Avelard - Fantasy

“Who has instilled such a…” Greybeard searched for the words to finish his thought, “such a treasonous uprising amongst my people?”

The servant, ever the bearer of bad news, shifted his feet uneasily on the floor, gritted with sand, and made a note to tend to the curtains at the arrow slit which served as a window into the Royal Audience Chamber. “Religion, milord.”

Clearly taken aback, Greybeard knuckled his forehead as he starred down, seemingly through the thick stone floor into the rooms below. “What do you mean? Piousness had become the downfall of my Kingdom?”

“Yes,” the servant responded, looking down at his feet. “And, and no, my King.”

“Which is it, man? I haven’t all day for your stuttering ignorance. If you’ve got the news, preach it,”

“Sir, the religions, in unison, it seems, have done something. It is unclear what it will turn into, though it seems war may be at hand. A war not in the name of one’s king, one’s homeland, one’s freedom: a war of belief. Each church has ordered that it’s followers swear allegiance to the Church: loyalty to their god, not their king.”

“What insolence,” Ole Greybeard began, before quieting his tone. “Treason? Blatant treason. What shall they provide their followers with, next? An excuse for regicide? I want my personal guard doubled from now until this pathetic uprising blows over.”

“But, milord,”

“What is it now, you fool?”

“Your guard, sire, they are all men of religion, as well.” The servant once more hung his head on the bad news.

“That is enough of this religious nonsense! As of this Holy Day, no Onocrosian shall tend to religious duties of any kind, lest they face the Headsman. If that does not deter them, then it is the gallows. If not that, lynching. I will have no treasonous groups in my Kingdom.”

“B-but,” the servant stuttered.

“But what? Have you something to add, fool?” Knowing he’d truly be one to go on, the servant silently bowed his head. “Good. Then be gone. And pass the word on to the print-makers. No religious acts of any kind.”

* * *

In one of the less savory of inns, on one of the less savory of streets in Iksamar, a man of the blade sat alone, his pointed chin near his chest, his face seemingly looking only at his cup. Behind him he could hear the clear sounds of drunken fools peddling away their coin on drink and dice. The ever-familiar sound of Crowns dice rattling in a wooden cup, like obscure music, brought a touch of home to the never-before visited establishment.

He had just arrived in the Onocrosian capitol, and, naturally, was unaware of any news the city may have produced in the few days it had taken him to reach the city. Rather than seek out news through some man who claims to receive his word from some ‘secret informant in the castle of Ole Greybeard himself’, he opted to let his own mind sort out the fact from the grolgass fodder, and found one of the least respectable bars he could. A drunk’s tongue, he had quickly learned, slipped more than an obese inn owner on wet cobble. The easiest way to learn something was through the smell of ale.

In the same unsavory inn, was a young performer girl, up on a slightly elevated platform at the front that, despite holding the name, looked nothing like a stage. She had just finished performing a musical number which had her singing and dancing in ways that may have been frowned upon in another inn, perhaps any other inn, though when working for an innkeep, it was always best to please the patrons of his establishment. If more stocking than entirely ladylike was required, so be it.

She had requested a stool be brought on stage, nearly giggling like a young girl with her dolls in the grass when she spoke the word aloud, so she could sit while telling a narrative to the patrons before moving upstairs to her free in room: a staple in her performing. The stool was brought, and she sat. As she started to speak the words to her own special version of ‘The Hunt of Phallius Grey’, she scanned the room, looking to see how many of the patrons were too drunk to listen, and then again to see how many were angry that the story telling in no way involved the inappropriate showing of calves and thighs.

She was not surprised in the least at how many of the patrons fit into one of those groups, many in both. What did come as a surprise, though, was that there was a man who didn’t fit into either of these groups. He was quiet, and sitting by himself, two things that no other patron could attest to, nor did he seem to have had too much ale to walk out of the common room alone. Curious, she gazed upon the surprisingly sober man slightly longer than any other, before continuing to scan the faces of the angered drunks.

* * *

In a sandy clearing, down a sandy path in the hilly grasslands a day’s travel to the west of the Onocrosian capitol of Iksamar, a man of the dead sat at a heavy wooden desk, feet raised, eyes closed. His nostrils flared at the smell of the bits of flesh still attached to the bone-servant who entered the room. They flared again at the scent his meal made. Thoughts of how his life had made a turn for the best, when through the many arrow slits around the room came the sound of war drums.

Bolting up from his relaxed position, he found himself pulling his meal-bearing servant to pieces in order to form his bone scythe. Rushing through the halls, he passed the barracks panting, and fell into the stream of skeletal remains he had already mentally commanded to head for the outside. The thoughts of this man of the dead quickly turned to battle and the blood lust which he had for the art of necromancy. All ideas which revolved around this blood lust stopped before fully developed when the two minions leading the pack of the dead down the hall opened the heavy doors which lead toward the sounds.

The man’s jaw dropped, partially with surprise, more likely with dismay, as he saw the source of the war drums. Expecting to see an assortment of townsfolk, angered over their loss of livestock and civilians, he was less-than-pleased when he looked out onto a full caravan of the Onocrosian Army. Unbeknownst to anyone at the time, the last action the unit would ever make was the three-day trip they made from the east.

A man of the elements took a break from an endless journey under a tree just off the side of the beaten path some days before. When his eyes opened, he found that the sun was now hidden behind trees. He was about to rise to once more continue the journey to find some unknown missing part of himself, when he heard the sound of a drum, pounding out the beat of a march.

The sun to his back, he ducked down, and strode off, deeper into the foliage, away from the path. Hidden by the thick undergrowth, he waited, keen eyes watching the path with great intensity.

By the time the drummers had made their way into his line of sight, the pounding feet of men marching and creaking wheels of artillery all but decimated the sound of the drums. Curious, the man held back in the foliage. It had been far too long a time since he had seen a military gathering of such number for this to not be of some importance. He fell in behind the group, keeping to the foliage. Though it was a hard trek to make through the thick undergrowth, the column of military men were not hard to follow, and the tracks of the grolgass they used, as well as the thin, sometimes splinter-ridden tracks the artillery made served for an easy trail marker.

The man of the elements followed the column of Onocrosian military men for two days, never stopping without their previous halt, never setting camp more than a mile away, until they came to a clearing. In the centre of the sand clearly, approximately two miles wide and circular, was a short, stone building.

Moments later, the drum beat picked up, and the column he’d be following from a distance began to roar. When the front door opened, a horde of the undead, with a man centralized within, rushed out the door. The man of the elements took a deep breath, and rose from his hiding spot behind some bushes. Between him and the necromancer was an entire fort’s worth of Onocrosian blades, and over a dozen cannons.

* * *

In the woods just north of the mountainous border between Onocros and Ramnia, a wolfen outcast lay still, squatting beside his wooly dog-like mount. Through the dense underbrush ahead of him, he could see his prey, a handful or rabbits sat just to the side of a well-used water trail, grazing. He gave a pat on his beast’s flank, and he was off, dodging trees at a speed usually reserved for retreat.

Due to the clear advantage that the wurang had over a mere rabbit, as he reached his prey, he leapt over top the small woodland mammal, and tossed it into the air with a giant paw. The dog waited only a few short moments for the creature to fall down before realizing that something was wrong. At the same time, too, did his outcast rider discover the cause. Man looking to the right, beast looking to the left, one found results, the other means.

Pegged to a tree by a long-shafted arrow lay the rabbit; through the woods and standing tall on an elevated platform of a log was a female elf, bow raised, a second arrow already knocked. The two elves made eye contact, and time seemed to slow to a stand-still.

Eyeing his new target, the elf lifted from his crouch, and narrowed his eyes at the girl, his hand pulling one of the daggers from his leg, should she decide that he'd be the next thing to loose and arrow on.

"Perhaps you'd like to hunt your own food, as opposed to stealing ours." He called out to the girl, before looking to Baelas, the large Wurang who stared at the rabbit, and whined slightly.

"Stop staring at the rabbit, and circle the girl." The mental order snapped the beast to attention, and he quickly sunk low, and began creeping his way to flank the girl.

"Will do, Cael." The beast barked back, silently, the girl never knowing the connection between the two.

The elven male raised an eyebrow for a moment, and then sighed, "Well, if you're going to shoot me, go ahead. You city elves have no manners anyway."

Gadrelle sat on her stool, fidgeting little as she made a pause her story for a quick breath, and continuing to glance around. She was hunched over a tad to keep her balance, resting her forearms and pressuring them lightly on her legs to help aid the balance. One could hear, if they were not too drunk enough to be quiet momentarily, the jewels at the bottom of her light grey robe striking against the metal legs of the chair. Her hair was up slightly with the support of a hair clip loosely inserted, but messy as she had no time to prepare her appearance fully for the show. No makeup worn either, never was a fan of it. Due to the fact of this entertainment was presented in a bar, Gadrelle didn’t bother to put on any jewelry, save a necklace she likes to wear often. Instead of her headband being normally wrapped around the top of her head, it had loosened during the performance and became more of a scarf, which didn’t bother her at all; she’ll fix it later.

Her eyes drifted to the sober one again, just long enough until she realized she had a story to finish.

Ah, where’d I leave off now, she thought calmly, sitting up straighter and placing her feet firmly on the solid of which was called the stage to stand up. As she stood, she ran her hands down her robe to straighten the fabric out comfortably and tightened her gypsy belt, then strode gently to her violin on the ground, keeping her attention strictly to the crowd in case of a random drunk deciding to jump on stage. It’s happened before, she wouldn’t be surprised due to how many times she’s been hit upon.

Gadrelle’s hand rested against the neck of her violin, the other hand collecting her bow for the instrument, and smiled to continue her story. “And so they ran on,” she spoke up, gaining an enthusiastic voice to follow, “’Pick up the pace, men!’ the general shouted, hoping that he was on the track of the Great Phallius Grey.” She picked up the violin. “’Seek no live or dead ones!’ he commanded again, riding his horse proudly to own the everlasting quest.” She paused and rested the instrument against her neck and shoulder, applying little pressure from her head to support it steady.

Playing a soft volume level tune just under her voice, she smiled warmly and continued, rushing towards the front end of the stage to create suspense.

“But he strode only to be stopped! For the one called Phallius Grey…Heaven’s no not him…His spirit! His spirit of full power, diminishing General Conning’s army almost instantly! Conning saw nothing but the silhouette of him, and feared, rearing his horse to flee for the hills! The darkness overwhelmed him…The dusk became hell…The wraith was upon the General, there was no way out!”

She paused for a breath again. Dramatically speeding her melody, eyeing each of the drunkards, but once again falling her eyes upon the sober one momentarily longer.

So common to find the place filled with drunks…but why doesn’t he seem to be?

Though he focused his attention upon the crowd seated around the common room, some enjoying a drink but far more suffering from too much to drink, Isair listened vaguely to the tale being spun by the girl on stage as her voice rose with the tempo of her instrument; the performance neared its climax, words and notes coming faster as the bard excitedly recited the fate of the general who hunted Phallius Gray.

The excitement seem to be relegated to the young woman, however. As Isair cast his gaze around the room, he saw apathy, disappointment, and anger. The latter was the reason he kept his wits sharp, refraining from too much alcohol, and why he kept his wits about him: a performer would be a target that drunks would be inclined to take their frustrations out on, and from the looks they threw the girl shamelessly, it was likely that her gender exacerbated those inclinations.

But then, maybe he'd already had too much to drink and was imagining things. Isair considered the explanation for a moment, but decided that he was still fairly sober if he was looking out for trouble instead of looking for a quick lay. He stretched casually, feeling the pull on his tendons as he raised his arms high and wide. As he dropped them to his sides, he quickly slipped his fingers into the hilts of his swords and tugged them gently, loosening them from their scabbards: a quick draw was never a bad thing.

In the mean time, though, Isair decided to simply enjoy the show. As he focused on the bard, he smiled slightly; the show really wasn't half bad.

Also watching the young woman recite a well-rehearsed telling of The Hunt for Phallius Gray was an old, retired military man, hard of morals, and quite bitter toward the military of Onocros. The retired military man, a former Onocrosian general by the name of Wilhelm Gumbolputty, took to the drink when he lost control of his men nearly a year ago. Ole Greybeard himself dispatched Gumbolputty, claiming that his troop loses were too high to be ignored, no matter how much his troops loved him. Sadly, it was when he drank that Wilhelm thought most about his loss of control, and how useless he was when not in a leadership role.

Something made Wilhelm stir from his drink. Groggy eyes looked up through tufts of long, grey hair, and he witnessed what he has assumed he would, drunkards in a brawl over one thing, or another. He’d felt the tension in the air for some time now, and he knew it would only be a matter of time. Though, something that he had not expected appeared to be unfurling. Wilhelm had witnessed quite a large number of bar fights in his day, Hells; he had started a few, though he could not place this feeling to any other of the numerous confrontations he’d endured.

The rage that had boiled over between two of the more intoxicated patrons had acted as a spark, a catalyst, to the explosive anger the crowd felt for the lack of a lewd performance from the young and pretty performing girl now telling the story he had been enjoying so thoroughly. Suddenly the single two-man fight escalated into a full-fledged riot. Wilhelm rolled his eyes, and tilted his head back sharply, pouring the remaining spiced ale down his open throat before slamming the wooden cup down, and standing. He had to twist quickly to avoid an airborne wooden mug from striking him in the face. As he did so, he felt his aged spine pop in a handful of places.

From his left we heard a high-pitched scream, and knew immediately that the drunkards had turned on the less-than-lewd performer. He turned, and walked toward the semi-circle of intoxicated patrons who had their backs turned to him, scrawny old fists white-knuckled.

* * *

The eyes of many led the mind of one, as Sandar, a young man, and once the heir to the throne of Onocros hunted his prey, the troops of his uncle, Ole Greybeard: the royal army of Onocros. Along the edge of the circular clearing ran a line of wolves, each low in the underbrush and waiting for the mental command to strike out at the gathered force. Dry grasses rustled softly all around Sandar, partially from his skirts, partially from the grass beneath him, as he dragged his small frame nearer to the edge of the woods. He could now rely on his own eyes, as well.

Looking to he right, he saw a large man pressing his back against a large tree that bordered the clearing. A solemn nod from the man told him that his only human ally, Andru, was ready to do what he had been trained to do. Ironically, the training the Onocrosian government had given him while he remained a slave in the gladiator pits, was the same training that he had been using for six months with Sandar against the government, through small raids on Onocrosian military establishments.

Sandar nodded back.

In the clearing, a man sat atop a solid looking mount, slightly ahead of the rest. A general, here? I wonder what the man has done to temper them so… Sandar thought as he called upon the attention of the wolves. On my mark, he thought as he drew an arrow, and knocked it in place. He loosed. Now.

The general turned in his saddle to call upon one of his captains; it was as he did so that an arrow tore through the man’s throat. The captain stood upright only moments before collapsing to his knees. Finally, he dropped face down, and tiny trickles of blood softened the sandy soil beneath him.

His mount whinnied as he spun the horse quickly to check the area for the position of the archer, well-trained, in his opinion, the clearing was large, and they stood quite near the middle. As he did so, he witnessed a tide of grey fur burst through the woodwork and charge quickly toward his men. “Wolves, men, wolves!” He cried out, begging his men to turn and face the new threat. A second arrow blew free of the foliage, and lodged itself firmly into his thigh. Muttering curses through the pain, he hollered out to his men once more. “The four of you, take your men, and comb the forest, there’s a bull’s eye out there, and we can’t afford to let him breathe.” He spun his horse further, until he faced the confused men of the now-dead captain. “Men, don’t just stand there! Avenge your captain!” Hoots and hollers rang out as a third of the gathered forces charged back into the woods. “You, men, to the west, stop the wolves. Men to the east, charge the necromancer!” The general himself snapped off the arrow shaft in his thigh, and pulled his horse in behind the men charging down the necromancer. He had orders, and he planned to seem the through.

Sandar pulled back from the edge of the clearing, and into a small ditch behind a bush some ten feet from the edge. He loosened his sword in its hilt, and raised his spear. Andru, some ten feet to his right, also readied his spear, and pulled back to a tree also about ten feet from the edge of the trees. As the quicker men in the rush reached them, both Andru and Sandar struck out in unison.

As the head of an Onocrosian soldier, likely no older than eighteen showed above the bush, Sandar stood, growling with teeth barred, he thrust the spear forward. It carved into the leather armour of the solider effortlessly. Using the man’s own momentum, and his low position as tools, Sandar levered the man over his head, and slammed him to the ground on the opposite side of the small ditch. Sandar’s foot struck the man in the chest, and the spear was pulled free just in time to use the butt of it to smash the second soldier in the face. The thick shaft was then brought back around and dropped hard onto the man’s shoulder. He crumpled under the blow.

Some ten feet away, Andru too met his first opponent of the day. A solider appearing to be in his thirties, dark hair just showing under the hood of mail, approached Andru’s position on his left. As the man leapt some of the debris left by a fallen tree, Andru’s shield met him, and stopped him dead. A quick lick of his spear left the soldier’s throat a bloody gorge, and Andru spun to face the tide of men, moving to his left to stop the tree from obstructing his view, and get him close to Sandar: the two made brief eye contact before once more facing the tide of red.

* * *

“I’ve no intentions to shoot you,” the female elf said to her male counterpart. “This arrow was a precaution, I assure you. Incase you didn’t take lightly to my,” she paused, thinking of a word. “Rude interruption of your hunting, shall we say?” Whether she spoke jokingly or seriously was hard to determine. “And there is no reason for your… friend… to circle me. I am alone.” She sighed and jumped down from the horizontal tree. Perhaps to put an obstacle between herself and the large wurang behind her, though she convinced herself it was to appear more welcoming to the elven male.

“I’ve not seen you around here, which means that, clearly, you do not know of the rules.” She sighed, somewhat jokingly, though not entirely so. “You are not a citizen of Qintarra. Henceforth, you are not permitted to hunt within its forest space without an audience with the Elders.” She paused, combing over his face with her eyes to make certain he understood. “I do not know how long you will be here, outsider. Though I suggest that if you wish to eat while you are, you follow me.”

Caelemar didn't put away his weapon, he merely eyed the girl, and watched as Baelas climbed up the tree and sat down, cocking his head to one side, sniffing at the intruder. "This one is annoying, Cael. Not like Ryess. Can I eat her?"

"No! You can't!" The elf snarled, bearing his enlongated canines, and curled his fingers, the sharpening of them apparent, and rippled through his flesh. The beast behind the girl whimpered and sunk down, in visible shame at what he'd said. "You know damn well better than to mention that name."

Confused, the girl raised an eyebrow, looking at Caelemar with curiousity, as his body seemed to ripple back into the state before the outburst. He'd lost a peice of humanity with that, she coud tell, and he'd regained it, through focusing himself. "What was that?"

Caelemar's eyes darted back to the girl, forgetting that she was even there. "Just.... nevermind. We don't intend to stay in these lands long. In fact, going to see your Elders will just slow us down."

The beast whimpered again, "Cael... I don't smell any other tribes here. This is Neutral Territory..."

A grin lit up the elf's face, as he looked at the archer-girl. "This is Neutral Territory, child." He stopped as if coming upon a revelation, and drew his blade from behind him, putting the dagger away, "You cannot stop a High One from hunting here." The grin that crossed his lips was almost demonic, as he started forward.

An uprising commotion occurred rather suddenly, and, despite having a forward knowledge of this happening, the performer senses jolted into action as her heart steadily began beating faster, commonly noted to fear. One difference that caused her fear was that this wasn’t a normal area she’d be entertaining in; the crowd is less likely to be controlled here, as say if she were in a more rural town. Her first immediate thought: Into her inn room and lock the doors, grab her bag, and run. Yes, that sounded like a good plan to her.

Slowly, the Gadrelle backed up on the stage, gripping her violin firmly, and senses greater to observe the actions of most of the drunkards around her. A way around? Sure, there had to be. And that is what she was looking for. Her first glance lead her to an opening to the western side of the room, where she could probably slip through and bolt for the stairs that lead to her room, hardly anyone was appearing to notice or be at that side, so it was better at least to try. If worse came to worse, and if she could get there fast enough, the performer would have a much better chance defending her own self if she could just get her staves from her room.

The girl slipped to the edge of the room, against the wall, and started to make her way to her room.
However,

One, fairly tall and muscular, drunk stepped directly in front of her and grinned, followed by a few of his buddies that circled around the girl to secure the fact that she wouldn’t be going anywhere. One to the girl’s right removed her grip from the violin and tossed it aside. She grumbled to herself, “If that thing breaks, I swear I will make sure hell rises upon you…”

“And where do you think you might be off to there, little lady,” the, who seemed to be, leader grinned once more. “A girl like you only has one purpose for performing, and that will be with me tonight.”

‘Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me…’ her mind trailed, but remained silent to the speaker and his group, thinking of ways to get out.

One of the men behind her lunged forward to restrain her, but, thanks to her senses, the girl heard his feet move and sidestepped, turning slightly, out of his way. The guy next to him, however, oversaw this ability to catch her off guard, and took that ability. Gadrelle’s eyes slightly widened as she could feel arms going around her and pulling her back against the body of one of the men, restraining her quickly from moving. The sudden contact resulted the young girl to scream, which the man’s first response to it happened to threaten the girl with a knife to the neck.

“Like I said, it’s with me tonight,” the leader calmly stated, smirking.

Tomas Reider, talented Necromancer and a perfect gentlemen, in his own eyes, Stood in shock as he watched soldiers climbing into his fortress, he could hear howls and yelps, the wolves he could faintly see around the battlefield where obviously joining the fray. His Minions proceeded to walk past him, obviously to protect their master. Tomas knew he would not win this match.

"Maybe now would be a good time to leave this place." Tomas said to himself as he backed into a small archway beside the stairs.

"Distract them while I escape. You have all served me well!" he added towards his Minions as he dashed down the hall.

He heard the a sound like a door breaking open and the shouts and grunts of men of war as they came upon his Minions. He could hear the clash of swords and the ripping of flesh as his Minions began to fight back. He listened to the men scream as they fell, but soon the screaming fell and all he could hear behind him was silence. His Minions had fallen, and the men must be searching the fortress for him now. He came out of the hallway into a ruined courtyard, the roof was slowly caving in and a beam had made an opening big enough for him to climb through.

As he began to move into the courtyard, he heard clanking behind him as well as grunts. He quickly turned around and swung his scythe upwards, ripping a soldier's stomach wide open. He then spun around in an arc with his Scythe extended, cutting open another soldier behind him. Breaking a part his scythe into the ground he began to quickly chant words, the bones of his enemies ripped from their bodies and shot into the doorway, causing a simple but sturdy barrier to be held there. Although he was weaponless, he may have just bought himself some much needed time.

He made his way to the pillar and began to climb up the side when he heard the barrier collapse behind him, Soldiers began to flood into the room and readied their bows aiming at him. A man yelled out for them to fire and the arrows were released when a strong gust blew past Tomas and launched the arrows back at the soldiers. A few of them fell to the ground dead, and a hand reached down from the roof grabbing Tomas by the shoulders and pulling him up. Tomas quickly took a swing at the owner of the hands, and his hands merely bounced off air.

"Well, I save your life and thats how you repay me?" said a friendly voice as he moved Tomas away from the hole.

Tomas looked back to see a tall man, with a brown robe and long black hair. Aiming his hands down towards the ground, the earth began to shake and parts of the roof started to collapse.

"Alright Mr.Necromancer, let's get out of here!" said the man as he grabbed Tomas by the forearm and jumped off the side of the building.

They both landed softly on the ground as if the very air supported them and ran off quickly, not looking back.

Having watched her attempt to escape the escalating violence of the common room, Isair was unsurprised when the bard was apprehended by the gaggle of drunken men, though not particularly pleased; her scream told him all he needed to know about what had befallen her. He rose from his seat immediately, and dropped into a partial crouch, closing the gap between him and the small gang at the wall cautiously. The chances of them noticing him were slim, as they focused all their unwanted attention on the girl, but Isair saw no reason to take chances when at least one had a knife at the performer's throat.

As he approached the group, Isair unsheathed both his blades and scrutinized the best position from which to interrupt the handful of men. Eventually, there was enough of an opening in the seething crowd, shifting chaotically with violence, that he could position himself behind the man that addressed the girl and seemed to hold charge of the group. Isair circled briefly, then closed the gap swiftly, sidling up behind the gang leader. Without a word, he raised his left fist, clutching his sword, and smashed the hilt into the back of the man's head, immediately rewarded with a wet crunch accompanied by a small spatter of blood landing on Isair's hand with liquid warmth. Before the first drunkard had even lost his balance, likely unconscious and at the least stunned, the right hand had slipped around the body and thrust the blade into the arm of the knife wielder: as the tip punctured his skin and slid cleanly in to poke out the other side of his bicep, it was his turn to scream, as he dropped the knife and frantically twisted away from the assailing steel, his thrashing intensifying his agony until Isair retracted the blade with a sudden jerk.

The wounded man clutched his arm desperately and backed up against the wall while the other who had been subject to Isair's ministrations lay in a crumpled heap. The pair that still stood, however, regarded him furiously.