Reign of Discord - When Silence Falls IC

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Jarmil had retired to his private quarters to be alone with his thoughts for the evening. All day he had spent his time greeting, welcoming and sharing his emotions with friends, family and former students. His mind was tired, at least it would make sleeping easier.

The situation had a bitter-sweet feeling to it. It was nice to see so many familiar faces in the Citadel, some of whom he had not spoken to for years. If only they had not been reunited again under such circumstances. There were all kinds of emotions being expressed by the entrances, some cried, others hugged, while some even had a laugh before they hurried off to get settled in. If one choose to look at it positively, the fact that the Swordsingers were not as great in numbers as they once used to be meant that there would be no problem for people to find a place to sleep and food rations should not become an immediate issue.

But most revealing were the reserved and slightly shocked faces who arrived back home to what was to become the scene of a battle which would go down in the history books. Every member of the order had some relationship to the Citadel. To Jarmil it was his home, his birthplace, his playground. It was where he had met the love of his life, where they had married. It was also where he had received his first scolding from a preceptor, it was the place he wanted to escape from as a kid to discover the vast world outside. It was where they had held her funeral. Keeping the Citadel away from the hands of the Dovrian forces.
 
Feeling Jaromir's body behind her, she felt more at ease or perhaps it was that between his body and cloak she was not as cold. "I hope we can find others. We can't be the only ones to have escaped," Radika said though her tone was sad. They both knew there were some that didn't make it, but she was sure even they did not give up without a fight. Somehow, if any of those captured survived they would have to comeback to free them. But for the time being their own survival was more important.

The voice of the young man surprised Radika enough for her to lower her hand for the whalebone cudgel she typically carried. That he was alone and calling for help didn't make her less suspicious, nor the lifesong she heard, for they had only just barely escaped the city. She did nudge her horse in his direction however. "Who are you?" She called out kindly. Anyone that was friend need not be frightened and anyone that was foe needed to be off guard.
 
GWYNE KORTAN
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If he was being honest, and he had to be, Gwyne was taken aback by the kindness in the woman's -- was it a woman? -- voice that called back out at him. For a moment, he just wasn't able to get anything past his lips. The woman had steered her horse in his direction. Was that a sign of hospitality or hostility? He couldn't care less. If these people were Swordsingers, then he would probably live through the night. "I'm Gwyne Kortan... I am a Nightingale. I... I wear the Gold" he said, pointing gingerly with the hand of his injured arm to the small pin that miraculously had not yet fallen from his clothing.

Faintness was beginning to overtake him, but his body was still on high alert. His Song was pretty much dead at the moment. He just didn't have the energy to even Sing a simple healing melody. Not even the charm would help.

"I... My Preceptor got captured. I was injured while I escaped..." he said, walking slowly towards the woman. The blood was evident. It had set down a crimson streak down his arm and more of it was still dripping onto the ground, though at a much slower pace than some time past.
 
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GM POST
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The whole Citadel was abuzz. One of the few rickety airships that belonged to the Order -- in a dismal state of disrepair for lack of funds to repair it -- had arrived from the southern Hold of the Order in Dovry. Ever since the Choirmaster had sent couriers throughout the lands to the myriad Holds of the Order, or at least the ones that still stood, the stream of people into the Citadel was unceasing. Swordsingers that had not met for decades were suddenly brought together in a grim reunion.

To all holds of the Order in the land, the Choirmaster sent the message "My Knights Swordsinger and entrants into the Order, I fear the time has come for us to come together once more. Renala has declared war upon Dovry, and the Crownsong has demanded our aid in the coming war, so that Dovry may win and perhaps wipe out house Lupendren once and for all. Yet our Oath bars us from partaking in the conflicts of nations, and act only as emissaries or enforcers -- if need be -- of peace."

The messenger that came with the airship, had gone directly to the Eyrie, rejecting water and bread and going to the Choirmaster with all the haste of a man chased by the black fires of Discord. Everyone else that had been on the airship had gone directly to the infirmary. In their wake, they left the smell of charred flesh.

"I fear that my refusal to participate in their bloodshed will bring terrible things upon our Order. If Taenthal Skynne is the man I knew him to be, then there is no reason to fear, but alas, I fear he is the man I believe he has become. We will need all our strength once more. He will surely strike at the heart of our Order and we cannot allow the Citadel, and with it, the Swordsingers, to fall."

As soon as the courier had gone, the Choirmaster called forth a meeting of all Band Conductors in urgency. It was sealed to the Eyrie and no prying ears could hear what was being said. To the gathered Band Conductors, he said "It has begun. Dunfé'er* Silvaere no longer stands."

*Dunfé'er - The Fort Of. An ancient name given to all Holds of the Order, save for the Citadel itself.
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Two hours ago, Odette had successfully passed the final test of being a Mockingjay, but her celebratory mood was brief. It didn't help that her preceptor was immediately whisked away for urgent matters right after her achievement. One word, "Congratulations", was all he said before he left. It also didn't lift her spirits when the swordswingers guarding the exit of the Citadel refused to let her go to Dovry to get something for herself.

"But why?" she had asked one of the guards who blocked her path.

The burly guard took a quick glance at her circular bronze Maestro emblem pinned on her chest before he grunted, "Nothing you need to know for now."

Thinking that his rudeness was due to her seeming rank, she reasoned, "Look, I just became Skylark---" But the guard had grunted once again, that time in disbelief. His partner next to him gave a smirk. He was thinner than the other man but his eyes looked more intense. "Trouble's a-brewin', lass," thin guard had told her. "Best you do as you're told."

And with that, Odette simply slumped her shoulders and headed back to the courtyard where she could at least try to blow off some steam. This was far from what she had dreamt this day would be. Her preceptor would have given her special words of wisdom by now, usually in riddles, while he replaced her bronze pin with the silver emblem of a Skylark. She would have been offered wine to drink and probably take just a sip. She sighed, resigning herself to the thought that these dreams would remain just that, at least for today.

But now, her dismay slowly brewed into curiosity---and even fear---when she finally noticed the increasing number of swordswingers entering the Citadel with somewhat grim expressions. She didn't recognize many of them, having only stayed in the Citadel for a year. They were called, she knew. By the Choirmaster, no doubt. But why such an urgent call?

Odette was already at the Walkway when she decided to drop her plans to head for the courtyard, and stayed put. More and more swordswingers were coming her way and as long as she pretended to be interested in the view the Walkway provided, she could catch bits of conversation that could give her a clue as to what was really happening.
 
He listened to the exchange. So it wasn't just them who had been attacked. "I don't hear a lie in her voice the whispered even though his hands remained ready as his skin tingled in the night air. Yes, he was shivering but he could bear it. "Well Gwyne." he called out angling his head in what he hoped was the right direction. "I am Jaromir, and this is my singer Radika." he held up his bow and kept a hand on Radinka's shoulder for stability as he turned his head, then patted her shoulder. "Take up closer to her, I do not feel comfortable shouting."

That's when he heard the baying of hounds, a long way off but on their heels and his hand tightened around her shoulder. Their subtle form of nonverbal communication would undoubtedly be lost on Gwyne but the twist of his lips expressed his worry. "Hounds, from the city, we should keep moving." This was also whispered to allow Radinka to decide what to do, he trusted her and his disability meant she was always more aware of their surrounding than he was.
 
Radika nodded ever so slightly, her shoulders tensing. There was trouble coming and Radika was painfully aware that this was not home ground. They did have advantages, but not being familiar with the countryside was a major disadvantaged. She would count them lucky if they avoided a fight this night.

The horse came up closer to Gwyne and it was then she noticed the youth was injured. "This won't work," she said. "He's injured. If we are getting out of here he's going to have to ride with you Jaromir." It was the best decision. The only one really. She would guide the horse and the Nightingale was going to have to be fast at ducking.

Giving her Marksman's hand a squeezes she dismounted. "Hurry, they are closer to us then they should be."
 
GWYNE KORTAN
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Gwyne looked curiously at the other Swordsinger through the haze of the throbbing pain. His eyes were covered. And he had cocked his head in Gwyne's general direction, but slightly off, when he had introduced himself. "Hounds? But... I hear nothing." Jaromir intrigued him. He knew that Marksmen wore blindfolds around their necks at all times of the day, but he didn't think they would wear them outside.

Unless...

The man was blind. He wanted to mentally smack himself for that. But there was no time, and they had to get to relative safety soon. "Thank you, sincerely" he whispered to the woman as she dismounted. He walked over to Jaromir's horse and tried to get up into the saddle. His injury made it nigh impossible. "I'm sorry... I... I can't move my arm properly."
 
Having someone other than Radinka with with him made Jaromir nervous, but if the other was wounded it really was the best way. He reached out and felt the man's clothed brush against his hand, then clumsily he hooked his arm around him and heaved Gwyne up in front of him, not speaking so he could listen to the coming hounds, the the human voices the accompanied them. "Kralic." he said softly using his nickname for Radinka. "We should move." There was a suppressed urgency in his voice, a reminder that once again they were hunted. He didn't like not being able to do anything but he had grown used to trusting his partner to carry them, the important part would be getting away from here.
 
Checking to be sure Gwyne was properly in the saddle, Radinka took the reign's of her horse. Her other hand now gripped the whalebone cudgel with it's iron covered top. When Jaromir spoke she frowned. It meant the hounds, and the men with them were on the move.

"Right," she said simply as she slightly tugged on the reigns for the horse to follow her. "Unless it is important, it's best to keep quiet for now." Her explanation wasn't for her partner of course but the young Instrument that now traveled with them. Part of that was so the men didn't hear them, but mostly it was so her Marksman could hear the hounds and men from the city.

Radinka jogged slightly. She wanted to make as much distance as she could, but tripping was not in the plans. If she miss stepped it wasn't just herself that could fall. It was a good thing she was well practiced on that concept.
 
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GM POST
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The six hounds had since become three and the two masters, now but one. It had been some time since the two of them had gone their separate ways. One of them into the woods, the other along the river. All the same, the hounds dripped spit from the corners of their muzzles. Their sharp canines, which were bred to tear into flesh, shone in the dark. They gleamed, gathering the moonlight that shone down upon the rushing current. In the dark of evening, the hounds with their teeth bared looked like phantoms, ghosts with disembodied jaws. It wasn't very far from the truth. But unlike spectres, these hounds were loud and their fearsome baying filled the night air and rang out over the river.

Their masters, on the other hand, were dead silent. They listened for the slightest out-of-place noise in the environment. Even if they tried, they would not be able to say much anyway. They had no tongues and communicated with their dogs in the same grunts, whines, and howls that the hounds used. The hounds by the river were in no hurry. They and their master would catch up relatively fast to even the fastest horse. All they needed was to pick up a hint of the 'song' that set Swordsingers apart from mundane mortals.

Only moments later, the splashing of the hounds' paws as they waded through the shallow river bank came to a stop. The forest was silent save for the dogs sniffing the air and craning their necks as though to hear something in the distance. And then they exploded into a round of louder, enthusiastic barking. The hounds had found the trail. A grin broke in their master's face. He whistled and all four of them ran with unnatural speed down the river, splashing water every which way.

The largest of the hounds threw back its head and howled. It was a haunting, ululating call that was responded to by the other hounds deeper in the forest. They would continue to do this until they found each other again. And then, the hunt would be on.
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GWYNE KORTAN
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Gwyne took his hand off of the wound in his shoulder for a short while to brush away some hair that had fallen over his forehead, and, to some extent, his eyes. He was quick to return it though, trying to stem the flow of blood in whatever way he can. He leaned forward, letting the horse's neck support some of his weight. He decided it would be best to conserve what strength he had left. It wasn't much. Blood loss from the wound and the exertion of running from the city was making him lightheaded.

No matter how many years he spent training with the Swordsingers, nothing had prepared him for this. To add insult to injury, he wasn't the best healer either. Despite this, he was hanging on with all the energy he could muster. If they had to fight, he had no intention of being a dead weight on the two Swordsingers. In that prone position that he was in, Gwyne craned his neck backwards and whispered, to Jaromir, "Thank you."

The slow trot of the horse, as smooth a pace as they were going, jarred Gwyne every so often. It helped keep him aware, because as it was, his mind was becoming muddled, and the pain that had minutes ago kept him awake had faded into an incessant throbbing. At the very least it was comforting to know he managed to patch himself up, as rudimentary as it might have been. Moments later, the rhythmic motion of the horse underneath him and the warmth of Jaromir's body behind him began to lull him into a half-awake state. Had they not been in mortal peril, he would have appreciated it. Alas, that was not the case.

Just when Gwyne's eyes were drooping shut, the hounds' unnatural, ululating howl pierced the silence of the night. It still seemed a long ways off, but now, Gwyne knew for sure that they were being pursued. His eyes snapped open and he whispered "I hear them now..."
 
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