#Thanfred Veilborne | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bad-rper · 1 month

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A Grave Situation

The air was hot that day. Not that he could feel it, but he knew from how close that sun looked. A giant ball of fire he couldn't bear to look at, if not from blindness, from being overwhelmed. Not that it was his problem, as the small lake was blue, every blue. From the greenest shallows to the purplest depths. A deposit of the sky in that stretch of snow and sand. And, within it, one droplet of the sun's fiery orange. "Coming?" Called out from tranquil waters. Of course he was. He had been for some time. His legs stretched, light as a deer's gait, and they kept walking along that dock's creaking boards. Jogging. Bounding. Each step came another board, and another. It stretched forever into the vastness of that lake. What was he rushing for? He couldn't just jump in and swim either. His arm was hurt.

A pain that roar with lightning fingers over a long sunburnt ache. Enough to wedge him between dream and conscious. Was the lake just a tub in the other room? Had the sun always been lit in an ornate fish's mouth? Were the planks made of cushions? Reasoning surfaced over him in waves he could not reach, fuzzy and dry.

There he was, lying on the sofa of the fish-marked tavern room. His arm was hurt.

Rolling his weight off the side, he planted his feet into the nautical rug below. He felt the heaviness of himself in every inch of flesh. He rarely slept on his back like that, and yet his frame made a print in the pillows from shoulder to shin. That bitter green drink did its job for how long it lasted but, awake again, soreness quickly found him.

It took a titan's fortitude just to stand himself upright. Yet, by each dragging thud of bare foot towards the bedroom, more of slumber's sands shook off from him. His hand slapped onto the frame, supporting himself as he took in the room through bleary eyes.

The room was devoid of any such orange. It only lingered in memories of mending and echoes of lynx-hunting. How long had he slept? The fadeleaf sedative must have knocked him out cold to not rise earlier, or at least not stir as her breeze passed over him. As his hand lifted to run down a fresh ribboned braid, his chest kicked with a beat of ache--though that was soon swallowed in the rush of his arm's greater discomfort.

Dawdling in dejection would do the limb no better. The night before, he promised to retrieve the bounty payout from the town guard. He was still negligent in his debt to not only Magdal but the trader who came before her, but he'd hope to replenish her gold first. And, if fortune really favored him, he would run into the doctor toting her medicine bag.

Thanfred left the tavern with no more than the clothes on him and the sling-fashioned gauze to cradle his arm. Even his gambeson and sword were left behind, having no use for a blade held in a pain-wracked hand. At the very least, it would show the extent of injuries he'd succumbed. After all, neither him nor Magdal nor the enigmatic 'Lowell' had thought to grab proof of defeat from their foes' bodies. Then again, as far as he knew the bounty never called for any--but he was not the one to read it.

"Attention! The Night Coven threat is still at large! Should you value your life and unlife, stick to the roads!" Crier Stonebell's caution had droned on nearly constantly in those past days. It was a wonder how his voice hadn't grown hoarse, though it could have been the very same wonders that let his cold body have a voice at all. All the same, it became rather easy for the two to tune out his shouting as they stood before the notice board, feet from his soapbox. "Nightshade Coven…" murmured the doctor, taking on the role Thanfred's vicarious eyes, "Scary, people going missing…" While most writing was a struggle for him, there were bounties and notices that were nearly universally standard. Even the reading-impaired mercenary could get by by big, bold 'missing' and 'wanted' headers alone. It was the specifics that slipped by him, having no patience to stand struggling in front of boards as people eyed him. "--Should you, widows and widower, seek peace: do it from your homes!" the bellman's words continued to ring over deaf ears. "…Looks like they've been, uh- Robbing corpses. Digging 'em up," she continued on for the mercenary's sake, nearly in tandem with the crier's warnings. "Wonder if we'd find any if we go looking 'round graveyards." In short order, Thanfred checked down a mental list of graveyards known to him. In reality, the entire region itself was a field of death and gravemarkers. None, however, were too close to Vandermar's gates. The nearest, and arguably dearest, that came to might brought with it urgency. "--Don't think they're getting close to Gramps and Gran's, do you?" he sought Magdal's face for any reason to be hopeful. The doctor peered the Ren'dorei's way with a harsh frown. "Oh, hope not- Got some graveyard real close though, huh?" Gramps and Granny: a couple that still maintained an inn for hapless travelers sequestired between fields of death--both shambling and resting. Off one side of their farmstead roved aimless Scourge but, more pertinently, on the other side extended a road lined with graves. "Really don't want 'em hurt…" Without delay, Thanfred tugged at his baldric, shuffling up that door-shield better onto his back. "Should mosey quick, then," he turned from board and bellman, "At the very least, we can warn them to steer clear." Magdal nodded along, adjusting her harness as she turned on her heel. "Moseying."

Despite all that allegedly inhabited those dim woods, the trek towards the remote inn was largely uneventful. Though, where the path across the bridge branched, they made their way carefully towards the leftmost path--one lined in tombstones and memorials. "Let's first scope out the graves," Thanfred spoke low, keeping himself low and to the roadside. "At least we can see if they're already stretched this far." "No, yeah- Be careful, please," the more nimble of the elves urged. Not only by her less-redden, kaldorei blood, but Magdal did not have to worry about all the bulky plate and armaments that her ren'dorei companion donned. "Stick close." Slipping past fadeleaf branches and hollowed logs, the two found no sign of activity in the area, neither in-progress or evidence left behind. No earth disturbed and not a single stone turned since the two had last visited the rose-marked graves. So time-suspended that even the mercenary took reprieve into fog-soft memories. "… Been awhile, huh?" he grazed his fingers along a large stone once shared for a seat. For a moment, both ardor-beguiled elves lost their sense of urgency in whispers of lullabies and songs, lakeside and handheld. Though it would not be until the threat of encore that Thanfred would finally look down the road. Several paces away, a seemingly-forsaken woman crouched genuflect before a roadside headstone. The two froze, pinning to the boulder's cold side as they studied her intentions afar. Though clad in doured mauves and dingy off-whites, not a bone dangled from her (that was not sticking from her), as Magdal could remember of the coven described in the posters. And, though she had a hood as Thanfred could tell, she did not wear it up before the grave. The only other piece that stood out was a purple flower held reverent in her skeletal fingers. The two decided to approach, still with all due caution, at least to see if the woman had noticed anything that they missed. "…Uh- Hey there," shuddered out an ever-inelegant greeting from the backwoods doctor. Thanfred followed abreast of her, hand never straying far from the pommel of his enburdened blade. The somber woman's head stayed low, mouth moving soundlessly as she recited unheard prayers for the departed, presumably. Even as the scuffing of plate encroached to the edge of the meager yard and the doctor's voice carried, she waited until her sentence finished before acknowledging them. "Greetings," banded eyes towards the two, amber unlife radiating just beneath. Her voice wavered with the toll of frayed chords and decayed lungs. "Do you require something?" The kaldorei's batty ears lulled at the stretch of silence that lingered for several moments overlong. She passed a glance to the Ren'dorei, whose shoulder rolled with unease, only to snap her gaze back to the woman as she finally piped up. "Oh- Uh- Was wondering if you heard anything 'bout some… Some coven walking 'round robbing corpses and stuff?" She drew nearer as she spoke, likely to compensate for that terrible perpetual mutter. Obscured eyes regarded them for another silent moment. "Coven…?" she repeated the word in that stretch of tattered vocals. Yet, before she continued, she stretched her thin neck to peer around around Thanfred's bulky frame. "… Is this one with you?"

Both elves swung her heads, only to jolt upon noticing an iron-clad figure not far behind them. Another risen soul, presumed forsaken, whose straw-colored mane reached down in a mossy hang over sable cape and dingy pauldron. A worn spear, while sharpen and reaching, remained strapped non-threateningly to his back. With his gauntlets to his sides, he stepped forward, plainly, and in an orderly fashion. "Forgive my eavesdropping." The Forsaken said firmly and clearly from a face forever-fresh. "Your words caught my notice. This coven, you referring to, I mean to say." Every movement, however succinct, was accompanied by a chorus of clinking. Rings, chains, signets--a collection of heraldic Banshee tokens that dangled from his hip. "Oh- No, yeah, we…" The doctor offered a vague gesture eastward, with a jerk of her a stilling thumb. "Signs 'round Vandermar 'bout some corpse robber coven. We're just keeping an eye out." As she spoke, Thanfred continued to hold his stance, eyes bouncing between two suspicious parties. "You know much 'bout 'em?" The stately stranger slowly shook his head from side to side. "I have not given them proper notice, no. It seems they have grown to become a dire threat, despite all the contenders in this cursed place." Hum creaked from the woman knelt before them, well-worn with dirt and decay. "So you all seek the same answers? Then maybe you could do something about those curs," her bony fingers squeezed around the purple-petaled flower. "I am a grave tender of sorts. I was pushed out of my usual yard by some unsightly fiends some nights ago." Both elves turned attention towards the woman, but only Magdal spoke up. "Pushed out? I'm so sorry- Where're you normally working at? Could take a look, see if we can't handle it." The once-human, however, approached the gravetender, giving the pair of elves a respectable berth. "My lady," He said somberly, placing a gnarled hand to his chest. "Lordaeron and its people shall not suffer such antagonists. You've our word." And just like that, he was answering for others. The penitent woman's head heavied once more, turning her face away from all those gathered. "I am grateful for your eagerness," she murmured back over the flower, "I come from Vandermar. There is a small burial sight, forgotten in the shadow of those walls. You'll find it along the road heading towards the bay." Eyes, cursed by Moon, void, and death, all turned to the distant lance-headed buildings of Vandermar across the chasm. A town that stood defiantly against the sea. "Be cautious. I witnessed the way they handed those poor souls. I doubt they would offer the living better treatment." As "Road towards the bay..?" She flicked a glance to the broken bridge past the woman before peering eastward again, trailing off as she did so. The lour woman was quick to confirm with another hum. "From Vandermar towards the sea. If you could route those pests, I'd be grateful. More importantly, he would be grateful," her voiced turned wispy as her bow deepened further. The group turned to respectfully allow the woman her peace. Though, as Thanfred debriefed the reason for their detour to their newly-taken party member, Magdal could not help but give one last look over shoulder. Large, silver eyes followed the flower pinched between those bony fingers as it was gently placed at the base of the headstone upon a bed of lichen. Five petals that branched out into a star. Each one as pale-purple as the ratty edges of her dress. And, in the center long, golden rod of stamen jutting forth and venomously. Solanaceae.

The dialogue with the proprietors was kept brief, with Thanfred summarizing the lurking threats as the other two waited outside. Having spent numerous times at the inn and even worked off his stays on their farm, they trusted the ren'dorei at his word. It was not as if Vandermar was going to send a proper messenger any time soon. Eventually, the heavy doors of the inn parted between the two and Thanfred, quiet literally, stepped into their conversation. "Let them know," he announced above Magdal going off about flowers again, "Gonna keep the front doors locked and keep watch at the windows." Not long after the doors shut in his wake came a sharp click of chambers. "They'll keep a look out for travelers. If any of us need back in, gotta call out for them first." "Oh, good," perked up Magdal, beginning to mosey after him, "Glad for that." "Glad for that," repeated the words from the undead close behind. As they made their way back to Vandermar, the three discussed the next step of their plan. Before reaching the graveyard itself, they would make a detour into the manor-town to bolster their numbers. Or, at least, try to. With Stimmy back to her normal self, she was capricious as ever in what aid she might lend. At the very least, he thought, he might be able to convince Pascal, the wolf, to come along. "There are more of you, then?" the spearman eyed the back of those ren'dorei's bounded, but not braided, hair-tendrils, "Are you a mercenary company?" As they approached the lone bridge that joined Vandermar to the mainland, Magdal stole a glance down that wrought iron-lined road. The woman seemed long vanished, leaving only behind that distant nightshade and mystery. Gone like a breeze. "Not a mercenary company," Thanfred answered with a bit of a groan. "Just… A mercenary and his company." Chaotic, demonic, haunted, and quixotic company. And Pintsy. The sudden stiffening of the air on the far side of the bridge stilled their thoughts and conversation. A tension so frosty fell, nearly freezing the breath still in their lungs. For two of the three of them, anyways. All eyes scanned over the trees, the shrubs, even into the silvery webbing of spiders. It was not until another footfall of the mercenary's boot that a globe of dismal dark dashed at the cobblestones before him. "Got company!" he announced, jumping back at the blast and withdrawing bronze blade and shield door. Magdal and the lancer, too, jumped to attention, drawing firearm from harness and whipping polearm from back. The eyes darted more frantic to a would-be assailant. "No coincidence then," spat the lancer, forming into his own primed stance, "To arms!" As if at his call, a slender and jagged form emerged from the nearby brush. Rows of rib-bones caged its body and limbs while violet feathers protruded from beneath tattered hide. Over the hood of the being--another forsaken by the stooping of spine and the exposure of bone--sat a beast's skull. Though, in those deadened and hollowed sockets, illuminated flames flickering with soul.

The energy that coursed through the creature was formiddable, chilling both bladed men even as they drew near. Yet, for all its might, it was by sheer luck and tenacity that the swinging blades overpowered them, making quick work to rid their arm of blighted hand to prevent a greater spell. In retaliation, they lifted a remaining hand of sinew and bone splayed into Thanfred's face, buffeting him with a deathly-cold blow. The mercenary writhed, holding his face as spear thrusts and bullets waylaid into the necrotic caster. In a last effort to sustain itself, remaining bony fingers outstretched again towards the cliffs. There, beyond another brush, laid a withered corpse of one of those many missing faces. Ghastly scintilla outstretched from beneath milky and brittle talons, extending into twisting tendrils of death that siphoned whatever trace soul remained in the atomy. "It's desperate!" the spearman called across the fray. "Strike true!" Before they could slake upon the tormented energies, a single shot from the doctor's revolver drove through its palm and disrupted the spell. "THANFRED, GET 'EM!" she shouted, promptly shaking the doorman from the festering injury. Shoving that bronze blade through cape and between two cages of ribs, he finally found something to severe in the construct that kept it upright. With a clatter of bones and an expulsion of torn souls, the ambusher fell into a heap. When the last tooth had settled, the doctor quickly took inventory of every injury. "Everyone okay?" she called, stuffing her gun away with an exhale. Meanwhile, the lancer looked down at the fiend, restoring his weapon to its proper place. "Either the threat of this Coven is more widespread than I imagined, or our intentions are known now." Thanfred waited for the last bit of necrotic magic to leave the pile of bone and cloth before slowly stowing that blade through his belt. "Definitely was waiting for us," he conferred with the knight. Under a furrowed brow, he glanced from the bone heap, to the brush, and to the graveyard across the chasm. "--Got hit with something," he answered, then, in delayed response to the doctor. "Nothing's falling off, right?" He turned his face towards others. To the furthest extent of their horrors, to the revulsion of their stomachs, such a repulsive and grotesque fate revealed itself unto them: It was Thanfred. Whole and with little more than a smudge. Magdal jumped a little. The lancer averted his gaze. As Thanfred touched with concerned at his untouched, pathetic facial hair and the others unflipped their stomachs, a thought weighed on Magdal's brow. "…Hey, that lady back there, at the grave," she began, before a brief consolation to the mercenary, "Oh, no, s'okay. Looks norm- Normal." "Do you find her duplicitous?" the lancer inquired, following after the mercenary already treading the road again. "Just- Thought it was weird, right? Putting poison flowers on her husbands grave, but…" She was right there with them, ever the more wary beneath those twisted limbs of the forested path. "Poison flowers?" piped in Thanfred, making haste towards Vandermar and away from those dim woods. "Light the Arthas lily?" Presumably, he meant 'like', but it was some sort of Freudian slip. Azerothian Freud. "Worse-," shook the doctor's head, "Nightshade." A new wave of worry washed over them--even overtaking the relief that Vandermar's distant gates brought.

Regrouping in Vandermar did little to add to their numbers. An extensive hangover bounded Stimmy to her room in the Raven Perch Tavern and, thus, bounded Pascal to Stimmy. And Thanfred refused to take Pintsy with him. Uncle Tito was mysteriously absent--likely having an old man nap in the tavern or on uncle-business, and no other intrepid sort perused the bounty board. So, with their faculties regathered, they set out down the southern path from Vandermar, onward to that aforementioned bay. Doubt clung heavily to their minds. Between the 'grave tender's dubious ties and the ambush in the woods, they were certain a trap awaited them ahead. However, their mission was to route any fiends from the graveyard. If there was two sitting unaware or a dozen with their weapons at the ready, it made little difference to their duty. Nonetheless, they exercised great caution as they crept quietly up the path. Just beyond a boulder, near where mercenary and medical practitioner made camp before, stood the iron posts of a small cemetery. This came to the surprise of both, having not realized how close they'd been sleeping near the dead. Regardless, their encampment was gone and their threats were near. Prowling beneath the horizon of the hill, all three slipped quietly into the shelter of a bush. Between twig and leaf, they watched afar at three bleached backs shrugged and fell; the scent of exposed earth reaching even through the foliage. All three wore garb similar to their erstwhile assailant. Exposed spines, brilliant feathers, hugging rib cages. Where they differed was in amount: bone clad nearly each inch of their tattered robes. Dangling with femurs and rattling with teeth (not a bone) and fortified in sternums. More prominently than all, however, were the antlers protruding from the hollow-eyed stag skulls atop their crowns. As they continued to exhume, each hunched over a grave, all those taupe points bounced like cackling bramble. Although the ghouls' unawareness ought be welcomed, there was an air of something amiss. Were they so confident that a single soul-defiler would stop them? Were they more disorganized than the party expected? Doubt continued to sow deep into their minds, but their mission was at hand. With equal numbers and the advantage, they agreed to each take a single target. On the mark, they swiftly dashed into the fray with precision. As the lancer and Thanfred ducked and darted onto the grounds, Magdal popped from the bush to deliver a shot into the first cultist in her sights--just above her allies' heads--before taking cover behind a stump. That timeworn spear slipped between another's ribcage-cuirass, twisting into their center mass. Running furthest into the raucous, Thanfred sliced into the third cretin's backside just before they could turn to the commotion.

The payback descent overwhelmed the graverobbers easily, leaving them little time to even reach for their weapons, let alone grasp the situation around them. In flailing and frantic, those same soil-carving talons raked up at their closer attackers, managing merely scratches upon exposed skin. Unbeknownst to all, that fortune and glory was observed in the baleful glower of a shadowed beast. With the doctor firing from afar, her target was left with little recourse than to assist their fiendish fellow with the lance-wielder. To her horror, both teamed on the man, one grasping into those straw-frayed locks as the other brandished a honed femur. "HEY!" she tried to redirect the skeletal foe's attention with shout and shot, yet that hold was steadfast on the lancer. At the very least, Thanfred's was alerted to the flanking behind him, eliciting a curse of his own. "Shit!" he swung about sword-led, leaving his own target to face his door, "Hey, boneheads! Over here!" Sword and spear made ribbons of the dagger-wielder before they had the opportunity to plunge it in anywhere worse than Thanfred's bicep. Still, the one pelt by bullets continued to whip the lancer's head around as easily as reins--and Thanfred had left his back open. Heaving a large, hewn bone over its head, the adversary he had pinned to the wall swung down their club. Meeting the mercenary's shoulder, it pulverized joint from socket with a deafening

CRRRK!

"--That's how I hurt my arm," Thanfred gestured at the slung, relocated injury.

The guardsman's already dim eyes only shadowed in the flickering light of Vandermar Vanguard's barracks. Quill scratched ink onto page before those weathered lips parted. "And your companions," rumbled out the deep notes of the undead, "Did they sustain any injuries?"

While Thanfred, charged by his pain, crushed his assailant in half by his shield, the lancer continued to be thrashed. "… The man, Lowell," as he would come to learn, "Probably got some whiplash. And Doctor Fogeye…" A flurry of bullets from Magdal managed to fell his attacker, only in exchange for a last-effort toss of a grave-marking helm. Skull and glass shattered through the air. "… Got a hit to the face. Her glasses took the blow, though."

As the brass tip clawed more notes, the guard spoke up again from his rumination. "And they're not with you?" A question posed without so much as a glance to the man or his injury.

"Not right now," he answered on an exhale. "Doctor's the traveling physician, though. Should be around Vandermar somewhere." Should held as much weight as it did worry. "Lowell, the other guy, said he didn't care about the reward. Took off after we got back here." To him, it made sense. It wasn't as if whatever noble quest he was on was fueled by a full stomach.

When the final lash struck from the pen, the record book snapped shut. Leaning back, the guard pulled a drawer open, rummaging around into the sound of clinking coins before sliding it closed again. Thanfred stared hard into the center of the desk where the guard outstretched his bony fist--only to deposit a single gold coin into its center. The Lord Haggard's face, embossed with the treacherous smile of a life ago, grinned back at mercenary with a mocking twinkle.

"--One gold?" he stepped forward, affronted at the reward. "We risked our lives out there," he continued to object, clenching even the fist held by gauze, "And no telling what else is going to be waiting for us now--!"

Two skeletal fingers raised up to quell the man before he could shout. "Two gold," creaked a correction, "Once we confirm the site is cleared." Lazily dragging the recordbook back to himself, the guard promptly shoved it into another drawer. "The Vanguard will also foot a ten gold stipend for you at the local tavern," he dragged on with a stern, albeit dull, tone, "Just give me the names your rooms and tabs are listed under."

Thanfred shifted his weight, not entirely pleased with the decision still, but more uncomfortable that he couldn't fold his arms to show it. "… Fogeye and Castfuse," he finally relented, frowning down at that grinning coin before he took it.

The guard pulled out a smaller scrap of paper, presumably jotting the names down, before folding it up onto his person. Leaning back in the chair, he tilted an eye up at the mercenary. "House Haggard bleeds gold by the day," he began to explain, having a modicum of sympathy dragged from his unbeating heart, "Vandermar has no exports of its own anymore, and we're lucky to get the occasional traveler or trader to deal with." Wane lips tightened into a grim curve, "We see more coin come from our burials than much else. That's why we need this 'coven' subdued quickly."

Flicking the quill away, the guard shifted in posture and inflection as he stood. "--And why we can only give so much for securing one grave," his milky eyes found Thanfred's again, "--More out there around the walls. For now, I'll inform Captain Allaric of the one." Scooting the chair to the table, the sable-armored man turned from his desk station. "You are dismissed."

With a heavy sigh and a heavy brow, Thanfred took another look into the wretched visage in his palm. Still, a kindred conscience for the dutiful guard won his composure, stowing the hard-fought reward into his wares. Turning back to the exit, he made for the streets with no time to loiter.

After all, his arm was hurting.

The misty streets were binoclard-free. From bakery to bath house, Thanfred had searched just about every known location for the elusive doctor. Sticking his head into the grackle raven-ornamented chapel one more time, he scanned over the congregation, looking for a single fiery head. Alas, he backed out again into the streets, no less aching, no less cold.

"… We should stick together. Especially if we're heading out," his own voice surfaced to his mind from the night before.

"No, yeah…" hers softly followed, radiating a phantom warmth from the center of his brow once more. "Gunna stick together. Gunna keep an eye out."

There was no way she would have left the town on her own after that night. If not just by her oath, hippocratic or otherwise, then for her own good. They knew then that the Nightshade Coven was likely aware of their interference, and now Thanfred had confirmation that there were more still out there. Not to mention, the woman's spectacles were broken in the strife. If she could even spot a foe from a distance, her aim would do her no good.

But could they come into the gates? Hopefully not. Given their osteological raiment, they did not seem concerned with subtly by those who spied them. However, the woman at the graveyard seemed subdued and he remembered not a single bone dangling from her. If she truly was coven cohort, it was possibility that others could lurk among the populace.

He quickly plunged those worsening fears into a bath of reason: she had probably returned to the tavern while he was at the guard post, or even was with Stimmy. Turning his heel down the road, he stepped with urgency towards Raven Perch. Though, before he could even pass the barrel-based tables, a rickety voice carried to his ears atop those foggy currents.

"Are you looking for your friend?" lifted the crackling lips of the old crone, bearing a brew-stained smile. Those eyes, however clouded and sagging, were ever-vigilant to the goings-on outside her quaint porch. The outdoor seating of the tavern, in particular, was frequently abuzz with that mercenary and his company. Of course she would know.

And he knew the last thing she said to her. His mouth pinned flat, his glare saved for the door. All the same, he listened on, fingers balling tightly until they quaked.

"I saw her out and about earlier," she continued on, as blithe and brittle as ever. "Poor thing looked positively worry-gnawed." The rockers of her chair pressed creeping whines into the beleaguered boards beneath her. "All I did was smile her way…" The sounds crawling through the man's pinning ears and down into his clenched teeth.

"And she took off."

As did Thanfred, without word towards Vandermar's gates. He hardly felt the outcry of his ailing arm, or even the stare of the elder's eyes as he stormed through the streets. Only the throbbing vitriol slamming its fists from within his skull. A rhythmic drumming of frantic beats: 'Not again.' 'Not again.' 'Not again.' 'Not again.'

"NOT AGAIN!"

His legs, from ankle to knee, suddenly seized at the shout of a shrill shriek just as he was passing beneath the portcullis. Not even pausing his thoughts, he grunted as he struggled against his own unmoving body. Eventually, eyes shot to the bracers, fixating on the abominable radiation of the emeralds inset.

"Let me go--" he struggled still, only to have his lips pin again.

"THANFRED!" shouted the rose-haired gnome as she rounded him, delivering a taut bop of her staff against his foolish skull. "You weren't running off in this condition, were you?!" she gestured at him with plump painted fingers stretched.

Without armor and without arm. He didn't even have a coat to cover him from the cold he knew so well. The best he had against any potential threat was his knife still wedged in his belt. And, still, he thrashed against the forces wresting his body, only to tired himself quickly into a pant: "Magdal's in danger!" his desperation spat, "I need to go now."

"Oh, great thinking, Sir Dorkus," Stimmy sarcastically and overtly jeered, mincing the name of the great hero Marcus of literature infamy, "But how are you going to rescue your 'foul maiden' if you get your ugly face pumped full of bug juice again!" Though she berated with a more welcomed rendition of her lecture from the last time he went running off into the Darkwood Forest, she was not without her own apprehensions. Those large, smaragdine (green for smart people) eyes warily glanced into the gnarled treeline afar.

"… Thanfred, come," she ordered again. At her word, the hold on the elf's limbs relented. As determined as he was, he stayed put to slowly turn and watch the warlock waddled back into the town's center. "We're getting Pascal and your butt back into a tin can. I'd rather my future replacement for you, pro tem known as Magthrall, to not DIE due to YOUR impotence."

Turning completely on the cobblestones away, she was able to meet those burning fel-flecked eyes into his icy voidlights.

"Like, NOW?!" she tapped that thorned stave into the ground with increasing exacerbation, "Before we all die of old age instead?!"

Releasing the smallest exhale of conflicting reliefs, Thanfred nodded his head and moseyed after her. The dock never seemed longer.

#writing #Thanfred Veilborne

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