kintire wrote:Kat, hoping she hasn't been seen, slips to a point where she can intercept the group, and stabs the last one to pass within reach. She then closes for battle, rapier whipping in intricate patterns, occasionally leaping forward to strike again. She leaves the archer to others for the moment, staying in close enough combat they cannot strike her.
Kat's blade catches the swirling cloak of the last one, and snags in the cloth.
Her target cries out, but whether in sudden pain or surprise Kat doesn't know.
The Richemuloise woman jerks her sword blade free of the tangled cloth and slashes, feinting to throw her foe off balance before she can land a deadlier thrust.
But the enemy reacts with feline grace, stepping back and casting the torn cloak to the pavement as she raises her own rapier.
The slim, tall elfin-featured woman glares at Kat, golden eyes burning under black bangs. "You've chosen a cold night to die, Zhent scum."
She comes on quickly, swordpoint needling at Kat's defenses.
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.
Kat duels the black-haired half-elf woman. Sparks fly in the gloom as they move back and forth over the cobbles, blades crossing, binding, skittering loose.
Neither is able to land a solid blow on her opponent.
WHOOOOSH!
A fiery explosion knocks half the people in the street flat but miraculously doesn't seem to hurt anybody badly.
Buildings on either side of the way smolder now, sending up plumes of smoke from charred walls and blackened shutters.
Sir Clive and Klokulf close to melee as Alain hurls sizzling spheres of vitriol at the enemy.
The fight quickly turns in the party's favor. Two foes drop to sword and spell.
The woman fighting Kat disengages, leaping back . She snarls at Kat. "I'll remember you, firehair!"
Then cries out, "Retreat!"
Two men in armor grab their fallen comrades and jog after her.
Klokulf, an axe fashioned of ice gripped in both hands, charges after them. Sir Clive follows, clanking along with his blade raised.
Alain blasts again and one of the men staggers, dropping his injured companion. The other is forced to abandon his comrade or take a blow from Sir Clive's sword--he chooses the former, running faster without the dead weight.
The survivors swiftly pass beyond the reach of Alain’s light, vanishing in snow, smoke, and darkness.
When the party doubles back to check the fallen and maybe to look out for those mysterious rooftop archers, Kat catches a glimpse of a black-cloaked man hastening away from one of the fallen into the night, crossing the street into an alley.
Looking for him proves fruitless-he has faded away like a ghost.
One of the fallen men has had his throat cut and not by Sir Clive's sword, Mercy. That man’s pack hangs open, buckles cut loose and the top opened.
Alain finds a harp-shaped brooch on the other fallen man, along with a ruby-tipped wand and some other items of possible value.
Lights shine within the Cadorna compound and voices rise in confused shouting.
Somebody yells ‘Fire! Call the Watch!”
A bell begins ringing....
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.
but she soon has enough to do, matching rapiers with her adversary, probing her opponents defences until the woman falls back. Kat makes no particular effort at pursuit, though she does search more carefully for the archer.
She abandons her search, however, when the bell starts ringing.
"Time to go!"
She moves swiftly off into the darkness in the general direction of the inn, assuming the group will follow
Klokulf's eyes linger on the man with a slit throat, then he refocuses on his surroundings. "I couldn't agree more," he replies, and hurries after Kat.
Snow flurries sweep over the scene of the street fight as the party flees into the city night.
Later...
"This one is still alive, Watch-Captain!"
END OF CHAPTER
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.
