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►THE WORLD BETWEEN◄

Trace

if cupid had a gun



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T H E x W O R L D x B E T W E E N

A 1X1 ROLEPLAY W/ TUGBOATS & TRACE




 
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T H E x MARSHES










S I B Y L L E


She awoke, curled on her side, to the sound of flesh being rendered from bone and footsteps sloshing through water.


She lay still, only blinking, squinting against the blurred edges of her vision. Light cut through the lattice covering of the thick and tangled mess of trees and vines that grew overhead, framing a body that had sunk halfway into the muck in front of her. The silhouette of a great stag-looking creature loomed over it, its snout nuzzling against the ground, and it was only once it brought up its great head with a snap of its neck that she realized that the outline of a human face, blushing red, was its head and that entrails was dragging along with it. Ice crawled through her veins.



These weren’t her wilds. Not even close.



She dragged her body, prone, and she could feel the hard ground through her threadbare clothes, the root from a tree digging into her ribs. She moved slowly by the inches, her heart hurtling against her chest so hard she could swear she could hear the rattle of bone. Behind her she could hear the grind of molars, the chew of sinew, and it took nearly everything to wrench herself away from the blood curdling sound.



She made it through the brush and moved her tangle of limbs to a crouch, fingers feeling for the necklace her mother had given to her and found nothing but her clavicle. A shudder ran through her. Someone had stripped her of everything: her leather chainmail, her gloves, her boots, even her necklace and bracelet. But what was most concerning was the absence of the curve of her bow jutting into her back, the round body of her quiver, and the hard grip of her knife against her thigh.



She needed to find Engel, was her knee jerk reaction. It was a wild thought, like a drowning man’s desperation for a lifeline. Her second was to find shelter and a weapon.


It was still daylight and there seemed to be a clearing perhaps a mile ahead, just barely visible through the dark canopy of the spire-like trees. That would make do for now. Sibylle moved to her feet, steadying herself against the great rock that she had taken refuge against. A step found herself ankle deep in muddy water and she cringed at the feel of slimy small fish swimming around her ankles. A second step found her slipping backwards, body hitting painfully against the boulder, and the sound of a low, careening sigh told Sibylle that it hadn’t been a series of great boulders at all.



The beast’s body was the color of rock, yet curled around its stout limbs and great barrel-chested body were vines and fauna. Green moss and mushrooms grew between its leathery plates while fungus crusted its eyelids, visible each time the creature blinked its jaundice colored eyes, and Sibylle crawled away, slowly and deliberately, a tremor spreading throughout her body that only quickened once the water shuddered as the creature began to move.



It reared its head, two great horns jutting from its brow, one just below the other, and a shrill clicking sound echoed like a windstorm through the forest as it opened its massive gray beak, a dark purple colored sludge oozing down the length of its soft throat. Its tail was like a club made of a series of small boulders, crushing through a tree trunk with ease as it began its lumbering descent towards her.



And Sibylle did what any sane person would do: she ran.









 
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Oren had spent the better part of his first year searching for any sign of his own world, and if The Prince were alive or not. Eventually, he realized that fruitlessly clinging to his old life had gotten him nowhere, and he needed to strike a balance, rather than cling to threads of a life he was no longer a part of. The other two years had been spent on that balance. He worked as a freelance mercenary, fighting monsters and bandits alike for money. He would move between all of the regions and try to find anyone he recognized from his world.


He now wore thick metal armor that had cost a particularly violent bandit an arm and a leg. His blade could get through tough hide and lighter armors with enough force, and Oren was no stranger to applying force. The only part of his get-up that felt incomplete was his shield. The slab of steel certainly did its job, but his own attachment with Perete made other shields feel inferior, what with its beauty and effectiveness. However, this did very little to stop him from being an effective mercenary.


Every three months, Oren would do jobs in a different region. The next three would be in a place Oren could be quoted calling "a swampy hellhole." All the same, he wanted to know if anyone from Callia were here and just what had happened in his own world. He had expected a quiet carriage ride across one of the few decent roads left in The Marshes. This was interrupted as he heard the cry of a beast he had seen a few times before. (I'll let you name it, since it's your monster.)


Oren grabbed his sword and shield and made his way towards the sound, despite the cry of distress coming from the man driving his carriage. "You'll get yourself killed, you idiot! Let's go!" Oren simply ignored his words and dashed towards the sound.


He came upon a clearing where he could see a Newcomer running from the monster. Knowing it would be attracted to the sound, he slammed his sheathed sword across his shield as he advanced, hopefully distracting the monster for long enough for the Newcomer to get away. Once he had its attention, he unsheathed the sword and stood ready to fight.
 


S I B Y L L E


The piercing cry of a blade across shield echoed through the clearing like a bell, originating from one end of the glade just forty feet in front. It sliced through the thick of the marsh land, a beautifully bright sound compared to the low murmur of the swamp dwellers, a cacophonous symphony that reminded that there were spectators amongst the reeds and the foliage.


The high-pitched clang caught not only the attention of the swamp sleeper, but that of Sibylle, and it was without pause that she swerved from her path, vaulting over a colossal-sized overturned tree trunk that was sunk into the murk halfway through the glade. The muddy water skirted across her cheeks, scattering along the contours of her already grime-smeared face, as she landed in a crouch.



The creature lumbered towards the armored man, the loud clash of sword against shield a beacon to its blind eye but keen hearing. Suddenly, it turned—a feat that should have been laborious but was quick and decisive in execution—and its great tail followed, arcing with it before slamming into the murky water, droplets spraying in a great curtain towards its target. The leathery plates upon its body began to shift, a shimmer throughout that lasted only a manner of seconds from start to finish. The plates unfolded like prongs the length of its body resembling the structure of a pine cone, and it seemed a strange, defensive armor that worked two-fold for both protection and offense. The underbelly of the plates, the exposed flesh, was a bruised purple color—nubile and tender—and the vines entwined around its body began to slither along those exposed pockets of flesh.



Sibylle made a move to draw her bow and arrow but only found herself futilely grasping air. For so long her bow had been an extra limb—and her arrows had been an extension of her body—that it had been so easy to forget that here she had none. A curse fouled her tongue, a vicious hiss that was masked by the shrill clicking of the swamp sleeper’s battle cry.









 
Oren moved as quickly as he could, but between the murk and the weight of his armor, he wasn't exactly going to set land-speed records. He reached the Newcomer in her headlong dash towards him, seeing her grab for weapons that weren't there. Having returned his sword to his hip, he arced a knife through the air towards her, still in its sheath. The blade itself was simple, but would be sharp enough to get through the weaker parts of the monster's skin. Oren, not one to shy away from a fight, stepped up towards the swamp sleeper before batting its beak solidly with his shield.


In one smooth motion he sliced and hopped backwards. "If you're any good in a fight, take that blade and help. Otherwise, there's a road back the way I came from." Most Newcomers shied away from fighting, and Oren was fairly confident that if he fought properly, the swamp sleeper would be dead, and more importantly, he wouldn't be. He didn't risk another glance at the person behind him, and focused on the fight ahead.


Putrid murk dripped from the maw of the beast, a mixture of its saliva and blood now coming out of a fresh hole cut in the beast, regardless of whether the mouth was open or not. It began to whip its tail again and Oren dropped to the ground, narrowly avoiding the beast's plates, but rose up with a stab, guiding the blade into the gap between plates. It didn't hit anything fatal, but based on the beast's reaction, the blade found something painful.


Again Oren stood, shield up and eyes on the beast in front of him. There was no fear or anger towards the beast. This fight was a matter of finding openings and keeping defenses up. This was exactly the type of fight Oren was made to fight.
 


S I B Y L L E


The blade was snatched from the air and unsheathed in a single motion, the knife drawn and hovering at her right hip. The handle was plain, the blade heavier than her own, but it could parry and it could cut so it would be enough. Though not her weapon of choice, she had never held a knife that she couldn't use.


Her benefactor trudged towards the hulking beast, the water dragging around his legs with each heavy step; and shield met beak as the swamp sleeper lurched its head forward.



Sibylle did not move, not immediately. The plates rippled, fanning in and out, and the tender rotted plum colored flesh underneath caught her eye. Her body was wound, tight as a snake, her only response to the man’s words. She needed no response, chin tucked down as each muscle coiled in anticipation. Her actions would be plenty.



The man dropped downward and with a great thrust managed a clean hit between the swamp sleeper’s plates. The beast was enraged, tossing its head as it jerked towards the man, eyes bloodshot and a yellow that was as murky as the waters that pooled around her ankles. Its shrill clicks turning into a guttural bellow, specks of its saliva—the purple tinted red from the blood—misting through the air.



As soon as the swamp sleeper lurched towards the man, Sibylle darted from her cover, the flat of one palm pressed to the bark of the trunk as she hurdled over it. A grunt huffed from her and she hit the ground at a run, the water following at the heels of her dash. She rounded the beast, skidding along the water, arcing her body underneath its raised tail. With one swoop she pivoted as she rose, dragging the blade underneath one of the plates along the path of her movement. It was a shallow cut but the swamp sleeper, already irate and in pain, jerked its head instinctively towards the new nuisance snapping at its heels. The tail came swinging at her, slapping into the water where she had just been half a moment prior. Another shallow slash along the plates on the other side of its body and it attempted to rotate itself towards her once again.



There were two things that she knew: to stay away from its head and keep moving. For now, she would draw its ire. Let the man with his shield and sword deal the blows that mattered.









 
Oren watched the Newcomer simply nipping the creature with the knife. She wouldn't kill it any time soon, but she was leaving him big openings to do so himself. The creature slammed its tail down where she had been before and shrieked at him, and he slammed it again with the shield. This time, he slipped his arm from the shield, letting it fall in the murk.


With both hands holding his sword he dashed to the side and stabbed into the creature's hip joint. Once the sword had been jammed a good ways into the joint, Oren let out a cry, pulling upwards and arcing the sword out, leaving the beast with a useless leg. In its rage, the creature tried to swing its tail, but the bad leg simply collapsed under any pressure.


Oren didn't waste time taunting the creature as it shrieked in pain and anger. He stepped up to the head and buried his blade hilt-deep in its neck, severing the monster's equivalent of a spinal cord as well as its throat.


Now that the fight was finished, Oren looked himself over. He was covered in mud and swamp sleeper guts, but both he and the newcomer were alive. He removed a cloth from a small pack at his waist and cleaned his sword. After pulling his shield out of the swamp, he decided that a bit of cloth wasn't going to be enough to clean it and just put it onto his back.


Once this process was done, Oren readied himself to deal with the Newcomer. In general, people don't take being dead very well. He turned to her and saw her face. He took a quick intake of breath.


"Sybille?"
 


S I B Y L L E


The marshland seemed to tremor as the swamp sleeper collapsed, the spray of muddy water drenching her front as its barrel shaped body crashed sideways into the mud. The loud thumping in her ears—the telltale sound of her heart still pumping, thriving—began to quell, her breath returning to her. It was only then that she realized the long scrape against her arm, a gift of the swamp sleeper’s roughly textured plates.


A snap of her wrist flecked off a majority of the thick, putrid smelling blood that had coated the edge of the knife. The droplets hit the water, meandering like veins through the mud until it disappeared completely.



The sheath of the dagger had sunk into the mud, leaning against the great gnarled trunk she had taken cover behind in the beginning of the fight. Even in the water her footsteps were light, and once she had retrieved it the blade was returned to its grasp. She held the blade at her side, a relaxed yet alert stance. Allies today, enemies tomorrow; she was especially aware of how transient allegiance could be, and she and the armored man had none to each other. Better to be careful—it was
always better to be careful, to be prudent.


Her thoughts were cut short once the man turned towards her and she saw the lines of his face.



Sibylle froze, body going rigid. She was staring into the face of a ghost.



You…”


He was
dead, the first of the prince’s band to have his life snuffed short, the first person she knew to ever die before her eyes—though, not the last, never the last. They had not been close—more allies of circumstance than anything, she had not known any of them, back then—but she remembered the gravity of it all, the heavy finality of death. She had mourned him; they all had.


But he was here now—living,
breathing in this strange marshland that she had found herself in. The shield on his back was not nearly as impressive as the one that she had last seen him wield, but it was Oren all the same. The cut of his jaw, the way he had cut the beast down—how many duplicates of a single person could there be in the world?


Her expression shifted in multitudes—confused shock, hesitant awe, grim caution—until she settled into a careful calm that could only barely disguise the emotion simmering under the surface. The grip around the sheath had tightened, knuckles white.



“Does Prince Anton know that you are alive?”









 
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"Does Prince Anton know that you are alive?"





Prince Anton, a name he had only heard from his own mouth these past three years. He realized then that Sibylle hadn't yet realized what had happened. Perhaps she had blocked out the events of her death. Now, Oren would be delivering the blow to her. He sighed, running his teeth along his bottom lip lightly before he looked up at her, standing in the murk and blood. She held the blade, outraged at what must look like a betrayal from her perspective. After all, it did look like he had simply abandoned the prince.


"Do you know that you are not?" He knew that skirting around her death would only serve to hurt her later, but he hadn't intended the words to be quite so rude.
 


S I B Y L L E


It was only a handful of words, but they struck her like a blow. The water made a sound like a plucked string as the knife fell from her grasp, plunged upright like a crooked flag into the mud.


“What?” It came out a whisper, a harsh sound that was frayed like worn thread. Sibylle shook her head, a simultaneous chill and heat rising throughout her. “No, I…I…”



She could feel the heavy thump of her heart against her chest; she could hear her breath, a sound that shuddered into the damp humidity. Was that not evidence enough that she was
alive? The alternative—that it was Oren who was living—was a more comprehensible idea than the thought that she was dead.


Sibylle met his gaze, brown eyes hard because she didn’t know what to do with vulnerability.



“Are you trying to tell me that
this,” And she gestured wide to their surroundings, all of it: the gnarled trees, the dusky skies just barely visible overhead, the carcass of the still-warm monster.


“Is the
afterlife?”








 
It hit her the same way it had hit him when he had been told.


----


He followed the first person he saw, asking all sorts of questions. The man played along for awhile, telling him that he was in the Centerlands, the name of the closest town, even where he could get his bearings. The man snapped when he asked how to get back.


"There is no way back. You're dead. Everyone here is." Oren swallowed, feeling like someone had punched him. He came back to the man, grabbing his shoulders.


"There has to be a way back! My job isn't finished yet!"


----


"I'm sorry, Sibylle." Oren knew that no amount of words were going to suddenly fix what she was feeling, but he hoped to at least console her in some way.
 
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S I B Y L L E


”I’m sorry, Sibylle,” her father had told her, strong hands wrapping around her own. He’d aged since she last saw him, his strong face withered by time, labor, and worry. He’d never forgiven himself for drawing her into a war that was bigger than the wilds, their own lives. Yet, she knew he didn’t regret it. He loved his family, but he also loved the world.


I’m sorry, Sibylle,” Prince Aton had told her laughingly, voice deceptively light even as the fire rained upon them all. He’d apologized to them all kindly, sincerely, earnestly, because as he looked into their eyes he knew that many would not live to see the end of his tale.


Now, she met with the same words again—and this time, it crushed her, coiled around her heart and lungs.



Her breath quickened. A long shudder ran through her bones.



“I—went back to the wilds,” she recalled out loud, eyes wide, and it seemed a confession, like a withered, shameful secret. She remembered the crispness of the air, the earthy smell of the forest; the exhilaration had been palpable, tangible. It had been so
long, and yet the moment she had stepped into the wilds, felt the wet dirt between her fingers, it was home. “For the first time in what seems like decades.”


Her chin jerked up, bangs flying from her face. “We’re—“she began and then stopped herself, jaw setting. There was a desperation that had sunk into her eyes, rigid yet contained. A flash of images whistled through her mind: earth, fire, blinding light, and an army that stretched miles and miles.



Then, darkness.



Her eyes locked to his. “—The
prince is so close, you have no idea.” A grimness had set over her expression, as rough as the callouses upon her palms and fingers. “It’s been so hard, so long. So many people have died but he kept going regardless and now just a little more—”


Sibylle tossed her head, a sound of disdain hissing through her teeth, the breath she had been holding going with it. Her fingers curled at the sides of her head, gripping at her hair. Her eyes shut, darkness folding over her vision, and with a painful sigh she opened them once again.



Calm, once again. Her arms lowered to her sides.



“I can tell from your face that you aren’t lying,” she told him. Time had passed and circumstances had changed, but she could detect no deception in his voice nor could she see deceit in his eyes. The defender had been the most staunch and steadfast of the prince’s allies. Even after he had passed, he was spoken of with fondness and pride; though Sibylle had barely been a companion in their small band at the time, she had known even then.



But,” continued the woman, words drawn and slow. Rarely did she ever anger, and this moment was no exception. However, there was an edge to her voice even through the uncertainty and steel in her narrowed gaze. “I…still don’t believe you. Not right now.”


She rolled to the balls of her feet as she crouched, fishing the knife out of the water before she returned to a stand. She turned it over—one then twice—the handle damp and smeared with mud. The lower hem of the shabby tunic she was clothed in was damp and dirty but she still used it to wipe at the grime on the hilt of the blade. The hilt was offered to Oren once she finished, and there was a tightly stretched smile upon her face as she spoke.



“I
can’t yet, not for my own sanity.”


Perhaps this was a trick of magic, born to test her resolve. Or, perhaps this was a dream, and she would wake up that much stronger. For now, she would survive. That was the first step. The details could be sorted out later.



The smile that touched her mouth contracted, tired and small, more a comfort for herself than for the man in front of her. The scrape on her arm burned, a dull ache, and her long, tangled mess of hair clung damply to her neck and back just as her clothes did to her body. “For what it’s worth, I
am glad to see you, alive or not.”








 
"I never doubted that Prince Anton would succeed." Oren's voice grew soft. "I had always imagined that I would be by his side during that success." The knowledge that Prince Anton had nearly returned the kingdom to its rightful heir was comforting, but not how he imagined it to be. For all of the warmth he felt in knowing that his life hadn't been wasted, he realized that it had still been lost.


He swallowed a bit. Before he had gotten the information from his world, he hadn't known if perhaps it was holding still, waiting for him to find his way back, or perhaps that this was some kind of trial for his life. This floored the last of his hopes of returning to his old life.


Oren stepped up, lightly pushing the dagger back to her. "I'm not much for knives. I think it would be better in your hands." He looked around at the mud, the trees that hung heavy with damp leaves and slime, and sighed. "What do you say we get out of this murk?"
 
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S I B Y L L E


The knife exchanged hands and this time she kept it. She grasped it by the sheathe, knuckles tightening. The marsh had grown silent again, though for how long Sibylle knew she could not say. It was quiet, but they were not alone. That was evident enough from the small movements around her calves—mud dwellers that brushed their fins against her ankles. There was something—many things—watching them, small organisms certainly but she had no doubt that there were more monstrous things like the swamp sleeper dwelling out of sight. For an instance her thoughts returned to when she had first awakened, the thing that had resembled the silhouette of a stag but had been feasting on the corpse of a man.


Sibylle nodded, the motion terse—it was an answer for both of his statements—and she wound about on her heels towards the direction Oren had indicated led to a road. She waded through the water, reeds and foliage brushing against the contours of her body, remaining silent until she could see the outline of a road past the brush. A breath rushed from her, a weary relief. She trudged on, water sloshing with each footsteps until they reached the bank. It was a small miracle, to not have each step sink into water and mud.



She glanced towards Oren, the first time she had looked at him since they began the trek towards the road. There were many questions on her tongue, some of which she wasn’t ready for the answer, and she plucked one that was tame, simple.



“Was finding me here a coincidence?” she asked, returning her gaze back in front of her.









 
(Sorry for the pause. Big weekend and a test.)


He was glad to see that she was willing to take the knife. It meant he had someone to fight with if things got tough, and it meant that he had an excuse to get a better knife for himself, what with him expecting it to be a gift. As a community, the people of this world helped out Newcomers as they could manage, and Oren had enough to take care of himself, so he gave to Newcomers as he found them. Though this was the first Newcomer he had armed. Typically he would escort them back to a town and let them take care of themselves from there.


"Was finding me here a coincidence?"


"Finding you wasn't what I expected. Whether you'd like to call it coincidence or fate, that's your choice." The carriage had left during their fight at some point, forcing them to walk the rest of the way. It wasn't much more than a few miles, though Oren wasn't excited to walk it in his armor. He started down the path, beckoning for her to follow him.


"This murky hell-hole is called the Marshes." He pointed towards the towering wall of what looked like smoke on the horizon. "That is The Dark. People who go into The Dark come out dead, or at least close enough." He kept walking, letting her soak in the information. He imagined that she had quite a few questions, and let her have time to ask them. A bit of wet slime dripped onto his shoulder, which he rubbed off with a bit of a grimace.
 


S I B Y L L E


It would be so easy to place her fingers at her lips and whistle for him. Sibylle resisted the temptation. She had already seen the dangers of the marshland—she wasn’t keen on drawing attention to themselves. And, if Engel hadn’t found her by now then…


The pit in her stomach grew.



Sibylle followed after Oren, just half a step behind, a slower pace than she was used to on account of his heavy armor and shield. It was only once he mentioned it that she noticed the billowing furnace of black in the distance, a staggering curtain of smoke that looked similar to the plumes that would arise from the flames of a bonfire made of branches the size of tree trunks.



“Dead?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “Is it magic?” She wasn’t so keen on the sort, had never been. Mages had been difficult to come by in her home village and most of the ones she had seen since after were…
unpleasant to say the least. Magic complicated things and, while she was no stranger to danger, Sibylle preferred what she could actually comprehend. The wilds had been filled with touches of magic, something that rippled through the trees and the ground and the air, but never had it been overt, never had it been something truly tangible. Her bow and wits had always been enough.


When there was magic involved, she could never be certain.



She wrung the water out of her skirts with a vengeful twist. The mud remained, a patchwork of continents on the tan-colored cloth. What had become of her armor? Her bow? Were they laying somewhere, discarded, just as she had been?



"Is there somewhere in particular we're heading?" That was her next inquiry.



She trusted Oren, she did. But she needed more information, something that didn't come just from him. A town would be best, somewhere where she could collect her bearings and discover the makeup of this region. Oren had said she was
dead--but how could she be, when she felt no different than before?








 
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To her question of magic Oren shrugged. "It doesn't seem natural, but I can't say for sure. I just stay away from it most of the time." He kept his eyes and ears open. While these paths were safe from most wild creatures, bandits and highwaymen stalked the few paths through The Marshes. He had experienced a few bandit attacks. He was still standing, and plenty of bandits weren't.


"We're heading for a town called Big Wheel. It isn't too far, and I know a few people who would be willing to give us a place to stay, especially if we point them towards a swamp sleeper's corpse." Oren kept up his reasonable, but slow pace until he stopped entirely to pull a few leaves off of a tree. He put a leaf into his own mouth and offered two to Sibylle.


"The leaves are bitter, but they trick your stomach into feeling full for awhile. It should be enough before you get something to eat."
 

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