It All Comes Down To This: The Kamil te Koup

[Campion]

Campion, the cut foot now bleeding but going unnoticed and uncared about, has to stumble to another awkward halt when the person he'd been running towards, Pro, vanishes. He's seen the trick before and he swears under his breath, turning to face the horror Luri is becoming.

She sneers in triumph when the large animal that had bitten her is out of the way for now, and her legs move quick and heavily, spasmodic and uncoordinated with the rest of her, as that now massive, black and swirling claw does a wide sweep at any and all combatants that might still be near her. Campion, unfortunately, is one of the closest, and ends up swatted just as sudden and unceremoniously as Arenvald had. Just without the flung distance; he's struck at such an angle that he is sent spinning and landing heavily onto the ground with the loud sound of shearing metal, his breastplate being the thing that's sent sailing. The torn armour whizzes through the air and clatters loud against the rocks, sending up sparks from its jagged edges.

The darts have ceased momentarily at Natharai's efforts, but that only means the rest remaining zipped out of the way and then regrouped with greater range. And all of them, ALL of them, concentrating fire on Natharai. The darts are small and ornate, but as Nath and Aren learned before, coated with poison. Being hit by too many will likely end horribly.

Luri is still staggering to regain balance after that wide sweep and it sent tottering further when Aleyna's rounds blast her in the side. It's like a burst water main, only instead of blood, it's another gout of that black and rumbling smoke spewing from the wound. It takes on the form of a snaking and coiling tentacle, grasping at anyone within reach.

[Arenvald]

Arenvald curses under his breath, though in his current form it comes out being a rattling, snarling growl. He can't think of much to help as long as she's being all semi-tangible. He specializes in kicking the shit out of things, but assaulting a demonic tarbaby is just going to get him stuck and he knows it. "Try 'ta burn th' damn thing!" he bellows, the best advice he can offer... because dammit, between holy fire and Pro's pyromaniac tendencies SOMEONE ought to be able to bring some flame to bear. It looks like oil. Maybe it'll burn like it.

The 'lion' bounds up onto the top of the nearest boulder... and makes a more or less snap judgement. Natharai's under attack, and he's not going to have any of that either, if he can help it. It means giving things away a little earlier than he'd rather buuuut... priorities are priorities.

He shifts. Black smoke roils around the bulky cat as it rears up on its hind legs, trading feline features for canine. Huge, taloned hands reach skyward, green magic crackling around them as he beseeches the tormented skies overhead for their aid. It's not his forte, by any means, but desperate situations call for desperate measures, and what he lacks in magical skill, he's currently making up for in volume. Not that it's intelligeable; the prayer seems to be in Taurahe.

Over Natharai's position, the clouds start to swirl in an ominously clockwise direction as actinic light flickers in the darkening gray. Blue lightning lances down, forking sharply as it passes through the cloud of goblin-imps, attracted by the nice, pointy metallic barbs they carry. Before long, there's a hail of bolts thundering down from the miniature hurricane, adding the sharp, too-clean scent of ozone to the baleful stench of the once-draenei's attack.

[Natharai]

Being hurried is any magic wielder's bane and Natharai is no exception to this – in fact, it is even worse for him. There is a reason as to why he is not a fire-wielding caster like Procrastin is, it goes against the grain of the fiber of his being. It is quick, brash, hot, and has a high tendency to backfire if you aren't in tune with it enough. The reason that Pro so adept with that element is, possibly, that he possesses nearly all of those qualities. It's natural to him.

Shadow tends to take time to do what it does and, thusly, he cannot crank out another shadowflame spell without the proper focal point – his staff. He could summon it up to him, but that would take not being harried by these wretched imp spawn. So he has no choice but to use his backup magic.

Sparks of fel fire form at the warlock's fingertips as he swats hellfire up towards his airborne foes. "I'M--" He tersely bellows in response to Arenvald, showing slightly too-pointy teeth while sending out another blast in between words. "--TRYING." There's no end to the little bastards, seemingly, and this is harder than he originally thought.

Though…ever since he was turned that fateful night, he cannot say he has been at one-hundred percent. The flow of magic is like traveling within a city… The longer you live in a place, the better acclimated you are to finding your way around. The same goes for one's body being a conduit for said magic – it becomes quicker and easier for it to work through the body's natural channels as time goes on.

Well. Nath is still somewhat freshly moved into this proverbial city of his and just took a wrong turn into a dark alley in his haste. Magic he does not utilize often is becoming harder to manifest when he needs it most.

He is being sloppy and he knows it, too. The dusky warlock is so hellbent on maintaining his human form, even though his entire being rails against his restraints as adrenaline races through his veins and his blood's pulse pounds in his skull. If he let go, and revealed himself like Aren just did, then he would likely not be in this situation. But this fear of being revealed has made the fact that the imps were amassing in an area outside of his field of vision go unnoticed for a second too long.

Combined with the fact that there is suddenly a miniature thunderstorm billowing overhead, and finally realizing that there are DOZENS of the little hellions behind him, the warlock is startled to the point of freezing in his tracks. A critical misstep.

Even though a vast majority of the imps are electrocuted and blown off course, it does not mean that several of them didn't manage to take a shot at the 'professor' when he was staring at them like a spooked deer. He does, however, manage to bark out a strangled word of demonic as he shields his face with an arm, which ultimately causes him to vanish in a puff of acrid smoke and ash – but not before there were the telling dull squelches of pierced flesh. Thuck. Thuck.

The unfinished sigil flashes a ghastly shade of green as Natharai…launches out of nowhere in the most graceless way possible across the ground. A plume of gray dust is kicked up as the warlock's thin form bounces and scrapes across the earth before ultimately grinding to a halt. He groans and shifts, so, while he is certainly not getting any brownie points for that terrible landing, he is at least alive.

For the time being, at least. He can smell blood, his blood, as pain blossoms upon his lower right arm and the right side of his torso before he suddenly feels…good. Really good, actually, to the point where he lets out a dizzy grunt of a laugh. That is when thought caught up once again, screaming at him with a reminder that those darts were indeed poisoned and that, apparently, they are delirium inducing.

Even though it is likely far too late, being the poison has already begun working through his veins, the warlock gracelessly fumbles for the little pins and pulls them out. Dammit, he mentally curses as he weakly tosses the poisoned darts away.

Natharai rolls on his back, his once-dark regalia paled by dust, staring up at the sky above with half-lidded eyes as a maddened distant smile creeps upon his lips.

I was too slow...

[Procrastin]

Pro quickly revives his quickly failing shield and staggers back as the sigil flashes. He swears, glancing from Natharai's...landing back up to the imps. He shuffles through his repertoire of spells, plotting furiously. Sure, he was used to finding ways to blow people up, it was second nature. But hitting groups of flying things was a new challenge. And they were so far away now... He gathers a glowing ember in his palm and sends it flying at one of the little imps, where it latches onto the creatures side and slowly starts to burn...accumulating an explosive charge.

He reluctantly looks back to Luri's staggering form, and the others in not so great condition, and starts to conjure the oh-so familiar flaming boulder...might as well hit her with everything...

[Auroran]

Auroran keeps down as he tries to crawl to Campion, now having to avoid gunfire on top of everything. It's all for nothing when that claw comes sweeping through, knocking him aside as well. He falls a shorter distance than Campy, having been further away, and will only have a few bruises and ripped robes to show for it, his shadows softening the blow.

"Hey, Miles!" He shouts, trying to get the paladin to respond while he's a little disoriented and not sure where he went. Auro decides it's best to stay at a distance where he is since he was sure he saw lightning and FIRE and what have you on top of hearing that last gunshot.

[Campion]

The imps (goblins? Flying cupids? They're nasty little things and they sort of defy classification; where did she even GET these creatures and in such volume) have been cut down in vast numbers, but a few are nimble and continue to dart and whirl around in the air, doing their best to out-maneuver the elements against them. A smattering of those that remain have noticed there's a man down. Finish him off or start in on the grey-haired one tossing fire about?

They seem to reach their decision and wheel around en masse one more time before streaking down at the fallen Natharai. He's still back up on that ledge the rest have long since jumped down from, and even a beastly worgen hybrid might not be able to make it to the other man's side in time before the last rain of darts come down. And the only one nearby now is Procrastin...

Meanwhile, Luri continues to swipe her talons in wide arcs, keen on mowing down most anything that moves. The sharp points of the smoky fingers leave furrows ground into the stone, so great is their sharpness and speed. Luri herself has taken up laughing. So many of her movements are so jerking and uncoordinated, she may very well just be along for the ride. Instead being moved and controlled by the thing channeling through her.

She seems to have only now realized too late, though, that the second person she knocked silly is IMPORTANT. The third being the one she CAME here for. But the void god that she is a prophet and vessel for has no love lost for the elf, so he is overlooked, left lying in the dirt. She shambles with plodding steps towards the fallen paladin, black fluid drooling from her eye and her mouth and her wounds.

"Chosen...Conduit..." She murmurs these words in Draenei as she advances. Campion is struggling to his feet once more, but it's hard to do in bulky armour. He hurries when he sees Luri's got her remaining good eye locked on him, though.

"Get her! Get her NOW!" He yells it in a half-panic to the rest of the combatants, scrambling on his knees to reach his sword.

[Aleyna]

Aleyna doesn't have to be told twice. She tosses her gun behind her favored rock and grabs her daggers. Firmly in hand, the blades rest close to her body as she surges forward with determination. She jumps over spikes and jagged land, dodging claws and tangible threads of miasma. If she could only slip close to Luri... She could try and strike another blow-- hopefully the final one.

Daggers raised, she charges forth, aiming for an attack to her neck.

[Procrastin]

Pro's spell fizzles as he notices the imps making a change of course for Natharai. The warlock is completely defensless... He makes a snap decision and rushes to the fallen man's aid, positioning himself between the imps and their target, he unleashes a torrent of wind and frost, hoping to knock the creatures off course. A couple more fall to the ground, but the rest are able to ride the turbulent and take aim. The first round of needles pings off his barrier, but the second round starts stabbing its way through. Pro swears loudly and frantically starts brushing off the needles. They have to be poison, there's no other possible explanation for such a small projectile.

Panic and...amusement? start to cloud Pro's mind as he stares up at the oncoming imps. Fire, it felt good to use fire again. He felt it welling in his core, hot and furious. Too much playing with arcane lately. These imps...they deserved to burn. He grinned, fire swirling around his body, then, all at once, it explodes upwards, engulfing the air born attackers.

"DIE FUCKRES. DIE!" Pro cackles, watching the imps catch fire. "BURN"

[Arenvald]

Aren watches Natharai go down, scarlet eyes burning, jaw lolling in dismay. His gaze flicks to Campion, then back to his fallen lover, then back...

But... he's not one for indecisions, as a whole, and he's nowhere -near- the warlock. He knows that Luri's poisons, while nasty indeed, aren't particularly -fast-... after all, what good is a hallucinogenic toxin if your victim doesn't get at least a minute or two to enjoy the trip? It's a twisted vanity, he knows, but in this case, it buys at least a few seconds.

With an earshattering howl of rage; one that sinks straight down into the primal monkey brain and pushes the terror button, the huge brown worgen launches himself off his stone perch and at the all-too-distracted Luri. Somewhere in that arc, his axes are drawn, ready to sweep in a vicious outward 'X' the second he lands.

[Natharai]

Right now... There is not much Natharai can do aside from being stoned out of his gourd. If he was of sound mind right now, he would be thinking "It shouldn't have been like this". This is a showdown that should have been a little less....embarrassing. But now...here he is, tripping the light fantastic. And with all that fire and ice going around, it is a pretty fantastic show.

So, there he lies, with his mouth partially agape and hazel eyes wide. Whoaaaaaaa. But it is in this point that all of the paranoia and fear he was feeling during the heat of battle slip away...and with it his human guise. In a wisp of black smoke and a fleshy crack of bones rearranging, a pitch black worgen is now lying on its back and lightly pawing at the air. Pretty colors...

And man, he is feeling sleepy, too. A toothful yawn interrupts his gawking, smacking his lips idly as his senses slowly begin to dim. It does not keep him from returning to swatting at the "fireflies" above him, though...

What a mess...

[Campion]

(( Posting order from here; Luri/Campion, Aleyna, Arenvald! ACTION TIME. ))

Luri is still making lurching progress towards Campion, who at least has his sword now; the shield is too far to get to. He would have to open his back to the approaching woman to retrieve it. And he sees how both Aren and Ley are closing in. He needs to do what he's had the most combat training in; holding the line. Keeping the foe distracted and focused on HIM so they don't see the weapons the others have.

He stands, tattered remains of his tabard flapping in a spike of cold, dusty wind. "Come on then!" he shouts, the words ringing behind his mask. She shambles faster, panting now as if in some frenzy, her ghastly, incorporeal arm stretched close. He blasts it with a shock of holy Light, but it only seems to be dissipated briefly by the flare, then swallows it. Doesn't stop him from doing it again.

By the time Luri is close enough for him to slash his sword at that ghostly arm and shout another taunt, Ley has closed in. The knife sinks into her neck and she howls and gurgles. As the other wounds, black fluid and smoke spills out, wrapping around the blade, slithering up Ley's arm. The draenei woman appears to be DEAD at this point, the way her head lolls and her remaining eye is wide and rolling. But she keeps moving, that arm now wrapping around Campion and clamping tight.

"Gllghkk...Con-...duit..."

[Aleyna]

"Protect yourself, dumbass!" Ley snaps quickly at Miles, yanking back her arm. She abandons the dagger and jerks back, attempting to shake off the shadow off. Despite her rush of adrenaline, she can still feel the intense disturbance that the shadows leave with their touch. Something is distinctly wrong.

A new pair of daggers are pulled out from her extras and gripped tightly. They were not as fancy as her favorite pair, but they were just as sharp and got the job done. Aleyna prepared to slide in for another strike, but the incoming force of Arenvald halts her. In a panic, rolls away to prevent being hit by the berserker's strikes.

[Arenvald]

It's definitely not something one wants to be in the way of, especially if one isn't really -expecting- an eight foot tall juggernaut covered in leather and brown fur. Arenvald is plainly enraged... if it wasn't the hellish red glow in his eyes, the froth around his fangs is a pretty good indicator. But it's not the mad, blind fury of a rabid beast, but rather rage honed to a razor's edge with enough force behind it to drive it through almost anything.

Right now, that 'anything' appears to be Luri... or what's left of her, anyway. The worgen slams into her, unafraid, it seems, of tentacular retaliation, axes blurring in dull gray arcs. It seems he's bent on hacking her clean in half, or at least into as many pieces as possible. He's paying far less attention to the accuracy of the blows, and simply to how many he can lay down with as much force as possible in as short a period of time. Black gore showers around him in a spray, staining his leathers and matting his fur. He doesn't even seem to heed any clutching tendrils; if they get in the way, he'll hack at those too.

Come to think of it, it might not be too advisable for -anyone- to put anything they'd like to hang onto all that close to him right now. Like... hands and things.

[Campion]

Campion tries to summon the Light around him, see if it will shield him, break him out of her nightmarish hand's grasp, but all it does is absorb any of his attempts. It seems to make the grip TIGHTEN, and he can hear a faint, off-tune chime in the bones of his ears...

Luri is sent that much closer to Campion when Arenvald barrels in. She's gone pale, a ghastly, patchy blue, Ley's stab wound in her neck seeming to have done the bulk of the work. Her remaining mortal hand was clasped tight over it, black spurting out like steam from between fingers, by the time Aren came to finish what was already no better than a corpse.

As Arenvald tears into her, gashes and slashes opening even MORE vents for that black and purple sickness crammed inside of her. The two most to blame for this, near as can be recalled, Aleyna and Arenvald, are ENGULFED in the cloying, black slime and smoke and it clings like no vapour should. It's like wet cloth pressing in, warm and soothing like a soporific poison. It feels almost like it's trying to draw them close, embrace them, grab hold and KEEP hold. All while comforting and soothing and chiming...

Luri is upright only by the merit of the unholy creature inside her by the time she manages to break free of the onslaught. She is still trying to speak, her remaining hand now covering her face, hiding that original wound. That shard pulsing and glowing RADIANT in her eye socket now.

"Be...lov-...gllkck. Bel-looovvv'dd..."

She falls forward, slamming into Campion bodily. He catches her without thinking and goes rigid and pale once he does, like the horror of what he's touching only dawning on him too late. She seems to be...petting him, her hand fluttering like a frantic bird around his chest. The black smoke is thinning, wafting away and not coming back together like it was before when wind cuts through it.

"Be...l-love-...Beloooved..."

She looks up into Campion's face and smiles. He continues to look petrified. And then her head slumps onto his chest and her legs give out from under her. She is left dangling from his arms, lifeless. Her wounds continue to pour black slime, but the smoke has been dispelled.

Luri is dead.

[Arenvald]

Aren takes a step back once the mangled draenei sags. A small part of his brain gives thanks to the Earthmother that at least there's no life on this ground to be corrupted by all that black -gunk-. Because he has NO idea how he'd purge that muck well enough to make things grow ag... oh. Speaking of.

His shaggy, tusked muzzle swivels sharply around, axes lowering... then he simply drops them in preference to dropping to all fours and -bounding- across the intervening distance between him and the other worgen. Yes, he's covered in fetid spoo, but he'll worry about that later. His only nod to his condition is to brusquely wipe his hands off on his cape (which only gets the worst of it off since his cape is soaked in spoo too) before spreading his taloned fingers over Natharai's chest. Ruby eyes close to slits as he focuses on the prayer of healing, calling on the Earthmother's blessing to wash away the poisons coursing through Natharai's veins.