Sir Havel the Unyielding
Sir Havel, not the least bit fatigued from his merciless rampage, immediately bolts toward the jeep, closing in on it and the fleeing bandits like a lion hunting down its wounded prey.
Once only a couple of yards away, the Chosen One leaps forward and brings his two heavy fists crashing down on the vehicle, promptly rendering it out of commission just moments before the outlaws can attempt their speedy getaway. Within the very next moment, the knight turns and grabs hold of the injured elder, along with one of the two young bandits assisting him. Seeing this, the other of the two shows no hesitation in abandoning his captured comrades in order to try and escape on foot. Fortunately, unlike the Chosen One, he possess nowhere near the swiftness nor the stamina needed to make his efforts anything more than futile exertion, and as soon as the lunar servant has his other captives tucked snugly beneath his arm, the wearied rapscallion is easily chased down and seized as well.
It is evident that, after witnessing just minutes ago the horrific level of brutality that their captor is capable of, none of the three men are in any mood to pick a fight. As a matter of fact, between his labored breaths and groans of agony, the elderly brigand almost immediately resorts to desperately pleading and bargaining with Sir Havel for his safe release: "¡Por favor! ¡No me mates! Tomar lo que quieras...el dinero, los esclavos, las armas...¡Pero déjame ir!"
The Moderator(s)
"Disappointing as it is, I think now's time we part ways and send you off to the burn unit for further treatment." The doctor replies, putting on a weak smile. "There they can work on debriding all the tissue that's been damaged beyond the point of healing, get the wounds cleaned & dressed, then top you off with some more pain meds before you're taken back to your cell.
I know we've only been authorized to provide enough medical care to keep you alive and responsive for the long periods of questioning I'm sure you'll be subjected to, but honestly, it's better we just get all this stuff out of the way now and avoid a bunch of other complications later on."
Dr. Weller glances briefly over to the door leading back out to the main portion of the clinic. "Anyway, your soldier pals should be waiting just outside. Given your condition, I figured you might enjoy a small bit of time
not surrounded by a group of armed men ready to kill you at any moment, so I went ahead and politely informed them that some of their equipment was not permitted to be around the machine during the scanning process, and that it would be safer for everyone if they could leave until we were finished. When you go out there, just tell them that the Doctor's Orders are for you to visit department 17-M, and you shouldn't have any trouble."
Jorn Darkmane
The gaunt woman sits silently on the floor, nearly exhausted to the point of collapse. She is hurt, shaky, and almost too debilitated to move. Yet more than anything else, she appears relieved beyond all description. As Jorn kneels down to ask how she's doing, the woman leans in and, without warning, embraces him with what little strength she has left.
"Thank you! Thank you so much...I...I don't know how we'll ever be able to repay you, but I promise we'll do whatever we can." Slowly, she releases the Chosen one and wipes away some of the tears streaming down her face, smiling for the first time in what has likely been a very long while. "Heheh...my husband's never going to believe what happened today..."
In sharp contrast to the overflowing emotion of her mother, the oddly calm-mannered daughter continues to stand before the still-active ritual circle, looking into its center with a highly attentive, almost mesmerized stare. Once she notices Jorn watching her, her eyes turn to him as she curiously asks, "Do you hear it, too...? Who are they?"
It takes the warlock a second to even realize what the young girl is talking about, yet as soon as he does, the troubling noise becomes impossible for him to ignore:
Emanating from within the blackened center of the banishment circle, a multitude of whispering voices call out to Jorn and the family members, asking, begging, and even
demanding that another be cast into the pillar of smoke to join them in the lower planes. It is strongly reminiscent of the whispers the Chosen One heard in his head during his attempt to contact the ArchDemons via meditation, and indicates that his interminable ritual may be a bigger problem than he thought. After all, if there's anything more detrimental to a modern house's market value than a glowy, smoke-spewing magical salt circle, it's a glowy, smoke-spewing magical salt circle that beckons people into the Underworld with chilling, demonic whispers.
Guess it's just one more unusual happening in what should have been a short & simple chore for a warlock of his caliber. Even more unusual, though, is the fact that an unpracticed teenager was able to pick up on said happening before he did...
This must be why practitioners of black magic generally don't make house calls...