Forums » Fantasy Roleplay » Lost in the Blizzard - A village Torn

One of the Militia men who have gone near the Western gate, catch an ear of the woman nearby - Sobbing. He barely heard it, but thought it wise to investigate. He hoists up his long wooden spear, and heads towards the singed tavern, steel point of his weapon leading him inside. He narrows his eyes the light low due to how early in the day it is. His head slowly turns left.. Then right, as he tries to pinpoint the source of the sound. His footsteps cause light creaking in the wooden floor, announcing his position within the inn. If he spotted the woman, she would be in great danger.

The reinforcement troops close a fair bit of distance in this time, leaving just under an hour before they arrive at full..

She hears the militia man outside of the door, and her sobs get weaker and weaker. She doesn't care about herself right now. They've taken everything from her. But she has to stay alive. She knows this for sure. If she just gives up now, they've won over her and her life philosophy, 'the pen is mightier than the sword' would be utter rubbish. She gently places Horace's head on the floor next to her, and smears some of the blood from the floor onto her own cheek, lips and neck, where after she places herself facedown on the floor, in the middle of the blood pool. She manages to do so, before the man can enter the room.

The Militiaman enters, and circles around the bar. He lowers his spear as he sees what appears to simply be another two corpses - Funny, one wasn't nearly as charred, as the other. He gently prods the woman with the butt of his spear, and grunts, turning and bounding back outside, where he continues collecting logs to fortify the west gate.

Boris awaits Ivan to comment, himself simply heading towards the village, "They weren't welcomed here, either." His dog, Chauncey, glances up to the Knight, sniffs his armored boot, and wanders behind Boris again, trying not to stray too far from his heels.

(I'll just wait for the others )

Ivan surprisingly hasn't said a word after introducing himself. He was always the strong silent type, and lacks some social skills. He unslings his bow and follows after Boris after having given the knight a nod. He stops in his tracks then turns around to the knight. "I'm sorry... I didn't quite get your name." He informs the knight as Boris moves along. He's happy knowing there'll be no fighting or killing, not at this stage at least.

(Holding out for Drake or Tarben to reply!)

Mere minutes would have departed from the world ere Tarben lay eyes again on the night, yet they seemed as feverish hours to him.
No more willing to return himself to the care of such tormoiled rest, the butcher's boy voices a soft groan as he comes to his knees to peer over the stalls as before.
As he is, he would note the exit of a stranger from the tavern Kalliope had opted as refuge. His eyes follow the invader as he makes to leave, and he grimaces.
Looking back towards the watch that was set, he would decide so far as to leave his cover and inspect the tavern.
He expects to find its occupants felled at the soldier's hand, and inwardly he cannot discard the dreadful expectation of discovering any of those beloved to him there, burned and bloodied and left to lie in sanguine pools of their own making.

Casting himself to the caress of that Cimmerian shade, he intends to pass forth to the devastated portal, and upon his arrival (if indeed he were able to make it there?) he would peer into the dust and the fire-born vapor that still issued from covered places.
He does not call out, for the dead could not cry in return. Yet, his weight urges the damaged flooring to creak in a frightful harmony, or perhaps his ears only detect it as such for his wary state.

Within the stone walls, Tarben would look to Horace and Kalliope with a preparedly-hard gaze...

Kalliope is about to get up, since the warmth and smell of Horace blood is making her nauseous. She gently sits back up, but as soon as she hears the floors creak and she leans back down into the blood pool. She's nervous, scared actually. She takes short, shallow breaths to not look alive, but her obvious shaking would probably give her away. She lies as still as she can, closing her eyes, trying not to look at the new person. Surely it's another soldier. She thinks about the books, who's still well hidden under the barrels of wine. Her wine tips over, when her shaking hand touches it. It makes a small clinck, and the wine pours out and into her hair and the blood pool. She holds her breath, hoping that the presumed soldier didn't her it.

A miltiaman, the very same as a moment ago, catches only the faintest of glances at the man hobbling into the tavern. He would wonder if his mind was playing tricks on him - it seemed quite suspicious, either way. He left his longs ear behind this time, and approached less cautiously this time, trouncing through the snow with his right hand rested upon the handle of a shortsword, his steel boots crunching loudly against the ground. He hops up onto the charred oaken stairs , pausing to knock the snow from his boots this time before he entered.

Another militiaman calls out, "Hey! You better not just be going in there to drink!"
To which he turns, sets a hand on the rail, and replies aloud, "Im not. I saw something go in here."

He follows behind the two, taking his shield off of his back. "Drake of Sundermill."

The timber's protests soon dull as Tarben begins to roll his steps from heel to toe in an attempt to prevent the angry symphony.
Nearing the corpses presented on display for him, he would fall into a crouch with his elbows on his knees and his hands clutching at his mouth. To any onlooker, it would seem as though he sought to peel away his lips, lest he allow a mournful keening.
It is likely that the butcher's boy would know both victims, yet he certainly could discern the scorched visage of Horace the keep.
He would shudder, half in terror, and half in guilty relief. It was a terrible view to be sure, but the bloodied faces here were not of his kin, nor did the woman bear his mark of betrothal.

Intensely focused on the gruesome and gore-filled circumstance there, he would indeed begin to notice the tremors that shook Kalliope's form. Tentatively, he would reach out with his appendages, and he would place his hands on her and (attempt to) roll her over. Perhaps she was not so dead as she seemed. Perhaps she was suffering whatever awful wounds had been dealt her.
This is his thinking...

Yet, as the soldier upon the stoop replies to his fellow, Tarben is taken aback from that which had caught his attention in a panic.

The soldiers continue to bicker for a moment, the one in the distance calling out,
Soldier: "Sure you did. Go back to the West Gate, Yaspen."
Yaspen : "But-"
Soldier: "West gate! There's nothing there, and the Sargent won't be happy if he learns you're drinking ale on your shift!"
Yaspen : "I'm not-"
Soldier: "Gate, now!"

Yaspen, the militiaman by the tavern huffs irritably, and stomps back out into the snow again whilst muttering in anger about his cohort. He seems to be the only one working on the fortifications from this gate, the remaining troops all gathered around the South, waiting for reinforcements to arrive. Yaspen folds his arms and retains his position, but still glances back to the tavern every now and then.

Boris nods to Drake as his name is finally stated, muttering back idly, "Village a few days North-East of here, if I'm not mistaken? Never been myself.." he trails off as the village's west gate comes within his sight. The trees are thick, from there to here, offering him valid cover to hide in - which he takes advantage of, lowering himself down behind a few pine trees, and snow covered shrubbery, holding his longbow sideways, and staring at the distracted soldier. He is a good bit out of archery range from here, but there may be enough cover to get within that distance, unspotted.

He crouches down, in nearby bushes outside the west gate, not making a sound, he chucks a rock from the bush farther down the road towards the guard house, creating some noise.

The soldier at the west gate glances to the noise - Yet he assumes it to be a hare, and doesn't move to more thoroughly investigate. He maintains his post.

As the unknown man touches her, she starts shaking even more. He will defiantly feel it, so she sees no other option than confronting him. She turns around and sits up fast, while she swings her hand out for a slap. She does, however stop her hand, when she sees the man. He wasn't military. "Tarben?" she asked with a whisper. She knew his name, but she didn't remember where from? Had she teached him? Or did she just see him a lot. "You're alive!" she whispered again, with a faint smile.

Ivan follows after Boris, not really thinking of how this would turn out. He like the others is without a plan (or so he thinks) which would leave him feeling more exposed than ever. He draws an arrow from his quiver and rests it on the bow. Ivan places his hand on Boris' shoulder in order to get his attention. "Boris... I wouldn't attack JUST yet. There may be another keeping watch over him, so if he is killed, the other might alert his friends." Ivan simply suggests to him, thinking it as a good suggestion.

Boris strokes his beard contemplatively, nodding slowly at Ivan's suggestion. It made sense to him, certainly. He sent a glance to the knight as the rock was thrown - Odd, he thought, but he dismissed the subject. He let loose a breath, visable as all others have been in the low temperature. He glanced up to the sky, a light snowfall starting to kick up again, from a few overcast clouds. He lowers his bow and mutters, "Well then we need a plan. A plan that don't involve rocks." he glances to Drake again, shaking his head.

In these moments, Tarben was simultaneously aware of Kalliope's sudden 'ressurection' and of the brief debate betwixt the soldiers without.
As the former of these matters rose to struck him, he would have simply been dumbfounded, and the blow would have landed had she not reigned in herself her own defensive wrath.
'Tarben?', came her voice, and he recognized it after the same fashion that daisies recognize the warming rays of the sun.
Nonetheless, despite his urgent joy in this discovery, he would seek to silence her, fearful that the guardsmen without would do away with all doubt and flood into the small inn to apprehend them both.
His hands would seek to clasp over her mouth, as they had clasped over his previously.
Though no word will be spoken (should this be successful), the dilated pupils that stared back at her blood-and-wine-stained image should affirm in her that he meant only to quiet her to prevent their capture and eventual death.

As the man held outside trudged in return to his appointed duty, the butcher's boy responds with a hoarse whisper;
"I am. But I cannot find Yetta. Nor can-", he would pause to analyze a sound that had apparently frightened him.
"I can't find anyone else. What have you seen, teacher? Have you seen the dead?"