The Great Siege of Radasanth (FQ Main thread)

[Storm Veritas]

Stupid. So goddamned stupid.

Storm swore at himself as he turned his body to land sprawled and flat on the thatch roof of the building, tucking his chin and widening his hands and feet to soften the impact. The straw like material would have been quite comfortable, had it been made of sturdier goods. Instead, he felt it yield immediately, as only his left arm and left calf caught the weight-supporting ballast beam beneath him. The impact stung dully but did not stop him, instead twisting the wizard as he begin a spinning fall some seventeen feet from the roof of the two story building.

In the madness, he couldn’t process the noise or the sulfuric odor, the intense heat in the room not registering amidst so much fire. His vision dominated his senses, scouring desperately for what lay below and where he might aim his fall.

Spread of dirt there, tuck and tumble.

It was a smith’s shop, and he nimbly hit the ground in a fast forward roll. In truth, his shoulder struck earth first, his body rotating rapidly to diminish the impact event and save his old bones. The roll took him forward, before crashing hard into a dense mass of granite upon which an anvil had been situated. His hips and legs crashed hard into the unyielding materials, an immediate burn yelping at him from all over his body.

No time to wait. Get out. Get out now. They’re coming.

The weary, experienced electromancer could sense something was sprained and would slow him, and that his knees and hips and ankles would creak at him for months to come. For now, his priority was simply ensuring there were months to come, and a handful of Radasanth’s royal army had arrived at the doorway to end his reign of terror. The inhabitants of the smith shop pointed him out immediately, two women and two children pointing short, thin fingers at the intruder. Veritas was still very disoriented, unsure of his bearings, and physically drained from his colossal magic attack only moments before.

Window.

The soldiers saw the window before the intruder did, their eyes betraying their advantage as they correctly predicted the next move for the wounded man. There was one alternative way out, and they spotted it even faster than he could. It was a race, then, which his life depended on. Without a word, the magician was up and sprinting, or running as fast as the newfound limp in his leg would bear. There was no time to debate whether the soldiers had crossbows, and no energy to ward them off with magic. He was four strides in front of them when he came within leaping distance of the large, wide window, which was reinforced with only a simple wooden cross.

Sadly, glass does not crumble mercifully or gently. The cracking, shrieking sound of yielding glass was accompanied by deep, sharp burns as the edges of the glass tore at his head, hands, and scruff of the neck. His mesh armor protected the remainder of his body from all but pain as he fell through the window, crashing harder still upon the cobblestone outside. He would have a few scarce seconds to gather himself as fires burned about him, people running through the streets to either loot, try to reinforce the front gates, or escape the northern gates away from the oncoming forces. Even with the madness about him, there was no hiding his recent, murderous celebrity.

Gods damn it.

Storm’s eyes had caught a thick steel manhole cover four feet from his battered, beaten frame. His next move had been delivered to him, and it was a terrible one.