Chapter 50: Blushing & Blooddrunk (Parakles)
The main fields out front of the city of Madrol roared as the fighting continued, with bodies ripped vibrantly and giving way to fatigue and exhaustion. Yet, the men bound to the battle found whatever effort or motivation was needed in the moment to continue their fight; whether Bruin or Rebel, courage was displayed by many a man in the thundering swath of the prolonged skirmish.
Near the port of the city, Siphon and his small detachment move with purpose along the docks. Their goal is to reach the keep with as minimal detection as possible. Catching the eye of a guard along the waterfront, the thief hurls a dagger in his direction, connecting and halting his retreat to the keep, but not slaying the man.
"AHHHHHHHHH!" The man screams with everything in his lungs as Siphon hustles up to retrieve the dagger. He then slits the throat of the man, silencing his voice. The sound of the fighting outside has the attention of the city, yet the noise so vibrant inside the walls calls for people to take notice.
"Hustle up! I think that noise will be the end of our easy access to the city," Djent speaks as he brings up the rear of the party, using both the blunt side of his lance and the guiding hand of the maiden Laroux to be aware of his surroundings and continue his march. Bors laughs at the blind knight's comment as he is the natural straggler of the party, but the knight was serious in his remarks as he tries to increase his pace further to press on to the target location. The villa of House Porter was at the southwest edge of the city coastline; the dock builders did have a small wooden landing for a personal vessel or small ship to sit for the noble family, but nothing able to house a larger deep-sea barge.
"THUMM!" An arrow connects into the shoulder of Siphon as he is taken to the ground. Calls of frustration ring as a man on a vantage point along the roofline of the villa signals his lack of joy in the shot missing the target, which was the man's heart. Blood drips quickly, though, as the thief drops low and all get behind a series of barrels and crates just outside the courtyard to the main house. Gina is in utter shock at the injury and calls for Laroux to come and help. Djent, immediately ducking as low as his larger frame is able, raises his shield overhead to give even better coverage of himself; then he taps his guide's hand, letting her know to move to the side of the man in need. Siphon gasps as he tries to retain consciousness. The blood pools thick and dark as he asks Gina, grabbing her hair as he attempts to move her from tears and grief to remove his cloak and tunic. She strips him down from the covered position.
"Gage, can you get that shooter?" Marcion asks as he sees the doors to the villa open and a band of men thunder out with a look of purpose on them. The archer signals that he will give it his best effort, though he knows his ability, especially with the lighter bow, has been suspect of late. Marcion cares not as he, the pugilist, seeks only to gain confidence that emerging from the cover of the crates will not leave him vulnerable to bolts into his body as Siphon just received. Gage understands as he draws a bolt from his quiver and readies himself. Squatting, he moves about, seeking a different angle toward the lofted shooter who looses a bolt toward Djent's shield as the archer of Runsa readies himself.
"Stay in my sight, stay hungry, come on friend, I know you think that next shot will be the one; get greedy." He mumbles as Marcion and Bors notice the men gathering closer to their position. Gage's legs begin to shake as the crouched position is not one his legs are so accustomed to maintaining. He know must be true with his aim.
"GAGE!" Marcion calls, but Gage pays the comments no mind as he enters the mind of a hunter stalking the true shot, seeking to remind himself of the simple days of his youth when he was just learning the correct ways to fire. He hears again the words and lessons of his teachers in his ear, reminding him of the simple truths of archery and the vantage of aiming for a smaller target. The memories creeping in the man have him questioning their impetus and origin, though instead of feeling uneasy with these recollections, he is invigorated and excited, and inoculated to the jittering of his legs under him.
"There we are." His eyes know the location; his hands move to match. Draw. Loose.
"AHHHHH!" Two groans rise in the air at the same time as Laroux pulls the bolt from Siphon's chest and the archer from atop the villa takes the shot into his lung under the ribs. The man drops his bow and, on subconscious instinct, grabs his chest as he looks down but quickly notices his eyes fogging and becoming blank and vacant. A series of haggard and weary steps ensues as the man makes it to the edge of the rooftop, then plummets to his ruin. Gage smiles; he knows that his acumen is still rusty and his strength is not returned, yet he is confident once again and feels perhaps as he did the day that Runsa fell, calm and focused. He falls backwards with a smile as he seeks to give his legs an earned respite for their aid in his successful hunt.
"HOLD HIM DOWN!" Laroux screams as she then slaps Gina in the face to get the young woman ready to help Siphon. His color is fading since the bolt was pulled from the chest. No fragment of the arrow was left behind, and yet the bleeding wound had not yet been sealed. Laroux needed the girl to keep him steady as she readied a healing spell. She planned to use two in quick succession, though she knew it would sap much of her own vigor in the process. White light emanates from her palm as the woman chants her ancient tongue. The spell completes quickly as the light settles onto the chest of the thief and the leader of the party, mending and reforming the sinews and bonds of the flesh as if the shot had never penetrated the man.
"You really are beyond most of the priests I have ever seen," Gina comments as the tears halt from pouring, but still adorn her face, creating a kind of war paint in salt for the lass. It was true that Laroux, being a Morningsong, had better access to archives and litanies of spells than many in the religious orders would not have access to, especially with their ideas of keeping knowledge under controlled distribution to their pupils. Laroux, however, could not relish this feeling as she, leaning forward and clearly tired from the casting, popped open a small vial containing a potion to give her the boost she needed to safely power through the next spell.
The guard to the villa, of course, paid no mind to the beauty of this scene of healing and collapsed upon the party. Marcion and Bors were quick to intercept, and though they were outnumbered, the men had confidence and faith in their companions. The blind knight Djent could hear the scuffling ahead and rose, still keeping his shield in a position to block shots to his vitals and exposed joints. "HEADS UP!" he called, garnering the attention of all as he then barreled ahead into the fray. Bors and Marcion jumped to the side as they caught wind of the large knight thundering forward with heavy steps. The knight collided with a villa guard and ran him into a column ahead, knocking the pillar from its standing post and running the man aground. Djent then explored with his hands to quickly find the head of the man under him. He then lay hammerfists with his heavy bracers into the skull after removing the helmet. The man was already too stunned to defend himself adequately and fell to death by the third strike to the skull by the knight. He was already a stronger man before his days in the prison camp, but being blind and still seeking to serve in battle had been a tough transition for the man with a pink headband around his eye sockets. He was clumsy in his movements and had the potential to mistake friend for foe, but something about not seeing removed hesitation from him. His strikes were with greater force, as if he knew from the lack of his eyes that he did not have the privilege to strike with restraint or reserve. All blows the man delivered were with his full effort, with killing effort.
Marcion swept a man's leg as he recovered from dodging the charge of the blind man. Being a pugilist in combat can be a risky thing, especially since, unlike Lycon of the enemy ranks, he did not adapt to have a fighting style that incorporated a standard battle weapon. The man sought to continue his fighting as he always had, with his fists, legs, and body. Marcion did wear a thick leather hide over his chest and back, but just regular pants on his legs. He had thick boots with metal pressed over the toes and leather bracers on his forearms. His main weapon was just the gauntlets that clasped over his gloves, which gave his punches added weight and the ability to stab about an inch in along the line of the knuckle tips. This meant trouble for him if he fought a lancer at a distance, but up close, where many fights can lead to after the initial collision, the man was prepared to be the better of all. As the man he knocked over pounded the ground, Marcion jumped to his feet and leapt at the head of the downed soldier. He then extended his right arm ahead and drove his fist deep into the face of the man. As the punch connected and, rather than bouncing and recoiling, because the man was already with his head on the ground, the punch drove deep and broke the face of the man from both front and back. Marcion rolled to his left as a lance stabbed into the downed man's chest, only a second or two too late to rip into the pugilist. He then somersaulted backward to raise himself to his feet and create a safe distance for him as he would then choose his next opponent.
Bors, who though never being a knight, had taken armor that did belong to a heavy armored knight-class man previously, complete with thick metal armor and a large shield. He was shorter than the previous wearer and lacked the raw strength that Djent and others had but was still able to make use of the style adopted by the man. Parries rang in the air as the attacks of two sword-wielding heavy knights smacked against both his spear and shield. He was cautious to move to the offensive. "Gina, I could use a hand on the line," he called as he saw Marcion engaged and Djent in a clearing, safely away from his comrades to allow him to swing his lance with little concern of striking an ally.
Laroux wrapped her hand up as she finished the second of the two spells needed to bring Siphon back to vitality. She looked at the young woman with a smile and a nod, letting her know the heroic thin man who saved her from the prison camp, her hero, was going to recover in the next series of minutes. "Go, help them," she said. Gina bit down on her lip as she drew her sword. She was still a novice of novices in the art of conflict but knew how to maneuver around those who had the attention of the enemy. She struck low into the leg of one man waylaying onto the shield of Bors, buckling the man and limiting further movement, though not robbing him of rage and zeal toward battle.
Gage let loose an arrow clean to add to the damage upon the heavily armored man. Which then gave Bors the line to dash his lance into the neck of the man, ripping him from this world as his last moments were his fall to the dirt. As this happens, the thief tenses his muscles and the color returns to his face. He opens his eyes to see Laroux over him with her hands wrapped up and her normally darker skin tone light, as though she had to spare part of her own essence to restore the thief. Siphon is lost in this moment as he is thankful and overjoyed for her sacrifice to him. He feels undamaged. On instinct, he leans up and reaches his left hand around the head of the sage of Morningsong and moves his lips to meet hers. His eyes are closed, hers are open and more so than usual as the thin man lingers for a moment. She feels the kiss deeply, she does not fight it, she does not see it as a symbol of romance, merely of thanksgiving to a savior. "Thank you, Laroux," he says after briefly pulling back and looking low. She is bright red as she realizes that she is still sitting over his body and immediately separates herself from him, though she is unable to make a quick movement due to the fatigue of the spells upon her. Though after separation, she sobers to a reality that has just happened in that kiss and looks up, as if by instinct, to see the eyes of Gina. Gina, who has tears anew forming, and this time with more passion. She is happy for the recovery of her lover, but wild with the rage in her heart from seeing his lips caress those of the older than her sage, a different woman.
"AHHHHHHHHHHH!" There are many terms used for what came about in the coming moments as the guards collapsed from the pressure of all in the party as Siphon returned to his feet and Laroux took another elixir to gain back as much as she could of her energy. The most adequate term to explain the flurry of untapped and latent potential exhibited by Gina is 'blooddrunk.' With haphazard swings and gritted teeth clenched so hard her tears dripped as though they were blood. For the brief window of rage that befell her spirit, Gina went beyond the simple lackluster skills of a villager playing at the craft of swordsmanship to a person adept, or at least a novice, in the art. Her strikes rapid, her aim impeccable. She is angry, and even as the last falls to the ground and Marcion and Siphon wrap their arms both around her to detain and restrain her from further rage and to allow her to collect herself before they attack the Villa inside, in search of Melorian, she still flails with passionate fury.
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"Gina please, I am okay. It's okay!" the thief says.
"BAMMM!" A strong punch with the sword still in hand connects with the left side of the thief's face, sending him back a few paces and to the ground hard.
"YOU'RE OKAY! YOU JUST KISSED LAROUX!" In her rage, she dropped to her knees and began sobbing wildly. The words are heard by all in the area, even the knight Djent. He ceases his actions in this moment. He cannot look toward someone and glare, but he bites down and finds a piece of his own lip and rips through it with his teeth, creating a trail of blood down his face, down his chin. Is he angry? Laroux is a woman, after all, and unencumbered, Djent had a great deal of admiration for her but believed himself inferior due to his condition that he had not made intent known, despite their close bond, her being his guide in battles, calling herself even 'his eyes.' Laroux sees the rough expressions on Djent's face, and she seeks in this moment to explain. To let him know that Siphon's kiss meant nothing to her, that it was an accident and that her heart lies in his arms, which she had been in before when he carried her after the injuries fighting Yervin, in the prison camp, and hopes to be in again but for more intimate reasons. But such conversations rarely happen in still moments, let alone in the toils of battle.
Tension hangs in the air as Siphon returns to his feet, upset by the harm that his action has caused. He did not mean it in lust or even romantic love, but in joyous appreciation for her gift to him, his own life. But he knew he did not have the words to explain his thoughts in the moments correctly to Gina. Not now, at least. The woman was undone, and the confusion of the moment had four people distracted. All from one stupid kiss.
"HEY!" Marcion speaks, trying to rally everyone to focus. "We still have to uphold our part of this battle. We can deal with whatever love dynamic stuff after we take down Melorian. Parakles and Griff and the others in our main force are counting on us!" Gina grabs her shoulder as she returns to her feet. She will not look at Siphon; she dares not look at Laroux, but she moves and offers a handshake to the sage as a sign to Laroux that she is not held in contempt by the young woman. Laroux hesitates for a moment but then accepts, despite her still being red in the face from the whole experience, and especially with her still needing time to speak with Djent about the incident. She wanders over to the pink knight, seeking her place, her hand on his left shoulder and to be his eyes. He knows it is her by the sound of her steps and turns to the side toward the doorway to the inner villa. He offers no conversation, as she has none that she knows to give voice to as she places her hand on the shoulder, in which sparks shock her hand, yet she does not recoil. Both stand still for a moment without words and then exhale together as Gina stays at the rear of the group with Siphon, Bors, Gage, and Marcion leading the way inside. The last to enter are the knight of Flamingo and his eyes.
….
"TING!" Separation occurs again. Parakles and his opponent Lycon still stand with breath even heavier than before. More strikes failed by each party have been taken as they seek to find a break in the other's game. And while a few pauses have had to happen as both Bruin and free man have tried to include themselves in the fight on a few occasions, the two have given the other the proper respect to see that the threat to their private contest is not won or lost by the mingling of outsiders. There are still others fighting around them. Though the howls of battle are waning, with lines beginning to separate and circle around the two champions. Many lay on the ground, never to rise, and those still alive and with the red of life upon them, warm and sticky, the survivalist inside awakens and begs the man to preserve his future by diminishing his involvement in the conflict. The forces that stood prior—80 rebels vs just under 200 Bruin—now stand roughly 20 rebels and 65 Bruin. All who now stand, though, are men of passion and drive with a determination in their chest, demanding their host to see the next sunrise and for their flag to still be the one on the field when the conflict ends.
Griff is among those men of the rebel faction, and yes, his weapon is wet with blood and sweat, yet he is careful to still stay separate. Parakles and Lycon, while recovering their lungs and preparing for the next barrage from the other, lose the narrow focus and numb feeling to the events around them as more of the men cease their own fighting and gather up to watch the two best in the field have at it. Lycon leans up and offers words to the men standing around, bearing the sigil of the Bruin. "This here is Sir Parakles, son of Jothar, of House Cavan of Runsa. He is for my hands only!" The call is made to his men with all respect.
"This here is Lycon, champion fighter, and undefeated in the prize sport of combat in 64 contests. He is for my hands only!" Both smile, not of joy but of honour and respect. Neither will allow this private war to be stolen now as all men of the field understand what is before them. As they should have previously, though in battle some just swing at whatever they see, as any sane man with wet trousers in the middle of field surrounded by death would.
"THRRIPP!" Parakles kicks his lance face forward, breaking the stall. He uses the force to reach a maximum extension, threatening Lycon's person, only for the fighter to step back to regain posture and safety. The fighter then leans back in, and with his right arm, he slaps the spear of his opponent downward before the halberdier then snaps the spear near the tip. He then pulls back as Parakles notices his lack of a tipped weapon anymore. Lycon then hurls the tip straight at the knight. He deflects it with his shield and sends the tip flying into the throat of an observing Bruin regular. The man chokes on his blood with wide eyes as he falls to ruin and then is dragged out of the viewing way by his former compatriots. Parakles drops the broken spear as it is now useless. The halberdier smiles as he runs in, and in a leaping thrust, lances at the paladin. With both hands on the shield, the man blocks and knocks away the lance thrust. Parakles then takes his right hand and swiftly draws his sword from the sheath on his belt.
"THAWKK!" He moves to purpose, and with a swift parry, he snaps the spear of Lycon. The pugilist smiles as he uses the off-balance posture of the paladin to then kick away his shield, far from a clear reach. The two separate as Lycon, now with just a small buckler attached to his left forearm, begins to stretch himself out. He has armor proper for a halberdier, but the armor still allows for agile movement and flexibility in the moments of combat, and now Lycon, despite being cursed with empty hands as he does not carry a sidearm at the ready, is looking more thrilled than he had in moments prior.
"You do remember I am a prize fighter?" he says as he flutters his hands and throws a few quick jab punches at the air to loosen his joints for this next offensive. Parakles nods that he remembers, and he then grips his sword with both hands, knowing he will not have a chance to regain his shield in the next round.
Lycon runs into the left side of the paladin and then pivots back toward the man. Striking upward with a strong right hook, seeking to connect heavily. While both men still have helmets over their heads, Lycon has metal gauntlets, much like Marcion, though his are spiked truer than Marcion's are. The blow lands and takes the helmet of the paladin from him and leaves a scathing trail of blood to fly from his lips onto the ground. Parakles counters in the moment with a sword swipe that he aims for the throat but misses high and takes the helmet of Lycon in a returning fair trade as they both quickly then regain footing. Parakles spits a thick spray of blood, more a puddle than a simple drool, while Lycon uses his right thumb to close a nostril as he blows a bloody swath of snot from his nose. Both men now stand before each other for the first time absent helmets. Both of them have hair that is pouring wet with sweat from the heat of the helmet and the exertion of the fight. They both smile as they lean back and forth seeking to gain whatever relief they can from the wear their bodies have and are enduring.
All looking on have their eyes set. Now the total of both forces have their weapons lowered as they bask in the art that is this duel. Lycon readies his hands high and tightens his fists until the knuckles pop, ringing louder with the metal around his hands. Parakles still has his sword in hand, but now seeks to keep his left arm free to try and counter any strikes by the pugilist. Parakles is concerned; he knows that if he loses his sword, the battle will most likely be lost to him as Lycon is the superior brawler. Both have on solid armor, but a blunt shot to the chest will still hurt and weather a man, regardless of his prowess. Parakles inches in. Lycon responds.
"THUM!" "BANG!" Parakles swatted at the left arm of the prize fighter, making no attempt to aim for the actual body of the man and thus catching the prize fighter off guard. The shot mostly came up blunt with a small cut at the true tip of impact. Yet the shot shattered the left arm of the pugilist. However, Lycon did not move to go so gently. With his right arm free, he had maneuvered just right to connect with the jawbone of Parakles. A smile rang on Lycon's face even as he became aware of his left arm's broken condition. This made him drive his punch even harder into the paladin's jaw. Lycon's body twisted forward with everything that was left in the halberdier at impact. And soon the banging sound heard by all came into view. Parakles took two steps back, rocked and staggered by the punch, though the pain from the breaking of his arm had just arrived in Lycon's brain, dropping him to a knee as he looked over at the shattered arm, tender to every breath by the man. He reached up with his right hand to try and grab onto the injured arm as if he could lock it into a sling position or find a way to lower the pain levels. Yet, as the pugilist reached up and tried to wrap his fingers around the broken arm, the source of the loud second noise was made known to him as the bone in his hand was protruding through the skin with multiple breaks and shatters in the knuckle ridge. Lycon had broken his hand completely on the jaw of Parakles. "Fuck! Figures this would happen," he calls out as he realizes he cannot move his left arm and has no ability to clench with his right. The paladin, though, is still standing and recovering from the pounding strike to his face. Make no mistake, Parakles is injured. The man turned to show Lycon the imprint his hand made on the jawbone of the man called by his friends 'anvil.' In this moment, he lived up to the name as his face broke what struck him. Lycon frowned as he couldn't see puncture wounds from the spikes that his gauntlet hold on the knuckle ridge. He looked down and realized the spikes untested in metal to metal clashes had worn in the battle and thus lost all advantage when going for the flesh of the paladin.
Though he is not without damage, as his vision is blurry from the blow and his face is swelling little by little with the dance of seconds. He stumbled around toward the pugilist, as even though he can see two of him, he knows the man's injuries as he felt both of them, one with his sword and the other with his face. He grabs ahead as Lycon attempts a few more nothing punches, as his hand has not yet numbed to allow a greater display of reckless power, and thus each contact with the broken hand to anything is agonizing to the pugilist. Parakles grabs hold of the center of the man's breastplate and then steadies his sword arm. "Well played, Lycon. I am the lucky one today," he says.
"Best fight of my life," Lycon replies. The pugilist stood strong, not giving up, but knowing his weak attempts at punching for the next series of minutes would not see the anvil quelled in time for his hand to numb. Parakles moves then with feelings of remorse, as though he is sad to see this duel end and the life of a man he respects extinguished. Yet, this is the nature of war. And so Parakles pushed the sword through the neck of Lycon and then removed the blade. He then lowered the man to his death as the life poured out from the man with pace. Parakles offered the man zero disrespect in his fall.
"Best fight of mine as well." Parakles braces his weary form as best he can as he lays Lycon, the champion, to his rest. As his body drops, there is no malice on the now lifeless face of the man, only rest eternal. Parakles takes a moment on his knee to breathe and think about the gravity of this fight, what it means for the future, how many others exist that are of this quality, both as a man and as an opponent. He even wonders how glorious a knight the man would have been had he been born under brighter stars.
He looks up to see all the men from both sides still without aggression on their faces; the sober cloud of death hung just above them all, and desires for life and for tomorrow became the forethought of all, as none on either side knew they were better than the man just laid on the ruddy pathway. The paladin rises to his feet, using his sword to balance as he is still worn and rocked from the fight. "I think enough have died today. Surrender and flee from this city, men of the Bruin, or find yourself in the company of your leader by sundown." This command hangs in the air as the men on both sides collectively think about the next choice for their sides.
The Bruin men still standing outnumber the free men by roughly 3-1 odds, and yet their leader is extinguished. Lives hang in the balance; Parakles knows that he cannot stop his fight until he knows his friends inside are safe or have given the signal they have finished their task, and yet he feels compelled to pause, to give a chance for these men to live out of respect to Lycon.
"Please, don't let this be the wrong move." He softly speaks under his breath as Griff hands him an elixir potion to restore what vigor can be.
