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Barks in the wind. Distant howls. The Blue Rats shake - take a step back - surprised. Rion is shoved and kicked away and his assailants flee. The scraghounds come, from the village, from the woods, from the fields.
Cunning artifice has wrapped tiny brushes and bristles to their collars, they have sticks and branches tucked and tied to their tails, as they paw the ground seeking freedom, they kick up dirt, dust, debris, and the relentless churning tide of four legged beast kick up a dust storm as they pound and bound and yelp and leap away away away.
One of the Blue Rats fails to stand his ground and belts, too shocked by the horror and the weirdness of it all . On the higher ground that Markhan has set the unit to take, they're safer, but even so, the Ironwrought Vanguard shudder, shake, surprised, shocked, confused.
The Scraghounds are hardly . . . hunting us! They bound for their freedom, released at long last from chains and bondages and simply set to run away and seek some elsewhere.
but the noise! The dust!! The confusion!!! In all the screaming yowling howling cacophony, we lose sight of our opponents. Some of the archers let off a few chasing shots at them, but ... we're only seeing their backs. They're withdrawing! They're leaving *the field* !!!!!
Markhan sees it now, yes, this isn't some horror of death and destruction, these bounding, pounding leaping pasts makes chasing the Windsworn now hard, one fights against the tide, and the hounds are apt to bite if we don't get out of the way. The Windsworn planned this all along, but their formations are out of order, their withdrawal retreat is in total disarray because somehow the signal was given far too early and the hounds started barking long before they were meant to. Some of the Windsworn look confused - others out of breath - others still sprint for some distances - some stand and fight, briefly, before others grab and drag and poke and prod them along. The disunity is total, at least in the sections that Markhan can see.
but . . . Dare we chase them? The Hounds would interfere, we'd be fighting amongst beast running underfoot, throug us, past us, by us, trying to get away, trying to find freedom, and if their path is blocked they may turn very vicious indeed!
--
In the village, on Edward's mark, the door is kicked open in a flurry. Move. Throw. Smoke. Keep low, keep running, keep together. Arrows thud in around the group and one of the troopers spot an alley - shout - yes!! there!! through it and around! Edward stumbles, Scarlett gets him up and going, Montosi throws a smoke grenade and Zivka fires an arrow. The troopers keep their shields up!
You're clear! Catch your breath!
Dust is thick in the air. The village resounds with barking, yowling, howling, the chattering of a enormous pack of Scraghounds. Zivka recognises the tells: a feral pack, loose from the leash, seeking freedom.
>WHAT THE VOID
>UH
>YOUR MOVE?
