[ They had never stood any real chance. Dead and blighted though the Harpers were, down to their cold bones did they remember how to orchestrate a rout.
Godfrey had been tightly ranked with the others, clustered and stepping gingerly in the amber torchlight. The land outside of its flickering radiance seemed alive with shadows and sickness, the air cold and thick with malice. The entire place aches like an old wound. It had brought their group to nauseated, trepedatious silence as soon as they'd begun walking the path into the shadow-mist in earnest. None knew yet what the livid shadows could do to them beyond the radiance of the torch-fire. All felt it better not to risk the transgression.
The lesson that their inaction and its meaningless held arrives swift and hard. By the time they catch their eyes, gleaming cold and bright in the shadows, it's too late. Their rank is made fragile by their tight fear; they are easily harried and broken by arrow-volley thudding into the poisoned earth. The path is no longer beneath Godfrey's feet by the time he feels it thump into his shoulder; a sharp, punishing sting radiating down his arm. One of their bodkin-points had punched through his plate, writhing between collarbone and shoulder with each movement. Godfrey looks around, suddenly adrift in the cold shadow-sea, blood slithering down his arm beneath his plate. He strains his ears. He searches out familiar shapes, the flicker of orange torch-fire. Tries to hear voices committed to his memory, footfalls in the dark. He finds nothing. As though called to life by the smell of his blood, the darkness flits and dances all around in the absence of familiarity, twisting into shape.
His Lord's light offers some protection, shining from the spires of his blood-mace. But it does not daunt the shadows that begin to close around him - and nor are the shining eyes of the Harpers in the distant shadow overly afflicted by its holy brilliance. Its dawn incandescence seems to provoke them double; a thudding heartbeat seemed an offense here, but they lash to life around him as though he unseated the dead lands double by his morning presence. The black-feathered arrow in his shoulder jams beneath bone, its cold point caught in the motion of his arm. Another concussive swing of his mace, his burning faith searing through these black smoke apparitions.
The creature's form warps, shadow pouring forth as a dunefall of black sand. A punishing scream in Godfrey's shoulder pulls him down, cringing, nearly sinking to the diseased earth before the point of his shield gouges it instead. His breath rasps like rope in his throat. He swings out with his other arm and feels the Harper-corpse charging him from the darkness smash against it, left open for another agonizing crunch of his Lord's holy might. He hears her screech. He does not see her fall. He does the only thing he can and hauls himself forward, stumbling.
More arrows whistle, then drive through his breastplate. Two fresh punctures, arrow-shafts planted deep below armor and gambeson. Left side. They retain just enough of themselves to know where his heart beats. The agony roars in his head. Godfrey makes some kind of noise, but cannot hear it; he only feels it in his throat, in the way the air pushes through his clenched teeth.
His leg next; the bodkin-point knocks his calf out from beneath him, and this is what finally plummets him.
Godfrey feels it already; the way he leaks from himself, quenching these dead lands. His grip is iron atop his tower-shield. He tries to pull himself up. The shaft seizes in the workings of his leg, the pain howling in his ears. He buckles like a shot stag. Feverish cold assaults him.
And all around him, shadows moving. The glint of dead eyes, the seething of shadows. Cruel, shining blades, held low and ready, swinging into view. ]
some real knitting needle medicine about to happen
Godfrey had been tightly ranked with the others, clustered and stepping gingerly in the amber torchlight. The land outside of its flickering radiance seemed alive with shadows and sickness, the air cold and thick with malice. The entire place aches like an old wound. It had brought their group to nauseated, trepedatious silence as soon as they'd begun walking the path into the shadow-mist in earnest. None knew yet what the livid shadows could do to them beyond the radiance of the torch-fire. All felt it better not to risk the transgression.
The lesson that their inaction and its meaningless held arrives swift and hard. By the time they catch their eyes, gleaming cold and bright in the shadows, it's too late. Their rank is made fragile by their tight fear; they are easily harried and broken by arrow-volley thudding into the poisoned earth. The path is no longer beneath Godfrey's feet by the time he feels it thump into his shoulder; a sharp, punishing sting radiating down his arm. One of their bodkin-points had punched through his plate, writhing between collarbone and shoulder with each movement. Godfrey looks around, suddenly adrift in the cold shadow-sea, blood slithering down his arm beneath his plate. He strains his ears. He searches out familiar shapes, the flicker of orange torch-fire. Tries to hear voices committed to his memory, footfalls in the dark. He finds nothing. As though called to life by the smell of his blood, the darkness flits and dances all around in the absence of familiarity, twisting into shape.
His Lord's light offers some protection, shining from the spires of his blood-mace. But it does not daunt the shadows that begin to close around him - and nor are the shining eyes of the Harpers in the distant shadow overly afflicted by its holy brilliance. Its dawn incandescence seems to provoke them double; a thudding heartbeat seemed an offense here, but they lash to life around him as though he unseated the dead lands double by his morning presence. The black-feathered arrow in his shoulder jams beneath bone, its cold point caught in the motion of his arm. Another concussive swing of his mace, his burning faith searing through these black smoke apparitions.
The creature's form warps, shadow pouring forth as a dunefall of black sand. A punishing scream in Godfrey's shoulder pulls him down, cringing, nearly sinking to the diseased earth before the point of his shield gouges it instead. His breath rasps like rope in his throat. He swings out with his other arm and feels the Harper-corpse charging him from the darkness smash against it, left open for another agonizing crunch of his Lord's holy might. He hears her screech. He does not see her fall. He does the only thing he can and hauls himself forward, stumbling.
More arrows whistle, then drive through his breastplate. Two fresh punctures, arrow-shafts planted deep below armor and gambeson. Left side. They retain just enough of themselves to know where his heart beats. The agony roars in his head. Godfrey makes some kind of noise, but cannot hear it; he only feels it in his throat, in the way the air pushes through his clenched teeth.
His leg next; the bodkin-point knocks his calf out from beneath him, and this is what finally plummets him.
Godfrey feels it already; the way he leaks from himself, quenching these dead lands. His grip is iron atop his tower-shield. He tries to pull himself up. The shaft seizes in the workings of his leg, the pain howling in his ears. He buckles like a shot stag. Feverish cold assaults him.
And all around him, shadows moving. The glint of dead eyes, the seething of shadows. Cruel, shining blades, held low and ready, swinging into view. ]