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The huntress swiveled startled by the ferocity displayed by the captive, the recoil of her combat-honed reflexes jolting through a physique at once both nimble and wearied. Thus was she served a glancing blow to the side of her face, impact askew of intention by unknown sums. The dusken whip of her mane fluttered as she struck a dazed hand from her spear's grip, floundering as her limbs numbed –fist closing on the chain as her head ricocheted from the impact. The spear's heavy pole canted bluntly into Grey's side as Jadis' disciple fell, dragging the man down with her for the anchor of his chain a fixture in her grip now and her snarl every bit as fierce as his howl.

Going down, the devil aimed her soft-shod foot into his gut, released the spear in favor of ascertaining a grip high on his arm and used the momentum of the fall to roll herself ontop of him. Success would straddle her across his waist, blood dripping in his face as she pinned him with the base of her hips and sought to plunge his hands overhead, pinning them by his shackles to free a hand for the dagger at her waist...

Iavre looked a bit confused and later with horror “5his is not fun!” She screamed panicking ,”I wanna go .” “I wanna go now Okay!” She sit down on the ground and start crying

Mirima continues her song with a mischievously stubborn grin as she retains eye contact with the witchling. Her eyes briefly glance down toward the spearhead, and she begins to beckon to the woman to go ahead and use it when Grey suddenly strikes. In an instant both he and the witch are on the ground in front of her.


Ayelle suddenly awakes from something of a trance when the commotion first begins. She has a certain knowledge of all that's taken place since she first landed in the bandit camp and was taken captive.

When the spear falls to the side, she quickly grabs at it and presses into the mind of the witchling the image and voice of Jadis saying, "Calm, my child, it was the bandits that I wanted..."


Mirima reaches down to Iavre and gently squeezes the girl's shoulder. She still continues her song - hoping to draw the ring of flames both higher and tighter to the center of their makeshift camp. She focuses as much as she can on the control of the other two; as soon as she notices any resistance of their trying to settle the flames, she changes her tune to amplify those efforts and perhaps put them out for good.

((Sure that sounds good))
I was chained as always and no one even bothered to do something about me.I looked I saw nothing a expect this chain and the pole.I'd struggle and struggle pull myself back and forth.Until it shifted it like it closed to falling down.I'd do it more and more until it fell.I moved a bit to pull the chain down.I look and I look I could do this stealthy or loud.I chose loud I.But the thing on me that could take my powers was still on me.I'd grab the pole and see something as my target.The fire wall.I'd throw the pole at the fire wall breaking it.I did I actually did it,but that made a lot of noise so bandits came charging at me.I was screwed.

“Oh okay .” She sighed “But it’s still not fun!”

“Can we go now and do something fun instead of being here?”

“We could go swimming.” She suggested “In a river , with fish or mermaids .”

Ayelle's telepathy delves into a pit of writhing snakes, so savage the mind of the creature it challenges. The first impression is a mental environment lost of all control, of a sea of insanities as myriad as the streams that consists it's flow. Alas, as the mind of the telepath pierces deeper in search, she finds naught but more hellish suffering. It is a dimension transgressing all reason and rational, countless specks of soul bound suffering to one stem, leashed in torment, trapped in the intricacy of demonology weaved by someone at once inscrutable in meticulous patience and sinister for actions that defy comprehension. And there, at the bottom of the pit of nightmares, a light becomes two, and twin conflagrations materialize hung above all like distant stars. Alas, they are not stars but eyes from a second vantage unfettered by the roiling oceans they watch. They are skewers ransacking the whole of their domain. They are the witch-mother Jadis, the very dark queen watching internal through the eyes of her disciple. The brief surprise that flickers in the hellish portals that constitutes her Sight, suddenly smiles. The ancestor, from across leagues of desert, eyes like blown upon coals for smoulder, smiles with intrigue. It centers around this trespass into it's domains, trapping the intruder with lapping appraisal. And then it advances implacably, a flood that transmogrifies all tides. It batters down opposition as a singular force and leaps wildfire along the astral thread that anchors the one named Ayelle to her own flesh. In the instant that the young slip of a telepath communicates her yoke, she is undone, her mind shredded from the corporeal. Another holds the spear in her stead, swinging eyes that glow for monstrous exuberance, cackle climbing the tent's interior as the thing that inhabits Ayelle rears against reality. It challenges the firmament of the gods, it's very existence a sacrilege to all things holy!

It swivels it's head, the impossible simulacrumed soul of Jadis searing from twin furnaces, it's grin demonic, the spear it wields a catalyst of her power...

Vessa is left the ebb of such portentous transgressions as the antediluvian's departure shrivels a gaping void into manifest within her disciple. It is a momentary stutter though, the huntress of a mind with her mistress but even she who is tempered by the demonology her body is the tapestry of shocked for gaining the full rule of her mental asylum. Her eyes burn of a lesser fire than the witch-mother's as she finds new focus on Grey.

He could see it; he could see her. Grey could almost hear the sound of Jadis's cackle behind Vessa's eyes. His stomach was definitely bruised from the whack of the spear and the kick in the gut, but he had more pressing matters to address.

Grey glared up at the witchling. "Tell me, bug-eyes," he said, "did Jadis plant her dirty mind inside of you? Or are you another one of her filthy followers?"

----

Something was happening in the prisoner's tent. However, that inference didn't strike Sampson as he ran after the escaped dragon man who had thrown a spear at the fire wall.

This guy never learns, he thought as he slipped two knives into his hands.

The other bandits were trying to surround Mystic and Sampson paused to aim a throw for Mystic's legs. He didn't want it to be a fatal wound; that would make it harder to sell these prisoners.

The witchling's gaze turned from Grey to the white-haired elf, then back to Grey. Rook seemed to escape Vessa's attention during her hobbling trip around the perimeter of the tent. The wound to her calf screamed with pain every step, protesting its use, but she only gripped the hilt of Mirima's dagger until her knuckles were white.

Vessa's hand was on the hilt of her own dagger and Grey appeared pinned.

"Or are you another one of her filthy followers?" Rook lunged then, the knife simply aimed at Vessa's torso.

The smile her ink lips wrought held only anger and portents of pain. Spittle flew for her snarling fury. She pinned him by the power of her grinding hips, dagger yanked with a 'shlick' of sound from it's sheathe. Hoisted to it's meridian a mere fraction distanced Grey from it's plunge. Then a gasp left the witchling incredulous and her eyes danced upon Rook afore dwindling to the dagger in her chest. The hilt jutted macabre from her garb. And then she fell backwards and clung to the grip with a hand. Disbelief limned the low wail that rasped from her throat.

Meanwhile the thing that was Ayelle swung the back end of the spear harshly at Rook's skull, a certain arrogance concomitant, half-smirk fraught with mirth twisting at the possessed telepath's lips. As if Vessa's ally cared little to prevent her death but rather sought to swat a fly from it's presence.

“Stop it!” I agree screamed “You are hurting people stop it !”

All her attention on Vessa in those few seconds leading up to her attack on the witchling, Rook failed to really understand what had happened to Ayelle. Failed to even look her way as the knife plunged into Vessa. And so the spear handle caught her hard on the back of the head and she stumbled forward on top of Vessa and Grey in a tangle of limbs. It was the second hard blow to her head in less than a day and the ranger slipped almost immediately back into unconsciousness.

Ayelle had tried to stop her mental communication as soon as she realized what was going on. But it was too late. In an instant there was another mind tearing through her head and body. She watches in disbelief and horror as her own actions are stolen from her and controlled by another. She still sees, though somewhat dimly, through her own eyes, but she has no command over where they turn. Her own hands suddenly deal a blow to another prisoner but not of her own will.

Wrath boils up within her soul - not so much at the actions of her body but at the use of it. Panic sets in for a moment, until she realizes that she can actually perceive what is going on in the mind of the other possessing her body. Being of strong mind and will herself, she awaits any opportunity to fight back against this invasion.

((this is a late, late reply))

Silveris was going to follow Jadis into the prisoners' tent when he felt a sharp stab in his chest that knocked him to his knees, his eyes shut tight with pain as he felt some sort of song, some sort of rhythm that was trying to break his connection with his fire wall.

Marcelle had been focused on the dragon man, who was causing havoc again, when he noticed the fire flickering and Silveris on the ground, although Marcelle was only feeling a slight ache since most of the fire wall was built by Silveris, and he immediately turned towards the prisoners' tent.

"Too much spunk leads to too many nuisances."

Marcelle headed straight for the tent.

Mirima feels the fire dying down. Without being able to see it from inside the tent, she is unsure of exactly how weak it has become. She is in the middle of trying to quench it with the song of a rushing flash flood when a cacophony of sound explodes from the nearby elf. The elf's beautiful inner music disappears only to be replaced by evil, chaotic noise (for it certainly cannot be called "music").

No! No, no, no, no, no. Come on, my sister, where are you? For a dreadful moment that feels like an eternity, Mirima cannot find the elf's song. But then, it faintly resurfaces - weak and full of fear and anger. Mirima breathes a sigh of relief as she realizes all hope is not yet lost. Yes! Fight! She immediately begins to sing Ayelle's soul song to lend the elf strength and calm against the terrific onslaught. But the effort will be immense.

She looks about the tent at their scattered attempts at freedom. It's all been for nought so far, and thing's are only looking worse. Their most pressing issue is that of not being a unit, of working mostly as individuals rather than a team. Perhaps she can help solve that? With a renewed purpose, she continues the elf's song and expertly begins to weave in those of the rest of the prisoners. It's a much more difficult task without the help of her instrument, but she uses her hands and feet upon her own body and the ground to maintain the necessary rhythms to pull it off.

Each captive feels a sudden prick in their soul and then a tug toward the others. After that comes a feeling of unity binding them all together. Once she's accomplished this, she begins to blend in the songs of strong, battle-hardened steeds (having the unintended effect of stirring the remaining horses into restlessness) and great, sturdy trees. The elven Blessing of the Great Oak pours forth on the melody's tide. Her voice crescendoes with each phrase until it can be heard even over the fevered pitch of the wind. The song fills each of her companions with a calm, steady strength and courage and instills awe into the minds of their enemies.

When she has finished with the Blessing, she sinks to her knees with her arms dangling by her side and her head bowed over. The sudden silence is punctuated by her exhausted gasps for air, and she allows her eyelids to droop shut for a few moments.

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.