against the horde (leironuoth)
The spot had been picked by Leironuoth. Among the trees, in the early morning, sliver-thin wisps of child mist slipped about. Carelessly cavorting he would have said. And how odd that he was a prisoner of no one, free to follow his own whims. But it was the mist that was dancing before his eyes. Trapped by the leaves of the forest, fearing for its life against the stabbing rays of the sun. For his part Skandra was amazed at what they'd been able to accomplish in the roughly two hours they'd had before the pirates set out from the beach. That was the event that led him here. Stripped to the waist, covered in mud caked thick upon his face and chest, drenched in black and brown that hid him against the trunk of the tree. Nestled in the open space of a branch that forked like a snake's tongue he wasn't comfortable. But he was concealed from view. Somewhere out there, Leir was lurking, though Skandra did not know where. That seemed the perfect arrangement for now.
He'd done what he could.
All across the floor and trees of the jungle there were traps, focused in this area, where a beaten path waited. The pirates would use it, Skandra suspected, if only because they'd brought more with them. A chest, he thought, though he'd caught only a glimpse of their party before the pirates had disappeared into the woods. His night vision was good, but not that good. Leir did not commit to an assessment of their gear. He merely shrugged when asked, and said that it didn't matter. Skandra did not know how he could be so nonchalant about it. Done what they he could. Skandra spent time mixing this brew or that one. Some dry, and some wet. Some to make fire, others to make lightning, and still others to make light. Blinding, searing light. The traps were carefully arranged for his convenience. All he had to do was send an arrow or cut a vine. Once they'd estimated how much they could do - the work of a moment - he and Leir had agreed upon a plan. It might be the worst plan in the history of such plans, but it was all they had.
Strange how your thoughts could wander at moments like this one, if you let them. Sweat was still being produced by his forehead, but all that did was keep the mud sticky. Skandra had worried that it would dry, but as it turned out, that was a foolish concern. Not only had the mud failed to dry, it had failed to do anything to alleviate the humidity. He'd thought the mud would stay cool if it didn't bake. No, it simply grew hot, and the hotter it grew, the greater his temptation to wipe it off. Leir had caught him at that once. Important, the elf said, to stay invisible. He was the one used to hiding in trees. Skandra had decided long ago that the only thing he wanted out of a tree was a good chair or three. He knew how to be quiet, how to be still, and how to wait for long periods of time. Those were the only skills that were needed apparently. A half-dozen minutes was testing his patience, but it always did. Secrecy was worth the price you paid in discomfort. And he dared not move, in case one of the pirates happened to have trained eyes.
Happened to have.
This had all been Shantar's idea in the first place. Assuming that Skandra lived through this, he was going to kill Djokole. And then assuming that worked, he was going to find Shantar and kill him next. Not that the old man would be hard to track down. Through it all the one thing he continued to believe in was the idea that this... thing ...would be worth it. That he wasn't risking his life for nothing on a chance that could never be. All those years he'd set aside for a woman that had been stolen by his own father. All those years and now... now all he could think of was the noose around his neck, sitting alone on a nag of a horse in the middle of the desert, while all around him the enemy read false charges from a parchment that bore no names or signatures. It was as general as possible, advising him - if read literally - that he was accused of crimes harmful to society at large or one of its members. Hard words to hear. Harder still when the words meant you were going to be killed. Apparently there was no need of evidence to convict a man any longer.
His word was not enough.
The crossbow he held against his body was drawn and ready, quarrel resting firmly in place. It needed only a tap of the trigger to deliver its hateful payload. One shot from the crossbow would be enough to spring the trap of fire he'd laid below. That was, of course, assuming he could hit it from here. Once that trap was gone, it would be time for the trap of lightning, though he thankfully did not need to shoot anything to trip that. Last was the light. During that time the alchemy would hopefully whittle their numbers down, and Leir would have time to spring the traps he'd built in the interim. From that point on they'd be taking whomever was left with their bare hands, assuming the pirates did not get wise and kill both of their adversaries with well-placed shots. If he had any experience with pirates and crossbows - which, Skandra liked to think he did - they were terrible shots. That would work in their favor, too. It was almost time. He had decided that, before the lights went, he would unleash a war whoop. By then it was too late to stop him. And Leir would hear it, then find cover for his eyes.
At least, that was the plan.
How well it would go depended on how spread out the pirates were when they approached.