The winds of battle were blowing hard, Arathea swung her blade in ancient practiced motions again and again at her enemies, at these fungal monsters summoned by the vile witch. They were disgusting, they were horrific, and she realized how truly dangerous they were when she felt ill upon being struck by one. These weren't like anything she'd yet faced, but that did not matter. This man was a threat to the people of the region clearly, he had to be stopped or she would be betraying her duty to her people and her oath to protect them. She moved her sword like a painter with a paintbrush and bringing down what stood in her way.

But fungal freaks were not the only threat, and soon Arathea found herself in combat with insects raised to monsterous proportions. She moved her blade with the grace and elegance of an artist but that did not stop her from bbeing struck, and the sensation was some of the most horrific she had ever felt. She had experienced quite a few kinds of pain in her service to her country, but this was one of the worst. A simple beesting is managable when the stinger is just an inch long, but these were the size of weapons, like a sword covered in venom. 

It was taking all of her strength to keep fighting, to hold on and push forward. To fight the final fungal beast in front of her and to continue warding off the wasps, but there was no rest in sight. The wretch who controlled all these horrors brought forward another threat, even more owlbears. To say she was sick of owlbears would be the greatest understatement of the current age of Audalis, and it truly sunk in that by the looks of things she was about to die. Yet still she pressed forward, seeing Seleniniel coming to her aid providing some hope, she still had allies after all and very competent allies at that. She pressed forward to attempt at taking down the final wasp so that all focus could be placed on the owlbears, praying to Merca to help grant victory. She gave a thankful look to Seleniniel, immensely grateful for the help before swinging her sword.

Mae'rel found her way between the swipes of the abominations, rather effortlessly, considering they were unaware of her presence thanks to Her Lady's cloak. The battle became chaos practically as soon as it started, the Bull charging into the monsters and furiously battling them, and the Bladesigner joining him. Behind lines, their Ranger found ways to make sure her arrows soared true, striking the man behind these monsters, and Dak was.. he was Dak, though he seemed to struggle to keep track of the Hermit at first. An orb of fire into the battlefield, no doubt the work of their Mage, scorched towards the man and his monsters, and she watched a faint blue glow wash over their foes, the work of The Huntress, no doubt.

Quickly the monsters and the Hermit showed the Monk they meant harm, it didn't take long for both the Bladesinger and the Barbarian to be injured severely, and so Mae'rel placed her hand onto Ruadhiri. Warm crimson seeped into her hands, the dark red soaking into their skins, and she muttered a prayer. Soon, she felt the flesh begin to join, the tissue begin to heal with a faint glow, and a melching sound that always accompanied it. The bull would no doubt feel as if he had flees after such an injury, but she was sure he would have preferred such itching to death. Just as she finished the spell, Mae'rel sought to back up, narrowly avoiding the rage-filled elbow that Ruadhiri pulled back as he viciously wailed into the abominations.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud buzzing toward them, and somehow, Mae'rel had missed the entry of three dog sized wasps into the battle. Three wasps came blitzing towards them, one of them splitting for Arathea, and the other two maintaining towards her and Ruadhiri. She took a step to avoid the beast targetting her, and thankfully, her Lady protected her, as for a moment, the monstrous insect seemed confused when she disappeared from it's view. As for Ruadhiri, though, the massive stinger pierced him, and not only was it like a sword, it was still a stinger. Undoubtedly inflicted by a venom, Mae'rel knew she would have to tend to that area after the battle, but unfortunately, her spells were for healing wounds and slowing poisons, there was nothing she could do to outright cure a venom such as that one, and slowing it would only delay the inevitable.

Mae'rel sought to seal the wounds of Ruadhiri again, knowing that the Bladesinger was struggling deeply, she internally declared this would be her last time, as she desperately needed to focus on Arathea. She quietly found Rosariel at her side, aiding her, and with that, most of Ruadhiri's wounds were sealed.

Unfortunately, that was when she heard the screeching. All she could muster was "Owlbears, from the treeline!"

Ruadrí cleaves the bug in two and then looks to the fungul foe's but sees the bladesinger has felled both of them. Ruadrí is trying to keep his head this time, though it is no easy task, he looks to the battlefield to try and focus before he hears the all too familiar screches Bring the whole band why don't you? he thinks to himself as the trees shudder from the massive monsters moving through the forrest.

Ruadhrí can feel everything slipping away from him and tries to breathe and focus before searching for the wizard, trying to find the strongest and softest target to remove so more abominations do not come in to play. Where are you mad man? he thinks to himself before he takes his stance and prepares to charge.

(If I can find the old man I'm going to charge at him, if I hit him then next round I'm going to throw him and then from their just normal attacks until one of us stops twitching. If not, i'm going to charge the Owlbear on the left to try and intercept it durring its charge and take its focus. If both owlbears are also being handled i'm going to clobber the remaining behemoth bee's)

Shock, horror, anger, none of these words could even begin to describe the total loss that Arathea just felt. Her whole body felt weightless, her whole world went into a blur, she failed to register anything around her. She sat upon her knees totally paralyzed, she was numb, her universe had been shattered and destroyed. Her entire life it seemed had been spent with this weapon, this was her entire world, her entire purpose. Never again could she touch this blade, never again could she feel it in her hand and march take it to battle, never again could she claim a perfect record. She couldn't stop the thoughts that came next, eating and biting at her, keeping her immobile on the ground. FAILURE FAILURE FAILURE FAILURE FAILURE over and over again, a mantra that repeated in her head driving her almost to tears. She was a prodigy, a hero, she was untouachable, and now? Now she felt like she was nothing.

She had to keep fighting, she had to get up and keep going but this was unlike any wound she faced before. This was like her very should had been cut in half and covered in mud, like her life was now devoid of any meaning. When she got to her feet she could barely keep herself together, she cried out in a voice filled with pain and grief for anyone to hear. "I need a sword... I need something to fight with." She almost laughed at herself for her words, why fight? Death was just around the corner, she didn't deserve to live in her eyes anymore. What point was there? She failed her father, she failed her order, she failed her country and she failed herself. She was almost ready to simply resign herself and let the owlbears tear her apart, but something in her managed to push her to at least attempt to keep going.

Arathea stood on her unsteady feet, feeling her physical wounds cause her entire body to agonize alongside her mind and soul. At least I'll die fighting, so I won't be a total disappointment? Right..? She thought to herself as she prepared to face her impending doom, there was no purpose in optimism anymore. Breathing in heavily she hoped and prayed for Isilmewen to bring at least something to fight with, remembering the ranger had a longsword of her own. The weapon would be practically dirt but, it would at least be something. 

"Isilmewen! Bring me your sword!" Arathea called out again, feeling a wetness on her cheeks. This wasn't sweat they were... tears, she was actually crying. She couldn't remember the last time she had truly cried, the last time she had shown such utter weakness. She felt like a little girl all alone and helpless, her confidence and pride totally drained. Seleniniels words to not fall apart, to keep going offered little in the way of a boost of confidence. Arathea appreciated the gesture, but this defeat was beyond simple words to fix.

There was no distinctive sound to accompany the falling of Arathea's blade, and so at first it escaped Isilmewen's notice. As keen as she was to focus on what lay ahead and approaching, it was only when Arathea's stance slouched over in her peripheral that she realized something was very wrong.

Heeding Arathea's cry, Isilmewen immediately doubled back around to approach the bladeless Megilindar. Once she made it to Arathea's side, she held bow in off hand as she drew her longsword, offering the hilt towards Arathea.

She didn't know the full extent of what had happened, but seeing the torn look on Arathea's face, Isilmewen gave a gentle smile, speaking without judgment, "We dance, and we can fall. All we can do is have the courage to stand again."

And laugh, Isilmewen recalled, for ever on does fortune dance eternally, and in misfortune where we stumble, what can we do but laugh, before helping each other back on our feet once more? 

Dak bobbed his head, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips as the sundered wasp fell from the sky and added its corpse to those already littering the field. The smug expression was quickly wiped from his features, though. As he set his eyes in search of another target he bore witness to something he never imagined he would see; Arathea had fumbled her blade. The little cid’s visage was stunned into bewilderment and he blinked in disbelief as his gaze framed the forsaken weapon… Oh… No…

“I need a sword,” the bladesinger cried, the despair in her voice tearing at Dak’s heart and nearly bringing a tear to his eye, “I need something to fight with!”

He was moved to offer his own sword to the bereaved megilindar, though he knew it was of lesser quality and would be a poor replacement for the one she had lost. All the same, as he found himself moving in Arathea’s direction, the halfling’s hand reached for the hilt of his blade fully prepared to make the meager offering. Before he could reach her, though, Isilmewen appeared at her side and handed over her own longsword.

“We dance, and we can fall,” the ranger tried reassuring Arathea, “All we can do is have the courage to stand again.”

“Just so,” Dak added, positioning himself to provide cover fire until the bladesinger did just that, “and the time to stand is now, arwenamin… Else I’m afraid we’ll soon be grieving more than a fallen blade.”

((OOC: Cover fire with the bata until Arathea gets back in the game, focusing on the webbed/nerfed owlbear. Will switch to the sword if anything gets too close and/or opportunity presents. Once our bladesinger is up and swinging, Dak will fall back to range again.))

It was wrong, everything was wrong, this sword was wrong, the way Arathea moved felt wrong; the world was all wrong. She fought less out of will to preserve herself and more out of duty to her companions, in her haze of shock she wondered if it would be better if she fell on this field. The right movement from an owlbear could tear her apart, and right now that seemed to be much more pleasant than it typically would be, though the kept the thoughts back. You're a leader, you are a leader, you are their leader. Do not fail them, do not fail them, do not fail them. She tried to tell herself in her mind, though it felt as if it was all lies, the affirmations had no weight behind them. Like a small bandage on a poisoned wound, they did little to stop the horrible pain, but at least it kept the immediate bleeding down.

Finally, the last owlbear fell, but as her sword pierced through it's flesh to deliver a final killing blow Arathea did not feel triumphent, in fact she felt more defeated than she had ever felt in her entire life. She never had felt so small, so absolutely meaningless, but now it like she was an ant in a world entirely unfamiliar. Her eyes wandered onto her fallen sword, the pristine work of art which she had desecrated and disgraced, her own personal temple left in ruin. She wanted to reach out, to feel it's masterwork steel and carefully crafted ivory grip, the name engraved with gold on the guard said to have belonged to a leader of resistance against the Anathari. This weapon had such a story, such a history, and now part of that story would include disgrace and failure.

And the wretch who helped bring all of this on had fled, like the cowardly rat he was he ran away. Arathea could not even feel the pleasure of putting the scum down, she wanted to scream, she wanted to cry out and tear him apart, she wanted to feel any emotion but sorrow and guilt, yet she didn't have it in her. She turned around to face the group, trying and failing to seem calm and composed. "We need to collect ourselves and find an area to set up camp in, we're not in any condition to attempt to pursue him to wherever he fled to. The least we need right now is for one or more of us to die in pursuit." Arathea held her voice firm, but cracks were present, her mind distracted in internal monologue, I can't hold their deaths on my shoulder too.

Isilmewen frowned as she saw the flickers of light that askew the flight of her arrows. How many protections had the man woven? Enough that she could reason pushing an advance would be worth it... If not for that last spell he wrought. Isilmewen's eyes widened as she watched him vanish.

Once reprieve was had at the end of battle, Isilmewen rushed over to investigate, taking care not to step into the ring - though she was too slow to interject a hand before Seleliniel stepped inside. Isilmewen's breath caught for a moment, before an exhale of relief left her as Seleliniel remained present, in front of her.

"That was reckless," Isilmewen said softly, "

Harken whispers of wind, sun and stone, 

Step not into capped rings from the unknown.

I know it's just a childhood rhyme, but where magic and other powers are involved, it's a very real possibility to go somewhere where there is no return, if it did work," Isilmewen added. She held no judgment in her voice; Seleliniel was knowledgeable of many things she was not, and like as not this was more a reminder of something known already. But Isilmewen gave a meaningful glance in Arathea's direction, hoping Seleliniel would take her meaning. Right now, Arathea had enough on her mind without needing to worry about their safety.

On Arathea's call, Isilmewen nodded, "I'll scout about for a suitable place. We'll want to put some distance between us and this grove, just in case he can return through the same path."

There was much and more she wanted to say to Arathea. But in that moment, one of the very few lessons she had actually internalized from her upbringing had surfaced in her memory - when one was making an effort to preserve their image, it didn't do to undermine them. A lesson learned after many, many gatherings where she did that to her family members. 

“We need to collect ourselves and find an area to set up camp in, we're not in any condition to attempt to pursue him to wherever he fled to,” Arathea commanded, her voice quavering with the misery she must have felt, “The least we need right now is for one or more of us to die in pursuit.”

Dropping his hood and shaking out his topknot, Dak bobbed his head in concurrence with the bladesinger’s estimation and, once again, when Isilmewen suggested scouting out a campsite set some distance from the corrupted grove. His gaze traced an assessing circuit of the faces of his companions, then, before falling to where the ancient sword lay, very much like a corpse in its own right, at least where Arathea was concerned. A faintly disheartened frown touched his lips at the thought that such a fine thing would simply be abandoned and left to rust away, especially in a place such as this. He puffed out a sigh, shivering a bit as the last bit of adrenaline ebbed from his tiny frame, and let his emerald eyes find their way back to the bladesinger’s face. “Forgive me any indelicacy in asking, Lady Ondolithe,” he said as gently as he was able before tipping his head in the direction of her sword, “but, surely, we don’t intend to just leave that where it lays, do we?”

((OOC: Assuming something along the lines of ‘That’s exactly what we intend to do’ and/or a mildly disgruntled lecture about bladesinger customs and etiquette where ‘dishonored blades’ are concerned… If that’s not the response he gets, I’ll edit the post to fit.))

“I understand this, arwenamin,” he returned, holding up a conciliatory hand, “but is there no other recourse than to just abandon it? Could we not bundle it away and deliver it to Megilindar Nost, for example? Perhaps, there, it could be… I don’t know… restored somehow?” His shoulders rolled in a doubtful shrug and his eyes ticked to the weapon again; “At the very least, we should take it from this grove and bury it, just as we would had it been one of us that fell in this battle, no? Just leaving it here to rot seems… wrong…”

((OOC: Again, if it is insisted that Arathea’s blade be left where it is, he won’t challenge the decision any farther. However, if she concedes to either the burial or delivery of the sword to the Bladesingers Keep, he will offer to assist with either option.))

Mae'rel did not know the true, most deep value that a Bladesinger's legendary weapon meant to them. No one could quite understand this, even native Syls, she imagined. A bond so unimaginable, training so deep, only other Bladesingers could sympathize, and she imagined from what Arathea had told her, that most would not being willing to sympathize. Arathea was a noble, which meant the blade she bore was likely an heirloom, or very expensive, more than likely both.

The Blue Lady did not just specialize in healing the wounds of the flesh, though. Monks of her order also traveled and helped to heal the grief that the many peoples of the realm felt. A lost family member, friend, or even a pet, Mae'rel had many times consoled and eased the pain of people who felt the pain caused by Death. Never before had she healed a wound like this though. The pain Arathea must have felt, it caused a stinging within Mae'rels heart, but she decided she would do her best to provide a console. No words would be able to heal the wound their Singer had felt, but perhaps, an action.

Taking steps away from the group, Mae'rel took a deep breath in as she approached the Blade which lay on the ground. Retrieving a cloth from her bag, the Monk leaned down, before going to her knees, gently slipping the cloth beneath the blade. She wrapped it tightly, knotting it so that the sword would be fully covered. 

She stood once more, her hands gently gripping the cloth covering the blade. Mae'rel approached the Bladesinger, and spook, her voice gentle. "I know not words to ease your pain, Madam Arathea. For I fear there are none. Though I believe this blade still has many stories. A piece of history for your noble origin. You may not feel fit to bare this blade, but I feel, the last honor you may do this blade, is to return it to your people."

She did not offer Arathea the blade necessarily, more so presented it to her. The Monk did not know if she had just committed an act of heresy greater than the Bladesinger by letting the weapon touch the ground, or if she had offered the greatest honor the blade could now receive. And regardless of that, that was not what she was most concerned with.

Instead, the Monk just simply hoped to offer Arathea comfort. She simply felt that was best obtained via an honoring of the sword.

It was several moments before Rosariel could unclench her jaw, the sudden relative quiet after the storm of their battle only slowly signalling to her body that she could relax. At least for the moment her allies were no longer being stabbed and torn to shreds. She stared at her palm, still flat against Ruadhrí’s back, his deep, heavy breaths a comfort against her hand. He was not still, and so she had done her work.

She patted his back, the chatter of the rest of their crew behind them just murmurs while she assessed the Bófear, “Are you back with us, my friend?”

((OOC: assuming (hoping) he won’t be raging, but I’ve got a hold spell on lock if that’s the case and will revise my post accordingly))

Rosariel nods and pats his back once more before dropping her hand to her side, “Well done, perhaps Seleniniel’s plant has its merits. I’m happy to see it. Oh-” she eyes him better now, the adrenaline from the fight and the fear of needing once more to help subdue their friend gone, “You’re still in terrible shape, here.” She takes his arm this time and lowers her head, the prayer she speaks to her goddess much less frantic than those just a few minutes before. She opens her eyes to the sight of the Bófear’s flesh beginning to pull itself back together; tiny, thin, green tethers like vines lace through each side of the split skin, stitching him back together and disappearing once more.

But something isn’t right, “Ruadhrí, these wounds here. They healed oddly, do they bother you?”

((OOC: And again assuming a response about the itchiness from the corpse wounds, but will once again update depending on the Bófear’s actual answer))

“The corpses?! May I have a look?”

((OOC: if he allows it, I’d like to do a medicine check, or religion check? Whichever works best for undead wounds and determining if it’s poison))

“We could probably also use Mae’rel’s assistance.” She turns to find their monk, and is struck by the solemnity of the rest of their group, huddled near Arathea as she speaks.

“We need to collect ourselves and find an area to set up camp in, we're not in any condition to attempt to pursue him to wherever he fled to. The least we need right now is for one or more of us to die in pursuit.”

Their ranger offered to scout and Rosariel made a mental note to trap and scavenge as much as she could today, so that their spent warriors may have a well-deserved meal.

But then Dak spoke of the bladesinger’s storied sword, and the monk Rosariel meant to speak with presented the shrouded thing before their leader, and Rosariel’s mouth dropped as the memory flooded her mind. She remembered a spike of fear that Arathea had lost her sword, but in the next moment she had a new one, and Rosariel needed desperately to heal. The weight of the event had not had a chance to sink in until just now. While she had been in awe of the bladesinger lore all her life, Arathea was the first she had ever met, and she still had so many questions. What she needed no explanation for though was the consequence of one of these legendary warriors dropping their sword. And Arathea, she looked as determined as ever, but more unsteady than ever before, as though the weight of the new sword threw everything about her off-balance.

This wasn’t her home, where when someone she cared about was down-trodden she could go to them, hug them, comfort them. She imagined attempting such a thing here would likely be frowned upon, especially with such a seasoned warrior. She sighed, unless she learned how to turn back time, there likely wasn’t much she could do to help their leader feel much better anyway.

She listened as their conversation continued, her anxiousness to get Mae’rel to assist in assessing Ruadhrí’s wounds growing once again, now that the shock of the (almost) bladeless bladesinger was beginning to settle. When finally the monk was free Rosariel leapt forward to grab her attention.

“Sorry to lunge at you like that. Ruadhrí has been injured by the undead.” She lightly tugged on the masked woman’s arm to pull her back to the Bófear, “Come take a look. If it is poison I can slow it, but that is all. I’m hoping you may have more insight, or perhaps a means to neutralize it all together.”

((OOC: If Mae’rel comes along to assist, hoping she might have better knowledge on these wounds as it’s not Rosariel’s forte. If it’s a poison Rosa will use Slow Poison. Leaving off here for Mae’rel to assess! If we skip ahead to the campire, I want Rosa to be scavenging and trying to find some extra rabbits and things to hopefully make the heartiest stew possible out here for their bedraggled warriors))

The Owlbears head all-but fell off as Ruadhrí was able to keep his head, allowing him to aim his ax with more precision and fell the beast in a mere two swings. Ruadhrí roared in triumph, knowing he could still feel the heat of battle without losing it thanks to the leaves granted but then he stopped as he heard sobbing and reflexes took over, turning him around as he prepared to see a fallen companion

What he saw confused him, the megliander was kneeling, sword at her feet and Ruadhrí's heart dropped as this was disasterous yet she made no attempts to recover it. The other Owlbear came charging and Ruadhrí's felt hollow as he prepared to watch his companion be torn to shredds then... something carried him. "Arathea! Pick up your sword!".

Ruadhrí realised she was defenceless and the old man was chanting, he turned and saw the old coot and began charging forward, his ax raised high over his head but as he closed the distance, he realised he wasn't running but he didn't stop and brought the ax down with every ounce of strength in his body.

Ruadhrí felled a thud and expected to open his eyes and see two halfs of a hermit, instead he saw his ax hilt-deep in the dirt. Ruadhrí tried to recover the weapon but the screeches of the Owlbear filled his head and he turned, beginning to panic as he saw Arathea dead in its sights and his heart sank...

Ruadhrí had seen companions fall, death stilling the fire in their hearts for good but he had never, ever in his decade of traveling seen someone just sit and accept death like this. Ruadhrí's instincts took over and he began to lose it, his vision blurring and his muscles tensing as he charged forward without a weapon but this time... he accepted it.

"YOU WILL NOT DIE TODAY!!! RAAAAAAAAAGH!" Ruaghrí tackled the Owlbear with every ounce of muscle in his body, driving its face into the ground and making it eat durt as he yelled like a silverback gorrila. Arathea seemed to have... something drive her to take advantage of this and she used the borrowed sword, driving it down in a swift motion and it went right through the Owlbears skull but she seemed to stumble a bit.

Ruadhrí brought down his fists on the still Owlbear, audably breaking something than reached his shaky hands into his puch and pulled out a leaf, plopping it in his jaws as fast as possible... the battle feild stopped screaming, the fires died and the sight was clear again but Ruadhrí still felt anger and... guilt?

"Do you have a death wish?" He yelled at Arathea as she tried to regain her composure, though out of fear and frustration than true anger. "Your sword was right there! Is it broken?" He says, confused and frustrated "Answer me-agh" Ruadhrí gripped his chest in pain as it started... seering, like Ivy.

Ruadhrí looked at his chest than looked up as the claeric took his hand. "I am... this wounds... they do not heal right" He gripped his chest again and winced, though he stood tall, keeping a tough persona. The pain was like a fire ant colonny was raiding his insides, stinging and biting ruthlessly. Ruadhrí knew wounds could be poisoned and sat down, waiting for the cleric to return with the monk, thoughts racing through his head of what just happened... and what could have. "Never again..." He mumbled to himself, defeated.

Arathea turned her attention to Dak and Isilmewen, showing appreciation for the sympathy they both showed, though currently it did little to help. Indeed Dak was right, something would need to be done about the fallen blade, leaving it on the field would be disrespectful to such a weapon. To let it rust and rot would not befit it, she learned that in training, the weapon needed to be returned to the the order. "We will see it returned Megilindar Nost, there the order may take care of it and,,, hopefully it will find itself a new master," Arathea responded, preparing to to request Dak take the weapon when she saw Mae'rel.

The gesture Mae'rel offered was respectful, it was proper, and it preserved the weapons honour well. "Thank you," Arathea began, her voice thankful. "This is very decent of you Madam Mae'rel, I... do appreciate it greatly." Arathea held herself back before she broken down again, not right now, now was not the time. "The blade is not mine to carry any longer but that does not mean it should be left to wither away, in the order it will find purpose once again." What would my teachers have thought? I suppose at least they would be happy I'm returning it but...

Arathea remained stuck in internal dialogue until she found herself thrusted out of it by Ruadhrí, the yelling from her companion forcing her back into reality. Of course he doesn't understand... he's from a simpler people, they don't really have much a concept of honour do they? Arathea breathed in deep before responding, the yelling was frustrating but she earnestly attempted to not be too hostile, both out of empathy and seeing that Ruadhrí didn't seem to act rational when angry. "The blade is dishonoured, Ruadhrí, by my code I can never pick it up again. It's simple, I cannot touch it, ever." She tried to be matter of factly while speaking, it seemed like the best way to approach Ruadhrí. As she focused in on him, she noticed his wounds and raised an eyebrow, they were very... off, and as Rosariel came to treat him those thoughts were confirmed. For now she'd leave it to the holy people, it was their domain and she had to focus elsewhere.