Those Who Serve
Twenty-Seventh Day of the Second Month 293 AC
If there is one small mercy to the men perched upon the guard towers it is that they are not Unsullied. Well-armed, well-trained freemen guards you would guess. Arrows rattle harmlessly against your scales and Amrelath's bones, though he disdains descending to fight what he would likely count as mere irritants... The painful sting of a heavy arrowhead puncturing your left wing reminds you why it would be unwise for you to count them thus, for you are yet flesh, and a piece of sharpened steel in the wrong place can still make you bleed if only a trickle.
You take 5 damage
The archers nearest to where you land merely die, by fang claw and whipping tail, some even horribly crushed to death by your sheer bulk. You feel the sickening crunch in your bones. Distantly you realize that were this form to allow it you might be sick from the wanton slaughter you are working, but such thoughts quickly slide from your mind. You must be terror and you must be death, not from any love of either, but to end this as swiftly as can be.
Some of the men guarding the tower you landed upon hurl themselves from the battlements in sheer unthinking fear, others simply collapse, weeping, weapons falling from nerveless hands. Seeing you ignore those unfortunates, the remainder of the men atop the tower have the presence of mind to cast down their own weapons.
No sooner had you risen in the air again that the sounds of yet more voices raised in surrender reach you. Almost as many of the Tyroshi soldiers lived on the tower Amrelath had been attacking, though not through any mercy on his part, of that you are sure.
The companies of the legion do not march against arrow bolt, stone and boiling oil cast through murder holes but simply through gates hastily cast aside by the surrendering defenders. The gates are yours... and before you stretches the palace itself, a maze of chambers and corridors that had grown over the centuries with the ambition and fancy of every archon.
"There is no way we can keep all of them safe in there," Dany says softly as you land besides her.
"If they wanted to be safe they would not have gone to war," Ser Richard gruffly reassures her. "Even so, they have a hell of a lot better chance of making it out alive than most men storming a prepared position could hope to get. Healing in a bottle, arms as good as any knight's and weapons that cut better than Valyrian steel..." He shakes his head as though in disbelief. No, disbelieving in truth, for he alone among all of you had known war before magic swept over the land.
Lya lands a moment later, her face grave: "There's news from Moonsong's group and it's... not good."
"They've found something they can't fight?" you ask worriedly. Had you misjudged sending Rina into battle you wonder? For all her power she had never faced battle before, much less against such unrelenting horrors as lurked beneath Tyrosh.
"Yes, but not in the way you think. There are hundreds coming out of the catacombs, poorly armed and not at all armored, but impossible to break. The bodies of the dead form barricades for those yet living. You would think they are fanatics, save for the fact that they beg for mercy even as they are cut down, and according to Moonsong they
are enchanted... She thinks whatever's down there is preparing something and using those poor wretches to stall for time. She asked for something to bypass the tunnels and divine the true heart of the canker before they have to fight it on its terms."
"That's surprisingly
tactical for her," you reply, willing yourself not to think of the implications of her words overlong. There would be time enough for heart-sickness when all this is over.
"We can take this place, Your Grace," the Legion's most senior officer hastens to assure you when you ask his counsel. "This place may have been meant for defense once, but now it's more like an egg than a stone and we are past the shell now. We can use guides from those surrendered to find the head of the snake and cut it off."
No sooner had he said the words that one of the men who had thrown himself to the ground, a servant or slave not a warrior from the look of him, dared to interject: "I know the palace well, the back ways that will be less well-guarded at this hour, only please... my family."
"We have no quarrel with you or your family," you assure him quickly, though he does not seem convinced. Indeed from the looks he throws Yrael you suspect it is only the hallowed presence that makes the poor man the least bit comfortable to even speak in your presence. Gods alone know what manner of rumors the magisters have been spreading about you.
Holding back a sigh you turn back to Lya and ask of the others.
"In this case it can be hoped that no news is good news, for one can hardly offer a report while advancing against any sort of real opposition," she replies, though the look in her eyes makes it clear that she is aware of the other albeit far less likely possibility.
What do you do?
[] Continue taking the palace as per the initial plan
[] Fly to reinforce Moonsong's group
-[] Write in plan
[] Write in
OOC: That five damage was from someone getting a crit with a longbow, which triples the damage dice. Amrelath of course laughs at crits since he is a large pile of bones that flies on the strength of sorcery and malice.
