Making an alliance with the Tribesmen of the Bohar Plains had been a plan that the Knight had been planning almost since day one. With Scarwood Fort located to the North East portion of the Plains, and housing any number of people at any given time, it was a bet that, unless an agreement was made, the locals may see the Fort dwellers as stealing game. He didn't know that for sure would or could happen, but it was better to deal with him it before hand than afterwards.

The Tribes would know who the Fort belonged to in due time, if they didn't already, word did travel fast when new Gods rose to immortality. So Lokir had that going for him, but he would rather them know that he and his people would pose no threat to the local tribes so long as they left the Fort alone unless they needed his help.

So it was that Lokir was riding out on his own from the Fort on his warhorse, the mare wore her full armour set while Lokir wore plain clothing and carried no weapons. Not that he needed either anymore, but it was still something he felt like he needed to do. He had arranged to see one of the Tribes who were camped closest to the Fort, knowing that all of the Tribes were allied so one could speak for all.

He rode for hours until he found the camp, right where they said it would be, a nomadic people they'd probably only spend a night or two here and move on. But as he neared he could see a strong glow of fire, well, they would need them for cooking but this seemed too bright to be multiple smaller fires. He got his mount to move faster and soon found that the camp was alight in fire! Tents burned and people were screaming, the Tribe was under attack!

”Shit.” Lokir swore and got his steed to run as fast as she could, he needed to get there and see what the hell was going on and help the Tribe if they needed it. This put a bit of a kink into his plan, but if things worked out, fighting alone side of the Tribe to defend their home would give him an extra advantage in talking with the locals when the time came.

He wanted to strengthen himself, and become better as a healer and a person. But no matter how much effort he had put in, somehow it would fall short. Cymbel knew he had many friends who supported him and cared for him, yet he couldn't help but think at times he was a burden. Shiloh wasn't very deft with elemental magic, yet she found ways to work around her weaknesses. Walter had been born a lycanthorpe but had found how to balance both man and beast within. Nerine had almost fully recovered from being abandoned by a man who could have been her fiance, and was back on her feet. But him? He was a skilled healer, but that was all he had to his name. 

"Hey, do you want to go with Walter back to Canelux?" She had asked earlier. "I used to run back and forth through the Corval Basin back before I bought the airship. If you mention me to the tribesmen there they'll be willing to let you go along with them for a while." He took the chance and went. There wasn't much for him to do as he followed the nomads. The occasional ailment or treatment for injured animals was the most work he had. Traveling was tiring, but they were kind enough to allow him to ride on a covered cart. Sitting out in the direct sun still made him faint. After a while he had to sleep during the daylight hours when it was warmer, and stay awake in the cool evening. It helped alleviate the heat exhaustion symptoms for the most part. It wasn't easy, as he had to cover himself up more so he wouldn't have sunburn. Compared to the swarthy Bohari tribesmen, he was as pale as moonlight.

One afternoon, he was resting in one of the tents when an alarm was raised in the camp! "All men to arms! Ambushers from the plains!" Voices shouted. Spearmen and archers flooded out to the walls, fighting to protect their people and their precious horses. One of the men rushed inside and shook him awake, and told him to quickly get outside. The smell of smoke was filling the air, and when Cymbel followed after the man he saw flames spreading through the tents! "What's going on? Why are we being attacked during the day?" This didn't make sense! Launching an attack under the cover of nightfall would be far more reasonable than during broad daylight! He pulled his hood around his face as he was led out with the rest of the evacuees. 

[OOC: Hm, time for some pure hand to hand I think!]

Lokir's mount galloped hard down the trail, he hadn't regretted getting a warhorse since the he had finally decided to get one. Once the mare had become used to him not being human like those who trained her, she had been loyal to him and prove her own bravery several times over.

The Tetrarch came in view of the camp he took in the scene quickly, wasn't hard to tell one side from the other. He got his steed on the right path and got his feet loose from the stirrups and release the reins, he was going to make a quick dismount in a moment. He knew his horse, once he was away, would bolt for a safe place not too far off, he wasn't worried about her.

There was a grin his face as he jumped from his mount when he was close enough, the bandits hadn't heard him coming over the fighting until it was too late. One turned in time to see Lokir coming towards him in the air and catch Lokir's knee across the chin dropping him to the ground. Lokir landed and rolled coming back up to his feet in a smooth motion while at the same time knocking the feet out from under one bandit, and sure enough his mount now free of him turned and took off into the trees away from danger.

Lokir was on his feet and turned and kicked the prone bandit in the stomach before he was able to get up. This set the bandit up and flying over the trees as Lokir had forgot about his newly acquired strength, Lokir blinked. ”Oh, oh shit, uh, right, I'm stronger than I was before.” He observed with a satisfied grin on his face as some of the bandits who had seen him kick the man over the trees stared.

Turning to face them Lokir chuckled and charged them, obviously he had no fear in a fight anymore, so even without an actual weapon he would be fine. One bandit turned and slashed at newcomer but Lokir batted it aside with his palm and, toning down his Godly strength, gripped the man's wrist and twisted until he dropped the weapon before using his free hand to deck him across the chin. With one down Lokir turned as he sensed another blade coming his way and turned catching the man's arm at the elbow and snapping it like a twig before driving his fist into the man's chest. With some added strenth behind the blow it ruptured the man's heart and he dropped like a stone to the ground dead.

A bandit with a spear stabbed at range at Lokir who backed stepped it and moved his upper body to the side as he did. He snapped out and grabbed the lance at the bottom of the blade and pulled it and the man holding the other end towards him. As the man stumbled forward Lokir clocked him in the face and sent him sprawling back out cold. The Tetrarch tossed the spear aside as he grinned while waiting for the rest to take their brave pills and try their luck. Or, do the smart thing and retreat.

It wasn't until he realized he was seeing the air condense in front of him that Cymbel noted he was succumbing to panic. Pulling up his hood tighter around his head, he told the others to go on ahead of him. Right now he had to find a place to hide out of sight where he could calm down. It was hard not to become overwhelmed by the current situation–he had no way to effectively assist in extinguishing the fires, or to defend against the invaders. The only time he could be of use was after the damage was done and it was all over. Wanting to help but knowing you would likely put others in danger if you did so, it was painful. He wasn't very confident in his swordplay, and his magic would end up affecting everyone indiscriminately. 

'What can I do?' If she was here, she would be pushing the invaders back while directing people to quell the flames as fast as possible. If only he had someone with him. If only… A terrifying shout brought him to his senses, and he shrieked while narrowly dodging a jab from a spear! There was a man in a mix of leather and cloth armor with a torn bandanna around his head. The man's lips curled into a snarl as he charged after him, intent on running him down. Finding himself backed into the tents, he thrust a silver and black shield in front of him in time to block another blow. This wasn't good, he couldn't keep backing away here. The enemy had a range advantage, and he wouldn't be able to disarm him physically. His stress was rising again, and he felt his pulse quicken. What if he couldn't escape? How could he face her? After deciding to go off on his own, only for her to receive the worst news possible? He was afraid for himself, but more for her. She wouldn't take it well, she might even close herself off from everyone. 

 It was too late, all his efforts to keep his emotions contained were falling apart. Overwhelmed, he didn't even hear the screams of shock coming from those around as fog began to fill the area. He was beginning to hyperventilate, exhaling large quantities of rolling fog with each breath. Shutting his eyes closed and holding his head in his hands, soon visibility in the immediate area was reduced to nothing. But that wasn't the greatest potential danger of the fog; should anyone else other than himself breathe it in, they would become beset with an overpowering urge to sleep. Their senses would become dulled, movements sluggish, until finally they would fall unconscious. The fog was spreading outwards to other areas, aided by the wind. And as long as he was in distress, the number of people who would fall under its spell would rise. 

The marauders on the edges of the camp soon took notice of this unnatural phenomenon and took it as an ill omen. Those that weren't already in the thick of the mist turned tail and fled, taking what they could before they made their escape. The fires were still smoldering, and the damage to the encampment had been done. 

More bandits had fallen to Lokir in a short time and the rest had learned that they were out matched here no matter their numbers against him. Lokir had the last man by the throat and tossed him aside like a doll into a tree with casual strength. But then the fog started to roll in and Lokir could sense the magic in it, this wasn't normal fog, and it wasn't smoke either, which had been his first thought on seeing it.

It brushed passed him and Lokir looked around to see that the bandits who had inhaled were getting wobbly on their feet before they fell down asleep. So, someone with the tribe then did have a last ditch defence then? Or was this something else? Lokir inhaled and his head swooned, right, seemed while he would be able to resist it he wasn't totally immune either.

He watched some bandits turn tail and run, so, the threat seemed over, but fires still raged and now everyone was asleep but him. He thought a moment and came upon a great idea to avoid succumbing to the fog himself; don't breath! He was immortal now after all, so he didn't really need to breath, he thought anyway, it was just a natural and automatic thing his body did.

Using his left hand to pinch his nose shut to stop him from accidentally breathing through it and using every part of his discipline to not breath through his mouth Lokir headed deeper into the fog to find the source. As the knight made his way into the encampment more and the fog became thicker he saw the sleeping laying about. From in combat to asleep in seconds they had dropped on top of each other, sadly, some laid asleep wounded and bleeding unable to tend their wounds. Lokir wanted to help but he'd only have so much time in this fog himself before he would be asleep as well.

His senses allowed him to carefully walk through the fog as he came to a tent that seemed to contain the source of the fog. At the entrance lay a snoozing bandit with a spear that Lokir picked up and tossed aside, the bandit, not the spear, before poking his head inside of the tent. There he found a young looking man in a panic, face in hands he looked terrified. So, this wasn't a last ditch defence of the tribe, this was a panicked defence reaction of one man who was an outsider of the tribe, yet was no bandit either.

Lokir spoke in a soft voice, not wanting to further scare the man, but needing him to stop producing the fog. ”Hey, no need to be afraid of me, okay? I'm not one of the bandits, I was coming out here to meet the tribe when I saw the fires on the way here.” Lokir explained, his voice weird from holding his nose, but now that he was speaking he was inhaling a little each time. He wondered about his horse for a moment but figured the mare would be smart enough to stay out of the fog. ”My name is Lokir, I wanna help you, friend.” Lokir smiled and held his hand out for the young man to take. ”Are you hurt in any way? That's a rather unique way you have of defending yourself there.” Lokir asked and observed with a small grin. ”It's worked rather well, the entire camp is asleep, tribes people and bandits alike.” He informed, hoping that might help alleviate some of the young man's fears. Lokir wanted to try and help him help himself before he'd call on his God powers to help ignite some courage in the young man. It was a gift Lokir had gained on ascension, but hadn't used too often, preferring to have people find that courage on their own. But now and then someone needed that extra little spark to get them on the right track.

For what felt like forever, he had his eyes shut in darkness as the panic washed over him in waves. Everything else around him, the screams, the shouts, the fighting–it all became drowned out by his own thoughts and fears. He hadn't realized just how much his soporific mist had affected the fight outside, and how it had disturbed the attackers enough to flee at the end. His hands, his legs, his arms were all shaking. Then, he heard a voice that pierced through the fog of his own crippling thoughts. It wasn't familiar. A male voice, one that sounded like it came from someone who was older and perhaps wiser. There was something calming, comforting about it. The words this person spoke began to gently roll away the dark clouds, bringing him back to the present. "My name is Lokir, I wanna help you, friend." 

He could hear there was pauses in between, as if he was taking care to pace his breathing. "Are you hurt in any way? That's a rather unique way you have of defending yourself there." As the paralyzing fear began to dissipate, Cymbel slowly shook his head. He still wasn't ready to open his eyes, and the other man continued speaking to him. "It's worked rather well, the entire camp is asleep, tribes people and bandits alike." They…were asleep? Then that must mean he… The small spark of courage the deity brought to light was like a flickering candle in pitch darkness. He grasped onto it, and as he held it fast his breathing began to return to normal. The wisps of vapor emanating from his breath had begun to lessen as his fears subsided. Soon he was no longer hyperventilating, and all was quiet. The mist had ceased billowing, and with the aid of the local breezes it began to thin out. Visibility was returning gradually to the camp. Opening his eyes at last, he saw the mists recede, revealing the others lying unconscious on the ground. 

Clasping his hands, he looked around him seeing the aftermath of what succumbing to his fears wrought. The fighting had stopped, and the only ones he saw still standing were him and the stranger standing close. Having only recovered from a severe panic attack moments before, he found himself speechless. His eyes glanced at the ground, and darted to the sides to see if anyone else was stirring. Everyone else was sleeping soundly. "T-thank you…" The fey managed to stammer, his voice barely above the loudest of whispers.

He got a shake of the head to indicate that the young man he was talking to wasn't hurt, that was good at least. But he didn't open his eyes yet and still appeared to be scared so Lokir kept talking, trying to calm him down and show that the danger was over. The man's breathing started to slowly return to normal, which was a good sign, and at the same time the fog coming from his mouth started to slow as well, which was a better sign.

Hyperventilation stopped as the breeze started to push the fog away from the area allowing Lokir to stop watching his breathing. He was able to see again and glanced around, no one else was awake, and he had to wonder how long they'd be asleep with the fog gone. The young man finally opened his eyes and looked around and Lokir kept quiet for now allowing him to take in and adjust to the scene around him.

At the thanks from the young man Lokir smiled and reached out to put a careful hand on the man's shoulder. ”You are most welcome.” He replied with a nod. ”Can you tell me how long they will be asleep for before they wake up? We may need to be ready in case the bandits started to wake up first.” Lokir said as he stood and moved from the young man and went to a native who was asleep. Carefully Lokir shook the man until he started to wake up. ”Wake up, come on.” Lokir spoke as the man eyeballed him for a moment before trying to get to his feet. ”Easy, I'm on your side, I'm the one you were expecting to come here for a meeting anyway, sorry I was a little late.” Lokir explained. ”Listen, everyone will start waking up soon I think, get to your people and start waking them and tying up the bandits before wake up. I'll keep an eye in the mean time for them to wake and protect those I can.” Lokir instructed and the tribesman nodded and got up shakily for a moment before starting to rouse his people.

With that done Lokir went back to the other young man but kept his eyes on the look out. ”Can you tell me anything about yourself, friend? We're not totally done with the fight here, need to get the bandits away. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

The man called Lokir placed a hand on his shoulder, and asked him if he knew when those who had fallen asleep would regain consciousness. "I'm sorry, but I don't know. It's entirely dependent on the individual. Some recover more quickly than others, some will continue to sleep until others awaken them. But typically those who were exposed earlier tend to wake before those who were exposed at a later point in time." Those who had fallen unconscious first would be the first to rise as well, provided they were no longer being exposed to the sleeping mist. Seeing the people slowly come to their senses, he felt a pang of guilt for adding to the situation. When he saw the Bohari tribesmen round up the remaining bandits without much difficulty, it helped ease his personal disappointment. Maybe it had done some good, after all.

The encampment was rising out of its slumber, and Lokir returned to speak with him. "Can you tell me anything about yourself, friend? We're not totally done with the fight here, need to get the bandits away. Is there anything I can do to help you?" He was about to ask if he could send word to someone, but held back. With a sigh, the fey figured someone would ask, sooner or later. "To tell the truth…I had meant to come and assist the people here as a healer. I know I lack experience, and was hoping this would give me grounds to improve." Cymbel hadn't spent more than a week before his services were greatly needed. Before the ambush, he was having second thoughts about his choices. "Perhaps I should have chosen my destination more prudently. Despite my efforts, it seems I am unable to improve my own constitution. I am not accustomed to long periods of exposure to high temperatures or strong sunlight." He then pulled back a sleeve to show his very pale complexion. "I overheat easily and become liable to faint."

Clasping his hands together so his fingers interlocked, he did his best not to fidget in the other man's presence. He was still feeling anxious, but not nearly as bad as before. "If it's not too much of a bother for you, could you send word to a tracker by the name of 'Walter'? He's a friend of mine…" He didn't want to call Shiloh all the way over from Parvpora, especially after he had decided to come to the plains himself. Walter would understand when he arrived. He was a good confidant, and didn't jump to conclusions easily. The hunter also had accompanied him from Adeluna to the Bohari camp, parting ways to attend to his other duties. He'd rather have Walter come than to pull Shiloh away from more important matters. If she were to find out, there would be no end to her worrying. Cymbel was sure of it. After all, if their positions were reversed he would do the same.

"He typically frequents the woodlands to the east, or can be found on the road between the Highlands and Adeluna. About this tall in height, with brown hair fading to grey and a trimmed beard. He also has a thin hairline scar across his face." That was the best he could do in describing the other man's features and whereabouts. He chose to omit the part about the man being a lycanthorpe, unsure if bringing it up would do more harm than good. Adding such a detail wouldn't necessarily raise the chances of finding him either.

[OOC: Oh, do I have an idea hehe]

Lokir listened as Cymbel explained what he was doing there; come here to help as a healer to try and improve himself. A noble ideal for sure and one that Lokir could easily respect, and he did, anyone trying to better themselves was worth his time. Cymbel was rather pale, however, saying he was prone to overheating and liable to faint as a result. Lokir had to wonder; was that something that was with him since birth? Or was that something he had happened because of staying inside too often out of the sun? Hard to say and at the moment Lokir wasn't going to ask that question.

Instead he listened to Cymbel's request and nodded. ”Walter, hm? Well, I'll do my best. But, may I ask; why do you need him?” It was an honest question, if not a little forthright as well. ”And it is admirable that you wish to better yourself, we aren't done here, as I said, there are wounded, so your skills are still needed I think.” Lokir observed.

Lokir sensed movement behind him but didn't react as a bandit had woken up behind him and got his arm around Lokir and placed a sharp blade at the knight's throat. “Don't move!” The bandit hissed and used Lokir as a shield as he eyed Cymbel. Lokir raised his hands up a little to show that he wasn't armed, not that he never wasn't and not that he needed to be armed to take care of this.

But, he thought, maybe, faced with this kind of situation Cymbel could use some confidence boosting? Harsh, but there would be no consequences for Lokir either way. ”A little help?” Lokir asked and the bandit shook him and said to shut up as Lokir eyed Cymbel, waiting to see what the young man would do.

More bandits were waking up and more villagers as well and the fight was starting to get underway again. Cymbel didn't have much time to help Lokir with the knife to his throat and the bandit hiding behind him.

Lokir's Divine powers seeped out and just touched Cymbel gently, just adding a little spark courage. But it would be up to Cymbel to turn that spark into a fire!

What would she do? Whenever he was faced with a situation he had never experienced, or a challenge that seemed impossible–she would be the first thing that came to mind. Seeing the man now at knife-point, he immediately could feel the panic rise again. But something was holding him together, something kept him grounded. He had yet to know this was an act of divine intervention, but at the moment he felt almost unafraid. What would Shiloh do?

Recalling how she had acted so many times, the memories became examples for him to pick and choose. First…remain calm. It was as if he could hear her voice in his mind, familiar and close. The next step to take would be to analyze the situation. A quick glance around told him the three of them were alone at the moment, but this would change soon. Time was of the essence, and he couldn't tarry. This bandit only had a simple blade, which could deal wounds he was capable of healing if he worked quick enough. The most important thing here, was to disarm and bring this bandit to his senses immediately. With his friend's visage in mind, he took his first step to initiate.

"Sir…could you please release him?" His tone wasn't firm, nor was it quaking. It seemed like a silly thing to say in this situation, but he wanted to convince this man if possible to reconsider taking a life. His words had little impact, he saw. But he had to try. The longer he could stall, the longer help could arrive. And the more time he could get, the sooner he could formulate a way to resolve this peacefully. For someone who never was one to attack first, this was as confrontational as he could be. The bandit wasn't having any of it, and he could feel anxiety welling up again. No, he couldn't panic again. That merely delayed the inevitable. And sooner or later, they might realize this too.

He had to hold the man's attention by any means necessary. "Please, there is no need for this. He is unarmed, and has nothing of value. Your objective was to take the resources of this camp, was it not? If so, then why hold him here?" The bandit scoffed, and laughed. "You think I'm that much of a sap to believe that? We're bandits, see. And we take what we want, break what we can't bring, and make sure there are no loose ends. Or is that too 'unreasonable' for you to get?" Cymbel could feel his face flushing red, and yes he knew it was naive. But those few precious moments he had managed to wrest from the bandit's attention gave him a spark of an idea. If seeing is believing, then he could convince them of something that wasn't real. Perhaps he was no warrior, but he certainly knew how to create a believable facade!

If he could craft and engineer an entire scripted play to make a group of townsfolk think he had chased off a dragon, then how much simpler could this be for a bandit? Taking out a string of prayer beads, he used this action to draw the armed man's focus from the sudden appearance of several copies of the fey now in a circle about him. As all of him began reciting a prayer, the man jerked back in fright when he found himself surrounded. "What in the–?!" The shock factor was more than enough to throw the man on the defensive. Cymbel himself had been teleported away from his original position in exchange with one of his duplicates, and with his mastery of illusion the man wouldn't be able to tell the difference. Surely the bandit would know there was magic at play, but would he risk taking the chance of not knowing where he could be attacked from?