World of Warcraft®

Ethan sat on the steps of his wagon with his helmet beside him, atop the handle of his war mace, letting the cool night breeze blow his long hair away from his face as he fiddled with the door lock in his lap atop the blanket on legs.

It was a cool night in Redridge, a normal evening, the day's shows over and the actors and entertainer meandering through the large camp of wagons, tents, and portable shelters. Most of which Ethan realized he had built with a grin, feeling a bit of craftsman's pride as he looked down to the project in his lap, small hammer and tools laid out on the stair next to him. He was an impressive sight, sitting in his crimson, ornate armor and dirty Scarlet Tabard, taken from the Crusade itself by force. A huge man, taller than every other man he met. With a large, spiked mace that most people couldn't lift with help, he wielded effortlessly.

Yet here he was, the very image of brute force, fixing a tiny, insignificant yet delicate lock. His probes piecing the pins in place, and tuning the springs. Looking up as the last of the Masquerade members said their goodbyes by the fire pits, and their drinks to head back to their own wagons. Situated in a large ring, with tents and other less sturdy structures set up in the middle of the ring, Ethan had a great view down the way, over the fire pits that burned low outside the wagons in a ring between wagon and tents. He could see all the way across towards the acting grounds they had set up, tightropes, stages, balancing poles, and animal pens where the Masquerade did it's business. Gypsies and entertainers, but honest folk.

As Caravan Master, it was his job to oversee the day to day menial tasks, like payroll, supplies and inventory, direction and organization. He was the arm that got things done, kept the other Muscle in the know, and directed the business side of the caravan. The Gypsy Queen, what used to be Suni, since her leave, was now Tirini, who was the heart and soul of the group. She was the leader, the director and the one who told Ethan what needed to be done. He just saw about how it was done.

With a small smile to himself, and a memory of a rowdy night with Haelolin, he looked on as Fizbin Frazzbolt, being led by Eli disappeared into the wagons. Naughty little minx that one, he thought as he shook his head slowly and focused on his work. The evening was calm, the caravan well lit, and the silence comforting. Except that 'thock' sound he just heard.

Wait, "Thock?"...

The first arrow had buried itself in the wooden side of the wagon to his left, it's fletching illuminated by the dying fire pit nearby, a crude goosefeather. What in the F-Attack. Bolting upright, all the pieces of the lock he had been working on, the tools he had been using, and the blanket on his lap scattered in the grass, just as more and more flights of arrows came flying in.

"ATTACK! ATTACK! ROUSE AND TO ME!" Ethan roared at the top of his lungs, calling the Muscle to himself, and waking any entertainer and gypsy that might be sleeping. His voice boomed in the night, carrying all the way through the camp, echoing back to him as he slammed his helmet on his head, and snatched his mace up. The fiery enchantment on it burning brightly and lighting the armored behemoth of a man up like a six foot seven torch in the night.

Mithara, get up and get to work, he cursed as all the members of the troupe stumbled out into the night, "GET UNDER COVER!" Ethan roared as more arrows came flying in, some lit aflame, setting wagons and tents alight in the gloom of the night. Some arrows found their marks in the men and women of the traveling camp, their cries and screams of pain making the night much louder. East, they're coming from the east. Pointing his mace northward, he grabbed a woman as she ran by him, Eliceyna, "Eli! Take the entertainers and go that way! It's North, get them hidden in the woods and don't come out until Mith or I come for you! Call for help!" Shoving Eli away before she can answer, Ethan turned to lurch forward at a rumbling run, towards the source of the arrows. As he cleared a small rope fence, and ducked between two wagons belonging to the Chavanas twins and Fizbin Frazzbolt, he ran up the slope, with two burly muscle behind him.

The charge was short, atop the small rise was a sizable group of black armored men, working around small pitchfires, lighting their arrows as they rained fire upon the camp. They worked their bows methodically. Black plate armor was all he could see, blending into the night, but silhouetted by the fires used for the arrows. The two muscle with him were not soldiers, not mercenaries, they were tavern toughs, used to intimidating rather than actual combat. They held their truncheons and followed Ethan as he dashed headlong into the nearest archer. The sound of metal plate, crunching into the other armored figure creating a unique sound in the night.

As the black armored man cried out and fell, so did Ethan's hammer. A sickening crunch followed the burning spike at it ripped its way into the man's breastplate, and into the man himself. Wrenching the mace free quickly, Ethan continued his charge, the man on the ground behind him twitching one before he died. The two muscle that had followed, had vanished somewhere, probably ran for their lives seeing the odds. It didn't matter to Ethan, his mace made a whirling blur as he spun, trying to crush every assailant he could, arrows plinking off his armor's plate as he spun, grunting with every sudden impact his mace made. The black armored men stopped working their bows, and dropped them to draw blades and axes, none of which appeared well cared for, and rusted.

With a roar, Ethan threw himself into the mass, his mercenary mind racing. Racing to thoughts of the group below, of Mithara, and if there were any more black armored men out there in the night.

Eliceyna righted herself after Ethan had shoved her away, watching him dash off into the middle of the fight. He’s going to get himself killed. She couldn’t think about that now, she cursed herself for running out of her wagon without grabbing her stone…or better clothes. Garbed in a flimsy robe was not the best attire to run around in the woods, blessedly she knew the woods like the back of her hand the hard part would be getting the performers to stop panicking enough to get to the woods.

She took advantage of her ability to project and started to round up the performers, pointing them in the direction they needed to go and asking for a stone before she sent them on their way. Everyone seemed to be as remiss as she was; almost the last of the Caravan performers was running to the woods and not a Hearthstone in sight. After dragging Fizbin out from under an abandoned wagon and pairing him up with one of the twins she turned to look for Wagon in the mess. She thanked the Light she had kept her Wagon on the outskirts of the group, away from most of the fighting. The telltale shriek of metal on metal let her know that Ethan was fighting and by the sounds of it was winning.

Eli pushed the thought from her mind and started the perilous trek back to her wagon, darting behind wagons and staying as much in the shadows as she could. The scantily clad mage grinned as she saw the door to her wagon and made a run for it. The door clattered behind her and she started tearing her things apart looking for her Stone, she had no clue who she would call for help, she just prayed that someone would answer the call for help.

“Where the fel-! Hah!” she found the stone and tucked it into the pocket in her robe, turning to dash back out of her wagon. She made it one step out her door when she heard the thunk of an arrow and pain laced through her side. Her running stopped, not from the pain but because her robe was now pinned to the side of her wagon, warmth dripping down her side. The arrow had grazed her side but didn’t pierce her. The slight woman tugged on her robe to rip it free and barreled right into a black plate clad man with a crossbow.
A gauntlet hand clamped down on her forearm and she reacted instinctively, she turned in his grasp and her free hand went to his face, alight with the fire she had fallen in love with. The scream that ripped from his throat caused her blood to freeze, she felt the hand on her arm constrict causing her arm to numb then it slackened and he fell to the ground. Her heart was trying to escape out of her chest and the horror of what she had just done washed over her before she had the chance to turn away from the blackened mess that was her attackers face.

The scream of burning wood snapped her out of the daze of death she was in, the wagon next to hers was collapsing and the fire was starting to leap onto her wagon, catching the canvas roof first before spreading slowly to the rest of her wagon. Eliceyna knew her things were a lost cause when she ran from the fight the first time, she ran north to the woods and the rest of the survivors, ignorant of the black clad figure training his crossbow on her retreating back.

A roar of pain escaped Ethan's lungs as the rusted blade found purchase in his thigh, slipping between the plates and puncturing the chainmail underlayer. Letting go of his mace as it crunched into another attacker, he grasped his assailant's wrists, locking them like a vice before pulling the black armored man towards him.

With a shout of effort, he dropped his shoulder, pulled the man, and heaved him with all his might down the hill, watching the man impact a tree at the bottom and stop moving. Grimacing inside his helmet, and wrenching the rusted blade free from his thigh, he dropped to one knee tiredly, looking around and panting. The Black armored men who hadn't fled, had died, crushed by his hammer or, as the poor sod down the hill had found out, victim of his raging strength.

Strength that was failing him now from exhaustion, the numerous wounds on his body from bruises or cuts, and the sheer mental exhaustion. Every part of him hurt, LIGHT it hurt, but he dragged himself towards his mace, and slowly managed to retrieve it from the caved in chest cavity of the body it was lodged in. It's over, finally over. It felt like hours, but had probably been only minutes, his sense of time distorted by the adrenaline and focus on not being beaten into a pulp. Mith, Eli, Tiri, Frazz, Gavan, Lucille...all the names of the Masquerade members raced through his mind, wondering if they were all right as he started the long process of dragging himself and his now bum leg towards the North, Oh forget it, it'll hurt regardless. Standing and pushing the pain out of his mind, he trudge onward, before a blast of icy magic took him in the back, permeating his armor and chest and stealing the breath from his body. Then the pain took hold, sheer, blinding pain.

It felt like his blood was being boiled inside of him, and all sense of direction, location, or self left him. Only pain remained for what felt like an eternity. Dropping to his knees and with a low scream of agony found himself faceguard first in the dirt, body contorted in suffering. He had just enough time to catch a glimpse of a dark armored man with glowing blue eyes standing over him, rune blade raised over the figure's head, before he lost consciousness.

The rhythmic scrape of a blade against leather was among the only sound in the trees… Aside from the sound of her warpstalker gnawing on the thigh bone of the doe she had taken down and was nearly finished cleaning. Mithara was not a social creature; quite the opposite in fact, and it was that preference for solitude that found her in the woods just outside the camp rather than in among the caravan’s more excitable people. She was close enough to hear the occasional woop and laugh, and the glow from the fires made more than enough light to see her work. Her talbuk idly sniffed about the undergrowth, the normally angry beast seeming almost, almost, at ease.

Lyre lifted his scaled head as though hearing something, and Mith paused to frown at him. The familiar roar of Ethan sounded soon after, and she leapt to her hooves with a curse, swinging onto her stag’s bare back and tapping his sides. The great beast lunged forward with a bellow, the dark warpstalker leaping after them. They burst through the trees, and halt at a sharp order.

And the camp is on fire. Fantastic. I leave Ethan alone for ten minutes and—and that is Ethan up the hill, surrounded by bodies. With what looks like a very not-dead death knight. With a sword. Great.

Another tap and her talbuk was running along the edge of the camp, leaping over any people that failed to get out of the way, some of them no longer breathing. Mith sets her jaw, and levels her gun at the death knight. One shot to his helmet. Not expecting it to do much more than distract him, and maybe make his ears ring. Then one to the elbows exposed by his raised arms. The bullets probably won’t pierce the armor, but at the force they’re going to hit, he’s going to feel it. Another two shots to the knight’s head, half-aiming for the eye holes, and she halts her beast with a sharp mutter, skidding to a halt less than ten feet from the death knight, gun still raised. Lyre bristled beside her and her stag, bared fangs dripping.

“Ethan, if you’re dead, I’m going to kill you.”

Ashlamar Lightsbane, silently savored the sight, the agony of the armored man before him, body twitching in agony. The Death Knight himself felt, satisfied, his own pain receding as he caused suffering, pain, and despair. The curse his kind always endured, always fought with. Those of his brethren, who said otherwise were liars, this was a part of every Deathtouched. Every. Single. One. It was who they WERE, what they DID, too long without causing pain, without feeling the torment of their foes, and it became maddeningly horrific to the risen themselves. Ashlamar raised his blade high, ready to bring down a final death to the man, runes glowing brightly in the night, his eyes blazing. Visions of the imbeciles who claimed they were 'reformed' or not succumbing to the agony of peace danced in his head, Velenkayn, Kaellar,

Without warning, something moving blindingly fast impacted his helmet, denting the faceplate, and skewing his vision as he brought the blade down, into two more impacts.

His runeblade cleaved the dirt mere inches from the downed man's neck, the hulking fool who killed his recruits in a grudgingly surprising display of unexpected battleskill. With a ducking motion, two rounds whizzed over his head and silently he snarled as his gaze locked onto the source, a draenic woman whom had come charging up on a stag. A stag? of all things? A large, giant target perfect for impaling...

Excellent.

Straightening up, his eyes never leaving the woman, he gripped his runeblade with one hand, his grip vicelike and making the bindings frost over. He began to calmly advance, head tilted low to avoid more shots to the face, if she didn't have to reload. Oh, but I cannot forget...

Bringing his free hand back to point, palm out, at the armored guardian, a coil of shadowy magics blasted into the prone figure. Slipping between armored plates and sending a huge rush of what can only be described as an abatement of pain through Ashlamar.

One down, one to go... He continued his advance on Mithara, carefully.

And now the large death knight is after you. Brilliant plan, Mith. She dismounted against her better judgement, muttering a sharp word. Her talbuk backed off immediately, snorting in displeasure.

Her eyes narrowed at the knight's next attack on Ethan. "If he's dead, I'm going to be pissed," she informs the man flatly, backing away from his advance, moving to one side, the warpstalker at her side keeping pace with her. She made certain to keep out of reach of that blade, though she supposed it wouldn't do her much good in the long run.

Death Knights cheated, after all. At least she was wearing her armor, for once.

"So. Tall dark and ugly, what brings you to the Masquerade? Aside from the senseless murdering of random people. Not that I'm judging, of course; people are !@#$%^-s." She watches the man closely, her voice easy and business-like as she moves, opening her weapon's breech and reloading it without taking her cold eyes off of him. She raises her weapon, idly taking aim as she slips back. A single shot is fired, at his gauntlets, and she waits to see his reaction.

Well, if I'm going to die, might as well piss him off first.

Tirini drapes the towel over her shoulder as she pulls her clothing on, her hair sticking up at odd angles. Out of habit she looks towards the wagons, and then freezes at the ominous. flickering light. Is that...my caravan! She drops the towel and dashes towards the clearing, her Felhunter hard on her heels as she buttons her vest haphazardly.

As she nears the campsite, she slows enough to quietly and quickly direct the gypsies and entertainers to safer ground. She pulls one of the twins aside and whispers, "Get on the stone, call Incognita. Don't think they'll make it here in time, but they can help with the aftermath. Go on." She shoves him, none too gently, towards the deeper part of the woods, before warily circling around the encampment, straining to hear anything over the crackle of the flames.

She freezes as she spots the three figures, one on the ground, and the other a tall draenei. She silently curses, and silently shifts to get a better look at the man Mithara is facing. Her heart freezes for a moment. Damnit, why can't he stay dead?

She reaches down to lightly touch Bheelum, rubbing a hand over his scales before crouching down to mumur to him, eyes focused on Ash. After a few moments, the Felhunter scampers off and around, aiming for Ethan. With that done, she carefully crawls towards the stand-off, her movements hidden by the grass as she silently mouths her incantations to herself.

A flash of sparks erupts from the round deflecting off his gauntlet, causing some of the ice around his hilt to crackle and scatter off in a glittering display as the fires roar in the background. Steadily he advances towards Mithara, boots beginning to freeze the grass beneath with crunching noises, and runeblade beginning to come up.

"Relish the sensation girl, perhaps you'll survive this."

Without warning, the Scourgelord turns and with a one handed slashing movement, launches a shadowy coil of death at the Woman, immediately followed with an icy blast from his free palm. Raising his glowing runeblade into the ready position for the inevitable counter, he continues his slow advance on the Draenei woman, eyes coldly prepared and planning his next move.

Mith actually makes an indignant noise at being called "girl" as she steps back, but her unpleasant and rather colorful reply is cut short by a ball of death, which is easily dodged. The ice, however, catches her in the side, and she staggers back with a curse. She offers another unpleasant phrase, lifting the rifle one-handed, and mutters something in Draenic to her shoulder, where a hearthstone is tucked away. "Kae. Could use your assistance. Not really interested in dying to this particular person. Yes. Caravan." A small smirk crosses her face at the man's growling response.

She steps back, and grits her teeth. Okay. Ow. Moving a bit more carefully, she makes a soft, sharp sound, and her warpstalker lunges forward without a sound, moving toward his side, hopefully making it much more difficult for the blade to strike the eight-foot-long creature. His dripping fangs and claws latch onto and tear at anything and everything. Mith staggers back several more feet, and tugs a pistol hidden in her tabard. She readies it, her free hand scraping the ice away from her armor as best she can.

Oh yes. This was going to suck.

Tiri slowly edges around, staying low to keep out of sight as she glances at Mith. Woman, don't you get yourself killed... She takes a slow, deep breath, before silently standing a few yards behind the death knight. With a whispered incantation, she flicks a hand out, sending fel fire streaming across the small distance to splash against his armor. Would it hurt him? Probably not, but it'd serve to split his attention.

Further away, Bheelum latches onto Ethan's arm, his needle-sharp teeth digging into the metal as he tries to drag the unconscious man away from the fight.

((Since Elice most likely has an arrow in her back there isn't anything she can do! So i'm just gonna read and enjoy!))

Wait for it.

The warpstalker was coming, and his head turned to follow it, the Draenic woman ahead producing a holdout pistol and whispering something, reinforcements likely, or at least a friend or two. Still, the warpstalker was the first priority then the wom-

A flash of green fire splashes across his shoulderguard, the light illuminating the clearing as he paused to reorient his standing, keeping his helmet on the swivel and noticing a large Felhound was currently over his first target, trying to drag it away. The armor saved him, but there was a Warlock, likely watching, possibly more spells on the way, keep on the move.

Spinning back to quickly glance at the Draenic woman who had produced a holdout pistol from somewhere, he met the Warpstalker. As the warpstalker lunged, Ashlamar Lightsbane found himself smiling, the Runeblade had always been his favorite weapon, what he was most comfortable with. Beasts are simple, they're instinctual and predictable, so he waited for the lunge, he kept his timing until the last second, before jutting his arm out, and letting the beast's teeth close down on his forearm plated heavily with metal and ice.

By Arthas the beast was strong, nearly dragging him in the throes of gnashing, the sound of teeth on metal grinding in his ears, must make this quick. The air around him grew colder, as he began to freeze and armor himself, the unmoving blood in his veins hardening, and he struck, a single, powerful thrust towards the warpstalker's center of balance. Woman, he thought as he gathered up a powerful blast of the cold, forming icy manacles and sending them shooting away towards the already somewhat frozen woman. She, she was next.

Oh, ball of fire. Tiri was somewhere. Great. A sharp word, and her warpstalker released the now-freezing arm, leaping back to lessen the blow that sent him rolling across the grass with decent force, snarling and spitting, spikes bristled aggressively despite looking rather worse for wear.

Well, that worked about as well as could be expected. As in not at all. And now he’s looking at you. Good going, Mith. Mith offered Ash a glower as she backs up, one hand on her side, the other with the pistol raised firmly. “Tiri, keep moving,” she mutters to her stone, lips barely moving. “If you have a wrathguard you can throw at him, that’d be awesome-”

She was not expecting the chains. Idly, she decided that she should have been, as she ducked one… and jumped right into the next one. She was never going to hear the end of this. She shot at one with little hope, bracing herself as best she could. “Cheater,” she calls at him. “I mean really. You can’t just run up and stab me? You have to chain me down first? Or is this some sort of kink thing?” Her warpstalker was limping back around, beginning a wide circle around the man, mouth open and taking deep, hissing gasps of air.

Any time, now, Kae.

Ashlamar picked up his careful pace slightly, closing on the draenic woman while she struggled to free herself. The Warlock, can't forget that one. Brightly glowing runes on his blade grew in harshness as he closed on the woman. Words rasped from his throat, "I expected more."

With a glance back at the warpstalker, he raised the blade to his shoulder, and prepare to thrust with all his might. A scourge skewer in the making.

Then, he thrust...

She grimaced in Mith's direction, and quickly and quietly circled around the clearing, to avoid coming at him from the same direction. She glances around, and mutters a curse, before pulling a tiny, razor-sharp knife from her belt and slicing her palm open. she crouches down and draws a quick rune in the dirt, muttering frantically under her breath as she looks up to check on her Mith. !@#$ %^-* !@#$ %^-*, c'mon Tiri... She hunched over the sigil as it flared to life with a sickly red hue, and looked up as a sudden shadow cast itself over her.

A wrathguard guard looms over her, watching her emotionlessly.. She stands up on shaky legs and points at the fighting pair. "Save the woman." Her voice was quiet, and most definitely NOT in Common. The Doomguard grumbles, but turns to advance on Ashlamar, his movements surprisingly quiet for such a large creature. As Ashlamar prepares to thrust, the wrathguard was suddenly there, his sword blocking the death knight.