The Death of a Fox

[Sarcof 98]

Spoiler

 

 

   

Spoiler

In the Forest near Marandar Pass, there's the shattered corpse of a man, no longer recognizable as such. Should any stumble on it, they would find a torn pack nearby, and the corpse of a ghoul with an aurum hunting knife within the head of the ghoul. A struggle occurred here, but more than just that of a man and a ghoul. Although none would recognize it, this was the final resting place of one of the last few Marked Men, Oan of Brevis.

    The Marked Man didn't expect that he was going to die. No one really does. But, still he had. There had been five of them when they departed, leaving from the cart of Norland. He had been mounted on horse back, the leading navigator of the party. They crossed to the mountains near Marandar Pass, and then ascended over them. Their target was a small encampment across Mordring's Bridge, where they aimed to grab an underling for information. The cold had been bracing, and biting across his legs, where the burn scars that a Black Wyvern had left him still dwelled. He knocked back a cocktail of potions, feeling their effects swell through his veins, the rush of energy, the increased speed and sharpening of his senses. If only there was some way to make this permanent...

 The fight went as well as one might expect. The mindless drones fell, but a gate stopped them. He turned, in the process of removing the ladder from a tower to allow them to get over the wall, and stopped, facing one of Mordring's Ghouls, one of the elevated ones. He raised his voice in a shout, saying to the others in the party, "Reinforcements are here! Time to go!" He turned on the ball of his foot, sprinting away, only slowing to make sure the others followed. They did, fortunately. The group ran, occasionally stopping to fight, but mainly just retreating as fast as they could before numbers could overwhelm them. They almost made it too.

    Mordring's drones, the mindless necrotics that weren't much more than a cold body, had stopped in the ravine. Without them, the numbers had evened out. The group slowed, considering fighting, and then the sentient undead that had been chasing the retreating raiders, they crashed against them. The group was taken by surprise, doing little against the force. The lich with them, Coltaine of the North, hit him at a tackle and he fell, his chin failing to tuck to his chest and his brain fogging as his head hit the cold ground. And there he lay, and would have lain, had the ghoul not been ordered to eat him. It started forwards, but wasn't stupid, and instead of biting first, it went to stab the sword held in it's rotting hand down and into the chest of the man. As it did, Oan struck with his right arm, setting aside the blade to the outside, and drew an aurum hunting knife, an Ouroboros etched into it, from it's sheath. He drove it upwards even as the ghoul brought the shield in it's other arm down and against the man's collarbone. The gambeson and armor he wore absorbed the blow nicely, and the hunting knife stabbed up into the ghoul's brain. It jerked, and it's compatriot, an elf, advanced on the pair, waiting for an opening without the shield in the way. The ghoul, with it's dying thought, jerked backwards, and with it went Oan, dodging a stab from the elf even as the ghoul wrapped it's hands around his arm, doing it's final job. The Dread Knight that had chased them pursued one of their number who had gotten to his feet and ran, dodging the thrown projectiles. Although Oan wasn't counting, this was no less than three javelins, a throwing axe, and a dagger. The elf pulled his sword back as Oan tried to free himself, stabbing down once more. Once again, the Marked Man turned on his side, and set the blade aside. The Dread Knight approached, it's quarry having escaped. The elf stepped back, allowing the figure clad in black armor to step forwards. It stabbed the zweihander it carried down towards Oan, and he moved once more. This time, he did not escape the killing stroke without harm. The point dug into his arm, just above the elbow, and pinned him there. The lich, Coltaine, who had been pulling gear from the unconscious form of Gansem this whole time, began to strike up a conversation with the recently revived Lector. They watched the fight, Gansem in no shape to help his associate as the Dread Knight drove down, driving the weapon through Oan's arm, the bone fractured and split. Still, the Marked Man thrashed, and although he missed it, the lich remarked on this.

Gansem asked them, ""I assume there's a reason 'e's bein' stabbed an' I'm not?"

The Dread Knight, not as focused on surviving as his quarry, voiced up before Coltaine could, saying, "You cooperate."

Coltaine explained further, saying that, "We needed a prisoner, I think. You aren't rabid like that one."

    How rabid the Marked Man was, they didn't know. He rolled, driving his arm against the edge of the zweihander and severing the limb, leaving it on the ground behind him, the stone hand still flexing around the handle of the knife. Oan felt this only as an abstract thing, the potions in his blood combining with the adrenaline and will to live that he felt to produce a being determined to live. The strike had sapped his energy, a product of the ghost bound to the zweihander of the Dread Knight, but Oan took no note of this. He turned, bolting, even as another stroke cut across his back, the unstoppable force of an enraged and determined Dread Knight carrying the strike forwards. It cut through his pack and gambeson, and sliced along the muscles of his back, chipping his vertebrae and scoring his ribs. As an abstract thing, he felt his energy get sapped a little more, but he carried on, still trying to escape. His senses were still sharp, and he heard the dread being draw near once more. The figure turned, pivoting as he ran and took the stab that was aimed for his back through his side, the gambeson being pierced once more. His energy was almost gone, but still he ran, not as fast as when he started, but still struggling and clawing for a few more moments of survival, raging against the encroaching darkness that longed to consume him and draw him down into the black depths. He refused to go quietly.
    The voice of the Dread Knight came from within his helmet once more, commenting, "It takes many hits but still it does not go down." A descending stroke, aimed for the fleeing man's right shoulder, misses, cleaving only air. He makes it a few more steps before falling, rolling and landing on his back. He struggles to move, but cannot. His limbs don't respond, his chest heaves for air amidst ragged panting. The darkness threatened to consume him. He could see figures in it, familiar faces of friends long dead calling for him, reaching for him. He wanted so badly to go to them, to finally rest, to be at peace. But, still he marshaled what he had left against the darkness, forcing it back. The zweihander, as impending as a guillotine, rose, and descended for his head.
    "Wait." It's the first word he's said since the fight began. The sword stops, hanging above his head. Struggling, the grizzled Marked Man rose to a sitting stance, brushing the weapon aside with his stump. The Dread Knight stops, waiting, as the injured man says, his voice raspy, "Water, please." A leather bundle attached to his chest rose with his breathing, a ring attached to it. The Dread Knight does not give him water. He expected no less as he reached for the ring. Instead, a sword stabs through him, piercing his body and his lung. He shouted, a final departing noise, carrying with it the rage he felt that it should end now. He'd done so much. He'd wanted to do so much more. The faces took shape, became recognizable once more... He did not cry, he did not weep or beg. He pulled the pin, causing a sizzle to issue forth, a final feral smile marring his face and crinkling the scars over his left eye, claimed in the trials he'd endured. How he wished for another ending, another chance he knew would not come. His world disappeared in an explosion of fire and steel and aurum, lancing into those in front of him. Hands clasped his soul, and pulled him upwards, not down like he'd expected. Familiar faces whispered kind words, coaxing him along. The faces of Adeon of Rhoswen, his wife Dizah and his wife Anna, his son Phillip. His friends from the Legion and strangely enough, the face of his student, Haddock. So many friends.
    The lich, Coltaine, walked over to his corpse, searching for the Marked Medallion, that of a fox's head, which he could not find. As the remains steamed in the air, no one cried out or wept. Oan Frondson of Brevis, also known as Ser William Fletcher, Knight and Marked Man of the School of the Fox, lay dead.

[Guest]

"No Marked dies in their bed,"

says Aodhan.

 

 

[MunaZaldrizoti 8037]

Queen Anna would greet her husband in the Seven Skies, embracing him, "At last...we're together again."

 

Victoria Maria would sit at her window, thinking of the few times she had met her father. She'd frown then, realizing that she was now, truly, an orphan.

[ScreamingDingo 20568]

A decrepit, Aeldenic man would grasp onto the patch of a sparrow which would rest on his arm, his rasped voice repeating a phrase to himself.

 

"Should I fail, Creator help me."

[Jaigalar 541]

Ranholf the Dreadknight grumbles as he walks away from the corpse of Oan, "Truly a pity." 

[JEEGK 1367]

Hauxir shrivelled and hissed at the pain bearing through his explosive power, remaining silent at the fallen.

[Skylez 870]

"A grueling encounter, let Oan and Haddock be at peace in the Seven."  

Karth, an Ashen of Mordring muttered, crimson splayed about his halberd, the lifeblood of Haddock Plissken - a defiant man against the face of certain undoing.

 

"Let none intrude on Mordring's domain." 

[Jentos 9425]

Tired, restless. Faremyr of Brisengamen awaited at the inn of Oak Shade for service, service, that would never come...

[Temp 2006]

Gansem limps from the scene, a cracked and useless chestplate in his left, a maul digging ever deeper into the mud as he departs barely held in his right. A medallion dangles from his belt, its form caked in dried blood and mud. No words would be passed, no prayers muttered and no formalities taken. For a time, Lector Thersist would fade from existence.

[Vetren54 368]

Mattington welcomes Fletcher to the seven skies with open arms. "At last we can rest brother."

[HurferDurfer1 2978]

"I was trained in the breaking of flesh not the mending of it." he murmers down to Gansem's prone form as he performs sloppy first aid to the bleeding man, only giving Oan's death a brief glance as he finishes his crude sutures on Gansem's chest. "We are letting this one live, ill leave him under a tree or something." he calls out to the others, warding the dreadful hulk of Ranholf off "You're lucky I drained the other ones blood." Ranholf growls out in his baritone rumble. Coltaine turns, muttering all the while as he drags the unconscious body of Gansem to a nearby tree and lays him between some root, along with his belongings, though not before melting the mans sword to its sheathe, he would then give the red smear that was once Oan a brief look, not finding the medallion he sought he paces off into the rising sun.

[Assassinofawsome 193]

On hearing the news, Arik would lean back in the seat he kept at a small tavern hidden in the woods. Tossing the parchment he held in his hands into the flames of a fire, he crossed his arms and remembered back to days of constant training, and for the first time in awhile. He felt sad.