A thin wind sighed, shifting leaves more than branches. They rustled in a whisper of noise that could have been easy to ignore. If you could forget that beyond the threshold of this copse there was no wind at all. That they were surrounded by taller woods that blocked all forceful breeze. And yet the air still moved of their own accord. Or perhaps there was no wind at all.
At the centre of the gnarled, thick oaks that oozed with dark ichor stood a circle of standing stones. All carved from a near perfect white marble criss crossed with bloodglass, giving them the illusion of bleeding ivory stalagmites. The figure that stood among the stones was wracked by a gale that swirled down from the night sky, as if the clouds were attempting to rip the robed figure from the earth and carry it away.
Warriors armed with long swords, grim expressions and religious icons crouched among the swaying trees and tried their best not to lean against the ichor that pooled on the bark. Their faces were shielded by drooping hats, bandits masks and in the case of the Harvest Priest, a mask of straw that resembled a sad jester. Behind them, spooked labourers carried the required tools, all the while nervously marking themselves with protective sigils or clutching charms of luck.
The mercenaries gauged the situation before them, speaking in hushed whispers. Their mage wanted to sweep into the space, flinging magic at the robed figure whose ritual held its attention. The two hunters wanted to simply pelt him with arrows before it could complete it. But their leaders, the two warriors looking sadly at their greatswords knew the answer. It was going to be all of it, at once, and as fast as possible. The bearded soldier grasped his greatswords hilt sadly and looked across at the younger woman whose own blade was nearly identical.
They knew how this went.
With the first crack of lightning they knew they had less than a minute. Two warriors pushed off from the ground, their legs pumping at a practiced run. The older veteran breathed out forcibly with every other step, preparing himself, his daughter ran alongside, preferring to hold her breath.
The hunters began a volley of arrows, blackshafted and treated by the local Herr Doktor, still they were tumbled away by the unnatural wind near the foe, shattering against the standing stones. The figure's attention was scattered for a moment. With a wave of its hand, a hand that was curled into a darkened claw, the trees on either side of the archers grew great maws, with teeth of razor splinters and gullets of acidic sap. The screams of the hunters were lost in the wind.
The warriors were closing now, the daughters' eyes felt like they were going to burst from her head, she just needed to breathe. She knew if she was unprepared, the creature's wind would rip her lungs out through her mouth while she still lived.
The flames of the wizards' spells licked at the ritualists robe, which caught alight, fed by the wind that swirled around it. As the rancid fabric burned away the misshapen form of an ancient man with a body scabbed over with bark and a face dominated by a vultures beak that grew painfully from where its mouth should be was revealed. The creature's screeches could not be heard over the wind, but the soldier knew from the jolt of force that its power had rendered their newly hired mage into an exploded mess of viscera.
“BY THE POWER OF PANOPLY! BY THE GLORY OF MY GOLDEN PURSUITS AND BY THE AMBITION OF THE HUMAN SOUL, I, WALFRIED HELSCHILER COMMIT YOU TO END. COMMIT YOU TO CEASE. COMMIT MY SOUL TO THE PROTECTION OF ALL GOOD ENTERPRISE! COMMIT MY DESTINY TO THE GREATEST OF POWERS!”
Walfrieds voice was lost in the wind as the two warriors got within paces of the Zekartaal ritualist. They trusted the Priest, knowing that his dedication was great and that his connection to his sphere would disrupt the creature for long enough.
Their mighty greatswords cleaved the creature with a simple brutality of a butcher processing meat. The veteran still breathed in and out forcibly, controlling himself through force of will and providing a bass rhythm to their bloody work. The daughters final inhalation as the creature fell was lost in its first and last audible scream that was barely within human hearing.
The two warriors collapsed against the white monoliths. The whole skirmish has lasted less than thirty seconds, but they were spent. The veteran removed his drooping hat, ever surprised that it remained on his head. The daughter lowered her hood and mask as she pressed her head against the cool stone, patting it with her hand like one would a loyal hound as both their greatswords lay in their off hands.
Luther could hear Walfried calling up the labourers. The villagefolk would gather the blacksap from the cursed trees and chisel away the bloodglass from the monoliths, which would regrow overtime. These would be taken back to Wohlstad and processed, before being brought to market. Luther and Ida trusted the Panoply priest, knowing he would do what was required to see them all rich.
Ida caught her fathers eye as he lit a pipe scrounged from his pouch, drawing the small smokeleaf herbs from the hidden sleeve inside his hat. Elsewhere she could hear a labourer vomiting at the sight of their mage splayed out across the clearing and harsh prayers and the half consumed corpses of their hunters.
“Same time next week Father?” She asked with a crooked grin.
Luther sighed from his very bones.
"Aye.”
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