It All Comes Down To This: The Kamil te Koup

[Campion]

The dust of Deadwind Pass made the rocky ravine show its name as apt. The wind that sheared through the crevice was quick and biting, kicking up clouds of ashy grey, swirling them in choking flurries before lying still again. Dropping as quickly as they came.

The trap was set. It felt too obvious. It felt contrived and simple. Campion remains crouched, sword and shield already drawn and held. The dust does not disturb him or catch his breath; he has his metal mask on, as is customary with him now. Glowing, unblinking eyes watch the ravine below.

Down there amidst the grey dust and stone and the black, bare trees, there is a splash of soft blue. A willowy elf, perched and waiting. Watching in the same direction the paladin and his compatriots are. All of them up on this overlooking cliff, covered by scrubby brush and thorns, crouched and waiting.

This would be it. One way or another, she was displaced. Madness or obsession is what led her here, most likely, trailing a grey-haired mage who is taking her to Her Favourite. This trap was moronically simple. Lure the spider out of its web with a treat. Jump down and hack her to bits. That was the plan, more or less.

It felt too simple. Stupid. They were the MOB. They were supposed to be all about subterfuge, underhanded dealings, riding the black undercurrents.

Or maybe that manner of practice would be dying along with Luri this night.

The paladin glances over at the others gathered with him, mute behind his mask, then back to Auroran in his waiting place. Not wanting to miss the moment the queen bee makes her vile appearance.

[Arenvald]

Aren sits crouched amongst the boulders of the pass... surprisingly lightly armored, for those familiar with him. Instead of the bulk of plate, he wears a panoply of boiled leather and fur, dull brown trimmed in gray, a cloak of Northern bear hide draped around his shoulders and pulled up partially over his cropped hair. Were he standing in the clear, he'd look like a barbarian; almost like the Vrykul of the Northrend wastes... but in his low, guarded position, he looks like a rock, for the most part.

And like a rock, he is motionless, steel-blue eyes narrowed against the dust in the wind, or perhaps in thought, subtly pointed ears straining. Not for the sounds of Luri's approach, no. More for the sounds of small, rattling wings or the thud of simian fists on the dead soil. His nostrils flare... then a sharp snort followed by a gravelling grumble, barely audible. Damn stinking ogres and the dust of this place. He glances toward his smaller, darker companion briefly, watching him... but those familiar with the big Highlander have every reason to believe the lion's (or wolf's) share of his attention is still on the valley.

[Natharai]

While Natharai has not underwent any significantly noticeable physical alterations like his more brutish companion has, one thing that is different about him is his demeanor. Usually the ever calm and collected one, the man those casually dub Professor is, at best, a shrinking shadow of drab slate green and black at the tail end of the group. With his cowl pulled over much of his bowed head, obscuring all but his mustache and goatee from view, the warlock slowly and repetitively wrings his bony hands around the shaft of his grim skull-adorned ritual staff – the faint sound of flesh creaking around wood joining in with the rustle of the deadwood and churning of windswept soil.

He never cared for Deadwind Pass… Even before he became what he is now, unknown to the others, save two, the feel of this place set the hairs on the back of his neck on end. Not to mention the fact that the last time he was here, he was nearly eviscerated by a ravening horde of demons.

The energies from the countless wandering spirits and intersecting ley lines, coupled with his heightened physical senses, makes him more jumpy than he should rightfully be – phantasms of his own creation taking shape at the corners of his vision, foreign sounds skittering around him like little spiders. Every now and then, his bony shoulders would flinch as his hooded visage twitched to look in the direction of the source of his disturbance… only to find nothing but a few flittering dead leaves being pushed around in the wind or a scraggly looking rat scrambling over a rock.

While the warlock is no stranger to horrors of several shapes and origins, for what ever reason… tonight is different.

He is afraid.

[Procrastin]

Pro trudged along through the valley, watching the landscape carefully as he walked. He didn't like having a crazy bitch to his back, but then again how else was he to lead her to Auro?

This was all too easy, far too easy. He wasn't surprised when he convinced her to go in the beginning, but he figured after she had some time to think she'd have at least insisted in bringing some sort of back up. Sure, he was a good liar, but blind faith was just stupid, and as crazy as Luri was, he didn't think she was stupid. Then again, being raving mad and having a chunk of rock in your eye might make you do some stupid things.

While he hoped she was simply an idiot, and that they'd pounce and pulverize her into a mangled pile of blue and red in seconds, he remained cautious. A counter-ambush wouldn't be a surprise. So he kept a look out. If she caught him scanning the cliffs he could simply say he was keeping a watch for her safety. He wished he could get there faster, he nearly counted the steps until he joined with the others and met whatever fate lay ahead. He felt at this point, victory or death were both better than this horrid suspense.

[Auroran]

Patiently and in plain sight, Auroran sits as daintily as he can on a rock, one leg crossed over the other and gloved hands folded neatly on one knee. He waits and watches, looking the picture of one calm and composed, but his mind is swimming with anxiety. This is it.

He readjusts his robes a little, a small enchanted dagger being his only physical weapon hidden under the folds of expensive violet cloth. Soon he's going to have to see her, and he cannot crumble. He cannot obey. Everyone is on his side and he can be strong.

Praying silently, he bows his head a little, face obscured by wavy blue locks of hair. This is it.

[Aleyna]

Aleyna is intensely aware of her own breathing. The mask that covers her face keeps the small inhales and exhales close to her body, away from prying ears. Anxiety and excitement writhes in her stomach. She worries for Auroran, she's ready to end this, she's thrumming with energy. Tight as a bowstring, she says crouched close to the ground.

The woman glances about to her companions now and again, confirming that they're still here and that they're really doing this. She wants to talk, ask how they're holding up, but she knows better. So, she waits.

[Campion]

Luri always keeps a minimum of three paces behind Procrastin. She follows, but she does not seem to be watching him, aware of him. She hums. Always humming those off-tune and wavering bars of some crooked lullaby only she can hear or make sense of. She changed her robes for this outing. They are red now; red with black highlights, yellow embroidery. Velvet and silk. The cloth whispers with each step, and each step clicks with a hoof against stone.

Her steps are partway between a stumble and a dance. A dreamy, airy kind of grace making what could have looked like a tottering stupour into something ethereal and rhythmic. She sways, her arms swing careless around her, and she hums.

The entire right side of her face is covered in what looks like veins. Purple and glowing, pulsing and cracked. Her skin around it has gone a glossy black, and dark-blue, inky liquid oozes from her ruined eye socket. The purple shard still thrums and shines there. Black, oily and coiling clouds of vapour pour from that wound constantly, trailing behind her as she walks.

The right side of her new dress is ruined already from the black that's running down her face, streaked and strained. She does not seem to care or notice. She just follows and hums, head lolling about as she watches the scrubby sky and overhead vultures.

Campion hears the echo of that hum and every muscle goes rigid under his armour. That ill-tuned sound is a familiar one. Hearing it from the unseen distance down the ravine, both her and Pro's form still not visible from the dust and fog, is the first sign of their approach. The paladin gives another furtive look to his compatriots, and then back below. He readjusts the grip on his shield and weapon.

Soon, they would be free. One way or another, they would all be free.

[Natharai]

The fabric of Natharai's hood shifts slightly as he tilts his head up upon hearing that dreadful humming, the near-constant wringing of his hands halting almost instantly. While the song itself was somehow off-putting, it was more of the concept of singing in this Light-forsaken place that sent a chill down his spine. The presence of mirth, no matter how maddened it may be, is a foreign concept in these ashen canyons.

So... this is it, huh?

The hooded head dips down again, returning his gaze to the gray dirt beneath him – it not more pointedly.

Revealing what he is, what he and Aren are, seems nigh impossible to avoid at this point. Even though he knew that it would likely be an impossibility, some vain hope stood fast in the back of his mind that perhaps it would not have to come to that. That, perhaps, they would be able to keep their secret and only a select few would ever know about it.

That is what terrifies him the most right now... The threat of exposure. The threat of rejection.

Who is to say that once this is all over and done with, provided they are still standing, that they won't shun him and Arenvald. While Natharai believes whole heartedly that the highlander wouldn't care a whit if he had to live off the land more than he does now, but... Natharai needs society. He needs people to live.

He doesn't even want to think about if he was denied all that. What if he regressed...? What if he...

The spindly man's jaw tightens, the sound of enamel grating behind closed lips as the warlock forcefully clamps down on this silent outburst of paranoia of his. This is not the time for that. While it is a very real concern of his, it will be dealt with if it comes.

Eventually he registers the feeling that he is being watched, his head lifting slightly once again to glance sidelong at the leatherbound "barbarian" near him. He watches him for a time, offering no sound or twitch of recognition – just staring with carefully walled-off eyes.

Only does he look away when the sound of Luri's humming grows louder, and closer, cues the paladin's uneasy shifting. He remains at the ready, hands tightening around his weapon once more.

[Arenvald]

Aren's expression darkens slightly, ears twitching as he reorients toward the sound. It brings the faintest of growls from his barrel chest, clamped off behind that bristly mustache and slightly too-sharp teeth. On the heels of hearing comes scent, and it's all he can do not to try and snort the acrid ozone-stink from his nose. Ewwarrrgh, what -has- she been doing? It's almost enough to make his eyes water. A broad hand comes up to discreetly tug a flap of his bearskin over his nose; better the worn, stained leather than what he smells from that... 'thing' below him.

As she approaches, he slips off a small ways from the group, seeking a new vantage; possibly one with a cleaner line of attack, possibly just to edge a bit farther upwind. Motion comes in short, methodical, and irregular bursts to avoid pattern recognition... only once he's resettled does he slowly slide the bearskin cape away from the handles of his paired broadaxes. They aren't huge, but squat and heavy; plain, efficient looking cleavers built for bone as well as flesh. Their surfaces look weathered, all but matching the dull gray of the stone... save for a thin gleam of silver betraying the edges recently sharpened.

And then... the stillness of a hunter on point. Waiting, watching... and listening still, for those small fluttering wings. Or big ones, for all he knows. If you mash a bunch of the horrid little goblin-things together, do you get a bigger one? No matter. If it breathes, it bleeds. It can be dealt with.

[Procrastin]

Procrastin scans the landscape eagerly for Auroran's form. They were almost there, any second now. A few more paces and he could stop worrying about suddenly getting a knife to the back, and it would all be over.

For a moment a new kind of fear swirled in his stomach. If they won, and the Kamil dissolved, what would happen then? As much as he scoffed at the constant references to "family" they were his family. Hopefully this mad woman trailing him wasn't actually the tie that held them together.

Pro walked along, trying to keep his pace steady. Just a few more steps...just a few more...

[Auroran]

Auroran's ears flick up as Procrastin and Luri approach. He smoothes back his hair and stares in their direction, doing all he can to mask his fear and nervousness. No turning back no, no giving in. He can do this.

[Aleyna]

Aleyna compulsively shifted slightly to make sure her weapons were firmly attached to her body. Knives hung at her hips, a rifle was strung across her back and smaller throwing knives were tucked along her legs and ribs, extras slipped into her boots, gloves and between her breasts. She was armed and ready for a fight.

When Arenvald moves silently, she watches him like a hawk. If he moved a stone or slipped enough to give away their position, she was ready to pick up and spring the attack early. With the larger man settled again, she exhaled a quiet breath she didn't even realize she was holding.

Silence and stillness encompassed their spot. Sharp eyes watched Auroran intently, breathing kept shallow and silent.

Almost time.

[Campion]

Aren's listening for things overhead proves to not be in vain. At the same time as Luri's song being heard, there's the sound of rapid, feathery fluttering. The only thing that visibly marks the thing's movements and location are darting blurs and displaced mist. Campion spies it as well and crouches lower into the bushes, not wanting even a glint of armour to give them away. The thing does not seem to spy them; it whirls off to hover like a hummingbird over another rocky cliff. Campion squints after it. It looked sort of like a GOBLIN...?

When Luri finally steps into view, the fog seems to cling to her; or the miasma of black fumes emitting from her gored eye is just that cloying. It's like a stormcloud that trails her and and her motions. She totters and twirls, humming still, and then stops when she sees the blue elf waiting for them.

She makes a pleased, keening sound and is nearly tripping over her robes and hooves to get to him. Her long fingers and thin arms are outstretched, but the dark plumes around her reach further. They take on the vague resemblance of hands, hooked talons. Grasping towards Auroran with the rest of her. Campion hisses between his teeth at the sight. It might not be so simple now...

"My favouriiiiiite!" Luri croons. The mist is coiling with the priest's wavy hair, toying with it lovingly. The touch of it is warm, soothing. The paladin watching on the ledge above feels his stomach lurch at the sight, and he looks to the others. He nods and points two fingers, looking directly at Arenvald as he gestures.

Heavy hitters in first. Stun. Debilitate. Then the rest tear her apart.

[Arenvald]

Aren makes a small gesture with his fingers toward where he saw the tiny flying creatures go... there, and there... the motion concealed from below under his bearskin robe.

He gets the signal to move, though, and offers the paladin a slight nod, slipping over the edge of the cliff. He's still fiercely hard to keep track of, even if one knows where they're looking... just a hairy gray-brown shape amongst dull, mossy gray-brown stones. In fact... it's unnaturally so; he seems to flow down amongst the shadows like one himself, his outline seeming to blur into indistinction...

With almost no warning, and almost no sound, a huge, hairy shape springs suddenly out of the boulders of the valley wall, all sharp saber fangs and wickedly hooked claws. The only thing to even indicate that the immense brown lion -is- Aren is the bristly, roached look of its mane and the fact those too-long ears are lined with dull golden rings. Well, and the ugly scar across its muzzle, but the only one in -any- position to notice that detail is Auro.

It's a killing-pounce, massive paws outstretched to slam the draenei to the ground, broad feline jaws gaping for her neck or shoulder, his back legs already starting to come forward to make their eviscerating kick. He's been angry at himself for not doing this weeks ago, but now... now he can make good on the savaging he should have given her back in New Avalon.

[Natharai]

The stench of that miasma that encircles Auroran is almost too terrible to bear, causing a disgusting retching sound to be bit back to appear like a plaintive mumble. If there is a smell to add to the evergrowing catalog of scents Nath has been exposed to that he would never want to encounter again, this would be one.

Though the sound of muted wing flaps unlike that of any bat or bird that had the misfortune of passing through this place does, indeed, catch his attention. He manages to catch a whiff of these distant, yet unmistakably foreign, creatures upon a stale gust of dust laden wind and is reminded by the story Arenvald told him weeks ago. Luri has little flying imp things, he said. Ones with poison darts.

But his partially analytical reverie is broken by the sound of a great beast rocketing towards the mad woman, ready to rend and tear. Well...that clinches it, then. He can't do much to Luri without catching Aren in the aftermath, but he can play defense.

Quickly looking back down to the gray earth beneath him, subtly pointed ears straining for the sound of wings beneath his robe's hood, he begins to draw a sigil in the dirt with the end of his staff while casting quick glances towards Luri and the others around him. Multitasking...bah.

Nonetheless... When he sees an opening, he'll take it, but if Luri is going to call her pets he wants to be ready for them.