the threat from Connor, the thundering white brute bellows a curse against his incompetence. A chimerical sword, massive and gleaming is drawn fully from it's sheath and plunged into the youth from behind. "MY COMMAND IS TO BE OBEYED!" Spoken like a true Sidhe, "Guards! Kill the Prisoner and Her would-be savior. I've a dual to tend!" The Knight glowers at Connor and turns to walk to the field of combat as a half dozen of the armed guards begin to inch slowly toward the Fianna and the girl. In the highest tower, a Nobel woman dressed all in black appears in a window.. tossing down a silken favor that flutters toward the pale night like a ribbon with sentient tracking. A favor embossed with a too familiar sigil.

Connor glances back over to Oswald "Well sir, I believe you have a date." he turns back to the guards inching forward "And I'll not be made a liar." the muscles in his arm coil and he rockets the spear in his hand, whipping it towards the nearest guard, loping quickly after his shot to dive in among the guards with savage fury

Oswald reaches out and clenches a fist as the ribbon drifts down past one of the torches on the wall, the flame flares and consumes the scrap of silk and the spell falls apart uselessly like glitter "Their magic taints you so much you even sound like them." Connor's remark and bounding to action gets a laugh and Oswald draws his sword as the flame springs to life and he turns back to the Pale knight "Lets be about it." and he charges to battle.

The thundering knight reaches into the air for the favor, but finds only ashes as the flame licks away the silk. For a moment, his stoic surety is vanquished, leaving a flicker of concern in the wake. Stealing himself, the Pale Knight scoffs at Oswald and takes a stance. "Reduced to petty gestures of Scofflaw, you are truly pathetic and unworthy of any Name." The massive white Troll hefts his sword in defense. "My Blade is my Lord's!"

Even as the Pale Knight squares off with Oswald, the first guard charges Connor, the second already on his knees with a spear pierced through his chest and protruding from his back. A chain is slapped around the werewolf's ankle from behind by another, the well trained guards having had experience in battling dragons and other bestiary of lore.

Connor would shuffle backwards a moment, almost stumbling upon the chain around his ankle, he would reach out a woad covered hand towards Oswald's sword, quickly invoking his blessing of helios, he lets the woad spark up and flame engulf his entire form as it moves to devour the fumes of the gas laced into his warpaint and then spread to his fur. He was very angry, and never did fight fair after all. He reaches a blazing claw down to the chain about his ankle, trying to yank the guard on the other end into a fiery bear hug

There's just something fucking terrifying about an enraged werewolf, but a flaming enraged werewolf that's just seriously fucked up. Two of the guards run away, leaving Connor with a fairly even three on one fight.

Connor didn't get a good grip with his teeth, merely raking the guard's neck as he passed by on his lunge, though it opened himself up from one of the other guards, a gash slashed open along his ribs, the wound already starting to knit itself closed, letting the pain of the wound fuel his rage further

Oswald is slow, cautious deliberate and careful so he's in position when his nemesis swings his heavy overhand swing that Oswald blocks almost negligently before dropping his blade for a straight arm lunge that almost /melts/ through the steel to scrape against his enemy's sternum.

Connor is fueled by his rage, leaping into a blur of motion, he promised torn throats damnit, and torn throats they'll have. His wound continues to close up after he twists at the last moment batting away one of the guards blades, trapping the other scoring a line across his chest but nothing telling, the small line already sealing up behind the sword stroke

Oswald smirks as he sticks to his rythym and his opponent learns to match it. Unfortuneatly this means they both strike and block with the ease of long practice.

Connor tore out the guard's throat, weaving his body to the side to avoid another sword stroke but missing his second bite, his maw closing a few inches from the other guard's throat, though now that guard was alone with a very pissed off Connor who had a promise to keep about tearing out throats and scattering corpses

Oswald is not having any luck at all, getting out of the Rythym to dial up the offense was clearly the wrong call. Neither his double tap nor his opponents single smashing strike score a touch at all.

High in the tower, the witch scowls, she watches with the wrath only an Unseelie Sidhe could manage. A gesture from on high as the guard's head rolls onto the fields of battle.. and the Pale Knight screams in contempt and rage. The magical frenzy if steel and wrath explodes outward into the visage of the beast Oswald accused him of being, truly - an Ogre in the guise of a Troll all these many years. The courtyard erupts in chaos as the false pretenses of commoners and true fae give way.. the truth of the hold revealed. The dark-kin and spawn of the pale lords defend on the heroes - a last stand.. dark against light.. only one side will emerge alive and victorious!

Connor howled out towards the minions, diving into the fray as a firey ball of ruin for any who get too close, he fights without care for his own safety, just as long as none get passed him to Sara, clawing, kicking, biting, ripping, using every tool and option he has open to to cause death and mayhem

Oswald as the illusion is ripped away Oswald proves that he can move fast when he has to and he practically explodes into a malestrom of fiery sword swings, using a few to flat out overwhelm the pale knight's defenses and strike him down before carving a swath over to where Sara is tied up, bellowing to Connor "Time to Go!"

The kinain is brought safely down by the valiant heroes, saved from any further harm as they carve out a path.. a familiar voice rings out.. "Not here! Don't come in here!" The pooka from earlier is in a small opening with steel bars over the front.

Connor would help carve any path needed to make their way over towards the pooka, snarling and biting as he goes

Oswald makes an excellent road maker with huge sweeps of his sword. Sara's wrench stuck in the back of his belt so she can grab it to flail about with as she and Connor guard the flanks of the formation while he 'opens' the grate.

And thus the grate is opened, and Sara does her part to make that 9 down an even 10. The pooka waits for the heroes and Kinain to get into the tunnel and then stays to seal the grating, giving them some time to make a fair escape.