All:

Tremors Trail. Far outside the borders of Lómëdor, this lush and wooded path is the quickest route to the Sanctuary of Angels, the destination of a group of Keepers. Traveling with the virtuous warriors is a priest of Life, the object of this escort mission. A man of advanced years, likely in his seventies, the priest is of special importance to the Keepers of the Sacred Deed. His long white robes, the golden harrier inscribed upon his chest, and his silent meditation all hint at a meaningful purpose behind his being escorted by some of the finest warriors the Keepers have to offer. Leading the mission is Marcus Emir, one of the two leaders of the guild.

Yet even though Tremors Trail is the most efficient route towards the Sanctuary, that is not to say it is the safest. Bandits and thieves call this place home, and never hesitate to attack a caravan such as the one currently traveling the paths. Fortunately, the Keepers have managed to get this far without incident. Unfortunately, that is about to change.

Their hopes of reaching the Sanctuary before nightfall may prove futile. As the escort party makes its way through the trail, bandits creep out from the natural cover of the vegetated pathways. Thirteen masked burglars lunge toward their quarry. The battle hastily begins.



OOC to All:

This mission is for members of the Keepers of the Sacred Deed. The object is to keep the priest safe while dispatching of the thirteen bandits that have attacked the group. You may make every attempt to dispatch of these foes, but the final judgment on their fate lies with the DM. I will let you know when an enemy has successfully been slain or captured.

There is no posting order. However, you may only make two posts per round before the DM posts again. There are no set restrictions on the magic and abilities you can use, but try not to use anything that would make this task easier than it should be. This is supposed to be a challenging skirmish.

A refreshing breeze fluttered over supple skin, beads of sweat ran down muscular shoulders. An icy thorn prickled over Marcus' back as the waft of spring spread across his increasingly tense muscles. Celestial Justice was spread out at an angle, tipped to the pale sun. A soft glow pulsated off of the weapon sending a rainbow of colors across the morning dew. Gruff unshaved faces and the stench of horse manure were the only things Marcus could perceive as the morning began to wane.

The Saint was now fully in his elven form reflective of his mother Kieraline, days would pass before the holy glow that adorned his lineage would fade. A soft white glimmer covered Marcus' strong thighs as he bounded from a defensive position. A wild strike rained down on a nearby bandit, the blue arc cut through the air like the dubious churn of butter. A strong ringing resonated through the thick musky air, random embers fired in every direction as each blade met its enemy. The stench of fire and mithril danced over Marcus' nose as he attempted to rebound from the parry. His heartbeat grew more rapid and worried as a second criminal leaped from the bushes. Mud churned in the horrid dance as each blade made an attempt for either master. Marcus fought with all of his strength, suddenly a molten pain burst from his swollen thigh. The unstoppable spin of battle caused Marcus to blink rapidly and force himself to focus beyond the veil of dust. A unshaven face sneered at the warm blood that flowed freely from a long cut on Marcus' thigh.

Marcus needed time to reach into the fountains of healing and mend his mortal wound. Gritting his teeth Marcus forced himself beyond the pain and lifted a single hand. Drawing on his own internal strength he quickly wrenched his arm upward, the trail of white flesh was followed by a golden shield. A holy shield barred the distance between Marcus and his unforgiving foes. He had so little time.... the white knight stabbed his righteous blade into the thick soil. Reaching once more into the folds of his own strength, Marcus stretched a cupped hand over the gushing wound on his flank. A white glow pulsed from below his pale skin mending the slash with tender and holy magic. His face was contorted and rippled, progressively as the wound healed so did the paladin's spirit. Only slighter weaker and no longer wounded Marcus wrapped his long slender fingers around the familiar hilt once more. The molten blade lit with a holy fire swung in a full arc over Marcus' head. Releasing his mental hold on the holy shield he allowed the bandits once more to charge him. Now enraged by their delay the twin plagues ran at Marcus with a ferocious stupor. A loud scream tore the approaching noon as Marcus deflected blow after blow. His physical strength was slowly waxing.

Marcus was pressed to the depths of their venture as his right heel met with a splintered wheel. The knight risked a look behind him, the long wooden caravan had planted itself on the edge of the dusty trial. He was cornered and without hope... Marcus' eye darted wildly looking for an escape route as the yellow toothed grins approached his quaking body. Marcus had no resources and so within the labyrinth that was a dragon's mind he knelt before Kieraline. His tongue whipped wildly over complex verses and urging motions. A prayer was all Marcus could rely on, suddenly as if the Goddess herself had smiled down from the clouded cities of Aman his mind radiated with clarity. Her own strength pulsated through his exasperated body as the white knight lost all thought and emotion. Fear vanished like a mist on the horizon, doubt wafted with the morning's breeze. Instinctively Marcus flipped up his hand, a nearly uncontrollable burst of white positive energy blasted from his palm. The ball of light centered itself square between the bandits, molten energy exploded onto each of them launching them into the dank brown mud below. Slowly they began to moan and roll, was his attack successful? Marcus certainly hoped so as a third larger bandit erupted from the waist works begging for a lesson in justice. " Will this madness ever end?" Marcus said under his breath as he shrugged and with tapped energy reserves charged at the third and hopefully final assailant.

Ilisuél watched his back closely as he rounded the corner of the caravan: trying to shake off his pursuers for a moment. The bandits had came out of nowhere, none of the escort knew this was coming. Now the keepers of Sacred Deed would have to fend off these attackers, if they ever wished to reach the destination: alive. And now swords and spear clanged all around the Half Elf, ringing out his ears with a sense of destruction and death. His blade was held loosely on his right hip, his own blood covering the right side of the steel blade. His garments were torn, large holes revealing his stomach and right bicep. His hair was roughed up and messy; throwing itself into his eyes at the worst times.

The sun shone down upon Ea now, shafts of light protruding from in between the gray clouds. The trees surrounding them swayed gently in the breeze in unison, whispering to each other through their own tongue. The birds chirped and whistled dazily from their perches and resting points: with no clue what was actually happening nearby.

The ranger worked as a single, well-oiled machine: parrying off blows with sword and stone. The bandits were also working effectively, keeping two of their men on one of the guilds: trying to outnumber the ambushed warriors. Ilisuél kept moving around, parrying off wild blows here and there with his longsword. A large, chubby bandit now approached him: his gold-toothed smirk covering his smug face. A rusted scimitar was held high above his head, its gold hilt gleaming in the sun.

The ranger moved back cautiously, his back meeting the rough wooden exterior of the caravan. He was trapped, the bandit had him trapped. It was too bad that his oak bow had snapped recently, otherwise he would be able to use a few quick arrows to make a quick escape. Now he only had a sword; and time was pressing. The fat bandit drew nearer: a smug grin covering his face, the scimitar held at neck-height. The ranger pushed his entire weigh against the exterior of the caravan: this breathing now subtle and heavy.

“Where to run?” The bandit spoke loudly between quick breathes.

Ilisuél did not reply: he had to think up an on-the-spot plan. An arrow zipped by his face as he thought; whether or not it was an enemies or allies, he didn’t know. The bandit drew even nearer, his scimitar held over his shoulder. Ilisuél drew his long sword from its torn sheathe, the handle dull and weathered: the blade even more so. The blade had seen better days; but it still worked like it used too.

“DIE!” The bandit roared, throwing his entire body weight behind the scimitar.

Ilisuél managed to parry around the enemy with skill; throwing his knee into the bandits groin. The chubby man fell to the ground in pain, rolling and twisting around like a maniac. Ilisuél stepped over towards the injured bandit, his shadow overcoming the entire figure of the ground-bound man. “Bye then, cur!” The ranger spoke softly, drawing the blade over his head. Then he struck it down into the man, and not another word was heard.

(Sorry for length & detail, kind’ve tired right now..)

Walking with the Keepers almost gave ones self a strange feeling of... honor. Although she had been with them for a while now, even taking part in other such missions to protect, every time she felt somthing strange, somthing... good. It was nice helping others. Joining the keepers had almost been like a way out, somthing to give her purpose in life, yet she had never realised she would become to acquainted, almost as though she belonged. It was a good feeling, being accepted. Even know, standing surrounded by the bandits, Stella did not regret joining, but instead felt the complete opposite.

Her eyes where focused in on the Old man A little her right, his clothes seeming to glow as he stood, watching as the bandits closed in on the Keepers. Her eyes still on the Old Priest, Stella sighed. His air was magnificent, of Life, and somthing else she could not quite place. He was indeed important. It seemed that she would have to fight once again. With a grin, she rose her Barbed staff, her eyes on the Bandits closest to her, sneering. They seemed unkempt, rugged, and smelled quite strongly of sweat mixed with smoke and somthing else... Ale?

Shaking her head, she took a step towards the men, putting an almost barrier between herself and the Priest. Somewhere to her left, she could see the glow of Marcus, one of the Leaders of the Keepers, and she again suppressed a grin. She had known Marcus for a while now, and she respected him highly, as a friend and a leader. Knowing her stood by with them, gave her courage. Eyes again locked on the man, she began to mutter a spell under her breath.

"What a little girl like you doing here?" She sneered, and she ignored him, still working her spell. "I wont go easy on you.." He threatened. He obviously thought she was a child, unable to fight, or as weak as one anyway. How foolish... "Magnetopause!" She yelled, as the invisible force field took place. The man swung his sword anyway, seeming to not understand the spell she had just cast. His weapon never reached her as it was deflected. With a little "UH?" He looked at her stupidly, before trying the attack again. He definitely wasn't as cocky now as he was before.

Grinning, Stella rose her hand, until her palm was faceing the man. With a childish grin, she began to mummer under her breath again, a bright white light taking form in her hand, growing inside. The man seemed to double back, stareing at the light in fear. At least, he realised. The light broke off, and she orb flew at the man with great speeds, before passing over him, bathing the man in the bright, warm light. Taking the distraction, Stella moved away, watching as arrows bounced off her force field. She had bought herself some time, but she knew that the field would not last forever.

Dragging the Staff with her, she backed off to stand close to the Priest one more, her eyes straying from one bandit to another, before they focused on the one she had just fended off. He was talking with around two others, seemingly planning somthing. Fools, she thought, before turning her attention to another Keeper, a little closer to her. He was a half elf, his hair messy, his clothes torn. He seemed to be surrounded. Running, Stella made her way over to him, offering her assistance.