The flapping. The incessant, maddening flapping. During all hours, day or night, the sound of that damned flapping. The birds didn't call, or caw, or sing. They just stared, and watched, and waited. All the while circling the town, never seeming to need to land to rest, to deter away to feed. It was more than unsettling, it shook the faith of those forced to endure, wondering when the creatures would make an advance into the town rather than merely circling the walls. It had been days, now. An elderly human man wearing torn black-dyed cloth stood upon a crate in the poorer side of the market district, arms spread wide toward the skies. Loose flaps of fabric hastily-sewn upon the sleeves were painted with white circles, an obvious representation of the wings of the birds that circled the town. "Repent! Sinners, one and all, repent! We pray for a miracle, for reprieve, but perhaps this IS our miracle! We are witnessing the advent of a new power! We are witnessing the first miracle of a rising God! Woe to those who fail to respond to their heralds! Woe to those who do not forsake their previous faith! This is the calm before the storm! This is our chance to avoid falling with this forsaken place!"
While many of the passerby tried to ignore the man, more still cursed him, even beginning to throw debris from the street at the man. Still, there were those who were lingering, who were willing to listen to anyone who claimed they had some idea of what was going on. The words brought a scowl to the face of a lanky hunter passing by, Tam. He marched forward, and shoved the preacher from his perch, watching the man topple to the cobblestones of the road, "These things are no miracle! They're monsters! Don't go twistin' words 'round ta' try and make people praise them damn things!" He spat down at the fallen man, "Ye' think those birds are from a God? I've killed one, an' they're nothing but feathers 'n' hate." In a fit of rage, Tam unslung his bow and nocked an arrow, stepping forward to stand on the man's stomach. "An' this is what I think of worshippin' some fuckin' monster!" In one smooth motion, he drew his bow back and released the arrow straight into the fallen doomsayer's face. The arrow slammed through their left eye and a sharp 'clack' of metal hitting the cobblestone beneath resounded, the arrow piercing clean through the man's head at such range.
Screams sounded from a few of those nearby, and the guards were already drawing their swords and heading toward Tam's figure. Ever since things had gotten this bad, they were under strict orders to put down the slightest thing that could spark off the powder keg that the town had become. Tam saw the guards approaching with bared steel, and the wild panic in his eyes flared all the more. Too many days without sleep, too much stress building up all at once, "They aren't a miracle! They're monsters! I'll prove it!" The lanky hunter screamed to the crowd, to the flock above, to the heavens themselves. As he drew another arrow from his quiver, the guards broke into a run toward the man. "Put the bow down!" One of them shouted, but Tam merely drew his bowstring back and fired an arrow into the swarming cloud of birds overhead. This time, a shrieking scream came from one of the birds, the arrow having pierced through its neck and caused it to fall. A sickening crunch resounded as it splattered onto the road, neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Tam stood there, panting heavily, staring wildly around him. "You see? They're just monsters! We can beat them. We can KILL them! We-" Tam's shouting cut off as he was tackled to the ground by one of the guards, "Damned madman!" the burly, armored figure swore, clubbing the hunter with the hilt of his sword, leaving him sprawled on the ground, unconscious.
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Malcom felt his attention jolt after noticing his summon's death, even only able to feel it in the most vague of fashions. He had gotten used to ignoring the notifications of his filled mana as they happened more and more frequently, so the sensation was jarring him out of his obsession with his inner sanctum less and less. As he had been lost in his daydreams for days upon days, he had reacted less and less each time. Truthfully, if no new stimuli had prompted him, he might have spent an unknowably long time content to bask in his shrine to Amanda. However, now that he had been prodded, he felt a snarl rise in his nonexistent throat.
'Why can't they leave me alone? Why can't anyone leave me alone? I'm tired of being bothered! All I want is Amanda! Amanda. Amanda? That's right! I have to find Amanda. I can't get lost just thinking about her. Amanda, where are you? Who's hiding you?' Malcom's fractured thoughts seemed to be having trouble maintaining his focus. How could he have forgotten he actually needed to find Amanda, not just bask in this facsimile of her presence. 'They took her. They took her and they won't let me find her. That's right. It's all their fault. Have to... make them give her back. Have to make them regret taking her. Have to make them suffer.'
The bloodlust he could feel was rising more and more, goaded on by his aspect of hatred. It was as if every negative emotion he had was being amplified tens of times over, feeding in a cycle that pushed away any thoughts of rational negotiation. How could he try and make deals with this... filth? Hiding Amanda from him was unforgivable. Make them pay. Make them pay. Make them pay. MAKE THEM PAY. MAKETHEMPAYMAKETHEMPAYMAKETHEMPAYMAKE-
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The Picantch were circling the town, staring at the fortifications, the masses milling about beneath them. 'Find town, roads, people. Don't start fight. Found town. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.' It had been so long, but the great Voice still had no orders for the flock. They strove to obey its command, but they tired of circling endlessly. Still, they were bound to task. However, when that single arrow killed a member of the flock, every bird released a series of oscillating, reverberating callings. It sounded almost like a form of laughter, a deafening sound when thousands of birds were calling together over and over. 'Finally.' The new orders the birds received was one they were positively delighted to accept.
From the skies, murder descended. A shrieking cloud of birds descended all at once, from all sides. Diving down in a swoop, the birds used their momentum to drive their pointed beaks into vulnerable areas, falling like a barrage of beaked missiles. After the initial impact, the Picantch would latch onto a target with their talons. Sinking them deep into cloth or flesh with equal disregard, starting to drive their beaks forward in a feeding frenzy of rending, ripping, and tearing flesh. In the first minute, hundreds died. The guards of the town, or of travelling caravans, survived the best. The birds did have trouble with their armored bodies. But they were merely swarmed over, beaks driving at eye-slits in helmets, talons ripping at the vulnerable areas of the inner thigh. Birds were felled by mace, by blade, by desperate hands snapping their throats, but they were simply too plentiful and cared not for their losses.
In five minutes the town resembled a midden, the spaces between the cobblestones drenched in small rivers of blood. Everyone not barricaded firmly in a building had fallen, without exception. While the town had dreaded the birds' attack, the long wait had dulled their readiness, or perhaps it was merely the fatigue of tension for days upon days. Whatever the case, there were only three places where the fighting remained intense, more than the birds trying to peck their way through stray barricaded doors or windows to get at the civilians inside. The lord's manor, the guildhall, and the mage's tower. The lord's manor had long since barricaded all its entryways, even the chimneys, and sealing the main entrance was a matter of moments. Considering almost all of the town's few elite were inside, its defenses were superior to what most of the town could manage.
The guildhall stood for many the same reasons, as the combat-ready professionals may not have been able to gather enough influence to hide away in the lord's manor, they banded together. The guildhall wasn't designed to be a fortress, but it was still built from sturdy stone and mortar. More than enough to keep the birds out. But so what? All they were managing to do was allow themselves a stay of execution. While there was a small storeroom in the guild, there wasn't enough supplies for anything approaching a prolonged siege inside.
The mage's tower was the most untouched, though it was far from as grand as the name might suggest. It was a circular tower of only four stories of height, built out of a clean-looking pure-white stone. That stone almost seemed to glow with an inner light, and it created the mana-rich environment that facilitated spellcasting for the mages. That light was slowly growing more and more dim, however, as an invisible cylinder of space surrounding the tower was utterly devoid of Picantch, despite their best efforts, leaving them rebounding off the empty space. The manastone was slowly being drained to supply this barrier, but for the time being, those inside were the safest residents of the town remaining. "Did we get a message back yet?" A young-looking blonde-haired human man, or an old-looking boy perhaps, who had barely managed to form stubble on his features cried out in a panic, staring out the window at the creatures battering away at the barrier.
"Two days. That's the best they can do. Damn this hick town! If we were in a half-decent mage's tower we'd already be teleporting away from this catastrophe!" A voice that was equally as uncalm replied, though far steadier. It was anger that swayed their emotions, rather than fear. A tall figure stood before a podium, staring down at the opened book, letters appearing steadily on the surface as its counterpart was still being written upon. "What sort of sick fool thought that there should only be a single emergency portal-opening device in a mage's tower! And they took it to deliver a report." The voice was dripping with disdain, and unnaturally delicate features were spoiled by an expression of intense distaste. With a thin, almost fragile-looking figure and slightly-pointed ears, the mage speaking was an elf. "We can do nothing but wait and pray that the town's other surviving residents serve as effective enough distractions to keep the birds from focusing entirely on bringing down the tower's shields."
With a timid voice, the young man spoke up again, trying rather unsuccessfully to slow his panicked breathing. "Aren't... aren't we going to help them, Master Tiar?" With a sweeping wave, the elf flung his hand toward the window, "I must remind you that if we start casting unnecessary spells, we will both draw more attention to ourselves, and exhaust the ambient mana in the air all the faster. So while I would love to try and play the heroes you likely imagine us being, I suggest you focus on not dying first." "O-of course, Master Tiar. I spoke in haste. I just-... it's..." The boy trailed off into silence, unable to express how he felt knowing that the only reason he was alive was because he had been in the building copying texts for the mage. Otherwise he would have been out there, lost in the chaos the same as the rest. "Don't start feeling survivor's guilt already, boy. Save it for after we're a hundred miles away from this damned town. I'm sure we'll have plenty of chances to die yet, before this is over."