5311/Cinders and Smoke

Cinders and Smoke
Date of Scene:	13 June 2017
Location:	Dun Realtai <DR>
Synopsis:	Various defenders of Dun Realtai turn aside an invasion launched by mysterious creatures of flame.
Cast of Characters:	482, 346, Eithne Sullivan, Inga

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Summers in Dun Realtai have been mild for the whole of the last years of its habition. They seem much like summers on the tundra -- short, mild, and somewhat humid. Some days it gets uncomfortably warm, and the air feels heavy, but for the most part its summers are as mild as its winters are fierce.

  It's been an unusually hot and dry week and a half past. Not even the wild wheat in the fields has been able to endure it; where the fields have been irrigated and watered, everything beyond their tidy bounds has withered and turned the colour of straw. Cicadas buzz incessantly in the parched trees. Heat waves shimmer on the horizon.

  Many a townsfolk and even the kingdom's steward has been laid low by this sudden and savage heat; dehydrating quickly without being aware.

  Today has been another day of brutal heat. Even Bedivere has been forced to feel its effects. The Dun has lost a good many horses, succumbed to heat exhaustion despite the best efforts of their keepers and sometimes even Bedivere himself. Crops threaten to wither in the field, if they haven't already. Water has become tantamount to sacred. Even the kelpie has been staying in its lake, too miserable even to stare at Dun Realtai's people.

  It's late evening, with the sun already hovering over the horizon. Yet something heavy lies on the horizon, obscuring the setting sun. It's blotchy, it's black, it's very high up, and there's a whole lot of it.

  The ash starts about ten minutes later. Fine, whitish flakes sift down from the sky like snow in summer, but there's nothing cold about it. The heat is worse than ever; suffocating.

  That's the smoke as it rolls in.

  Bedivere is nowhere to be found. Neither is the Black One. Kepas, too, has gone missing -- at the first sight of ash, recognising the fine whitish powder for what it was, the castle's lord had seized his cloak and stormed for the stables, where the Black One had been lounging in horse-form. Kepas had dogged his heels with uncharacteristic sobriety, stalking like the predator he is.

  All three are out across the plains like a flash, galloping /towards/ the blackest point of sky at speed. Dressed in the gleaming armour of his station, Bedivere crouches low over his steed with eyes of steel; he has the hood of his mantled cloak drawn up against the ash. The Black One is quite a sight beneath him, the consummate war-horse. His ears are pinned back, his tail flies like a banner behind him. His hooves tear up clods of dried earth, and his nostrils are red-rimmed in his exertions at speed.

  He had not left a message for Arturia as to where he was going. He saw something that needed to be taken care of, urgently, and so he had gathered the horse and the hound and he had set off.

  But now, with ash raining from the sky and smoke heavy on the horizon, Arturia will hear a sound familiar to her ears.

  The bellow of Sir Bedivere of Camelot's war-horn, the same rich and urgent cry that had sought so hard to summon allies to the king's side. It blasts in the same pattern that she would have heard at Camlann -- three staccato cries, an urgent call for aid, meant to summon allies to the sounder's side. It's not too different from the call that Bedivere had sounded on Camlann's bloody hill, just a bit different in its cadences, but there is an almost hysterical urgency in its irrhythmic calls.

Saber (346) has posed:
It had been only a matter of time with the unnatural heat, and the signs were unmistakeable. Still, Arturia had held her ground, so to speak, remaining behind to help organise the people for a worst-case scenario. Wildfires were not an alien phenomenon; prairies and older forests endured them from time to time, clearing out thatch and undergrowth that otherwise hindered the sturdier, older, and heathier plantlife. It was at least common enough for there to be certain procedures in place to protect the village and the surrounding fields to keep it from encroaching. The people had already endured trials which would have driven those of a less-sturdy mindset to abandon their homes.

     But this was Dun Realtai, and its people had been shaped by hardship just as their most recent lieges had been. Leaving was simply not an option.

     Nevertheless, she had ordered those who had been trained by the earthbender Toph Beifong to guide their charges in creating wide, bare-earth ditches beyond the fields and pastures which would have been too much work for mere men to construct in such a short time. Still, if the wind blew sparks into the fields, it might not be enough, but it should buy them some time...at least enough to petition the Paladins -- and anyone else, as members of the other factions benefited from Dun Realtai frequently -- for aid.

     The King of Knights had not even been at her task for an hour before the sound pierced the otherwise quiet day, a sound which carried with it terrible memories of doom. God willing that there wasn't something to match Camlann.

     Arturia was in her battle armour in an instant, calling on her Servant's strength and speed to leap across the landscape in Bedivere's direction. Even had the horses been at perfect health, the Heroic Spirit was faster still.

     Bedivere would only be waiting for a few minutes before Arturia landed and came to a halt. "What is the situation?" she asked gravely, falling back into her familiar pattern of king and marshal.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    She'd gotten a notice only yesterday.

    While the summer heat had stood on the neck of Dun Realtai, Eithne had done her best to keep the crops from dying on the vine. Even with her mother's blood in her veins there has been only so much she can do; the boundaries of the planted fields have had to serve as markers for her divine gifts. Dun Realtai will see its crops survive to be harvested, but only if fire doesn't claim them first.

    More immediately, Eithne dislikes fire somewhat. It's too hot, and there's nothing she can do about it.

    The last few days have seen her abandon her preoccupation with the lake's kelpie. The weather has been too hot and dry, and something more imprtant has been taking up all of her attention. The sound of a horn isn't overly familiar to her, but she can feel the urgency of it... and the sight of King Arturia flashing past at an unbelievable speed is more than enough to see Eithne throw down her hoe and run for the edge of the firebreak. She's not anywhere near as fast as a Servant, but her stamina means that errant sparks and flames won't keep her from following the noise to its origin.

    "Sir Bedivere-!!" Eithne curses and spits out a mouthful of ash. "Pfeh! What can I do to help?!"

Inga has posed:
Such brutally hot weather came as rather a surprise to Inga, though she'd made the best of it by going swimming as often as possible, kelpie or no. She had also been helping to keep everyone hydrated, bringing in water from elsewhere if needed. It might be a bit strange to see the people in the village drinking bottled water, but it was an easy way to help. She'd been helping with such things for the trapped people of kingsmouth for, well, years now.

Inga is in the lake, swimming in her shift, when she sees the blackness on the horizon, when ash falls like snow in the blazing heat. She curses quietly to herself and wades out of the lake, soaking wet but ready to help. She knows the situation is dire when she hears the horn. She freezes on the shore, the sound of the horn striking a cord in her memory--no, not /her/ memory. But there it is, and all the fear and pain that went with it.

Inga shakes her head and moves as quickly as she's able to Jodis, the elegant grey horse tied to a tree nearby. She climbs into the saddle once Jodis bends down to help her mount, then leads her toward where the sound of the horn originated. The fire was coming, clearly, and while she couldn't haul water very well and most of her magic focused on starting fires rather than extinguishing them, where people are fighting fire people are getting burned, and people getting burned could use a healer.

Inga cannot ride at the speed of Arturia, clinging to the saddle as Jodis travels at a gallop. Falling out of the saddle would help no one, so she is the last to arrive, her hair still dripping wet. "Odin's bones," she curses, taking stock of the situation.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The scene where the war-horn bellows from is one of chaos.

  Hills and plains roll onward, but here the grass has been transformed from summer straw into a sea of cinders. Flames roar and rise high into the night sky, where cinders dance among the smoke that swallows the stars. Ash sifts down from the highest of the billows.

  The silver-haired knight is silver-haired in truth with the ash that dusts his hair. He's coughing and hacking as he ties a strip of what looks like cloth torn from the hem of his cloak around his face; it looks as though he's soaked it in water from the waterskin at his belt. His eyes glint in the firelight; his face twisted into a determined set.

  The Black One is nowhere to be found. Neither is Kepas.

  There is the sound of a terrible howling from the other side, chilling snarls and sounds of creatures battling.

  The sheet of flame that stands between Bedivere and the apparent object of his focus ripples; it wavers as it reaches high into the night sky.

  And then something bursts through the flames.

  Something white hurtles by, trailing embers and smoke, and a lick of flame that whisks itself out. It slaps against the ground, bouncing and rolling; revealing itself to be a singed and battered Kepas. His teeth are bared, and the lights in his eye sockets blaze red. He sings a song of battle -- he snarls and /roars/ at the sheet of flame, a deep, bellowing yell that by far dwarfs the war-horn of Sir Bedivere.

  He turns, standing on three legs, and looks back to where Arturia, Eithne, and Inga have arrived. Turning graceful as a deer, he surges forward and leaps into the flames again with a terrible, throaty snarl.

  "Something is attacking!" Bedivere can barely get the words out over the coughing, waving feebly towards the flames. "Kepas has gone after it, and so has the Black One! Stay back from the flames; they shift most unpredictably! Mark me," he spits angrily, "this is no natural fire! Something has set this place ablaze with deliberation!"

  The sheet of flame ripples again -- and this time Kepas is hurled clear, silent but for the /fwhoomp/ of flames igniting around him. A great, dark /something/ leaps free of the flames after him, landing with the sound of mountains moving and creating a shockwave in the midst of the plain, earth cracking and crumbling and glowing red-hot where its feet touch.

  It's bipedal, that much is clear. It's fashioned rather much like Kepas, in fact -- if Kepas had an elemental opposite. Where Kepas is ice, this one is flame, magma, and the molten blood of the earth. His hide is scorchy and black, cracked in a hundred thousand places where his molten blood shows through. His skull is blackened bone where Kepas' is smooth white. Where gentle yellow lights usually flicker in Kepas' eye sockets, this one houses points of flame; hearts of stars.

  The flame-hound and Kepas roll and tumble, snarling and yelping and bellowing at each other. They fight as any dogs would, circling, lunging for throats, snapping at anything in their way. Where they pass, the plains are left singed and blackened; or steamed, where the hounds of fire and ice come together.

  "Begin by driving off that beast!" Bedivere cries, waving his sword after the flame-hound.

  Further afield, the two hounds grapple again. The flame-hound surges up, shaking his prey viciously. There comes a brittle /snap/ and a high yelp of pain, and the intruder tosses Kepas aside like a broken toy.

  Slowly, it turns toward the would-be defenders, the hell-fires of the sun dancing in its twin eye sockets.

Saber (346) has posed:
The snap as Kepas was hurled aside was fearsome even as Arturia had to remind herself that Kepas was not an ordinary hound, something that was difficult to remember even with his otherwise demon-like visage. Alaia could most likely heal him...or so she hoped. And it was likely that this other creature had a creator-master just as Kepas did, which perhaps the Black One was searching for, or at least she hoped so and not that he had befallen an unfortunate fate. And -- like the corrupted ice hounds they had had to put down before they could speak to the winter witch -- it seemed they would have to deal with his elemental opposite.

     Fire was not something Arturia especially enjoyed dealing with, it always seemed to herald something terrible and take many lives with it, either from Camlann or what had afterwards been called the Great Fuyuki Fire caused by the destruction of the Outer Grail. But perhaps this time, she could prevent tragedy; she wasn't alone.

     Taking up a position in front, Arturia lifted Excalibur to en garde and dismissed the Bounded Field of the Wind King. Had the situation been different, it would have been useful to contain the fire, but for the moment, the magic technique would only spread it further. The fire was simply too large to contain with it.

     "It seems that we shall have to incapacitate this beast...or kill it, if there is no other option." She herself would prefer not to; it was likely one of the many natural fae necessary for the land's health. Then again, if it had indeed killed Kepas...she would not be nearly so lenient.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    This isn't natural. She doesn't need to be a Scion of Brigid to know it when fire behaves /this/ erratically, when something growls and paces just beyond the edge of the flames. A dog, maybe...? A dog that walks on two legs. A dog that picks up Kepas and throws him aside like a toy poodle. Somewhere beyond the roar of flames she can hear Bedivere call out.

    Eithne reaches behind herself for that border of Here and Somewhere Else, fingers digging past the seam of two planes, and drags her sword through into reality. "Someone work on killin' the fires!" she shouts, because she has no way of doing it beyond that of any mortal. "I'll try to slow it down!"

    She knows what she is about. She knows what she is made for. Eithne narrows her eyes beyond the heat and the wavering flames, gritting her teeth until she's certain she can see the bend of a knee. Rhiannon is held out flat to her right side, perpendicular to the scorched earth. She takes a breath and sets her right leg in place to drive her body forward.

    She just. Has. To hit. Eithne kicks off of the ground, turning her body into a battering ram and her dull, pitted 'blade' into a sickle. "HAU!"

    Unsurprisingly, Eithne is completely okay with killing it.

Inga has posed:
Wildfires are to be expected in such dry heat...but this is something else. Inga knows it just as Bedivere does. He feels it. It is in his blood, magic singing, recognizing it's like.

When Kepas is thrown out of the flames, she isn't sure she can save him. She gasps, cringing even as she reaches for her knife and swiftly cuts into her arm, throwing the healing blood magic toward the beloved hound of Dun Realtai. Healing and protection. He did his best, but it is they that must face the beast now. Fire is out, and lightning too, what good would those do against such a creature? But there is blood. There is always blood.

Inga sends her wards out to Eithne, Saber and Bedivere, a shimmering aura of crimson-gold the invigorates and protects them from incoming damage. It may even make it easier for Bedivere to breathe, with any luck. Enya, Arturia and Bedivere are all melee fighters....this is going to be tricky, but Inga is determined to keep them all alive.

"If we can weaken it, I can attempt to bind it!" she calls to Arturia. She would not attempt such a thing while it was at full strength and in a rage, it would never work. But if they could weaken in, slow it down....something, she thought she could get a circle around it and bind it until they could figure out what to do with it. Killing it outright might not be wise. In a land such as this one, steeped in deep magic, it might throw the balance in the other direction.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The flame-hound springs with a grunt like the sound of mountains crumbling, kicking off from the plain and leaving behind a scorched spot where it had been standing. At first it looks as though it's heading for Inga, singling out the Wisewoman from the crowd of Elites, but at the last moment it changes its direction and lunges straight for Arturia.

  Bedivere lifts his sword, shifting his weight and leaping -- and landing as the thunder of hooves pounds a steady rhythm beneath the rush of flame. The Black One charges in from the sheet of flames, screaming his challenge as furiously as any mortal stallion. He flies straight for the flame-hound, enormous hooves churning up ash and earth.

  The knight seems to be aiming to cavalry-charge the creature, lancing with his long blade in passing. Let the others deal with close melee -- he's always been a better rider. If only he had some kind of spear...

  Meanwhile, the hound is striving to catch Arturia when it's struck in the flank. It grunts, molten blood flaring bright and flames erupting along its body -- a sign of anger, perhaps? It's still going for Arturia, in any case.

Saber (346) has posed:
If there was any question, however unlikely that is was, of the beast's magical nature, the charge at the King of Knights should have allayed any doubt. Hungry magical creatures had a tendency to make a dive for the blinding furnace of magical energy that was a Heroic Spirit, and Saber was among the most potent of them. She had been relying on that, in fact.

     "I will attempt to keep the creature focused on myself," she informed the others. An odd thing for a king to say, but she had considerable physical protection and nigh-unbreachable magical protection. If there was anyone who could best deal with the claws and fangs of an otherworldly creature, it was Arturia.

     That was not to say that she could not deal impressive damage on her own part. From en garde, she held Excalibur in her usual two-handed grip and swung the holy sword into an uppercut at the flame-beast. Even if it evaded, the move should keep its attention trained on her.

     Out of the corner of her eye, she noted the Black One's timely return. Good, he was still in one piece...of course, if she voiced her concern over that, the mercurial beast was more than likely to have been insulted.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    Shimmering light settles around her shoulders. Eithne recognizes it as Inga's work, mostly because you can't live with someone for months without coming to recognize the flavor of their blood magic (which is not something she'd ever given any thought to before she moved here). It's comforting, like a shawl across her shoulders on a cold day. If they can weaken it...? Would binding it be better than killing it?

    She'd honestly rather just render it down into bits, but Eithne has always been a little too straightforward.

    "Right!!" Despite her own divine hardiness, there's no doubt that Arturia is tougher. As long as they don't need to rely on Eithne for focused strikes things ought to be okay, right?!

    The monster leaps away and she stumbles, turning to track it and adjust her course. Is there a better way to slow it down...?!

Inga has posed:
Inga has been in many a battle, and has known many warriors in her time. She is not unfamiliar with how one fights from horseback. As Bedivere is an excellent horseman, it only makes sense that he and Black One would use this to their advantage. But Bedivere needs a suitable weapon.

Biting her lip, Inga opens up the same wound in her arm, keeping the blood flowing as her regeneration tries to kick in. Blood pools in the air, defying gravity, lengthening, shaping....hardening into a wicked looking spear.

"Bedivere!" she calls, and sends the spear sailing (not too quickly!) in his direction, aiming for him to catch it.

In short, Inga made you spear! It's made of her blood. Have fun!

And since she's already bleeding heavily... Another spear forms in the air, but this one flies straight for the creature, sharp, flying at high speeeds, and fueled with glorious anima.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Clinging to the great black charger by a fistful of mane, Bedivere leans sideways to sweep his nameless blade in an arc. It draws molten blood from the fiery hound, glowing red with the heat but holding its shape.

  He does manage a cry of recoil at the gift from Inga, because /ew/ that's /blood/. Inga's blood, to be more specific about it.

  The flame-hound seems to have no problem focusing on Saber. It lands in front of her with a snarl and plumes of ash where its paws land, blackened nails digging into dry dirt. It lunges for her with impressive speed, seeking to clash its jaws shut over her midsection, jerking its head as though to worry at her -- and letting fly.

  Whether or not it manages to toss her anywhere, or even get a good grip on her with its teeth, it's already bowling forward to snap at Eithne, which means it's snapping straight at Rhiannon. It ignores Inga for the time being -- but she's probably on its radar.

  Bedivere, meanwhile, wheels the Black One around to take another sword-sweeping pass at the beast.

Saber (346) has posed:
Given Saber's current task, dodging was not an optimal move when she wanted to hold the beast's attention. Fending it off when it lunged at her would have to be done by harrying it with counterstrikes, parrying what she could and following with ripostes. The problem was with its speed; a supernatural beast could have speed and strength to rival a Servant. She held her position, studying the flamehound, watching for anything like the muscle movements of a flesh-and-blood creature that signalled an attack. If it lunged faster than she could parry without any tells, it could grab her even through her defences.

     As it turned out, it did.

     Thanks to Inga's protective barrier, what damage the beast might have otherwise done was negligible; even Servants could be harmed by otherworldly teeth and impacting hard with solid objects after being thrown. She had fought Gilgamesh enough times to attest to the latter personally. Luckily, the creature lacked that much strength, at least, and Arturia was merely thrown a distance away from the area, breaking a few trees along the way before finally coming to a halt.

     Though not to the extent of mortals, Servants could also be winded, and it took a moment for her to recover. Mostly, she was annoyed at herself for failing to anticipate the attack and worrying about regaining ground before the creature focused on one of the others.

     Of course, from the battlefield it might have seemed far more serious than it truly was...

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    It's too damn fast. Certainly for Eithne, no matter how often she's trained with Bedivere over her time in Dun Realtai. It's too fast, and Kepas isn't /moving/ anymore, and he's a sweet doggy that never deserved to be hurt so badly. She can't even tell if he's dead, despite her Death Sense, because Kepas isn't mortal...!

    It picks Saber up like a ragdoll and throws her. Fuck, fuck, what's she supposed to do?! What if it goes after Inga?! With her limp...

    Eithne grits her teeth as her momentum is arrested by the demon hound's teeth clanging off of the blade of her sword. "Stupid, ugly..." Something like fear flutters in her ribcage. No, it's not fear... but it's white-hot. It's like touching something so hot it feels cold at first. It's like anger... it's like power...

    Eithne grabs hold of it in her mind and tears her sword out of the beast's mouth, sending a tooth flying and blood splattering against the ground. Yes, she can feel it, she can hold it. It's scorching hot, and Rhiannon feels hot, and there are sparks landing on her skin but she can't feel them anymore.

    A dull roar rises in her ears, drowning out the sound of her friends' voices. She wants to breathe smoke and spit blood. She wants, she wants, she /wants/.

    When Eithne runs at the thing's legs again, she's somehow much faster about it...!

Inga has posed:
Don't complain about your magic spear Bedivere. Just stab the creature with it!

Inga is going to need to slow down on the blood magic soon, or she's going to be doing more damage to heself than she can quickly heal. A quick healing spell on herself speeds of her already excelerated healing, buying her some time, if she is going to bind this creature she is going to need a great deal of blood to do it.

Inga gasps when the fiery hound grabs Saber in it's maw and hurls her--through several trees no less. It's a shocking thing to see. Inga is a bit more jaded to the superpowered people in the multiverse, but such a powerful attack is still a shock to her heart. Who could survive such a thing? Arturia surely could...couldn't she?

It's about this time Jodis has decided that she's had quite enough of this nightmare. Inga had been using a spell to try to keep her calm, but that had all gone out the window. Inga is violently thrown from the saddle, and while not nearly the sort of thing Saber just experienced, it's rather painful. She lands hard on her behind, smacking her head on the ground. She just nearly passes out, struggling to remain conscious as her vision swims. Come on healing...keep doing your thing...

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Bedivere turns on the Black One's back just in time to see Eithne rip her blade away from the hound; send a tooth skittering across the sea of cinders. It's lost to a patch of smoldering grass. The knight's eyes widen as she lunges for the creature. There's nothing human in her any more.

  And then Arturia Pendragon is flung across the battlefield, /off/ the battlefield, like a broken ragdoll.

  Inga will see the change as it comes over Sir Bedivere of the Round Table. It's like a switch flipping. It's like the life leaving something dying. His eyes go a bit glassy. The colour drains from him.

  There is a sound, but he isn't sure what it is. He isn't listening any more.

  Bedivere of Dun Realtai draws himself up to his full height, and he throws himself at the beast from the side opposite Eithne. There is an ugly, strangled roar of rage and grief and loss.

  At the same time, the beast howls, even as Rhiannon punches into its chest; finds its burning, immortal heart and snuffs it out like a candle.

  For a moment it seems all is safe -- and then there comes the baying of many more such creatures. Higher, more numerous; smaller. And then they come, leaping through the sheet of flame, baying and howling as they rush for the two berserkers on the field. For the moment, Inga is ignored -- but probably not for long, because seriously, there are a /lot/ of those things.

  Bedivere also has a spear in his hand, and he doesn't seem to care a whit that it's /made of blood/. He's past such petty concerns. He's past everything. He gives another one of those bellows of pure rage, pure grief, and he throws himself past Eithne, straight for the burning hounds. He moves like one in a trance, dancing, thrusting and parrying and slamming the tip of his blood-spear into any hounds that put themselves near him.

  Well, /that's/ probably not good, is it?


  

Saber (346) has posed:
Saber barely had enough time to get to her feet before she was nearly knocked off of them from the violent tug on her mana. Sir Bedivere might not be consciously drawing on his magic circuits, but through their link she could feel the loss of control. There was little doubt in her mind about what had happened.

     Summoning what mana she could, she channeled it into her legs, boosting strength and speed before she blurred into motion, leaping and landing back into the scene.

     It was still a disturbing sight when Sir Bedivere lost his reason, even moreso that she knew she was to blame for it. But the battle raged around them, and he could not afford distraction. Hopefully, he would feel her presence...

     To her right she saw Inga on the ground. Fortunately, it didn't seem she had been hurt from an attack...but the wisewoman was vulnerable nevertheless.

     Positioning herself in front of Inga, she held Excalibur before her to fend off what beasts would come their way.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    The faraway howl of a mourning animal tries to pierce the roar of blood in her ears. She ignores it in favor of the bone-deep CRUNCH of a five-hundred-year-old sword punching through ribs and sternum, spearing a heart made of starstuff to snuff it out. Eithne tears the heart free on the end of her sword, magma dripping and splattering across the ground, and laughs like a child.

    A Bedivere shape passes her by, howling louder than the baying of the beasts that have come to avenge their lord. A flick of the oversized blade throws the heart off to smolder and set fires in what grass remains unignited. There are more. There are more, there are more!

    Eithne rears back, sword held like a lance, and /throws/ it. A flame hound takes the blade straight through its body, the horns of the crescent moon handguard piercing into the hide. A red line connects Eithne's hand and the pommel; she yanks hard and giggles when Rhiannon practically explodes out of the beast's side.

Inga has posed:
Inga would have noticed it sooner if she hadn't been struggling to remain conscious, waiting for her natural regeneration to heal her enough that she could think straight. It is several moments, critical moments, before she can sit up and see what has happened. Arturia has returned and is standing in front of her. Bedivere, she need only take a look at to know what has happened. She'd only seen it in visions...but oh yes, the Odin-fury was upon him. He was in the throws of a full battle-rage.

And he was not alone. Eithne had also been pulled into that riptide.

The big creature is down, but this is argueably a much bigger problem. They would be surrounded if they didn't act quickly, and what if they ran past them and toward the village? Inga stays seated, she doesn't need to stand in order to do what she needs to do now. "We can't let them past us toward the village! I'm going to make a circle around us!" she warns them, though only Saber is likely capable of reason just now.

Then Inga opens up the vein inside her inner thigh. She needs more blood than an arm can give. She draws it out as quickly as she is able while still retaining consciousness, the shimmering red liquid rising, beginning to dash outward, circling around the group of fighters and the mob of hounds as it closes in on them, hoping to trap them inside with their doom--and hoping she hasn't doomed them instead.

The magic circle made of blood snaps shut, resonating with a magic that would be felt for miles. It surges with anima, singing, BUZZING, with it.

Inga, normally pale, is white as a sheet. "Arturia...keep Bedivere alive," she says, then flops back onto the ground.

The world goes grey.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Bedivere doesn't seem to notice the presence so close at hand. Touching his mind, his essence, is like sticking one's hand into a fire, not unlike the creatures that are beginning to overrun the scorched plain. There is no more reason or logic behind his actions. He is beyond remorse or fear and he will fight until there isn't anything left to fight.

  Well, that settles that.

  The flame hounds spill into the plain, trailing embers and smoke, baying and yapping in their bloodthirst. A sweep of his nameless sword takes the head off one, and nearly takes off a second. He turns on his heel as he does, slamming the blade into a third hound; as two lunge for him, he bashes them aside with a gauntleted fist, sending them yelping and tumbling. No sooner has he wrenched his blade from the third than he's sweeping it for a sixth, trailing molten blood and leaving bright spots on the ground and his armour, which sizzle and blacken, but don't melt through.

  There is no reason or recognition left in his eyes. He roars like a thing inhuman, bellowing a wordless war-cry as he throws himself on a phalanx of four more hounds. They leap, and the knight and the four hounds become a snarling, burning entanglement. They fight so furiously, move so quickly, that it's almost impossible to see what's even going on.

  Meanwhile, they're coming for Saber.

  They all stop and pause as the buzzing surrounds them, as the teeth of the circle clash shut around their number. But they snarl roughly, turning back to their targets, the star-stuff in their eyes as hostile and unreasoning as Bedivere's own.

  A tide of them are headed for the others. Saber has a number of them heading towards her, and Bedivere already has no less than four of them he's grappling with, slashing at them when he can and using his fist when he can't.

  Another pack runs for Eithne, heedless of their dead companions. There are no less than seven.

  So far they seem to be ignoring Inga. That's probably for the best. Down as she is, she'd be easy prey.

Saber (346) has posed:
As the battle raged, Saber noted the approach of more of the flame-beasts; smaller, but much more numerous. As she assessed the situation, she positioned herself slightly away from Inga so as to keep their attention on the Servant. Fortunately, they seemed to be following her. As regretful as it was that she couldn't seem to draw the attention of those engaging Bedivere and Eithne, at least she could keep others from joining and overwhelming the pair. Eventually, the berserker rage was going to wear off; she'd need to be there for her marshal when it did. They needed to end this quickly.

     The problem was that she couldn't employ her usual tactic of blasting the incoming creatures with Wind King, lest the fire spread even further. Likewise, even a small mana burst channelled through Excalibur posed the same risks, as it converted magical power into concentrated light. Yet, engaging each individually would wear her down, as the fight with Caster during the Fourth Holy Grail War had proved nearly ten years ago. She still needed to deal with them all at once...

     Moving her foot slightly, Arturia took note of the soil. Loose, with some rocks. Scorched thoroughly with nary a mote of water, but she wouldn't need water for what she intended to do.

     Carefully, she summoned her Bounded Field to its lowest possible level, just enough to stir up the dirt, building it up until the air in front of her was saturated with soil. She extended the cloud up until it surrounded the oncoming flame-beasts, and with a sudden command, released it, creating an avalanche of soil which fell directly over the creatures. Even if they might not be smothered like a proper fire, that should at least incapacitate them for a while.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    It's fun, it's fun~! Eithne swings her sword on the end of its red ribbon, the dull blade still going fast enough to cleave a hound's head in two. There are so many more coming for her, and there's a Buzzing that goes bone-deep and sweeps past her. It feels like shackles, like a collar, but not for herself.

    And as long as it doesn't encircle her own neck, she'll ignore it for now!

    The hounds close in on her and Eithne doesn't hesitate. All she has to do is move. All she has to do is kill. A fist slams into the side of a dog's head, her punches already like being hit by a small car - with the berserker glee riding behind her eyes, its skull shatters beneath the force. A cleaving blow with the sword in her other hand tears a dog into two uneven halves, scorching blood splashing across the grass and her legs. Steam hisses from her skin and Eithne doesn't notice.

    A hound catches her hands in its teeth and digs in, tearing at the flesh. Eithne laughs and twists her wrist, fingers closing around its jaw. She digs her fingers in and the sound of cracking bone echoes dully. She drops her sword to grab the poor thing by the skull-- and tears it apart with a smile, meat and fur splitting with a shriek as the flame hound dies horribly.

Inga has posed:
Inga's consciousness comes back into existence in a grey world. She doesn't have much time. If she doesn't get back to support the ciricle, feed it more anima, it will collapse. The anima well/leyline of Dun Realtai isn't too far away and luckily, amazingly, in the spirit world she can /run/.

Inga sprints through the monochromatic world in between, following the otherworldly echoes of the landscape until she comes upon the scene of battle. The magic hums even in the spirit world, the flame-beasts visible here as well. Ah...so they have a presence in both worlds at the same time. She thought so. But could she use that?

There, her body. She runs to it and prepares herself to come back to a world of pain...

The pupil's of Inga's lifeless eyes expand, awareness returning. She gasps in a few breaths of air as her regenerative healing kicks in once more, further healing the wounds she'd opened. Blood begins to pump through her veins, anima flowing like golden honey. She sits up in time to see Enya ripping through one of the creatures, laughing wildly. With her sight still between worlds, she is sure she sees the wings of a night-dark bird around Eithne, an uncanny glint shining in her eyes. The smell of carrion on a battlefield.

Saber is still holding against the beasts as well, taking on so many at once, slicing to ribbons. A Servant in all her power. And Bedivere, in the grip of the Odin-fury, in all a warrior's glory as if his eyes were on Valhalla.

These things don't know what they've gotten themselves into.

Inga pulls herself back to her feet with some effort, hoping the attention of the beasts will stay off of her. They're made of fire, so blood magic is the order of the day. She feeds the circle more anima then cuts into herself anew, throwing out a cloud of acidic blood that melts flesh and bone. "Let us finish this!" she calls. And once they have...well, the battle isn't over. Someone's going to have to bring Bediver and Eithne back from the brink. She has a plan for that, at least.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  In the hazy, smoky distance, the Black One screams and cow-kicks, hopping up over the ashes and cinders, lashing out with a leg where one of the hounds is trying to close in on it. He has embers burning in his mane, and his tail trails a bright lash of flame where a few of the hairs have caught fire. In Inga's spirit world, he is a great dark creature straight out of the ancient bones of the earth, of myth and legend and the roots of the world. It looks like a horse, but it has the great feathered wings of a crow, the antlers of a stag, the tail of a hare, the head of a sleek-muzzled hound, and the feet of a great cat. His eyes burn like twin suns. This is no mere servitor of the spirit world -- this creature is probably older than the dirt of the hill he says he comes from.

  Closer afield, Bedivere roars and swings his free hand at a hound that closes in too quickly. His gauntleted fist crashes into the creature's jaw, and he roars even louder when the metal is heated by the flames flickering over the hound's body. Rather than stop to tear off his gauntlet like a normal person would, he simply throws himself at another hound, spinning on his heel, because the creature is leaping at him from behind. How did he know it was there?

  Another leaps at him from the side, even as he's dealing with the one that had come from behind. Bedivere is forced to drop his sword, grappling with the red-hot hound -- his gauntlets are beginning to glow, and he bellows in pain and fury, finally succeeding in throwing the creature off, retrieving his sword, and plunging it deep into the creature's molten chest.

  His sword comes out with a sullen red glow that hadn't been there before, not quite up to the hilt. Bedivere spins on his heel and turns, thrusting his sword into the skull of the hound that he'd stunned with his fist. It drops like a rock. He turns, even as more leap at him from behind the sheet of flame.

  Then, quite suddenly, there are rocks and soil in the air. Everywhere. The cloud comes crashing down over the hounds nearest to Arturia, and the entire pack of them go down, yelping and tumbling. Although it succeeds in snuffing the flames that race down their bodies, it doesn't seem to be anything more than an inconvenience -- they pick themselves up again, snarling and shaking soil off their cracked, obsidian hides. Slowly, though, the star-stuff in their eyes dims -- as though something had been slowly strangled in them, put out; snuffed like candles.

  One shakes its head as though it were dizzy, stumbling a few steps sideways and crumpling into a heap. The other two follow suit a half-second later, one of them pawing at its own head as it goes down.

  There is still no sign of Kepas. The flames are marching closer.

  Eithne's pack are made short work of, butchered without mercy.

  Bedivere, meanwhile, manages to finish off the hounds that had leapt at him. He turns, and there are none left to fight. There are only his allies behind him, which he has only the dimmest recognition of. His empty eyes scan the sheet of flame, registers that there are no more foes...

  The silver-haired knight's eyes roll up and he crumples to the ground, raising a cloud of ash and dust.

  Further afield, the Black One screams in rage, lashing out with his hard hooves. He rears and plunges, trampling his opponents; for every one that he manages to strike in the head, they're whisked through the air like broken (and burning) ragdolls.

  Soon enough they're all accounted for. Nothing more moves in the immediate vicinity but the embers, the sifting ash, and the slowly-advancing flames. Best they take stock of themselves and drag their wounded home, because that fire /is/ moving, albeit more slowly. Perhaps Alaia is helping, somehow...?

Saber (346) has posed:
It appeared Saber's half-educated guess, half-gamble paid off; the flame-hounds struggled and appeared unaffected at first...but as their magical flames were snuffed out, so too was their life force...or at least temporarily suppressed. She had suspected their animation was tied to the fires, somehow, and even magic flames could be snuffed. Still, it /had/ been a chance she had taken, and even her Intuition ability could not warn her of danger in this instance. And it was still unknown if this was simply a temporary condition for the beasts, as she suspected it was. They should retreat for now, tend their wounds and devise a strategy to deal with this new threat.

     The Servant turned to witness Inga spraying acidic blood on the part of the pack behind them, dissolving the ones whose fires she was unable to snuff out. As successful as it was, the wisewoman hardly had an unlimited pool of blood. Likewise, Bedivere collapsed as the battle madness had worn off, and with the pack he, Eithne and the Black One had been fending off solidly dealt with, it seemed they had their opening. The lack of Kepas, however, was troubling. But with Alaia possibly doing what she could to help, perhaps she had summoned the ice-hound to her side to recover. Arturia certainly hoped so....but for now, her Master and their friend were in need of tending to.

     "Let us make haste to the keep," she called out in her soft yet commanding voice even as she made her way to Bedivere and retrieved him. "We cannot battle this fire as we are now."

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    The stench of scorched flesh, the reek of corpses left to rot. The tangle of roots winding between ribs, sprouts peeking out of empty eyesockets. Black feathers and red blood and green leaves. Eithne feels good.

    Her pounding heart sends blood rushing through her body, her fingers and lips tingle. She kills and she kills and she wants more, Ma, she wants /more/--

    Dirt and rocks pelt the hounds that remain alive, sending them yelping and dying and fleeing. There aren't any more for her! Mildly put out, the Scion clenches her fists and stares into the advancing flames until even she has to realize there are no more coming to her. None...?

    There's no kind of recognition in her eyes when Eithne turns her head to follow the movement of Saber picking up the fallen Bedivere, or Inga cutting into herself yet again. Surely she'll be ashamed later when she realizes how much blood Inga has shed for them, but... at the moment, she barely seems human.

Inga has posed:
Her face is ashen, and not only from the actual ashes in the air. Inga has been to death and back, and if she keeps draining herself of blood she'll be visiting that gray land once more.

They can't stop this fire. They simply do not have the required abilities. They'll need to call for outside help. They may need to evacuate the village. She isn't sure she can keep the fire from it, though she will certainly try.

First, she breaks the circle of blood that held in the hounds. It disperses in in a golden dust that glimmers berfore disappearing, the anima sinking back into the earth. Now, they can leave.

But first...

Inga picks up her walking stick and moves toward Eyna. Her lips part to let out a musical sound, stingingly notes together into a charm to soothe the berserker fury of Morrigan's daughter, just as she'd done a thousand years in the past when the battles were done and they had to bring the terrifying warriors back before they turned on their own friends in their blood-fury. She walks toward Enya until she can place a hand on her should, her eyes wide and fixed on Eithne's, drawing her in, soothing the lust for violence in her veins. "Come Eithne, we must go and I need your help. My horse has run away," Inga says quietly.

Oh, Jodis...Inga hopes she isn't hurt. She hopes the horse would run home to the cottage, where she should be save from the fire. Inga has wards there, naturally, to protect against all manner of things, fire included.

Inga looks to Saber. "Have you got him?" she asks in regards to Bedivere. She thinks Saber is the best person to bring him back from this particular rage.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The unconscious knight makes no argument when he's lifted from the ashes. His face is smudged with soot, and so is the fine white of his cloak and the silver of his armour. Not until they return to the citadel will he speak or even wake, limbs hanging like a broken ragdoll's. His armour clatters as he's carried; his fine white cloak trails behind, its hem smudged with soot, tattered where cinders have burnt holes through the cloth.

  Curiously, though the sheets of flame rage high into the sky, they seem not to advance any further. Maybe the flame-creatures had been bringing it with them. The impossible pattern of its spread seems proof enough of its otherworldliness.

  When they return to the citadel, gate opening with a boom and a creak of timber, they'll find they have company.

  Alaia stands in the empty hall, wearing the same winter dress and furs that she always seems to wear. Wavy red hair hangs loose about her face as it always does, but her luminous cyan eyes hold a terrible fury in them; a drawn quality to her face, mouth set in a thin and angry line. The temperature of the great hall seems about twenty degrees colder than it should be. There is frost forming on the stones closest to Alaia's boots. Bits of her clothing are singed, and some of her hair looks much the same. Her cloak is a ragged mess, soot-stained and peppered with cinder-holes like Bedivere's.

  Oh, boy. She's /pissed/.

  There is a shadowy heap on the floor beside the hearths. Bones, by the look of it. They're made of ice. Is that ice? It moves, as soon as people enter the hall, twitching vaguely, but it's hard to see just what it is. It's possible that the heap of something is Kepas, and in fact that seems to be what it is, dragging itself to its feet and shaking off like a wet hound.

  He limps on three legs, one of them mangled but bloodless, burns peppering his sleek snowy hide, but he makes his way to the front of the hall, shoving his nonexistent nose in the direction of the arrivals. The lights of his eyes are yellow once more. He doesn't seem to have lost his faculties like his slain brothers. In fact, that whip-thin tail is switching back and forth, a little.

  ...It's really hard to tell if he's grinning or growling without a face.

  Alaia has the good sense to wait until everybody's arrived to actually start talking, looking a little impatient about it.

  She doesn't seem to notice that there's still a stubborn cinder still smoldering in her hair.

Saber (346) has posed:
Saber frowned; while Bedivere's battle madness appeared to have worn off once he had become too exhausted, Eithne by contrast still seemed under the thrall of hers. This was going to be a problem, at least, if Inga could not manage to bring her out of it. She could only trust that the wisewoman would be able to as she hauled Bedivere back to the castle, likely with some help from the Black One. Certainly, Arturia possessed the strength, but being carried back by horse -- or rather, horse-shaped pooka -- was much more dignified than by diminutive Servant.

     "I do," she reassured Inga. "This is no trouble for me so long as I have the magical energy to sustain myself, even after a battle."

     Pale eyebrows raised at the sight of Alaia, who for obvious reasons would have preferred to remain comfortably asleep during the hotter seasons. It did not bode well at all that she was present...though she was greatly relieved to see Kepas had survived. He was their companion, after all.

     Rather than taking Bedivere upstairs to their chambers to rest and heal as she would have under normal circumstances, she eased the tall knight into the most comfortable cushioned chair she could find in the hall. Most likely, what he winter witch needed to discuss with them could not wait.

     "I apologise for keeping you, Lady Alaia," Saber greeted respectfully as she dismissed her armour, leaving her in the blue, gold-trimmed outer dress and white underdress. Fortunately the servants were professional enough to know to bring some much-needed refreshment for all as she spoke. "It would seem that we were not entirely successful against the creatures causing these fires."

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    Want. Want, want, want...

    Shoulders rising and falling with her breaths, Eithne holds Inga's gaze as the wisewoman moves slowly forward. Strangely, perhaps, there's no sense that she might focus her aptitude for violence on Inga - only that she might lose Eithne's attention, and with it any chance of calling her back.

    Inga's long practice at calming down greater berserkers than Eithne serves them well, though. Her shoulder tenses as a hand rests on it, Eithne bristling at the intrusion to her personal space... before she seems to hear Inga again. "Uh." She blinks, the clench of her fists easing a bit along with the crease between her eyebrows. "Jodis...?" Right, that's Inga's horse.

    The Scion looks around, a little bit confused - when did Bedivere get knocked out?? Is he okay? Where's Kepas? But Inga and Saber have greater things on their minds, and Eithne had better catch up to them before the fire does. "Yeah! Yeah, sorry--" A dismissive flick of her hand sends Rhiannon back into the pocket of Somewhere Else where it resides, and Eithne offers her shoulder (or her back, she's pretty easygoing) to her housemate as Saber and the Black One carry Bedivere home. "C'mon, let's go!"

Inga has posed:
Inga would accept a piggy back ride from Eithne for the sake of expediency. It isn't exactly dignified but the woods are on fire, she's feeling woozy from blood loss and, again, her horse has run home. So, ride the wild Eithne!

Once they arrive back and Eithne sets her down, Inga straightens her ash stained and still slightly damp shift and manages a bow to Alaia. Not exactly the state she'd wish to be in when meeting Alaia, but it will just have to do. Inga is so poised one would think she was in a gown and on a throne. "Lady Alaia," she greets, then looking to Kepas. Aw, the poor things. Her healing might not help him.

While she waits for Alaia to speak, Inga starts examining Bedivere and Eithne, looking for any wounds that need tending. May as well be useful.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  As he's half-eased and half-wrestled into a chair, the silver-haired knight's eyelids flutter. He awakens just enough to keep himself from flopping over, clattering as he catches himself against the chair's arm, only to push himself back to his feet with a grunt.

  Bedivere wavers a little unsteadily, but he manages to hold his balance, squinting at Alaia.

  "Your hair is aflame," he points out, somewhat blearily.

  The winter spirit looks slightly to one side, lips thinning even further. Not a word does she speak, but Kepas raises himself up a little higher, snorting; his icy breath neatly snuffing the cinder. With a convincingly dog-like grunting sigh, the creature collapses back into a heap, looking for all the world like a sulking white hound. A sulking hound that stands the height of a draught horse, and just so happens to have a skull for a face and respirate icy mist, that is.

  "So I noticed." Alaia's voice is brittle as ice. She's not very happy right now, and her displeasure and anger seems to radiate from her very being. "I hold none of you at fault, for I bade you protect these lands, and that you have done. I was not expecting spirits of flame at our proverbial doorstep."

  "Something is driving them, impelling them to strike out into these lands. Or, they are here of their own free will, which is in its own way much more complicated a skein to untangle." She sighs, curtly, red hair fluttering. "Whatever the case, I cannot be here for long. This is not the agreed-upon time. I must task you, mortals, with driving them off, regardless of their motivations."

  "They do not belong here."

  Bedivere is examining his seared gauntlets, wincing as he carefully prises the fingers of one hand open, but he's listening. He frowns, easing his gauntlet off and hissing at the effort. Both palms are soundly seared where the heat had travelled from his sword, to his gauntlets, and finally through the steel to his skin. Both palms are going to be wrapped in linen for a while, by the look of it.

  Something stirs in the shadows of the hearth, and the Black One, in the guise of a tiny bat, tilts his head curiously from the chimney, finally fluttering over to alight on Saber's shoulder. He eyes Alaia somewhat suspiciously, before pushing off -- no more than a feather-light scrabbling of claws against the material of her dress -- and fluttering for the stairwell. He's gone after a moment, probably to go tend his own hurts.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Bedivere only shakes his head. "We will, of course." He's not paying much attention to either his palms or to the Wisewoman who may or may not be inspecting his wounds, which mostly seem to weigh in at light to moderate burns. At least, he's purposefully not paying attention, because it /hurts/. "Perhaps we may need some time to lick our wounds, Lady Alaia? Rest assured, however, that we will look into this matter, and see what has happened."

  "Good." The winter spirit inclines her head in approving gesture, eyes lingering on the others for a moment. "I will do what I can, and compel the winter spirits to turn back what they are able. They are fickle things, but even they recognise what a threat such a thing would be. There is much here to burn."

  Already she's stalking for the front door. "I must return to my lake, for the time being, but if you require guidance, look to Kepas."

  Bedivere does, and stares somewhat blankly.

  The hound spirit is busily chewing at his own front foot without a shred of dignity.

  He looks back to Alaia in bland askance, as though to either ask her what she means by that, or to express his skepticism.

  Unfortunately for him, she's already gone.

  Bedivere sighs.

  "I suppose that settles that. We will form a brigade to put out fires, and a fire watch to ensure that none come too close to the village." He gestures vaguely with whatever hand is not being tended to. "Dun Realtai is not safe, so long as there is any flame raging within twenty leagues." He sighs again, frowning. "You all fought well. I thank you for that. But for now, I think, it is time for us to tend to our wounds, and rest. We will sort this matter out in due time."