Go Limp

Title: Go Limp
Time Period: March 19, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: Trolls venture uncharacteristically close to Dornie and a few brave souls attempt a defense. (Also, musical accompaniment!)

It's idyllic, really. The rushing waters of the river moseying along to the loch make for a peaceful soundtrack to the rolling, grassy hills around it, the treeline standing guard, the old stone bridge, the little, abandoned shack and it's long neglected waterwheel still lazily spinning with the force of the river flow.

It would be a wonderful place to be alone, if it weren't completely in view of the edge of town.

Even so. It's a breath of air away from the bustling market square and the hollering in the pubs and children playing across streets and the general din of population. Oddly enough, this evening, it seems to be free from even the local fauna. No deer prancing through the woods nearby, no bird song, even the crickets seem to be somewhere else.

Alone is what Beisdean is seeking — it's been a bad day, and he's come here to get away from anywhere people might hear his voice, increasingly loud as frustrating increases. Some days you can't have logical discussions with ghosts. Make that most days.

As it is, he's finally earned his solitude, and is resting near the water on a flat rock, a book on his lap and his flask beside him. Darklight too has fallen asleep curled up in a bit of sun. It's easy to miss the two in their repose — anyone entering the spot might think themselves all alone.

She's running a little late, Sorcha having made her trip out to deliver goods promised, a batch of wool, the town seamstress is whistling her way through the edge of town, trying to make it back in time to go have a drink or two. Admittedly, Sorcha may have a bit of a drinking problem. But where she enters, leaves her indeed oblivious to Beisdean and his companion, though her arrival one can't help but notice thanks to the humming of some bawdy song better suited for a bar than for the local seamstress walking with a basket of eggs and other traded goods.

It may not have been quiet that Cas Blackburn was seeking when he came to the edge of town, but it's certainly what he found, whether he intended to or not. In fact he probably did not intend to stay as long as he did. The lack of animals helps bring a sound of breathing from up in the trees, where people should not readily be. Much less someone, by the sounds of it, sleeping.

It's the humming that finally snaps him out of his nap, causing leaves to rustle and the sudden sound of sputtering. A few seconds later something tumbles from the tree to land on the ground. Luckily not the man who fell asleep, but a bag of fruit that tumbles out along the ground. Seems someone decided to deny the squirrels their first bounty from this tree. And got tired and fell asleep.

Skirting the edge of town is Niall and his familiar, Stands-Fast, making their way along with a now mostly empty two-wheeler cart also post-delivery. The blacksmith waves to the children who tag along in their last attempts to get the big yet surprisingly docile bull to give them rides. Most of the straw in the cart remains in the back of the vehicle, though a good portion of it slowly circles around in the bull's chewing maw. Just a regular day in the neighborhood, they say. The view of the loch is what draws Niall's eyes that way, just to see the peaceful scene from further out. Stands-Fast's ears twitch to the seamstress' humming - the familiar's senses more attuned than it gives off. Niall's lesser perception doesn't keep the man from spotting the figure that Sorcha cuts on her way home, however, and he raises a hand to greet. "Ho, Sorcha! Did you want a ride back into town?"

Winter in Scotland does not so much as end, for Jorn, as it just segues from wet and cold to wet and not-so-cold. It will undoubtedly get better, but he knows that with the seasons comes the need to change habits again, and shake off the last winter blues. At least, as many blues as he can; things are not sitting well with him, but letting it draw him out will do no good.

Whatever it is that Jorn is doing on the bank, he looks as if he is on a mission; perhaps he is, in fact, on a mission. Judging by the clanking, brisk walk and a large satchel pinned like a lamb under his arm, it could be something sensitive enough that he attempts to look inconspicuous on the way out of town. Jorn Wartooth has a problem being inconspicuous as it is, and putting him on one of the nicer river roads is not going to fool anyone. Possibly the point being made, come to think of it.

Nobody said being a veritable lackey was easy.

The other travelers far down the road coming in have his eyes, if not his concerns.

The humming is the least of anyone's worries, as it turns out. Be it the presence of more people or the noisy clanking down the bank, something stirs beneath the surface. Beisdean might be distracted from noticing the musical seamstress or the chore running bear man, for being so close to the water, he's the first to hear the splutter of water from under the stone bridge followed by a low groan. Thick, stubby fingers grab onto the edge of the bridge from below. What pulls itself from the water is in the vague shape of a human, but too large and too… green. And smelly. The water certainly didn't help that, having the effect of wet dog rather than a sound bath. Water droplets fall from thick eyelashes as the troll blinks and turns its head to set its sights on the first piece of meat it sees.

Sorry Beisdean.

Of course, he isn't the only one with problems. When Cas is startled awake there in the trees, after a few blinks to right his vision, he may notice an oversized face hovering there next to his tree, apparently having been watching the stablehand sleep. And now that he's awake, tusked lips spread into a grin and a meaty hand reaches through the tree's branched toward him.

It is possible the apples are in the better situation.

The others are left with watching this sudden shift unfold in front of them, travels and plans a bit interrupted. Perhaps.

The whistling and yoo-hooing has Beisdean glancing in that direction; he turns back at the splutter to see that green hulk emerging from the muck, and he's up off his perch in a way that's not so much grace as long-legged agility. Darklight is scooped up where he's sleeping, along with the book and Beisdean leaps off his rock and turns to use those long legs to put distance between himself and that beast.

The familiar launches off his shoulders to take flight — not as a raven today but a hawk, golden feathers instead of the usual ink black overtaking the marten's form. "Kree!" is the indignant cry of the just-awakened former marten.

Meanwhile, Beisdean yells to warn the others, not noticing that there are in fact two of the beasts. "Troll!"

Any exclamations of yes please, gosh my dogs are barking tired fro all this walking,that might have been made by Sorcha, or even the reaction to the bag of fruit that fall not far from her by the individual up in the tree is shattered by the sound of the bird - That alone makes the dark haired woman seize up and shrink away in spot - followed by the identification of the hideous smelly thing that seems to have taken a liking to Beis.

"Niall!" Sorcha yells down to the smithy. "Troll!" as if, you know, NIall couldn't see it or hear it for himself. Hopefully though, unlike the her, maybe the smithy will have something more than a wicked looking knife that she is currently plucking from the depths of her basket. A glance towards the tree's that Cas is in makes brown eyes widen further and point.

"TROLL!"

Not the sort of thing someone ever wants to wake up to. For one a troll has terrible breath. It takes a few seconds for Cas to even realize what he's looking at, but even as others are able to eloquently get out a simple word like Troll all Cas is able to manage is a rather pathetic choked gasp of "Aaaaaa!!" before he tries to get away from the hand reaching toward him.

And by get away, that means he goes the way of the apples, falling off his comfortable branch, striking newly leaved thinner branches on the way down in various unfriendly ways that actually break his fall and ends up flat on his back on the roots of the tree. But from the groan at least he's conscious.

Of all the horrors to see in one's lifetime! Make that smell. Niall widens his eyes at the sight of the green, monstrous brute rising from the depths beneath the bridge. Oh yes, he can see the troll. Sorcha confirms the identification of the beast, but it's followed by several more startled cries. "Run!" he shouts out to those he does see, Beisdean, Cas and Sorcha along with Jorn a ways away. Displaying his own sort of agility, Niall hops off the cart he drives, a hand reflexively reaching for the large-headed hammer commonly attached to the smith's tool belt. The man's other hand waves in a flailing gesture, urging those to flee back towards him, towards the safety of town. And Stands-Fast? The bull does as his name implies, remaining still and unperturbed by the sudden appearance of the troll.

It's rather like being back home, really. A troll here, a troll there. A few moments manage to pass wherein Jorn finds himself staring down the road and squinting, as if the late winter sun peeking through an overcast sky happens to be playing tricks on his vision. Unfortunately, it isn't. And Niall telling him to run may as well go in one ear and out the other, as effective as it is. He grinds his teeth and sets off down the road again, boots picking up into a trot and satchel tight under his arm.

The northman puts a hand to the long-barreled pistol at his belt, keeping it there as he bounds nearer; the last thing that he wants today is to try and shove his longsword into a troll. Close range is not where he wants to be, though he hesitates and keeps his hand at his pistol.

"…Too late to draw straws?" Jorn's voice comes from Niall's right, as the older man catches up to the scene and fixes the blacksmith with a mild, tired look.

Beisdean's flight leaves a hissing monster in his wake, and the greenish, damp troll starts after man and familiar. It may have long legs as well, but it's large and meaty enough to cause its run to be more of a sloppy lumber. But large fists remain a looming threat, and the smell certainly keeps Beisdean aware that it's coming up behind him.

When Cas tumbles out of the tree, the larger of the trolls straightens up there in the trees. "Huuuuh?" It's a rumbling noise of confusion. And the troll doesn't seem to think to look down, especially as shouting across the clearing catches its attention. "Hnngh," is a more purposeful sound and large feet break through the tree line to head in the direction of Sorcha's higher pitched yowl. Cas is littered with broken tree branches as it moves away, and one of those feet lands uncomfortably close to him. Close enough to feel the displaced air and hear the thud near his ear. But it seems to have forgotten him. For the moment.

The hawk from above begins to divebomb the troll; the familiar could become something bigger, but it seems that Darklight aims more to divert the troll's attention away from Beisdean. Divebomb, peck, fly away, and repeat ad finitum. Beisdean manages to pull a blade from his satchel and finally when he feels he's gained enough space turns to face the creature, the blade out and at the ready — too bad it's only a few inches and meant more for cutting dead flesh than wounding live.

He doesn't stop moving in hopes of sounding the lumbering beast, however; he simply moves backward for a few steps so he can gauge just what the others are up to, and to look for places to run that the creature is unlikely to be able to follow.

Run. Right now flight or fight is looking more in favor of fight for the seamstress as she see's an actual human fall from the tree's that once birthed a bag of fruit - and subsequently a troll. The few rocking steps forward with the basket hanging over one arm and the wicked looking blade in another that looks like it could possibly carve a turkey are halted when the rest of the troll appears, favouring her over Cas on the ground whom she'd had half a mind to go and help get up starts toward her.

She freezes in spot, eyes wide as saucers, frozen like a deer in headlights. Do they have poor sight? If she stops still will it not see her? Fingers tighten around the handle of her blade, knuckles white and plump lips parted as breath escapes.

"Troll." Troll.

The foot so close to his poor fragile body definitely snaps Cas out of his moaning and groaning, looking up the rather large foot with widened eyes of surprise— even if he stops to wince for a second. There's a little blood on his forehead, likely from striking something when he fell. And the small limbs that landed on him aren't going to do very much to help as he starts to roll away from the foot, flailing a little to get the leaves off of him, rolling and crawling in another direction. Away from the bone crushing foot.

The gasped words of the woman draws his eyes away, and he realizes his friendly troll has his eyes somewhere else. A glance is cast around helplessly. His hands do not reach for a knife. Instead it finds one of his apples. As he stands up, he throws the apple at the troll's… knee. Which is considerably higher than any knee has a right to be.

"Oi. Leave the lady alone." Brave word. From one from of the only people in sight with no bladed weapon. He had an apple, though?

Niall slows as he reaches a decision point. Though he'd started his way towards the damp and smelly troll, the drop of the second troll out of the treeline forces a stop from the smith. Jorn's appearance and question heralds a grunted answer. "Your choice, soldier." But uttering that phrase too, also seems to help him decide where to head first. He takes off at a run towards Sorcha, hoping to get there before the troll does and pull her away.

Jorn has a choice to make, briefly, about putting the thing under his arm down. He clearly was instructed to hold onto it; he only drops it behind the wheel of Niall's wagon after an expression of consternation comes and goes across his broad chin and light eyes. The package is hidden away, and Jorn is off for the other troll's path.

The pistol is drawn out and the hammer thumbed back, its long nose pointing upwards after the wet trail the creature is leaving behind, and then at the broadside of the troll itself. Firing on it, regardless of knowing if it is effective or not, is the least difficult decision thusfar.

Aside from the town's edge, the smelly troll currently cuts Beisdean off from the closest form of cover, the bridge and little stone shack next to it. There is, of course, the trees as an option, but with night already falling, it seems the most ominous of choices.

And that troll is especially in the way as the diving and pecking bring it to a slow stop, another hiss sounding with every hit. His first couple of swipes at the familiar are broad misses, but as Darklight comes in for another pass, it gets the timing right and its palm smacks into the familiar, sending it falling to the grass below. Something is definitely broken by the time he hits ground. But it isn't all fun and games for the troll, as something sharp and painful hits it right in the backside. It howls, then levels its gaze on Beisdean again, apparently holding him responsible for the shot, and he takes a few steps forward to wrap wet, smelly, greasy arms around the fairest of them all. And squeeze.

The tusked fellow seems undeterred by the blacksmith and his hammer, as its steps take it steadily in the frozen woman's direction. But when an apple hits it in the back of the knee, it pauses, leaving long enough for Niall to grab the seamstress, gets a puzzled look about it and turns to look around for what could have possibly hit it.

And, of course, there is Cas. Cut off from the safety of the town by a couple of trolls and tossing apples of all things. The lumbering giant takes in a slow breath, then lets it out in a roar in his direction before he turns more fully to come after him. Luckily, it's slow. Unluckily, it's mad.

"Darklight!" Beisdean cries out — and it's likely that moment of hesitation and that half step forward toward his fallen companion that is his undoing.

Finding himself wrapped in those big, smelly arms (not how he wanted to spend this evening!), the man, blind with fury more than fear now, fights back — one fist punching as hard as he can as the other with the knife tries to strike the troll where it will hurt, aiming for whatever soft spot he can reach to get the blade in deep. If he manages that, a turn of his wrist to ensure the most damage before he'll withdraw the blade and try again. And again.

Whirling away, moving with Niall's help till he's between her and the troll snaps the brunette out of the shock she was in, looking away from her troll to the other. "NIall, two of them" And having at Beisdean. Who will sweep her floor if he dies? Stupid thought that it is to her. But Jorn is there, and Jorn can help Beis. "Help him" Pointing to Cas, dropping her knife and grabbing her own perishible goods in herbag to throw at tusky handsomeness - not. "Run!" Somewhere Cas.

Well. The apple worked. Though from the wide eyed look on his face Cas isn't particularly pleased with how well it worked. Or maybe he didn't think that far ahead. Scrambling backwards a few steps. He heard the woman's yelled advice, but she may not hear his breathless retort, "And here I thought I would just lay there and let him step on me," all made as he stumbles to get to his feet and begin to run.

Well, run slash limp.

At least he's faster than the big tusky troll thing, and he spots where he wants to go. The old unused watermill on the edge of the river. And he's running for it.

Just as Sorcha goes to throw more things at the troll, Niall swats for her arm. "Are y' daft, woman? You want to turn it back towards yourself, now?" he snaps briefly, tossing glances between her and Cas. "Get back to the cart and under cover, and don't forget this." He sweeps up the knife she'd dropped, passing it back to her. Jorn seems to have Beis somewhat covered, but there's a tusky fellow after Cas now. An angry tusky fellow. And, as soon as Niall gets a fair few steps away from Sorcha, he starts to form a crackling fireball is his right hand, hammer in his left.

The fireball lets fly, aimed for the tusked troll's broad backside.

"Satte ham ned!" Jorn practically spits this as he breaks into a run after the troll, He needs the thing to drop its quarry- if it comes after Jorn, well- he is better equipped than Beisdean to handle it. He can only hope that in a few minutes the news of the commotion will reach down the road. As for the immediate, the northman aims his pistol for the troll's knee.

While punches seem to be just an annoyance, as the smelly troll starts to walk back toward the water with Beis pressed against his hairy chest, it's the knife that changes matters. Hisses turn to yowls of pain as the knife slides into the soft side of his arm and twists. Twice. It only takes two before it starts to shake Beisdean back and forth, like a croc with its catch. Or a puppy with a plaything. It's during this that Beisdean can see a figure before him, a young woman with her head bent to a fatally uncomfortable angle. Not a familiar face, but she knows to appear to him, at least.

"This is totally how I died," she says, as if offering something helpful, "It hurts less if you go limp." And she crouches down just a little to look up into Beisdean's face as he's slung about.

But, luckily, it doesn't last long enough to kill him, although it might feel like it was getting a little close, as the shot hitting its leg has it throwing Beisdean from it as it sinks down onto its good knee. Ow.

Cas runs and the troll runs after, even as an egg hits and cracks open against the back of its head. It may even make it run faster. Hard to tell, really. However, when food is replaced with a fire lit under its ass (literally!), it is definitely running faster, it's own fight-or-flight coming into play. But there is a satisfying roar for Niall's efforts, and a whimper that follows for Cas to hear. Of course, that he can hear it only means the troll is a little too close.

"Fffuuu" is about all Beisdean gets out, shaken like a rag doll as he is, trying to stab something besides arm and something more vital, except the blood and water make his hands slip on that knife embedded in troll arm, and he can't get a good grip before he's flung.

He might be alive — it's hard to tell, really, where he lands, face down on an arm that doesn't look like it's quite at the right angle. He's not moving for a moment, but those more astute might see a slight shake of his head to peer through his hair at the troll — he's playing 'possum, though he's not sure if that will work… he'll get up and run if the thing doesn't go down in a volley of bullets soon. His legs still work — he thinks.

She's going to run. Yes, Sorcha's going to actually do what Niall is telling her to do, since he's now spitting magic out of his hands - Holy crap - and she doesn't want to really be anywhere near that sort of thing. So to the cart she goes, past the oxen and witha skid of leather clad feet, she's under it, tucking her basket with her and hiding, like a good female and peering between the slats on the wheels. Safe and sound, instead of in harms way, like others.

The whoosh of fire cast Cas' eyes back just as he gets to the open window of the old mill, just in time to see the fireball explode against the trolls back. Eyes widen in surprise, and he looks like he might be about to say something when— he realizes just how close the troll happens to be.

Hot on his tail, as it were.

With a yelped sound, he half climbs half falls into the window and onto the floor, looking around the broken down building, only managing to find rotted boards that fell off the ceiling to push forwards the window in an attempt to cover the hole before hand can get through.

Niall really starts to heat things up once the fire strikes the troll with satisfactory results. With flames swirling around his left, he quickens his pace once Cas gets to the stone mill and into some degree of safety. "Get outta here you foul-fanged beast! Before I cook your bones and leave you to the wolves!" threatens the blacksmith, hammer swinging. It's a bluff of course, but fiercely supported by tool-turned-weapon and magical flames bursting out with added intensity in the tusked troll's direction. Poor Beis and Jorn though, left to deal with their own monster for now.

"You have made a mistake, jotunn." Jorn thunders, readying his pistol again. Coming this close to town is something that he would never have expected. There is either a reason- or there is none. Trolls are not known for their abilities of premeditation- at least not in this part of the world. If this were his true jotunn, rather than Scotland's cousin, the Nord would find himself troubled. Gun in hand and pointed, Jorn stands his ground where the troll can see him plainly, though he remains at what he deems a safe distance. His teeth are bared in a snarl.

"Go back to your river, or I will have to kill you."

Beisdean lays there and the smelly troll watches him, eyes wide and seemingly totally interested in the fact that he may be dead. And when it starts to look like a certainty, to the trollish mind, it seems… disappointed. Sad, even, maybe. Although, no one wants to think about what this troll's tears would be made of.

But it has Beisdean in the clear, for the moment, as the creature starts getting up to its feet, its attention mostly on its wounded knee. Until words are spoken in its direction. English words. Maybe. It looks over at Jorn, brow furrowing like it's trying to make sense of what he's saying, and stands up the rest of the way to its feet. Translation seems to fail, though, and the green troll lopes in Jorn's direction, aiming to bring the fight much, much closer.

Unfortunately for Niall, this troll barely understands English, let alone English with an Irish accent. Might as well be an echo of Jorn's native tongue. Might as well be moon language for all that it alters the troll's behavior. No, instead, its shoulder slams against that window. Or rather, the wall around that window. Cas has enough time to get the board up, but the shack shakes precariously with the troll's strength behind it. When flames lick against its skin again, they cling this time, setting dry skin and hair on fire. The troll roars and rears back to slam into the little building again, and there's a crack of wood as the beam over Cas' head snaps and falls in a bang against the wood floor. The stones near the top of the wall fall as well, and one hits the stablehand against the shoulder and another against the leg. But it's a sign of things to come as a third slam as the building slanting sideways before it crumbles altogether, with only a bare amount of time for Cas to find a safe (iiiish) corner to ride it out. But the troll, as much as it was interested in Cas moments ago, at this very moment, with flames reaching up to its shoulder and face, tramples over the ruined shack to dunk itself in the river.

From his position on the ground, Beisdean watches; as soon as the troll is lumbering away from him, his back to him, Beisdean is up and on his feet; there's no grace to this motion, and it's a bit lopsided looking until one sees it's because of the way his arm hangs from his shoulder. As if that shoulder is not quite… connected.

Still, Beisdean lurches forward toward where Darklight fell, only to fall to his knees to stare down at the injured thing, afraid to move the hawk with what looks to be a broken wing. "Hold on…" he murmurs to the creature, but it is much too passive a thing to stand guard over his familiar.

Glancing about, he seeks something — anything — that might help him fight from a distance, and his hand lands on a rock bigger than his fist. It's not his good throwing arm, which hangs limp at his side, but the troll makes for a large target, and he lobs the stone for its head, then reaches for another, prying them out of muck if need be.

There will be mud and dirt on her skirts, worming out from under the wagon and leaving it's safety when she see's injured Beisdean making his way to the downed familiar, the troll taking off. They are not something she likes, familiars. But she likes Beisdean well enough and with swift feet, while he's grabbing a rock to haul off and throw at the retreating troll, she's turning her basket upside to empty out the produce - goodbye hard earned eggs - and scooping the bird up gently, easing him into the basket. "Stop. You're hurt, come on, we can run for town. The others will follow" Tugging on Beisdean's jacket.

Unaware of what's going on outside the crumbling walls, Cas' only concern is the sharp pain that's burning through his body where the various debris hits. His groans and protests are drowned by the sound of the building crumbling and the troll making for the river, but lucky for him he did find a corner to curl up in, covering his head with his arms.

Though he may need help getting out of the building once all is said and done, the way the debris piles around him— and on top of him.

Niall gives chase for a short distance after he's set the monster alight, but once the troll's jumped into the water he ceases the flames altogether. Sweat has gathered on his brow from the adrenaline and the effort. Hammer shoved back in his belt, the blacksmith turns to the collapsed shack to inspect the debris. "Oy, you still breathing in there? Give a shout." A glance goes over to where Sorcha abandons the safety of Stands-Fast and the cart to town, gauging the situation there, before Niall turns to the downed debris to help dig the stablehand out. Preferably still alive.

One could suppose that Niall can substitute for a certain hammer-wielding god that trolls hate- for all the good it does Jorn, as the other man is trying to apparently set the other troll totally ablaze. No problem with that, considering. Jorn steps backwards as the troll comes forward, the pistol firing a few quick times in succession. He holsters it only when he runs out of bullets, and by then his face is wrenching into a mouth full of teeth, the rest crackling into fur and muscle.

If the bullets didn't cause the thing to reconsider, perhaps a giant white bear can, yes?

Rocks and bullets hit the smaller of the trolls, both causing their own bits of damage. One more than the other, obviously. But even through bullets hitting vital organs and rocks cracking its skull, the troll simply does not stop. Not until a mixture of addled brain and blood loss leave it in a heap at the bear's feet.

It's a bit anticlimactic, really.

But, there's only a bare moment to consider that, as the second, and much larger troll leaps up from under the water, already roaring as it breaks the surface. And it has no qualms about grappling with the white bear. And it proves it by a pair of fists ramming against Jorn's side, sending him stumbling off in that direction.

Beisdean finds another fist-sized rock to throw, heaving it awkwardly with his inferior hand, then searches around for the knife that had been once embedded in the fallen troll's arm. He finds it, bloody and muddy, and gets an awkward grip on it — much like a child trying to use a pencil, all fist and no finesse, held for an overhand strike.

Taking a swallow of air, he runs forward to try to ram that knife into the troll's spine…

…and then back pedal away as fast as he can.

Sorcha's not running forward, sorcha is back pedaling herself, clutching the basket with the familiar close. If Beis wants to kill himself, then he can do that. All parties are busy with battling trolls and Sorcha does the next best and smartest thing. She's running, fast as her feet can take her toward the town to try and get help.

"I'm fine," the young man's English accent can be heard from under the rubble to the side of one of the corners of the now very ruined watermill. "I think," Cas mutters a little softer as he tries to move, causing the rubble to shift and dust to fly up. There's a coughing sound after that, followed by a rougher, "Mostly."

And while he can no longer see the troll, he can hear it. "Oi— is it still out there? Bloody hell man," he groans as he reaches to take the man's hand once he can see it, so he can be pulled to— well— not safety. But less rubble-covered.

Niall keeps digging, taking care not to pull off some stabilizing fallen beams, until fingers contact with the other younger man's hand. The roar startles the smith, grabbing his immediate attention for a few moments to see Bear!Jorn battling the troll he'd just set on fire earlier. "There's not going to be just a one of us able to bring that brute down," he remarks with a quick thump of his now-not-on-fire hand on Cas' shoulder. Now just to make sure everybody else gets out of this alive!

Still in a half-stand, Jorn's stumble to the side can only be braced when he puts all four feet onto the ground. Fortunately for him, he has quite the layers between skin and bone, and polar bears are made to bash themselves around. Men, less so. All pink and squishy. Still, he finds himself pausing only long enough to shake it off.

The sound of the troll is at odds with the roar from the bear as he rears back up to bash himself full force- and all of those teeth- into the unlucky, burnt tusker.

Sorcha heads to the town, where she finds onlookers in various states of worry, panic or excitement, but beyond them, several of the militia ready to hear her rundown of the scene and run valiantly into battle. Help for Darklight, though, seems a little harder to find at the moment.

Beisdean and Jorn tag team the troll, the latter getting the bulk of the creature's attention. Beisdean's style lets him get harmful stabs into hardened skin and flitter away without feeling the backlash. But Jorn gets to take it for him. The bear chomps into burned flesh, but the troll's scream is coupled with a series of too-strong knocks to Jorn's head. It only takes a few before the bear finds himself getting dizzy and slowly fading to black. But he does get to see, before he blacks out, a line of militia running in. And far better equipped for the job. And fortunately, taking on an already weakened enemy.

Stumbling away, Beisdean stumbles away before finally falling to one knee, clapping his injured shoulder with the hand slick with troll blood from wielding the knife. He looks up, worry painted over his features, into the distance where Sorcha's taken his familiar. He'll follow… once he catches his breath. After all, like Darklight, he'll need some medical attention.

"Thanks, mate," Cas says in a hoarse voice, body covered in a thin layer of dust— and some leaves. And other things. Luckily there's not too much blood visible. His clothing is torn in a few places and he looks as if he might have many bruises on the morn, but except for a limp as he gets up, he doesn't look life threatened.

A hand runs over his lips as he looks on, toward the troll. And the polar bear— and the other young man fighting it. For a moment he looks as if he might move toward the troll, but he stumbles and stops with a grimace. "Go help 'em. I'm fine," he waves at the man who helped him.

There's little Niall can do to help, but he too does witness the final clashes; risking fire wielding again would only risk burning an ally. Once the cavalry-ahem-militia arrive to finish off the troll, he's more than a little relieved. Beckoning Cas to come with as he goes to collect Beisdean and Jorn, Niall finds one more good use for his empty cart: makeshift medical transport back into town. Stands-Fast stands ready to haul the group of them back. The cleanup will get left to someone else with more knowledge about these beings, no doubt…

Protecting the town may come secondary to his other duties, but when Jorn protects his home, he protects it well, and he digs up whatever fibres are necessary. Even if that means getting knocked out during the process. He is prepared to be beaten at, though it has been a long time since he has come to blows with one like this- the desperation from the beast gives it force enough to remind Jorn why it is that he was hesitant to get into the fray in the first place.

Jorn lets go of the troll when the world flickers, shoving at it with full limb and claw, to push a greater distance between it and himself. Mouth discolored by the thick troll's blood, the giant bear stumbles again as his feet shuffle backwards, and when he does feel the concussion oppressing his senses, it is at least in a troll-less, grassier direction. The shifter gets a few drunken paces before slumping into the grass like a dog that has spent too much time spiraling after its tail, tongue out between his teeth and eyes watching reinforcements come charging into view.

He'll wake up, eventually, though perhaps it may be best to simply let sleeping bears lie.

Even with the extra hands, this troll is an effort to bring down. But once there are two dead trolls on the grass, the militia men take over in the wake. They might not have done most of the work, but they'll make sure it looks like it was part of the plan all along, dang it. And also take over the clean up.

Troll bodies are one of the more challenging to get rid of.