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Grey saw the spear ram into the side of Rook's head and immediately felt a rush of fury and panic in his chest.

"No, no ,no!" he screamed, stumbling past Vessa's fallen form. Grey reached out for Rook's body but then recoiled, remembering the searing fire of his chains.

"Rook!" he shouted instead. "Rook are you alright?"

At first, his heart was beating wildly. Then, it began to sense a song, some sort of music. The melody calmed down the telekinetic, but he still kept his eyes on Rook. Suddenly, he whipped his head around to glare at the white-haired elf.

"I'm going to kill - " Grey stopped. The song in his heart seemed to be weaving itself with the white-haired elf, as if trying to draw them together. A similar song was coming from Iavre as well. Grey glanced briefly to the side and spotted Mirima, who was now kneeling on the ground, gasping for breath.

"You're not the elf, are you?" said Grey, letting his eyes settle back on Ayelle. He hissed through gritted teeth. "Jadis."

So much was happening I couldn't even think straight.I was surrounded by bandits and a weird noises and screaming I think coming from inside the fire wall.Then the bandits knew what to do.They charged at me.They were getting and closer by the minute by when they were closer they were leaving small openings they didn't even notice.I'd have one chance to escape.I took that chance.The bandits stopped in confusion in a bit.Then I saw a bandit that two knives and seemed well skilled.But out behind was Marcelle,I stopped then looked right at them "Why won't you just kill me! I have been causing havoc since I got captured. Fight me you big wusses!" I'd shout at them then run and sucker punch the well skilled bandit leaving Marcelle to fight me.Just the two of us.

Marcelle smirked at the dragon man's challenge and narrowed his eyes at the dragon man's collar, making sure that it was fire proof because what he was about to do would not be pretty and if it didn't work, he wanted to make sure the dragon man still couldn't turn into a dragon.

"I can't kill you if I'm going to sell you. I don't think Jadis would enjoy dead products. But I accept your challenge."

Marcelle snapped his fingers and set Mystic on fire.

Amusement lay so near wickedness on the cosmic scale, misery and suffering ever the flames' greatest tinder. So was the furnace of the witch-mother as the elated psyche mapped that of Ayelle's within the body it had stolen. The original soul had been compartmentalized and forgotten as the greater will suffused, Pulsing, to the very ends of the physical. Conquered, the telepath could only gaze on and hope for opportunity as the witch sought mastery within it's host, transcribing itself upon the flesh a verse more Reminisce of the antediluvian than was it synonym. Laughter cackled a cracked jubilance against the sand deluge weaving the aether into a gale symphony. The fire was making a glass prison of their camp, a dome of warbled translucence chromed for oily animation. Wreathed in bands of lapping flame, the tainted crystal was veritably luminous.

The witch-mother's voice no longer added to the cacophony. Hearkened to something else, it's gaze searched as it listened, head canted. There was a dissonance in the music of her creation, as if a liturgy of a different faith was printing itself onto reality, something incipient and fractious threatening the choate...

Eyes made of balefire honed to the songstress. Disbelief twitched a sinister sneer to the possessed creature's lips. It advanced on a stride that trembled and caved reality around itself, for such was the insurrection, the sacrilege of the creature's being –only a gifted could sense it but the tent was so dotted with them that existence could have crumbled for their impression. A stride became two became a snarling leap, a thrust of lancing spear rending...

Vessa had somehow found her legs. Trembling to stand her eyes reeled to shape what was seen into understanding, her countenance an emblem of perplexity, dimpled in cold sweat's sheen. Fever already raged for pain in her gaze but quivering fingers traced the hilt, wizened to course. She knew that time would only sediment infection, would only cement fate. Dragging her feet through sand, she shouldered the tentflaps aside and tottered on a gait wending for falter. Not ten feet from the tent, the witchling fell to knees. One elated part of her found poetry in the act of insulting heaven so and her gaze strove skyward. Facing creation, she thought, the rictus of her grin more manic than humored. And then she dipped pantherine across the sand, hands anointed in own blood pawing, making canvas of the ground for painting it with symbols, for tracing the occult an open sedition against the high and the holy. A mutter fell from her lips jagged, freighting the symbolic with a density making pith of grain...

Ayelle senses the song and finds a calm in the midst of justified panic. Still, she is unable to gain any sort of power of possession against such strong magic as that of Jadis. Then the witch turns toward the bard to attack. Powerless to stop the strides or the thrust of the spear, she focuses on mentally communicating with the bard. It may be that the powers of the mind can still be used.


Mirima rests - motionless, eyes closed - after her song. She breathes in a newfound peace and allows it to rejuvenate her body and mind. Suddenly, she senses an attack, and, trusting her instincts (or maybe Ayelle's warning), she immediately leans and tilts to her right. Her eyes pop open just as the blade of the spear tears across the upper part of her left arm. She grits her teeth and, using the momentum of her dodge, launches her right fist upwards toward the jaw of the elf. Forgive me, my sister, but it cannot be helped.

Grey saw Ayelle lunge with her spear, narrowly missing Mirima's chest and instead slicing across her upper arm. Then Mirima aimed a nice punch in the elf's jaw.

Wait. Grey turned in a full circle. Where's the witchling?

The tent flap was still quivering from Vessa's exit. Grey glanced at the fight between Mirima and Ayelle, hesitated, then darted out of the dent, his chained arms out in front of him in case he needed to swing them again.

There. On her knees, just a few feet away from the tent. Her hands were coated with her own blood and she looked like she was drawing something on the ground.

And she was grinning.

That was never a good sign from a witch.

But for now that slipped Grey's mind. He ran forward and swung his chained arms for Vessa's head.

Marcelle would accept my challenge. Marcelle would snap his fingers,it was really getting hot.Then I'd look at myself.......I was on fire.I have never been on fire before but only very small ones.Bits of my hair were falling out and my skin felt like flesh and..whatever I was on fire.This fire was much stronger than other ones.I'd be wobbling almost about to fall.The collar was fireproof but the fire was still too strong.I do something I'd regret doing.I'd focus all my energy on breaking the collar.I'd grab one side of the collar with one hand and do the same thing on other side. "Ah!" I'd shout. I'd actually break it,but I'd be too weak to do anything.The fire went away some how.I'd fall to the ground and I'd say something loud but it was not a yell. "Everyone has to die one day. You'll all be flesh and bones after a few years." before I passed out.

The impact took the possessed figure clean off her feet, the very ground toppling to meet her fall. And then she rolled for a desperation still fearsome in yoked limbs in spite of daze. Pain yowled shocked from the creature and the very architecture of her mental prison quaked to keep the trapped psyche at bay. Ayelle –the thing that claimed her aspect, hung coiled like a crone around her incredulity, holding her jaw in the cup of one hand, gaze swaying erratic. The spear stood at an angle from her downed form, white-knuckled grip unflinching through her short flight, a knee planted in sand, a foot rooted for striving to stand. Inward concentration glazed her eyes. Focus tensed and twitched at her face.


Meanwhile had the ebony huntress fixated the blade's hilt in her fist, own knuckles draining of blood in preparation. And then something was upon her and the cry escaping her was wholly human and wild of anguish. She tore round in her fall, body smearing the half-built spell, sand turned sparks erupting from her splash. A witchling hand pawed at her aggressor, sputter of defiance unintelligible off her tongue as defiance became frantic.

"Kill me and the storm never dies!" She flung, eyes wild, pain writhing behind the veneer of ritual scarification.

“Can you stop now!” Iavre said irritated after she was done crying “I wanna see the candy house not dumb violence .”

“Please?”

"There is no candy house. Violence is about all that's left for us if we cannot escape." Patient and caring as she usually is, the bard has had enough; someone must bring this girl to her senses. "I'm sorry."

Her flute fell from her hand as the spear sliced across her flesh. She retrieves it now and quickly returns it to a deep pocket.

Not being a fighter, she loses the chance to attack again while the possessed elf is still out of sorts. Instead, she rushes to Rook and the bag she had handed off earlier. She had hoped that the song would at least revive the young woman, but so far there's been no sign of such luck. Her hands paw through the bag while she maintains sight of the elf.


Ayelle pushes back against the darkness controlling her body when the other's grip is challenged by the hard knock to the skull. She is able to make some headway, but it almost immediately begins to push back.


Meanwhile, and unbeknownst to any in the camp, a small army has approached the lair of the witch. Four ambassadors are chosen to ride forth with a flag of peace. Once within hearing distance the assigned spokesman calls out, "Most excellent in magics, Jadis, we most humbly represent our benevolent Lord Elyrion to Her Excellence. His Benevolence seeks conference through his representatives with the most noble Lady Jadis. Will you honor us and the ancient contract of peace between Her Excellence and His Benevolence?"
((Feel free to make the terms of said contract whatever you wish - could be interesting if they're already breaking it or if there's a not-so-nice price to be paid...))

the bandits swarmed around the dragon man as soon as he fell to the ground and within ten seconds, another fireproof collar was clamped around the man's throat and Marcelle turned back towards Silveris, who had recovered slightly and was patching up any gaps in the fire wall.

"Now then. There must be more than one trouble maker."

Marcelle's guess was confirmed when he saw the witchling burst out of the prisoners' tent, clearly wounded, and followed shortly after by the telekinetic who swung his chained arms like a weapon and knocked the witchling over, and Marcelle was about to snap his fingers again when he heard the witchlings' cry.

"Kill me and the storm never dies!"

Marcelle swore under his breath, lowered his hands, turned to the nearest group of bandits (Sampson and Cordell), and pointed at the telekinetic, silently ordering them to hold back the prisoner before the telekinetic did something that would doom them all.

Meanwhile, in all the chaos, Myles snuck away from all the fighting and tiptoed to the back of the prisoners' tent, which was presently deserted with all the attention at the front, and Myles looked around to make sure he was alone before peaking through the tent slightly, spotting Mirima shuffling through her bag.

"If I kill you," hissed Grey, "then the storms that you'll cause in the future will never happen. Besides - "

Grey leaned in close to Vessa's ear. "I'll force dear Jadis to stop this storm before I rip out her hair and behead her."

He raised his arms, eyes focused on Vessa's skull, ready to crush the witchling.

----

Sampson reacted instantly upon Marcelle's orders, partly because he didn't want to anger the bandit leader any further. Sampson lifted his knife and threw it at the telekinetic, who was raising his arms for the killer blow. There was a sharp thud as the blade hit the telekinetic's shoulder.

Iavre hoped for an awnser of the witch

“What is my faith?” She simply asked to the witch “What will it be?”

Jadis kept them waiting a dreadfully long time. She would deal with the elven ambassadors when she choose to and not before. Meanwhile, the sandstorm raged in the distance, but the witch's lair remained untouched.

Eventually, just as they were beginning to doubt that the witch knew they were waiting, the lair itself suddenly stirred, the eyes of the skull carved into the rock face glowed red and the sharp rock fangs of the mouth shook as its jaw opened and closed with the witch's words.

"What have you brought in offering of the peace?"

The prolonged silence had been unnerving. Each of the ambassadors shifted in their saddles uncomfortably. After a while, there were whispered discussions before someone finally suggested that they return to the rest of the troops. There was a doubtful response, which was almost immediately cut off by the stirring of the mountain.

Both the message and the voice cause an inescapable discomfort. The four look to one another in bewilderment for a moment and then rush their heads together for a discussion. There are a good many agreements and disagreements in the next few minutes before one is dispatched at all haste back to the company.

The spokesman stands forward again and returns their answer with a put-on confidence, "Most Gracious, Noble Lady, we must admit that it is with great haste and little preparation that we find ourselves at your doorstep in search of your favor. However, we have of His Benevolence Lord Elyrion's table the best as can be afforded at such a distance, if you will have it, my Lady. We have also 400 gold with which to grace Her Excellence's coffers. Does such a sacrifice please Her Excellence?

I'd wake up.Another collar was thrown on to me.Bandits were swarmed around me looking a bit scared and angry.The sandstorm still raged,Silveris was fixing up the damage I did to the fire wall and I just heard something slice into someones shoulder.I heard some bandits talking about lady Jadis,buys slaves for good price,desert witch as what people call her. Jadis seemed pretty weird.Witches,those things creep me out

Don't think anyone would buy me because I would cause some much trouble but still I could breath fire and turn into a dragon.I was only 16 and other powerful slaves were in the early 20's and I couldn't do much as a 16 year old.The bandits that were around me were still around were very furious of what I did. I heard some fighting in the fire wall but it was in the distance.Nothing too special happened today just prisoners fighting for random reasons as usual.Just a normal day in the desert.

Her mouth hung open for sucking sweltering air (her lungs burning –it was possible the dagger had pierced one). Eyes bulged fearfully beneath the enraged telekinetic. One hand was upraised, a palm and widely spread fingers fending as if that meager fan could prevent a twohanded blow. The other of her arms was numb with pain but still pawing at the man pinning her into the sand. Their mad scramble had seen her own rutted grave into making. Her once ardent struggle was fading to a frantic, even that to a fear that ached strong in her heart, that made of mortal wounds small... "P-please!" It could have baffled her any other time and certainly did guilt flimmer in her dark eyes, mingling with the erratic quiver of a frightened girl –emerged sniffing for breath, her face crawling in abject terror of her imminent death. Then a seemingly errant dagger punched into his shoulder, weakening the telekinetic enough for the huntress to emerge instinctively and to Seize the moment. Her arm caught the chain a glancing blow as it came down, a grip made strong from her craft clamping around the iron and Heaving. The last ounce of strength she possessed inflaming the edges of her vision!

Meanwhile the witch-mother simulacrum, locked internally, mind split on different distractions, stood swaying. Eyes glazed, spear-head buried into sand, face twitching as if some dream yoked her. Rousing eyes deep and wearied for distant nightmares, her gaze glowed a faltering furnace. But a rueful smile carved into her mien.
"You make me do this, elf," remorse pitched her voice low. And then she swung the spear on herself, it's blunt end shoved into sand, her white-knuckled grip sprawling wide around it's length, the opaque spearhead hovering implacably infront of her chest. "Yield or Ayelle dies."

((Sorry for late reply guys))

Iavre looked a bit worried "Are you okay?"she asked Vessa , Iavre was not a person who let someone suffer in pain "Can i help?"she asked brave , maybe if she would help Vessa would let her go and thats all she wanted

A few seconds pass after the young bandit peers into the back of the tent before Mirima notices him, but there is no time for her to wonder whether he's told the captain her story or why he's back. She still paws feverishly through the bag and watches for the witch-controlled elf to attack.

But she doesn't. Instead the spear swings around, and Mirima receives an ultimatum.

The bard freezes in horror for a moment; she had hoped that the other could be knocked unconscious to pause the witch's advance. But it is too late for that now. "No. No, no, no. Please don't." She glances toward the bandit, wondering whether he'll do anything from his better advantage point. Her eyes return to the elf, and she slowly withdraws her empty hands from the bag in defeat. "Let them all go, and take only me. I beg of you."


Ayelle continues to fight against the witch's presence inside her body. The sudden death threat against herself infuriates her. Get lost you freaky little snipe! Like you have any right! You don't even have the right to be here. Now get out! She concentrates her entire mind on blinking herself away. If it works, maybe her grip will slip away from the spear. Normally it would be an easy thing, but she's never tried it without entire control of herself before.

The red glow of the skull's eyes deepened and its gaping rock jaws moved again. "Elyrion sends his underlings with talk of the ancient contract... a contract sealed in the blood of an ancient elven king. But have they read the contract? Do they remember what it says?"

The witch allowed the question to hang for a few minutes to watch the three remaining ambassadors, using the eyes of the skull lair as if they were her own. Were they really naive to the letter of the contract? Or did they perhaps hope she had forgotten? It had been so long since last it was invoked.

"One is to be given over as a hostage while you intrude in my domain. I choose you, ambassador..." The skulls glowing eye-sockets had no pupils, but even so, the glow seemed to shift so that it was focused on the one who had spoken.