2021.05.18:The Cracked Windcatcher

The Cracked Windcatcher
An unknown antagonist sends a dark gift to the Ancient Oaks.
IC Date	2021.05.18.
IC Time	3am.
Players	Tinlin, Timand, Conn, Kohana-ST
Location	Ancient Oaks
Prp/Tp	The Farmer's Cow - Extended Prp
Spheres	Changeling and Gaian.

Tinlin is standing at the bathroom sink in the same dress she wore yesterday. It's a tad wrinkled from sleeping in it too. The water is running and she is scrubbing dirt off her hands and grime under her fingernails. The mood is solemn within, as if it was a hard night to follow now, and she's exhausted. The cave might smell like antiseptic spray and some gauze from the medkit Timand is putting away now.

The sound of a nailbrush has her working in the water. "I could warm up some milk, and try to get back to sleep as ye suggest, but maybe stay up a bit? I don't want to fall back into the same dream, Tim."

Its 3am. Darkness has long settled across the landscape, light seems so impossibly far away, out of reach. A gift had been left for Tinlin, a small dreamcatcher hanging in a tree in the nearby forest, it shakes in the wind, the beads run down one string, the circular wooden frane cracking. Trapped nightmares purposefully set to escape by some unknown force, some unknown evil.

Timand gives a little nod to what Tinlin says, then he turns away from her to head outside, saying "Lemme light a fire then, we can sit by it an ya can talk, or fall asleep as ya want.". He's speaking quietly to her, gently but serious. He opens the front door towards the forest, glancing towards the dreamcatcher that hangs outside, but he pays it no mind. Why would he? It's just some ornamentation around, means nothing to him. He gathers some firewood he's left near the door, his wood chopping axe left inside as everything is already cut.

Tinlin walks out of the bathroom and dries her hands. "A fire sounds nice actually. Thank you, Timand." She walks to the stove to put on a small saucepan to heat up some milk. Meanwhile, she does poke at her left hip where the nightmare scratch was left and then sighs. "Ye need to put yer thinking cap on," she's talking to herself. "Nothin' is impossible. Nothing."

The nightmares begin to coalesce, the dark shadows being made substance. Forging bone and sinew from fear and despair, horror made flesh. A low dark growl as the small pack of nightmare beasts assess their location, catch the scent of their prey and then move on the hunt!

A dark little howl, a wolf but not like any Tinlin recognizes rings out as they charge towards the cavern.

Timand has gathered up a bunch of wood and is turning for the cave again when he hears a howl in the woods. He quirks an eyebrow at that, and stiffens. He doesn't recognize the howl either, but he turns to look behind him.

Conn suffers from nightmares all his own, though prophetic rather than malefic. He rouses from his sleep with a sharp intake of breath and a slew of invective that would raise a blush from the hardiest of sailers. Begrudgingly, the troll dresses and begins readying for battle again, left hand and right hand both stretch out. Iontaofa, his Knightly sword, jumps from its resting place into his hand where Peace vanishes from the Murder of Crows and appears in his right. He sheaths the swords in their scabbards with a grunt of frustration and grabs his pouch of tokens, nicknacks he's paired to those to whom he's Contracted for Safe Haven. The troll raises growls "Take me to the one who's in trouble," knocks on the door to his bathroom and yells "I HOPE YOU'RE DECENT IN THERE, WHEREVER YOU ARE."

The yell can be heard in the Treehouse as the door in one of the doorways suddenly swaps for the door to Conn's bathroom. He steps through the door and instantly draws on the Wyrd, resting his hands on the swords and looking for the threat in the darkness.

From inside the cavern, Tinlin also looks up from the stove as she hears the unfamiliar howl. Something doesn't feel quite right and she is already spooked from the nightmare. There's no way she is going to cast that off to be something else. Her heart is already racing, and she turns the stove off so the pan won't overboil. But overhead, is the copper frying pan. On the bottom there is a dent with a ding, and she grasps the handle. "Conn... wherever you are, ... show up!"

That same door would lead him right into the mouth of Tinlin's kitchen. She's facing now the direction Timand went, and is starting to move in his direction.

As a troll, Conn is a solid foot taller. His skin is the deep grey of mountain granite, his hair is bassalt black and horns protude from it. Spirals, the color of woad, can be seen all across his skin.

Over the chimerical armor and hide pants, the Autumn peacoat appearing in a distinctly viking style. Pinned to one side of his chest there is the symbol of the Ebon Watchtower identifying him as a member of the Barony and to the other there is a coat of arms, a Red Branch on a Green Field. Around his neck, on some sinew, hangs a wolf claw.

At his left side, where once hung a plain sword, there is now a clearly magical Treasure that resonates with him in the Dreaming somehow. It might even draw your eye to its autumn counterpart, sheathed discretely into the inside of his leather jacket. At his right there is a new chimerical sword, equally resonant with him.

Hanging from his belt on his right hip there is a small bodhran, a silver rose, and a small dragon shaped flame cannon.

The glowing yellow eyes are seen first before anything. Charging through the darkness, then the glint of the white fangs as the maw snarls back, spitting out hate for their foes.

Speed that is unnatural, a lightness to their steps as they move that has them bolting through the terrain as if just a thought, or a nightmare. Then the beasts move to attack, two splitting off towards Conn while the third seeks its true prey, Tinlin.

The glowing yellow eyes are seen first before anything. Charging through the darkness, then the glint of the white fangs as the maw snarls back, spitting out hate for their foes.

Speed that is unnatural, a lightness to their steps as they move that has them bolting through the terrain as if just a thought, or a nightmare. Then the beasts move to attack. The hound on point splits off, driving its weight effortlessly towards Timand, do not let him protect the prey.

The second two continue onward, charging the cavern entrance with evil intent. Every footfall bringing with them despair.

Timand spins as he hears the snarling and running through the woods, and he's quickly yelling out "We got fuckin' COMPANY!". But he's not only yelling, he's reaching down to grab a big of grass root, which he throws towards the charging pack. Using his realm scene, and his art Legerdemain to Ensnare the charging foe. There is the flash of glamour as the clod of grass lands on the ground near the charging pack, causing massive roots and tendrals of vine to erupt from the ground to slow down, but not stop, the charging foe. This is just to buy time to get inside and bar the door.

Conn It's cold and dark and Conn is tired and angry, he does not like being woken from his sleep. It puts him in a bad mood, but it doesn't make him stupid. And he's getting pretty tired of dealing with this person's cowardice, "Buy me ten seconds," the troll says as he erupts into Chimerical scales, his arms and legs moving with an otherworldly, preternatural grace. He ignores one of the wolves, allowing it to try to bite him, if only to distract it. His eyes fixate on the second, and he points Iontaofa at it "and that one's mine, don't touch it, I need it alive."

His swords begin to turn in impossibly fast, tight, highly controlled, circles, more like a poi performance than a fencing one; each briefly stopping at each of the cardinal points, just long enough to give the impression of a set of clock hands. The Near Dreaming begins to warp and slow around the Troll as he begins to pull together the Glamour for a Chronos Cantrip and, though tightly regulated among the Nobles, even Commoners recognise what Conn is about to do to one of the Wolves.

Tinlin hears the yell outside of warning and then she's moving quickly from the stove to come aid Timand outside. Her wish is suddenly seen to be granted as the Red Knight shows up in her door. Backing up with the pan now, she gazes upward at the second porthole hatch that leads out from the cave to the cliff. A hand raps the pan like a makeshift drum, and then she's moving fast, to make that quick jump upward, to the incline to lock it tight. The bar slides in place, and one fist sends the locking mechanism home to click.

The wolves snap and growl, fighting their way through the snares and wild plants. One howls in rage as it breaks free of one particularly difficult vine and leaps at Timand to bite him. As Timand bars the door, it smashes itself against the door again and then the other wolves next, cracking wood to force its way inside.

The other two move to attack Conn, with the third hesitating a moment as if considering trying to get around him to Tinlin before it decides through Conn is the only way.

Timand was about to bar the door behind him, but then Conn (?!?!?) appears, swinging his sword around and around. He quickly jumps out of the way of Conn's sword arc, and yells out "Tinlin, get me my sword!", while at the same time dropping the pile of firewood and keeping one log in hand to use as a makeshift cudgel. He's not going t leave Conn here all alone. The one leaping at him manages to give his arm a nice little scrape, purple blood starting to well through his trollish form. Trollish? Yes, because he's called the wyrd to make himself his true form in this Autumn World. He gives a grunt of annoyance at the slash, then stomps his foot to invoke Oakenshield.

There's a pile up by the door as Tinlin leans down to get out in time with Timand's axe in her hand. She gives it a heave-ho over to him unnaturally fast, "Fly Swift, Fly True to Blue!" It's a jumble but she gets out in time and moves to one side as the creatures were trying to get to the cave door. There's no way she's going to hide inside and leave the brave trolls to fight alone. If one manages to get near her, she will wield her frying pan like a rounded shield.

Conn holds his ground, just ignoring the first wolf to attack him, his entire attention bound to the wolf he has marked. "Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws," the Troll Sorceror begins to incant, Sonnet 19 being the perfect vocal compliment to his unconventional sword play, "And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, And burn the long-liv'd ph?nix in her blood; Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets, And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, To the wide world and all her fading sweets; But I forbid thee one most heinous crime: O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; Him in thy course untainted do allow For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. Yet do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young."

The words finished, the Sonnet lain down, the wolf nightmare rests frozen in air, rife for later investigating. "You are but fodder for my craft, lupus noctnissa, in the words of my generation, COME AND HAVE A GO"

Anger and rage, hate and despair. The hound frozen in air shudders with it all unable to move, to fight, to kill. Its gaze fierce.

The next nightmare turns and again snaps at Conn. Jaws widening further than they should, more like a snakes as it snaps down to attack, snarls and slobber. Like madness incarnate.

The hound attacking Timand tries to circle, looking to hamstring the troll rather than attack head on, looking for any purchase for advantage.

Timand actually turns his back on his foe for a moment, giving it an opportunity to attack, which is surely does. But when it bites Timand's leg to hamstring him, its going to recieve a nasty surprise as the oakenshield leaves its mouth full of tree bark that flakes off Timand's skin. Still, the attack is powerful enough to wear away Timand's cantrip, leaving him vulnerable again. But he's vulnerable with a giant Axe in his hand, as Tinlin's quicksilver sends it to him, and he snags it out of the air. He spins and faces his foe again, giving it a wicked grin. Perhaps this isn't really what the wolves were expecting to be facing, two pissed off eight and half feet trolls.

Tinlin knows their Red Knight can handle what's coming for him! But as the other nightmare hound attempts to circle Timand, she counters as if moving in the Troll's shadow. Tim stops and so does she. And as the attack lashes in, she eyes the bridge above them as if wanting to make that big leap up into the trees. Her bow is up there. No good to be standing down here. But as Timand faces his back to the enemy, her green eyes widen as he takes the bite like a maddened troll gone insane. Stunned to move as his leg sprouts, what? Her eyes see the Oakenshield flare out that get into the creatures mouth and she gasps up at Timmy Troll. Her expression is also one of incredibility - like - What are you doing!!!!!!??

Steel meets fang and claw and fire chimerical fire begins to erupt from Conn again, the tell tale signs of Dragon's Ire. Every sword fight the Troll has fought in every past life, every lesson and teaching the Troll has received and bestowed, thousands of years of continuous training condense into a moment of distilled wisdom, shared between the party who experience the lessons as though they were there. Though, rather than striking with his swords, the Troll is fighting purely defensively, his right foot drawing a hopscotch grid on the ground. Updates start coming from the man, trained an born to war, "Tripping the Ire up, starting Quicksilver, Timand, can you bring up Burning Thews, Tinlin, stay behind us."

A spat of a dark maw and the Hound lets loose the barklike skin of the Oakenshield. The two hounds still in the fight circle back towards one another, devious eyes calculating attack vectors. A losing battle upon them, but as they back away the shadows darken, the will to go on sapping from the three heroes. Its then that they strike again, sensing Conn's power they focus in on him.

The first darts around, going for the achilles while positioning itself to be a trip hazard as the second hound leaps to push into the large troll, perhaps they will get lucky and knock him to the ground.

<---======##====================[ Dice Roll ]=====================##======---> Conn rolls 1 vs 6 for 1 successes. +10 <-------------=============++++++++++++++++++++++++=============------------->

Timand gives Conn a nod at his request, making sure to line up with him as much as possible to keep the nightmare wolves in front of him and Tinlin behind him. He has his axe, and dammit, he doesn't really care for some reason that his oakenshield is down at the moment. He raises his axe above his head and lets out a bellowing battle cry, tapping into his Rememberance to recall the language of his ancient people.

"TMargr ferr Ullr í illan Toddsennu dag penna

        frár, par's foeddir órum,
        fornan serk, ok bornir
        enn á enskra manna
        olum gjód Hnikars!" 

The last word he stomps his foot mightly, letting the bunk fuel 'Burning Thews'. The three of them are suddenly covered in coils of fire, fueling their strength massively. And with that, he takes a swipe at one of the hounds trying to leap at Conn with his massive axe.

The copper frying pan is gripped with both of the kinain's hands. She may look afright standing behind the two. But she veers in steps behind the Red Knight now as he makes his battle tactics known. She lifts her chin fiercely, as if to bat the Nightmares away with a threat. "Yeah, I see you." She taunts the creatures. "Now it's time ye picked on someone yer own size, ye bloody bastards!" Surrrre, there's bigger trolls in front of her to speak all tough. It's the gumption, Timand just poured into them all as well. "Rarrrr!" She also makes a stomp with her foot, as if to reveal her ire. 'Yer nae goin' to threaten me own home!"

Time now moves for the trio with a fluid elasticity, the two wolves free to move through it at all now move as though they are moving through molasses. "Quicksilver up, give them hell". The Scathach moves now by pure instinct, ignoring the blood flowing from an open wound he has not yet noticed he as. Whether it's Troll battle rage or Scathach Riastrad, the Warp Spasm of Cuchullain, where Conn walks Death now follows in his footsteps. This last bit of magic is not one that can be shared, and it is not Cantrip, it is something strictly Scathach in nature, the power the House gave up access to Sovereign for. "Set low my foe wolves water rise before me now strike a killing blow." The Haiku purely to keep time, as the Troll steps through the forms of Scathach Martial Arts, seemingly existing in two places at once with each sword strike.

And here ended the Nightmares felled.