The Renegades

[RaistlinMajere]

"Most likely," Talmarrus replied, gently pushing her back into the shadows of the trees. He rolled up his sleeves and glanced from Malcar to the slave camp. Auspiciously striding in as a Druid lord would prove disastrous. The only way to ensure a workably smooth rescue with the suffering slaves was to give them what they'd hoped for this entire time.

The slaves toiling in the pit, some convicted of petty thievery, others for defying the atheist doctrine, looked up in the midst of their misery to see two knights in shining armor, wielding swords of holy flame, riding down the slopes. It was all an illusion of course, and not even an excellently cast one. But as Talmarrus waved his imaginary sword and blasted away with lightning bolts at the dumbfounded soldiers, he confirmed his surmise - the slaves needed little convincing to make them believe what their minds so desperately grasped at.

-------

Cirron's spellcasting was disrupted as the guards, caught by surprise, lurched over the chair and came barreling straight for him. The guard's bulk had no difficulty slamming the slender Druid to the wall. Cirron could have sworn he heard his spine crack. Stifling his cry of pain as the gashes on his back split open, he managed a crackling jolt of electricity by rage alone. The guard fell back, astonished. And that was where Ethaniel's sword found him. No need to elaborate from there.

Suddenly another tremor rippled through the tunnel, but this one was no minuscule tremble. The ceiling shook, threatened unsuccessfully to collapse. Caught between the hammer on one flank and the anvil on the other, the soldiers tumbled over themselves in their haste to exit the battlefield as quickly as honorably and physically possible. But Cirron disregarded all this as irrelevant as he trained his eyes on the dungeon door. Only a Druid could have created that earthquake, and that Druid didn't happen to be him.

-------

F'taen Falconhand was not a strong man. He was lean from years of martial training, yes. But in terms of brawn, he was as slender as any average magic-caster. Brawn did not give a combatant the upper hand, regardless of what amateur warriors may believe. No, what offered one contender an asset over the other was mental concentration and discipline of the body. One had to strike at exactly the right place, at precisely the correct angle.

Thus it was that the strike the nearest soldier received from the quarterstaff was not particularly hard, but it felled the man as surely as though he'd been hit by a lightningbolt. Pivoting like a dancer, F'taen whacked another to his knees. The fallen soldier cried something incoherent and slashed his sword across, down low. The Druid warlord simply leaped over the attack, rapping the butt of his quarterstaff into the soldier's knuckles in the same motion. He couldn't go through with the movement because before he knew it, another blade was whizzing a millimeter over his head. He spun, his brown robes flapping as his booted foot came up and cracked his enemy's chin bone. A convenient fireball from the knight in shining armor, formerly known as the Druid Talmarrus, finished the job.

F'taen managed a nod of gratitude before shifting his attention back to Master Mandehvor, who was making commendable progress in his incursion of the dungeons. For the swordsman's benefit, he dropped a globe of darkness on the guards scrambling around the entrance. He hadn't a doubt that Mandehvor could fight blind, but in the same circumstances the soldiers would risk inadvertently felling their comrades.

[Ember]

Malcar rushed after Talmarrus and when in suitable range he fired a spray of flame from his hands, setting a few guards in flames. Before proceeding onwards Malcar gazed at the situation as a whole, if he had wanted to betray the druids now would have been the time, but he decided against it. Malcar drew his mace as he charged deeper into the pit to face the rest of the guards, along the way slaves desperately grasped for him asking help with their chains. Malcar ignored the requests for two reasons, he didn`t care and secondly death of the guards were his first priority. A fireball whirled trough the air at two guards, sending them flying back in flames.

Yet his charge would have t`s cost as from some darn shadowed corner a guard sprang at him. Malcar cursed and stepped back as the guards spear just scratched his side, but his hand made a clumsy attack at the unprotected guard. His mace hit the guard in the shoulder, ineffectively though, but now both of them regained their stances. Malcar danced away as the spear tip approached him, but suddenly charged as the spear went by him and grabbed the guard by the throat. The guard tried to pull his head back, but Malcar`s `magic` was already at work and the guard felt his throat burning. It wasn`t what you might have called a fight, but a torture as the man slowly died. Malcar hmhed and smirked widely as the limb body dropped to the ground, in the ecstasy of the killing he gazed at the sky quietly. He had trusted for the druid to cover his back, but he would be sadly disappointed all tough the druid hardly might have suspected that the attack would come from a slave.

A middle aged man slave had picked up the guards spear, apparently shocked by the fiery magic displayed by Malcar as many were not used to magic, many considering it as devilry. The spear tip finally reached it`s goal, piercing trough skin and flesh. The sudden, excruciating sting of pain that piercing trough him, from his lower back to his stomach made Malcar let out an inhuman curse before turning around. The man was taken by surprise of this reaction, any man would have surely fell to the ground, but Malcar pushed him away and turned to him. Malcar grabbed the spear still sticking in his back and pulled it out with grin on his face, but a mad gaze in his eyes. He then threw the spear, like a javelin, which it was not with inhuman strength and impaled the man, sending him down into the pit bottom. Malcar collapsed on his knee`s and examined the wound quietly as his precious blood flowed out of it, staining his brown shirt and pants. It was funny that he had never been wounded so badly in his life yet all he did was chuckle at the fact that he was wounded by a pitiful slave. He gazed around at the rest of the slaves, but they dared not approach as a fire appeared in the hand of Malcar.

[Meldawen]

Mirrim remained very still. She had never dreamed it might come to this, never even imagined that believing in long-shunned gods could have gotten her here, to toil away the rest of her life as nothing more than a brief, sad tale. She found her every muscle was tense, eyes following the druids' every move.

How could she even hope to assist them, in the smallest way? Globes of darkness, weapons spinning through the air so fast they were hardly visible. Mirrim relaxed slightly as it became apparent that the incursion was proving successful so far.

Thank the gods that did not happen to me, she thought fervently, even imagining herself as one of them sending chills down her spine.

[Sparrowhawk]

Aedon smile remained fixed on his face as he whirled through the soldiers inside. Then everything went black. Biting back a curse which might have given away his position, he slipped to the side and slashed in a circle, thinking of what he would do when he got his hands on Master Falconhand again. A globe of darkness in the middle of a fight in which he was outnumbered! He could at least have given some warning. Simple was best, which meant fewer plans, but that was too simple. If he was unprepared, then it came as a shock to lose all vision. Of course, it didn't impair him in the least, but it was an unwelcome surprise.

Imagining that he was training blindfolded again, Aedon worked the forms, stabbing and slashing guards, who fell to the accompaniment of wet-sounding thuds. In a fight like that, with no real way of knowing where the nearest enemy was behind very careful--and fast--listening, no one could survive unscathed. A blind strike from one of the guards managed to reach Aedon, slicing a line of pain down his arm.

Aedon's smile never altered. In his mind, his motto echoed once more. Embrace Pain. Himself being hurt did not matter. It was nothing compared with what had been done to his parents. Everything he had done since his parents' execution was in their name. When he joined the Divine Order, it had at first been because he believed in the gods and wished to uphold them. That had changed, after the execution of his family. Now, he rode with the Order because it gave him the best chance to take his wrath out on those who opposed Followers of the gods. Now, he slashed and stabbed because he wanted to.

Oh, he still believed in the gods, and he still trusted that things would work out as they wished in the end, but he did not trust them enough to wait and let them play things out as they desired. He trusted his sword more than them--his sword and his skill. They were what won him his fights. And simplicity.

Panting lightly from exertion, he realized that he heard no more movement, and stopped, stepping out of the globe of darkness. If he hadn't walked carefully, he would have tripped over one of the many bodies lying around--on the other side of the globe, a warrior stood, and a druid, who must be Cirron. "I think me you should come this way, eh?" he said, his expression changing to a wry smile. One that never touched his eyes. Turning on his heel, he strode out of the building, looking for the other two Druids.

[Ven]

Ethaniel was about to be smothered by the wave of attackers when everything suddenly went black. This was not good. From up ahead Ethaniel heard sounds of fighting. Apparently, either the guards had turned against each other in this darkness, or someone else had come to their rescue. He hoped fervently that it was the latter. But who? Ethaniel had no way of knowing. Not any of his friends, for sure. He didn't have many - if any by now- friends left.

Ethaniel backed up, and at the same time groped with a hand behind him, hoping to grab Cirron, who went somewhere while Ethaniel was busy killing and wounding.

His hand ran up against cold iron. Without a pause the other hand ran the sword through the guard.

The last time he'd saw Cirron was seeing him ssending a bolt of pure energy at a guard, which he had dismantled, and then charged ahead to kill more. He felt to the left: a coarse sleeve met his questing hand. Hoping Cirron would not send another one of those energy bolts his way, he stood beside Cirron and patted him on the shoulder.

When the darkness cleared [im assuming?] Ethaniel saw all the guards dead, and a swordsman among them said, "I think me you should come this way, eh?" and turned around out of the cell.

Ethaniel looked questingly at his friend. Cirron might know him. Ethaniel certainly did not. and in any case, there was druidic work involved in here, and, by the looks of it, Cirron was a druid. Ethaniel shrugged slightly, and said, "Well, i think we might be gettign into your area of expertise. Your call, C."

[C shall become Ethaniel's nickname for Cirron]

[RaistlinMajere]

Blood dripped undeterred from a wound in Cirron's left shoulder, an injury he was too proud to acknowledge. He masked his grimace and took a step forward, nearly tripping over an armored body. A deluge of dizziness sent black dancing across his vision. The adrenaline was receding, and he was in worse condition than he thought. He felt Ethaniel's hand on his shoulder and grit his teeth. Not now. Strength from discipline.

He glanced from Ethaniel to their unexpected savior. He didn't recognize the red-haired swordsman, but, as his gaze roamed farther, he certainly recognized the figure at the doorway. "Master!" he called in relief.

Recognizing the voice, F'taen Falconhand turned. His apprentice did not miss his fleeting smile before his customary irascibility returned. "Stop standing there like a halfwit and follow Master Mandehvor," he instructed, nodding at the red-haired swordsman.

Grinning broadly for the first time in weeks, Cirron beckoned at Ethaniel and quickened his pace to match Master Mandehvor's long strides. The ardent sunlight slammed into his face as soon as he stepped back into the pit. Smoking bodies littered the ground. Hoofbeats alerted him to two horsemen galloping their way. The illusion of a pair of knights in shining armor dissipated when he recognized Lord Talmarrus. Flanking him was a dark-haired man obviously not a Druid.

"Run for the forest!" Talmarrus shouted, wheeling his steed around to gallop for the trees, where shadows of former slaves peered out fearfully from the darkness. He swept his arm expansively at the liberated slaves, commanding them to organize and be prepared to run.

"Reinforcements will be here soon," Master Falconhand explained, his strides carrying him effortlessly through the slave camp. His quarterstaff thumped on the ground with each step.

[Ember]

Malcar gazed to his side where he spotted newcomers, apparently allies and groaned in pain as he rose to his feet. He would have wanted to boil all the slaves alive, but that was not what they were there to do. Malcar placed his hands on his wounds and burned his skin closed, the smell of burning flesh rose with a grin to his face. Malcar drew deep breath and began freeing some of the slaves that he had could. The druids could organize their escape, but Malcar wasn`t going to use the strength he had left to help the slaves anymore.

He wouldn`t die to this stinking pit of slavery and not because of the slaves in it. Malcar whistled loudly and soon his horse galloped to the pit side, it pushed away any slave desperately trying to mount it and even stomped a few. Meanwhile Malcar had began slowly walking up the pit and gazed at the druids with an empty gaze in his eyes as he passed them. He held his stomach with his hand and needed assistance, but should the druids have offered it to him, he would have hissed at them. Now he only hoped that the druids had not seen and marked his latest display of inhuman strength. He had inhuman strength and endurance, but still he was a human and had his limits, and a spear trough the back was not one to be taken lightly.

[RaistlinMajere]

The liberated slaves were anxiously milling about in the forest when the Druids caught up with them. Most appeared dazed - all appeared utterly bewildered as their two saviors in shining armor suddenly revealed their true selves. All this time Lord Talmarrus was shouting for them to move. With the reorganizing soldiers at their backs, they hardly had a choice but stumble into a run for the deeper forest.

Cirron accepted a spare quarterstaff from his master and fell in among F'taen, Ethaniel, and a young woman he hadn't seen at the rescue. He found his curious gaze drawn to the strange man with the scarred face. The man hardly looked the part of any noble ally, but neither could he judge on appearances. Shifting his eyes from the stranger to Ethaniel, he realized that he owed them all his life. He'd have to find a way to repay that debt.

"When did you leave Aresbree?" he wondered, glancing askance at Ethaniel.

[Ven]

Ethaniel sympathized with those who believe in the gods. He did not believe in them, there was too much reason for him not to. but he didn't believe those who did believe should be treated to so cruel a fate.

Riding on a horse pilfered from the stables, Ethaniel rode silently, deep within himself.

Rethinking his questions and beliefs.

It wasn't until Ethaniel noticed that Cirron was staring at him that he heard his friend's question.

"When did i leave Aresbree? That's a good question. A while ago, i suppose. I don't remember. Who bothers? I'm on my own now. Im going to make something of myself. By my own strength and strive." Ethaniel replied quietly.

He thought about his sister, and fell silent again

[Meldawen]

By my own strength. Mirrim found the phrase unsettling. Was that all she had now? Her own strength? The prospect of trusting in this alone was a bleak one, and it was with relief that she realized she had these gods she'd been condemned for trusting in.

I would have died for you, she said silently. It was not quite an admonition, more a realization. She was prepared to go that far for these spurned gods. They would protect her, she was sure of it. Mirrim glanced at the others wonderingly. What were their stories? Did she share faith with some - or even here, was faith in the gods something one found rarely?

[Ember]

A strong hand grip closed around the shoulder of Cirron and Malcar grinned as he spun the young druid around, the wound was getting too much to handle even for him. Thus he would have to hope that the druids had some means of healing or at least easing the pain. Malcar`s eyes nailed into Cirron and didn`t turn them away as, if he was trying to read the druids thoughts.

"A little help lad?"

He said as he removed his other hand from holding his stomach and showing the wound that had been burned closed after the impalement that a few had apparently witnessed.

[Meldawen]

Mirrim could not stifle a sharp intake of breath upon this revelation. It looked nasty, indeed - and before she could contemplate keeping quiet she'd ventured quietly, "I - I know a little of the healing arts."

She regretted it the moment the words left her lips. It was true, she knew a small amount - but it was just that. And surely her limited skill, clumsy at it was, was far surpassed by that of the druids. Mirrim hesitantly met Malcar's gaze, her own eyes dropping after little more than a moment. "Though my abilities are likely trivial next to - others," she added awkwardly, half-shrugging.

[RaistlinMajere]

Cirron started - he couldn't believe he'd missed the stranger's wound. He was a novice to the healing arts, but he doubted his modicum of expertise would succor here. The injury looked burnt, like nothing he'd ever witnessed before. Were the soldiers capable of that? He winced and glanced helplessly at his master. "I don't - "

F'taen Falconhand scowled. "We'll stop soon," was his only response to Malcar.

They traveled through dense woodland for a while more before finally reaching the bottom of a secluded valley, sheltered by a copse of trees. Talmarus called the party to a halt. He told the liberated slaves to rest here for the night. Weary beyond inquisitive, they settled down and began building small campfires. The Druids moved among them, murmuring soft reassurances and quiet healing prayers.

Shadows lengthened over the valley. A chill wind whistled in through the mountain passes, penetrating Cirron's threadbare brown robes. Shivering in the cold, he navigated around the campfires and found Master F'taen beside Malcar. "I am not certain I wish to know how you received that wound," Cirron caught his master saying. F'taen was eyeing the charred flesh with skeptism.

Shaking his head and deciding that he'd be more useful somewhere else, Cirron moved away to help the other healers and possibly find Ethaniel. He didn't get far before Talmarrus called from the edge of camp, "Apprentice Cirron. Come here. Bring your friend as well."

Cirron hesitated. What could Lord Talmarrus possibly want from him? Finally, with a shrug, he beckoned Ethaniel and went over.

[Ember]

Malcar could only grin as they decided to continue without trying to heal his wound, but it was all sensible as surely there would be guards in pursuit of the slaves and their liberators. Finally they stopped and Malcar was able to sit down on a rock to rest. Master F`taen`s comment was not at all surprising and his attitude showed open skepticism. But Malcar wasn`t going to lie about what he had done or did not do.

"Apparently your slaves have not accustomed to magic like we have because it happened to be a damned slave that caused me this... so I killed him in return."

He added with a wide smirk as he examined F`taen`s reaction.