The Pinnacle - Last One Standing

[Wildcard]

Late Brightening. Optia in the Season of Summer, Era XIV Post Fractum


Amidst ashen stone pagodas, ancient urns and rows of disfigured gravestones lied seven feet of unearthed ground. Overcast, the sky had released an early downpour as the moss, grass and rubble were still soaked in beads of fresh rain water. The air was humid and oppressive, but a cold wind helped to alleviate any discomfort for the gathering masses. It was time to deliver the final farewells.. A funeral procession was beginning, with a trail of richly robed figures pacing over the remains of their ancestors as they made their way to the hillside convergence. The shrill call of a raven echoed once over the mounds of earth and chiselled rock, creating a lonely tensure as the priest coughed and began his sermon.

The figure in the ground was someone who knew you. Someone who took the time to touch your life, if even for an instant. They poured a cup of water for you when no one else would have. They sowed the seam in your torn jacket while you waited for a bowl of steaming rice. It didn't matter if you were invited or not, the last rites of this untimely death was but a small gesture, but it felt important.. else why were you here stranger?

The shrivelled shopkeeper's cherrywood coffin was slowly lowered into the ground, burdened by the weight of finality as the mournful family braced one another in the outward manifestation of unimaginable internal grief. This wave of nausea moved through the procession in a shuttering silence. A death. A vivacious breath.. so calm and serene in it's simplicity.. Taking the offhand kindness of this smiling ancient for granted awakened an awareness of the gesture's weight in full fervent light.

Standing over the horizon of gravestones, the many onlookers could see a valley of sullen stone blocks, tombs, smashed pagodas and blackened earth.
The humidity seemed to converge here, a line of awakening resonation channelling towards this sanctuary of the dead. There was an overpowering sense of forboding energy laced into the progression of time. A shifting balance, an uneasy stillness that beckoned to the souls of nearby travellers.

Come as you are. Come from any and all direction with your own agendas.. goals, grief, conceit and vanity.. Enter the cemetery and pray you walk out alive when it all ends.. I dare you traveller. I challenge you.

[Jade Alanon]

Death was inevitable, it didn't matter how long you lived or how many times you were brought back, everything and everyone died, no one could escape the reaper once it came for them. While the subject of death and the after-life scared most, Jade did not fear death, she respected it, would greet it when it came for her, but she did not fear it. Nymira and Jade acted as reapers themselves, exacting revenge on those that were ancestors of the Rhasic, spilling their blood and welcoming them into death's cold embrace, was it true what one said, was death a release and not a punishment?

Jade and Nymira had spoken with the dead, spoken to their dead father and he had told them that while some of their Rhasic victims were angry and hated them for their murder, some were better off, freed from the mortal chains that tethered them to that realm. A funeral procession had caused Jade to take a journey to the graveyard, a morbid place that reeked of death and sadness. Nymira didn't like being at the graveyard, didn't understand why Jade had come here in the first place, why did she feel that it was important to attend this one funeral?

The shrill call of a raven seemed to announce Jade and Nymira's presence, they kept back from the group of mourners, she had met the man in the coffin once, he had given Nymira a drink of water when she needed it most and while Nymira had appreciated it, she hadn't really given him much thought. The staff was gripped in her hand, her means of protection and feeling of comfort, Aganadara lay safely in a new satchel, hopefully Aganadara would behave itself this brightening. A soft rain fell from the sky, as though the sky mirrored the feelings of those burying their loved one. The humid air was cut by a chilling wind, which helped Nymira get through the brightening, stepping over some of the smaller gravestones while curving around the larger ones, each gravestone was a testament to all those that had fallen in Zinn'Sunn. The heroes, the villans, and those that fell between.

The priest began his sermon as the casket was laid in the ground, giving a name to the stranger that Jade had been drawn to, her emerald orbs following the caset into the ground, not listening much to what was said. There was a shift in the air, one that Jade and Nymira picked up on quickly, Nymira's eared perked as she looked over the horizon the of gravestones, her dark eyes searching for the reason behind the foreboding feeling the two shared. The chilling wind rustled Jade's dark green dress, her hair blowing against her face as she also searched. Nymira stood next to her bondmate, a large hulking beast, pitch black with dark eyes, Nymira remained in her Virkyn form for the time being, wanting to provide an offense in case there was an attack

A challenge was in the air, it was clear to both predators, the sisters couldn't leave now, they needed to understand what this was. They were both willing to answer the challenge, their eyes surveying the area, looking for what called to them.

[Cyrus Marius]

The soldier's lone cobalt eye roamed from figure to figure as the dreary procession neared, a face or two perhaps looking up to find him appraising them, but for the most part they seemed focused on their lost loved one. He recognized some from time he had spent in the city, figures that had crossed the legionnaire's path and left their impression, however brief their interaction, on him enough to be remembered by sight alone. At his side, Pandora was curled in a relaxed and comfortable position, entirely unafraid of the dark and dire surroundings in which she and her bondmate reclined. Cyrus, for his part, sat upon a small section of sodden and moist grass, somewhat above and away from the path walked by the throng of mourners, and simply watched in silence as they passed.

Zinn'Sunn offered one an immense selection of locations in which one could sit in silence and reflect upon their world, but on this brightening, something had drawn Cyrus to this particular spot. It was like an unconcious acquiescence to an unseen and unsensed energy that flowed through the air, beckoning him with it's invisible hand to visit the graveyard. For the young soldier, it was simply an opportunity to indulge his more dramatic and morbid side, and to rest with those that slept forever, those that he sometimes felt closer to then the living. With no physical crypt for his slain family to call their own, Cyrus could dream they rested where they chose, and here among the dead, he felt closer to them then he had in a long while.

His curiosity piqued by the arrival of yet another familiar face, the deadly and beautiful Jade, the young soldier casually stood and brushed several stray blades of grass from his backside. The oppressive heat prompted him to wear only his dark red-colored vest, embroidered in gold with it's twin dragon relief, and a pair of loose-fitting black leggings that tucked into the tops of his black leather boots. His long mane of golden ringlets and curls was tied back in a single tail that hung down the center of his back, reaching now almost to his waistline, and small, thin leather bracelets decorated his wrists. At his left hip hung the legionnaire's longsword, the powerful and mysterious Karvaaka, and at his right rested one of the tanto daggers he had purchased at Garen's weapon shop. The tanto's twin rested in the back of his waistband, beneath his belt, ready to leap into the soldier's hand at the first signs of danger.

A lone raven's call caught the soldier's attention and his sapphire-color eye drifted towards it, a strange chill running down his spine at the herald of death's shrill cry. Cyrus stared at the raven for a long moment, but then with the barest inclination of his head, he bade Pandora follow him as he turned and began heading in the direction of the assembled people. Without a word, his canine companion rose fluidly to her feet, her every movement like molten shadow, and with a silent step she loped to his side. The two walked boldly through the graveyard, defiantly dismissive of the lingering sense of foreboding and dread that permiated the very air around them.

[Straylor Leonard]

OoC: what's the approximate timestamp for this? Cuz Stray doesn't get to Zinny til 3rd cycle of Optia -ish

How Straylor managed to find himself before a random funeral service was beyond him. In truth, he was never a funeral-goer (if there were indeed such people). As a child, he was almost always excempt from his uncles' and aunties' bye-bye parties. That was just how things worked. His mother despised the occasion, calling it lip-service to bid good fortune to the passed away even if you really wanted them to die a loong time ago. Perhaps Straylor's mother disliked a whole lot of people; he'd never know.

But that didn't mean that such events never tickled Straylor's curiosity. He was a red-blooded human after all. It was supposedly humanity's taste to know more that got them into enough trouble -- but not as much as cats. How this came to be may forever be a mystery; but that's another matter. Nevertheless, Stray's had some experience sneaking to random funerals in Medonia. The graveyard there was spacious and had enough hiding places to make children go ga-ga. It was also the most ideal setting for hide-and-seek. Which is actually how Straylor sneaked into his first funeral.

But this one was ... different.

Straylor arrived short of disastrously lost. He had been following the cobblestones for a few candlemarks, occasionally deviating from his usual path to window-shop and tamper with foreign merchandise and foodstuffs. His favorite thus far was the tea and the rice. He didn't know why Trysvale didn't have any rice farms, but it should! And the tea was beautiful -- like a party in one's mouth, only better. Then, all of a sudden, he happened upon the grounds that was home to the passed.

He was about to turn around and wander back towards the Pheonix District (his favorite place) but a female caught his attention. Smiling inward, he invested a few quick strides in her direction while making sure that his sheathed twin shortswords didn't get in the way. His military boots squeaked slightly when it trodded over grass, but that bothered Straylor very little. He wore his dark coloured vest over a neatly-pressed poet shirt that brightening to make sure he was cool enough outside. The twin Suns hovered overhead, revealing the sharp highlights of golden brown and dark red which made up his wavy hair. He should've tied it in a ponytail earlier.

Running his hands through his locks, Straylor slowed his pace once he neared Jade and then attempted to look natural ... whatever that meant. She was pretty. He took a second glance, before returning his attention to the service in progress. It was about that time that he heard a raven, causing him to turn towards the sound. His eyes caught another figure, male, but ignored him. He needed to look overly masculine, yet somewhat sensitive to the events unfolding.

So, without much effort, Straylor crossed his arms across his chest and then lifted one hand to rub his left eye. He sniffed then straightened up. Perfect. Now, come and comfort me.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

Sinister eyes watched the procession from nearby, narrowing ominously into thin slits as the coffin was lowered into its eternal resting place. Death. It was the one constant in life, a perpetual occurrence that knew no end. Nimavel Mynendil understood it all too well. It had been chasing him for the past few decades, unable to catch him despite its tenacious attempts. This was because he was intimately familiar with the icy touch of mortality, for his fingers were oftentimes the cause for it.

The raven folds of the assassin’s cloak swirled around him as the wind ripped across the graveyard. His cowl, pulled low over his alabaster-hued visage to ward off the rain, barely revealed twin lavender eyes that peered apathetically at the congregation of mourners. His gleaming orbs betrayed no hint of commiseration, only latent contempt for the fallen shopkeeper. In the game that was life, only the strong survived; apparently, the dead man had not been strong enough.

The Lord of House Mynendil, a clandestine family of elfin spies and assassins, was unaware of the fates that brought him here. His slender carriage, camouflaged within the projected shadow of a towering tombstone, shifted subtly as he folded his muscularly defined forearms across his chest and leaned against the grave. The howling breeze continued to circulate throughout the landscape, reminding the elfin assassin that something was amiss.

Cloaked in the darkness, the Heru Mynendil identified the woman from afar. Her relaxed carriage and light-footed steps betrayed her combative competency. There was another, too, a one-eyed human who wore his swords far too comfortably at his sides. Mildly amused by the scene and subsequently baffled as to why anyone would enter the graveyard armed for battle, the elfin assassin quietly continued to observe. It seemed that something interesting was about to transpire.

Beneath his physique-enshrouding cloak, he poised an elbow atop the unornamented hilt of the sheathed ninja-to strapped to his right hip. His opposite hand, tucked beneath his folded arms, casually fingered the balanced handle of a small throwing knife contained within a miniature bandolier wrapped about his thigh.

And then he heard the raven cry.

Scanning the horizon momentarily and pinpointing the ebony winged creature, the elf lord merely sighed. Was it an assassination attempt? A motion for revenge? Or perhaps unfinished business? Regardless of the case for the mysteriously armed outsiders, Nimavel suspected that it would be an eventful evening after all.

[Veleraen]

Staring at the inevitable truth was a hard thing to do and as the Giant stood behind all of the onlookers who came to see the now shell of a man that was to be buried, all he could think about was how fragile life truly was. He had taken too much life, too much blood had been spilled by his hands in the line of duty, in the name of honour but at the end of the brightening it did not seem to want to wash off so easily.

A downpour of rain and misty skies surrounded him, enveloping the silence and catching it, holding it so that it could be revered amidst the solemn moment. The words of the priest echoed sentiments, regrets, none of which Veleraen had come here to particularly express. Death was a fickle thing and the growing interest of the Knight upon such a delicate subject had drawn him to the graveyard, not only to mourn the loss of a simple shopkeeper but to allow himself to be immersed in the ceremony and to bring him one step further to understanding of what will eventually become of his own soul and mind.

He had come from the surrounding hills after meditating on the soggy ground and still dressed in his full armament as he trained in every brightening, the Giant stood silently, ever watchful of the precession that proceeded him. The casket was finally lowered as he witnessed a minute in time itself that would be remembered only briefly by those who had been there that brightening, braving the wet and damp conditions. Rain droplets pinged off of his steel helmet, water running off of the chain links that surrounded his chest and abdomen, the essence of Carmelya flowing down the haft of his weapon as it rested against a dead tree that had wilted far beyond recovery. The cold did not bother him but the chilling sensation that ran across his very core did.

The caw of a raven made him look skywards as something flowed in the air, the essence of not only death but its steady approach. There was something quite odd about it as the Giant's nose turned upwards, smelling the damp air and breathing in the particles of moisture. Jalat's hand had seemingly followed him from city to city, picking at his very being, seeking revenge for all the minions he had sent back to keep the Lord of Death company. A foreboding wind swept across his scar torn face, sending his dark red hair up into the air only to land gracefully upon his armour once again, an unforgiving sign, a warning to all those of the living that there was something upon them.

Tension gripped the Knight's hands as he took hold of his weapon, not making any sudden moves, apprehension filling him his eyes darted upon the cloudy horizon. "It sure takes it's time...One would think Jalat cannot reach upon the holy grounds of Zinn'Sunn. It seems I was wrong. Let us hope that this time no more souls are taken this brightening."

[Sri Laa Vashiin]

In death there were those that dealt the final hand and those that received it. Sometimes the ones dealing made sure those who received understood why they were dying... other times the dealer would never reveal itself whether it was from the hands of another or just some force that decided it was time for you to say goodbye. Sri Laa always made sure the dying had his ugly face frozen in their eyes right before the lights faded... but that was just him.

The obese enforcer for the Dragon clan had made his way to the cemetery a few moments before the cherry wood coffin was carefully lowered beneath the soggy ground. He was wearing his black crushed velvet pants and vest that openly identified himself as a member of the Dragon clan, due to the large red dragon on the back of the vest. Sri laa was beyond caring if anyone knew he was apart of one of the families because his large arms had tattoos of dragons running all the way from his shoulders down to his wrists. His bald head had a large dragon tattooed on each side just above his ears... so what as one more on his vest?

The kemite wasn't sure how the shopkeeper had died, but he passed it off as an illness of some sort. Judging by the people, from all walks of life, that were here to say goodbye to this man, Sri Laa believed that no one could have harmed him... he was respected and liked by all. The raven's caw snapped him out of his trance forcing him to scan the cemetery with his deep hazel eyes to see who was all here... and to make sure none of his sworn enemies had decided to come. Out of respect for the shopkeeper, should he see any of the other families here, he would keep peace... but once the funeral was over it was fair game. His large flail dangled behind him, ready to be drawn if need be... An unwritten law of Zinn'Sunn made sure he was packed at all times.

Something strange was in the air... he could feel it, but was not sure if the overcast had set a chill about, or if the unknown dealer was about to deal his hand... either way Sri Laa watched and waited ready to reach behind him and come to arms.

[Eirildan Andares]

A dark, solemn procession caught the corner of his eye. Then, the cold breath of fear. Fear? The Esh'lahier approached the congregation, tentatively. Others, too, neared the group, with what intentions he knew not. Approaching slowly to the front of the queue, he peered down upon the wooden coffin. Eirildan blinked as he stared down upon the broken vessel of mortality.

Death. He knew it not well, as it was known that the Elven were blessed with lives as long as the seas of enigma. Death. Ever it approached, seeking those whose time has come, those who have served their purpose and need to leave this ephemeral world. The elf bowed his head, a sign of respect for the dead and those who mourned for him.

A hoarse screech echoed upon the gray streets of the cemetery. Eirildan looked up; again, the cold breath of fear he felt. He crossed his arms, and peered around at the surrounding people and at the dark shadows of the graves. With the breath of fear came the stillness of menacing evil.

Death? Was it he who approached? The Dark Elf tightened his fist. Come. Face me.

[Wildcard]

The morning wore on with the grinding of teeth like a miller's wheel. As the clouds dispersed each fated traveller began to notice the lack of oxygen reaching their lungs. Pulling deeper drags of fresh air, sweat began to collect under the arms and perspirate from the forehead of our guests.. each one here for a different reason. Their own.

Some came to mourn, others to pray.. Some did not know what fate brought their boots to stand atop the deceased, only that they were here. Waiting. For Something.. that tickled the rear of their knecks like the cold breeze.. only it burrowed under the ribcage while trailing up and back down the spine. Was the pressure external or internal? It was not easy to pull the sensation apart from one another.

As if on que, a lone whiney brought scant attention and turned knecks towards the far edge of our set piece. A lone bay mare dotted with white markings rode slowly down the sedimentary slip. It was only after it had passed into clear view that the onlookers could make out a doll like body being dragged along the ground by the stirrups behind. The silouette collided into a granite gorintou, reeling from the impact while grabbing at the ground madly. It's distant welps of pain were so distinct that only the keenest of ears could make out the individual pronounciation. It said Stop over and over.

Rising their eyes to meet the backdrop's horizon, through the blur of red pine and jutting stone, the crowd could make out the pronounced outline of riders clinging to the receding cover of forest. Antlers, skins, heavyset shrouds of bone and paint seemlessly blended into bark and dirt. Shouting a bizarre order, two legion of horsemen eased over the edge of the outcropping and down the dotted hillside chasing their solitary prey. Noticing a pronounced gathering on the far ridge, many of the barbaric figures swayed their mounts towards a new direction.
Running scouts closed in from the flanks, clad in deerskin, fur and the outlandishly beaded weaves of nomads.
To those in the procession that had tasted the savagery of true warfare, this had the taste of conquest in the purity of it's most primal simplicity. You had but only to catch their attentions, and that would be enough to unleash the three headed mongrel's lust for blood. Sitting high on his saddle, a lone broad shouldered beastman point left then right at the mourners.. a massive set of antlers crowned upon his brow.

Laughing, screaming and seething at the mouth, the first eager scouts reached the central valley of the stone cemetery. Upon incline, the whites of their eyes stood out bulging at the seams. They called in the foreign tongues of demons or worse as five berserkers stepped into the sanctity of the service. Chaos and the screams of constricted fear errupted from all sides, sending waves of onlookers down forest paths and running for the cover of a city that was miles beyond hope. These cattle would die here today.

Startled, the dark bird now lifted into the air high above the testament to the End as a new chapter would now be written, using the blood of their enemies in flayed and gruesome skin. Two riders were about to overtake the very gravesite, with a wave of ten following horsemen close at their heels. Flanking from both left and right came eighty bare and soft leather covered feet, while raised in their pumping fists were large curved and hooked swords, obsidian tipped macahuitl, bows, spears, and serrated savage weapons of numerous description.

Bone. Wood. Steel. Iron and Feather.. They came in packs like starving wolves, howling and tearing at flesh, drinking the blood and opening fresh cavities.. Hunger was their ravaging furnace. Wild, stark, glistening, wide eyed hunger. Unquenchable, unfulfilled and breeding total destruction.. The Blood tasted warm and satisfying between their lips.. but it was not.. enough.

[Cyrus Marius]

There had been a strange tension in the air, an undefinable sense of something to come that accompanied the oppressive humidity of the day. More than one of the mourners seemed to feel this sensation, and many cast their gazes around the grim surroundings, seeking some explanation as to what it was they felt. For Cyrus, the sensations brought him starkly into the moment, sharply honing his focus on what was occuring around him. His Sanguine senses flared to full life as the legionnaire strained to hear, to smell, to identify anything out of the ordinary, as did the russet Pandora at his side.

All that they sensed however, was the aura of death that surrounded them.

A horse's whiney immediatly caught Cyrus' attention, and his head whirled in the direction of the sound. He watched with rapt attention as the horse and it's burden came into clearer view, and as he registered what it was he saw, the soldier's entire form became as still as the headstone he stood by. His sapphire orb then slowly trailed up, and fell upon the figures that now dotted the horizan. The breath left the soldier's lungs in a small, steady exhale, the only physical response on his part to the arrival of the savage looking hoarde. His Virkyn shadow also fixed her luminous blue eyes on the figures, her large orbs unblinking and her lean, dark form entirely still as well, as both assimilated the reality of what was happening.

The scene then dissolved into chaos, as those mourners unable to cope with the prospect of what lie ahead gave in to their panic, fleeing like sheep only to be ridin down by the first of the mounted savages. Almost without thinking, Cyrus reached across and tore Karvaaka free of her leather sheath in a single smooth motion, her eldritch ardentium blade flaring with an incandescent light upon feeling Cyrus' touch. Almost immediately after, a shimmer in the air surrounding the legionnaire's left fist could be seen, growing in intensity and form until a gleaming twin of the soldier's longsword had wholly manifested in his auxillary hand. The soldier immediately shifted his body into a defensive stance, bringing his dual longswords up and at the ready, and his visage lost all emotion and expression as he prepared to meet his enemies in battle. He was a legionnaire after all; a Cencoris of the Heavy Infantry already fated to clash blade against blade with the Orcs of Ire. Battle such as this was his life, his love, and his destiny.

The soldier's sapphire gaze fell upon a figure distinct from the rest, distinguished by his massive height and the antlers that further served to increase his visibility. Immediately, a voice screamed 'leader' in Cyrus' mind, and whether it was true or not, the legionnaire knew that he had his target. He had only to reach him however, though he knew the throngs of blood-thirsty monsters between the mounted barbarian and himself would not simply stand aside for their leader to be slain. There would be much death this day, but with a small, morbid smirk, Cyrus reflected that perhaps it was an appropriate setting for such carnage.

Shifting his attention back to the horsemen that rode headlong towards the assembled mourners, the legionnaire focused entirely upon their advancing forms. His infamous rage had not yet surfaced; now was the time for cold, calculating strategy in the face of these beasts. Both he and Pandora tensed, their every muscle flexed and poised to respond to the threat as soon as it was within reach. Armed with only his personal longswords, Cyrus knew that there would not be much he could do against the mounted madmen until they either charged past him or came close enough to attempt to strike him down. Then however, he would unleash a raging whirlwind of steel upon what foe chance met him first in battle.

The moment of truth was comming; riding swiftly towards him and screaming a blood-curdling battle cry. Cyrus tensed his legs and raised his blades, lone azure eye fixed and unafraid as it watched the nearest rider comming towards them all.

[Veleraen]

The moment that the silence was broken, Veleraen knew they were upon them. Something had been lurking about them for a good half a candlemark, their forces assembling along the tree line. The Knight knew they would come, they always had always would seek vengeance or pleasure of the hunt of innocents. Veleraen's eyes took to the horse that was dragging a body behind it, giving an all too familiar look at what was to come. He however was not intimidated in the least.

The ravening hordes of barbarians that roamed the Empire could not strike fear into him even if they speared it into his heart as the Giant had seen worse things than crude weapons and deer skinned devils that spoke in demon tongue. They were however a plague upon the Empire that the Knight held so dear and as their forces lined up amongst the tall timbers surrounding the cemetery, he could only see one ending to the story that was to unfold.

Death. It lurked about and crawled, subverting and intruding into places it did not belong but that very brightening, the location was quite suiting. The Giant pushed off of the dead tree that was beside him and put a hand upon his helmet and took a few steps forward to access the situation. The people had already seen the invaders and started to flood outside the gates, down paths, anywhere to escape. There was however no running away for the Giant. Many who had dared challenge the Knight's superiority in combat were met with steel and large fists of gallantry, pounding their morals and values into the very souls of his opponents.

He noticed that a few others had stayed to fight, a few lingering about the gravestones, a few deciding on what to do, flee or fight? Veleraen had already made up his mind as he twirled his large polearm through the air, warming it up as his arms flexed and his wrists rolled over. His massive halberd came to a forward position, his eyes flickering about and watching as the riders descended into the cemetery, their hopes and dreams set upon causing chaos and pillaging, killing in the name of their heathen gods. Veleraen looked over to where two riders had almost gotten into the ceremonial grave site itself and instinctively the Giant drew his enormous dagger in his right hand, flipped it in mid air and caught it by the blade. Taking aim, Veleraen waited for one of the men to continue upon a straight path towards someone and then reeled back and hurled his blade through the air towards the chest of the man, intending to cut the antlered demon before he was able to take any more lives with him to the Umblat.

As the blade soared through the air at tremendous speed, backed by the strength provided by his ancestors, he didn't wait for the dagger to hit. Veleraen sprinted into action and rushed his target and his partner, intending on meeting the wave of horsemen to greet them with a grim look and a steel smile that would end their demonic existence. They had picked a good location to raid, as it would be their last. At least they would die in a place so befitting their fate.

[Straylor Leonard]

Getting his mack on had certain desired effects, but summoning a hoarde of nomatic man-beasts was not one of them. Purposefully, Straylor's eyes darted toward the approximate source of the sound. "Stop ... stop ... stop ...", the dying whispers were horrifically loud. And without even a moment's pause, his eyes slowly widened as figures, tall, dark, armed, slowly materialized near the woodlands just over the hill. They weren't far, but it would take them some time to run down the slip toward the funeral. Perhaps they were only watching ...?

Until their leader appeared, crowned with antlers, and with a thick finger pointed at the mourners. It was too late. The berserkers, yelling, screaming, laughing, poured down the hill and into the gathering. Chaos was inevitable. The fear that struk the hearts of even champions was a cause for worry, but soldiers channeled this fear into power, courage, honour. The Champion of Carmelyn spurng into action, his feet moving before his mind could properly calculate the risks of the situation. There were innocents here, mourners, and there was no time for cold, calculating strategy. This was Straylor's weakness, and his source of strength. "Carmelya save us ...", he said just as he had before. And with one quick burst of speed, he ripped his round shield from its strap, held it fast, and unsheathed his damascus steel. "Danakisu", and his enchanted belt buckle would be awakened.

Straylor ran toward a single berserker, if he could find one, if not he'd have to fight them as they came. His purpose for the additional speed was obvious -- take them out before they could cross their line, and cause more deaths and more funerals. His eyes narrowed at the closest foe, his heart thumping like a wild drum, his veins springing into action as adrenaline coursed through them. In the corner of his eye, he saw the glint from Cyrus' blade, an unnatural light, and smiled. The thrashing sound of a giant was next to register, and Straylor found joy in the introduction of their battle. He had allies, maybe even friends.