II-13: A New Sun II
"Ash, run!" he yelled, voice slicing through the stillness as he stared at all the bandits charging his way, both on foot and on horseback, loud intimidating roars coming from all of them.
The little bear let out a short grunt of a sound that almost sounded like irritation, oddly more expressive than normal, then bounded off, paws thudding against the dirt as he disappeared back towards the village.
Greg paused, head snapping back to watch the cub scurry away, an odd thought tugging at him as his brain tried to process what he'd just heard.
"Wait, did you just respo—"
He shook his head hard, snapping himself back to the present moment. The thundering hooves grew louder, demanding his attention. "Not the time, Greg," he muttered, fingers tightening around his sword's hilt until the leather creaked.
The riders were nearly on him now, faces barely visible under the shadow of their helmets, but their intent was clear as day in the way they leaned forward, weapons already drawn. He could hear the chaos inside the village, guards shouting and Wyll's voice among them, panic rising like smoke. He eyed the approaching horsemen, two crammed on each horse like they couldn't wait to get here, heart pounding against his ribs as he tightened his grip on his sword. The evening air grew thick with the smell of horse sweat and steel.
His hand twitched, the leather of his glove creaking against the hilt, and then he was off, tearing forward like a storm breaking. The ground blurred beneath his boots as he sped up, wind rushing past his ears and the faint scent of iron filling his nose, stirring a strange calm in him. Greg moved faster than he'd ever pushed himself, the ground disappearing under his feet as he tore across the space with his sword held out. A tight, hot ache radiated from his core out to his limbs as the earlier magic he'd used still clung to him like an unwanted second skin.
His joints were stiff from the earlier drain, but he shoved through it.
The first rider didn't stand a chance.
The teenager barely had a moment to hear one of the riders shout, "What the h-?" before he lunged at the man riding beside him. His sword flashed up, the edge gleaming like frozen fire in the dying light, and before the rider could even pull his reins, Greg's blade caught his partner in the side, cleaving through skin, sinew and bone with a sickening crunch that vibrated up his arm.
The spray of blood hit him, warm and sticky. He blinked, swallowing down the rising nausea. No time for that now.
The man toppled from his mount, a gurgling scream ripped from his throat, and his partner with the reins was scrambling, desperate, but too slow. Greg spun, his sword an extension of his arm, movements flowing like water.
The leather armor split like wet bark and the smell hit Greg instantly — hot, metallic, a tang that stung the back of his throat like old pennies. An instant later, blood sprayed across Greg's face as he landed, the warm splatter soaking into his tunic and dripping down his chin. The rider's eyes went wide, just a moment of shock after he was already dead, and then he slumped, falling sideways from his saddle, limbs slackening as his blood soaked the ground beneath him.
"Bloody gods!" the nearest rider spat, trying to steady his own spooked horse as it reared back, hooves slicing through the air. "Get back, get back!"
Greg didn't give the bastard a chance to retreat. He dropped to one knee, feeling the drain a bit more as he extended his free hand, fingers splayed as he forced magic energy into his palm
"Igni!" Fire sputtered from his palm, slower to respond than usual, but still fierce as the breath of a small dragon.
The flames latched onto the nearest rider's cloak, catching on the fringes of his armor with hungry fingers. The heat rippled back against him harder than it should have, the aftershock leaving his hand trembling slightly as he watched the fire devour the rider. The bandit's screams mixed with the fiery crackle, the smell of burning cloth and flesh filled Greg's nose as the rider thrashed in his saddle, his horse rearing in panic beneath him.
"Get away from him! He's no human—!"
From behind him, two men who had jumped down from their horses closed in fast, boots pounding against packed earth. One hurled himself at Greg with a war hammer, the weapon humming through the air as it swung. The setting sun caught the metal head, making it gleam dully with old bloodstains. Greg's muscles responded before his mind could catch up, his body twisting aside in a fluid motion. The hammer whistled past his ear close enough to feel the wind of its passage, to smell the rust and old blood on the weapon's surface.
"Get 'im!" the other bandit screamed, his voice choked with fear, spittle flying from his mouth as he stumbled back. The hammer-wielder roared like a wounded bear, muscles bunching under his leather armor as he swung again. Greg could see every detail of the man's face - the wild eyes, the clenched teeth, the way sweat ran down his temples despite the evening chill.
But Greg had already darted aside, his feet sliding slightly in the blood-soaked dirt.
He pivoted sharply, letting the hammer's weight carry the bandit forward into a patch of slick mud. As the man stumbled, Greg's boot connected with the man's ribs, the impact sending shockwaves up his leg as bones cracked beneath his foot. The bandit went sprawling into the dirt, hammer flying from his grip, body rolling like a broken doll.
The second attacker stumbled back, fear flashing in his eyes like lightning. Sweat beaded on the bandit's forehead as he realized what he was facing, his sword shaking in his grip. For a second, Greg could almost see the panic spreading through the man's thoughts. "Seven bloody hells! Fu—get back! Fall back!" he screamed to the others, voice cracking with terror.
"Oh, now you want to run?" Greg's cold grin split his face as his sword punched through the bandit's back, the blade sliding between ribs with a wet crunch that vibrated up his arm. Blood gushed from the man's stomach as Greg yanked the blade free, the warm spray coating his arms up to the elbows.
The metallic smell filled his nose, familiar now.
Greg didn't wait, didn't breathe, just spun toward the next target like a dance he'd practiced a thousand times.
His boots found purchase in the blood-slicked dirt as another horse charged in, nostrils flaring and snorting steam into the cooling air. Iron-shod hooves slammed down on the dirt hard enough to shake the ground, each impact sending tremors through his legs. He charged straight for it, his sword out and angled low, feeling the thrill and burn in his muscles as his body moved faster than thought.
The horse bucked as he approached, eyes rolling white with terror, sensing something unnatural about the figure coming at it faster than any human should move. Its frightened whinny cut through the chaos of battle like a knife. Foam flecked its mouth, muscles rippling under its sweat-dark coat as it tried to rear back.
A breath before impact, Greg ducked low, catching the flash of a spooked horse rearing nearby.
With a burst of speed, he kicked off a rock, using the momentum to launch himself skyward, higher than the rider's head. Spinning in midair like some creature born for chaos, his tunic whipped around him, blood droplets spraying off his sword in an arc that caught the dying sunlight like rubies.
At that moment, time stretched out like rubber.
Greg saw the bandit's startled expression in perfect detail, his mouth a tight line of shock, eyes wide with fear as he realized death was coming from above. Sweat and dirt streaked the man's face, his pupils shrinking to pinpoints as Greg's shadow fell over him. The sword cut down in a perfect arc through the air, meeting resistance as the edge struck bone and kept going. The rider's neck snapped, head flying off in a spray of red that painted the evening air.
Greg landed beside the thrashing horse in a crouch, his boots sliding slightly in the mud and gore. He kicked off again to keep his momentum going, his breath fogging out in quick, even bursts. Blood soaked into his clothes, turning his fine green tunic dark, but his movements stayed fluid, precise, like his body knew exactly what to do without him having to think.
Another footman who'd leapt down from a horse swung out with a curved sword, the edge catching a shard of twilight as it arced toward Greg's side. The blade sang through the air, promising pain, the man's face twisted in desperate determination. Greg sidestepped, the weapon cutting through empty space with a whistle that made his ears ring. He threw out his left hand as he poured his energy into it, feeling the power build like electricity under his skin, making his hair stand on end.
"Aard!"
The force burst outward, driving the man back, as the effort sent a sharp ache through Greg's arm. The bandit flew back as if shot from a cannon, his scream cut short as he hit the ground with a sickening thud that he felt more than heard. The impact sent tremors through the earth, the man's limbs folding at wrong angles as he struggled to breathe through the shock, ribs visibly caved in from the impact. Blood leaked from his mouth, turning his terrified gasp into a wet gurgle.
His fingers tingled with leftover energy, slower to respond as he gritted his teeth against the creeping exhaustion but Greg didn't give him the chance to recover.
The boy strode forward with purpose, boots squelching in mud turned to soup with blood, and drove his sword down. The blade punched through the man's leather-clad chest and into the earth beneath with a meaty crunch, sending vibrations all the way up Greg's arm. Another burst of warm blood sprayed out, soaking into the ground and splashing up onto his boots in a crimson shower. The dying man's eyes locked with Greg's for a moment, filled with disbelief and terror before glazing over.
"This can't be real..."
But Greg was already moving again, his body flowing like water as he sprang forward with a burst of speed that sent the horses scattering in terror. Hooves clattered against packed earth in every direction as the animals shied away from him, their eyes rolling white with fear. Blood dripped from his sword, leaving dark droplets in his wake as he darted up to another rider. His fingers locked around the man's wrist like iron bands, twisting hard enough to feel tendons strain beneath skin.
The rider yelped, his sword dropping from nerveless fingers to thud against the blood-soaked ground. Greg released his grip and drove his knee up into the man's gut with enough force to lift him off the saddle, sending him backward off his mount with a wheeze of expelled air.
"Monsters! He's a bloody monster!" a footman shouted, terror cracking his voice as he tripped over his own feet trying to back away. His leather boots slipped in the mud and gore, sending him stumbling. The remaining bandits' faces had gone nearly as pale as the blade in his hands, the same one slashing as fast as quicksilver, eyes wide with growing horror as they watched Greg move. Their hands clutched their weapons so tight their knuckles went white, as if steel alone could save them from what they faced.
The last two riders closed in from opposite sides, desperation making them bold. One raised a heavy mace high, its spiked head catching the dying light. The other brandished a crossbow with shaking hands, even as he tried to wheel his mount away. Greg spun toward them, his boots skidding slightly on grass made slick with blood and viscera. The metallic smell of death filled his nose with each breath.
His gaze locked onto the mace as it whistled down through the air, aiming straight for his skull with killing force. Time seemed to slow as his enhanced reflexes kicked in, letting him track every detail of the weapon's arc. He brought his sword up, forcing his muscles to respond faster than they wanted. The motion wasn't as sharp as it should have been, but it was enough, catching the mace's wooden shaft and wrenching it sideways.
The rider grunted, his grip loosening for just a fraction of a second, and before he could recover, Greg twisted his wrist in a sharp motion and slammed the hilt of his sword up into the man's nose.
The impact produced a wet meaty crunch of breaking cartilage that Greg felt through the sword's grip. Hot blood sprayed as the rider fell back, both hands flying to his ruined face as crimson poured between his fingers. His scream came out gargled and wet.
The last horseman, the one trying to keep his distance, steadied his crossbow with trembling hands and took aim at Greg's chest. The weapon's string creaked as he drew it back, the bolt's head glinting dully in the fading light.
Pure instinct took over, and Greg's left hand snapped up faster than thought. "Quen!" Power surged through him like electricity, making his hair stand on end.
A shimmering barrier of white-blue light materialized just as the trigger clicked. The bolt struck the magical shield head-on, its steel tip shattering into deadly fragments that scattered across the bloodied ground. The crossbowman spat a curse, fumbling with cold-numbed fingers as he tried to nock another bolt, his hands shaking so bad he could barely hold the weapon.
"Gods save us! He's a demon!" a bandit shouted from somewhere in the back, voice high with hysteria.
Greg cracked his neck, muscles coiled tight as springs. The taste of copper filled his mouth as he bellowed. "WHO'S NEXT"
The remaining crossbowman took one long look at his fallen comrades, their bodies sprawled in the mud like broken dolls, then back at Greg's blood-spattered form. Fear won out over whatever courage he had left. "To the hells with this!" he hissed, yanking his horse's reins so hard the animal whinnied in protest. Spurs dug into its flanks as he kicked it into a full gallop, disappearing into the forest's dark embrace.
The survivors on foot shared a single panicked look, muttered curses through pale lips, and sprinted after their mounted companion. They abandoned their dead without a backward glance, loyalty forgotten in their desperation to escape.
Greg's eyes narrowed as he tracked the last of the bandits vanishing into the lengthening shadows, their panicked yells bouncing off ancient trees before melting into the cold night air. His breath came out in steady puffs of white vapor as his pulse began to slow. As he drew in another breath, tasting blood and sweat on his tongue, he felt his soul ring out again like a struck bell. It swelled outward before snapping back like a rubber band—once again, not with nothing to show for it, but nothing he could visibly see or even really feel.
All he could say this time was that he didn't feel as disconnected from Westeros as he usually did. Weird.
He tilted his head up, still crouched, his breath heavy, labored and visible in the growing cold, only to freeze mid-motion.
There, cutting a violent slash across the heavens, was a comet, huge and burning a fierce, smoldering red as it ripped through the star-filled expanse. It left a trail of fire in its wake, like the sky itself had been torn open, pouring raw flame into the night. The comet's angry glow painted the gathering clouds with a blood-red hue, setting the whole horizon ablaze with otherworldly light.
His chest felt tight, and his body ached in too many places, but the comet's blazing red streak through the heavens cut through it all. "Huh... pretty," he muttered, his voice faint.
Ash trotted up beside him, tiny paws padding softly over the gore-soaked ground. The bear cub tilted his head, seeming just as captivated by the celestial display as Greg. "Isn't that pretty, Ash?" Greg pointed up, barely glancing down at his companion.
The little kodiak bear looked up, opened his little mouth, and then—burped—a small plume of flame puffing out, half the size of one of Greg's own Igni's.
The blond boy froze, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline as he stared at the cub. "...what?"
First and Last Line of Defense - 250 GP
Roll: The Family [The Games We Play] {Control} (400 GP) - The kind they whisper about and which get you looks on the street, that is. You have a powerful and illustrious last name now, probably something rather impressive by itself too. But more than the word, it's important for what it means. Your family is an old one, and a connected one. You have huge levels of influence, wealth and power, probably being a noble family, or a huge business dynasty, a mafia organization or maybe even some mix of the above options. Either way, this is a powerful force with fingers in a lot of pies and a long, long reach. While not really comparable to names like 'Schnee', your family is easily the match of any of the old families of Mistral, whether there or in another nation.
Grimoire Points: 250