>>5697817>>5697821The darkness coalesces around you and your entourage, forming a sphere which begins broadly and collapses inwards. It grows closer, darker, forming a cloak of <Shadow> around you—impenetrable , protective.
>8…But perhaps you overdid it. There is a fine line to be walked when congealing a deep and mystical darkness. If you overdo I, you do not blend into the natural shadows, but stand out against them-a pure blackness silhouetted against the natural greys and blues of the night, unresponsive to the flickering fires of Man, and the shining lights of moon and star.
At least that’s what your forced to conclude has happened when, as you attempt to slip past the watchtower, an arrow pierces the blackness around you and impales itself into the ground.
You stare, startled, at the quivering shaft of the loosed projectile. You turn your gaze skyward, to the human sentry above, who is already notching another. He shouts something you can’t make out, but you well understand his meaning: ‘Invaders!’ he is crying, or ‘Intruders!’ or ‘Dark magic!’ He misunderstands the situation, of course, even if he’s not wholly wrong on whatever count of mischief he charges you with.
“Move!” you hiss, and grab hold of Ekaterine’s hand to drag her forward.
The others—all experienced soldiers or spies—need no prompting. They duck low and bolt forwards under the continuous cover of your <Shadow> spell, which you maintain in hopes of slipping away with your identities and numbers still hidden. You don’t want a confrontation, or to explain yourselves. Even now, you hope you can simply slip into the night, to become rumour or legend, and clear this matter up with a simple conversation with the Baron of Blackpine…
>6…But it is not to be. There is not one single archer stationed in this garrison, no. As you might have expected, there are several, all lightly-armoured in the manner of borderguards and scouts, nimble and quick by human standards. They move into position, some drawing blades to guard the others, who notch bows and arrows.
“HALT!” one shots.
“Reeeadyyyy…” murmurs another, loud enough for the archers to hear.
“Dragonborn…” your own Archer whispers. “We must strike.”
“No!” Eka cries, then quiets herself. “They don’t know we are onl here to talk. We need only reveal ourselves and—”
“—and perish, when they see who and what we are?!” snaps the Translator. “Our BEST case scenario is capture, after trying to sneak towards their lord’s castle!”
“We should retreat,” reasons the North Merchant, “and withdraw until—URK!”
>1 