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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Carnifex" data-source="post: 289018" data-attributes="member: 227">The entire smithy band had been incredibly jumpy after the desperate run for the relative safety of the building; now the sudden werewolf assault kicked them into a frenzy of activity. Wyshira surged with the might of the Storm Lady, power flowing into her voice as she cast a cause fear spell with a shout of "Run away in fear! For I serve Ishrak and the Storm will take you!"* * *Wolf gave a mostly humourless grin as he set down his weapons on one of the pews, Evant sitting himself down to clean his bloodied blade. The villagers just watched the duo cautiously, unsure as to exactly what had just happened, and Latorath peered at the pair with narrowed eyes from his position by one of the windows. "Well, as long as they made it, now all we can do is wait..." * * *The rabid lycathrope at the door continued to try and smash its way in, but the one at the window was nearly entirely in, scrawny arms pushing against the stone walls to force itself into the building. "Alchemists fire wont speed up the forge, lad," growled the blacksmith in response to Burl's frantic ideas for speeding up the process of melting the silver, hefting his greataxe and looking from door to window. "It'd just burn itself out in moments, won't help the heat much." The three militiamen moved to head off the window-wolf with their spears, jabbing at the creature, but Wyshira's spell filled the beast with unnatural fear, and in terror it fled back out through the window it had entered by, disappearing from sight as it howled in panic. Even as that attacker fled, the one assaulting the door apparently thought better of a solo strike and it too let up on smashing at the door. Eerie quiet settled over the village again, not a sound from outside betraying the presence of the werewolves in the settlement. Only the forge gave noise, fire crackling away as the heat began to build up. * * *The blacksith was working away over the forge, sweat dripping down off his forehead as he made preparations for the silvering. It wouldn't be long now before they could do it, he had said, and then be done with this place and back to the temple. The silence outside was broken by a pitiful moaning, that of someone in terrible, terrible pain. Looking out of the window showed a horrible sight. Crawling slowly through the dirt, hands clawing into the earth to drag himself along, a dishevelled and bloodied man in peasant garb was slowly dragging himself towards the door of the smithy. His other hand clutched at his belly; it looked like he had been severly injured in the abdomen, for as he dragged himself along he was leaving a long smear of blood in his wake. His voice, pitifully weak, could just be heard. "Help me, please," he called out towards the barricaded building some thirty feet away. * * *Wolf's mirthless expression was mirrored in Kale, as the return of the ranger and Templar marked the beginning of what could be a very long struggle. The young mercenary clasped his hands behind him, as he itched in nervousness to do something, anything. Instead, he just stood beside Latorath, trying to affect the schooled patience that the Templar of Solanthar and the follower of Fenris wore like familiar battle mail. Shadows lengthened in the temple, villagers milling about and trying their best to go about the necessities of life, to pretend that a tangible curtain of death didn't hang over them all. The militia went about their own routine, knotting together, talking softly about things other than wolves and battle. Wolf, Evant, and Latorath, they all seemed deep in thought, but confident. Kale beathed in a musty breath- the very air held tension, so many agitated people in one place. The Sun God Temple, with high ceilings, and large, well-placed windows was well-made to let in the light, setting off the simple but expert craftsmanship. Ironically, the open plan, the inviting spaces, the lighted areas served only as a painful reminder of the clearance and freedom that were denied those held hostage inside. Moment by moment, they waited. * * *As Wyshira watched the terrified werewolf retreat back out the window in response to her spell, she hoped that she hadn't just used power that she would need later on. Being able to do something though, had helped to steady her nerves, and surprisingly, she felt a little calmer after the brief assault on the smithy by the fiendish creatures. At first, she didn't hear the low moans coming from the street outside. One of the militia men whose hearing was keen picked up on it, even over the sound of the smith's preparations, and alerted the rest of them. She stood at the window peering out at the deserted town and saw him: a man who seemed to be barely alive, dragging himself toward the safety of the smith, leaving a bloody trail behind him. "Quickly! Open the door!" she called to Burl urgently. She unslung her pack from her shoulder and pulled out her basket of healing supplies. She hoped that the man wouldn't die before she could get to him. Burl looked, knowing Wyshira couldn’t resist helping the wounded man, but he had his suspicions. “Wyshira, I know that you want to help him, but please wait until the militiamen are ready to give you some cover before you run out. Also, maybe it would be wise to see if any of them recognize the man.” Burl yelled to the militiamen to take positions, one by the window and the others by the doors for when we open them. Then Burl started to open one of the doors only enough for Wyshira to slip through. He paused to mentally communicate some safeguard measures to his familiar. Spike, we are going to bring this man inside. I am going to let you loose. If you smell or see something wrong about this man, let me know. In the background the sounds of the blacksmith resounded through the forge, pumping the bellows into the hot coals to bring the furance into roaring ruddy-lit life. The burly man sweated and muttered as he went about his work. The militiamen shrugged at Burl's questioning; they did not know the man, butt hen they themselves were not locals - none of the militia were. They were just a militia detachment attached to the Inquisitor for his use. Spike, having been put down on the floor, didn't seem to have noticed anything wrong about the injured man, instead quietly snuffling after woodlice in the dark corners of the forge. The door, opened slightly for Wyshira to slip through, spilled sunlight into the red-lit room. Stepping outside, the priestess could see that in all directions the lanes seemed clear of any threats. Some twenty feet ahead of her, the injured man seemde to be weakening, his clawing through the earth dragging him shorter and shorter distances. He didn't seem to be entirely aware of his surroundings, eyes not focusing on the woman ahead. In the back of her mind, she questioned how this man could still be alive, echoing some of Burl's caution - Why haven't the werewolves finished him off, and where are they now? But the way seemed clear, and the man looked to be very near death. If she didn't get to him quickly, he would not survive much longer. With one last glance around for sign of any creatures lurking in the shadows, she quickly moved the 20 feet to reach the man as he continued to try to drag himself to safety. She knelt down beside him and focused completely on saving his life. "I'm here to help you now... Be at ease." She spoke soothingly as she gently examined his wounds and tried to ascertain his condition. * * *Against Burl’s better wishes, he watched as Wyshira slipped through the doors and went to the aid of the wounded man. He watched to see if any of the werewolves would try to take advantage of her while out in the open. Turning to the militiamen, he checked, making sure each had silvered weapons to assist Wyshira if the need arose. “Smithy, how much longer before we have the weapons ready for our flight back to the temple.” Burl waited by the doors for Wyshira to drag the man back to the relative safety of the blacksmith’s shop. Spotting his familiar chasing dinner, Burl sent a mental request that the little hedgehog return to the safety of his case.Spike scuttled back to Burl as the blacksmith threw the necromancer a glance. "Give us half an hour before we can start silvering the weapons." Spike was sniffing the air as he scurried over. Through the empathetic link with his familiar, Burl could tell that the little creature was somewhat dismayed by the scent of rotting offal on the air. Suddenly alert, the necromancer turned around just in time to save Wyshira's life.* * *With a snarl the man rose up before the priestess. One hand had been clutching to his belly a mass of foul offal, bloodied innards that were now thrown to slap disgustingly against the previously pristine robes of Wyshira. There was a gristly crunch as the man shapeshifted into a foully disfigured wolfman, snarling as it lunged at her. Wyshira was almost incapable of reacting to the situation, so surprised was she by the sudden change in the man she took to be injured and in need of her aid. Already on her knees, she fell back from the shifting wolf-creature, instinctively holding her healer's kit out in front of her like a shield and turning her face away. She tried to scramble to her feet, backing slowly away and toward the smithy. The wolfman savagely lunged out and bit deeply into her, tearing out a chunk of flesh and eliciting gouts of her blue-tinted blood from the gaping wound. Even with her desperate defence as she backed off, it followed snarling and lashing out in primeval fury, her own gore splattered over its muzzle and teeth to give it a fearful appearance as it bore down on her. The thing's fury was cut short as a knife-like shard of ice stabbed forth from Burl's hand, biting right into the things chest. Blood that spouted forth immediately froze into crimson frost, and with a pained spasm the werewolf collapsed to the ground having been chilled to death. Injured and in pain, Wyshira was able to stagger the last few feet back into the smithy without any further incident.</blockquote>

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