Fantasy Ballad of Renegades

[Corn Orc Vandal]

Agonos Isles​

Group 1 ( Goonfire , Aegis , Tool , Daylight Fantasy ). Artwork by Michael Reardon.​

The Hesper’s long voyage was at an end. From Braethia they’d traveled the length of the coast, taking on cargo and passengers. Only now in the Tempest Sea did the sailors grow nervous. They were not fond of the Agonos Isles. They said the stars were wrong here. The winds changed at the Sea God’s mercy. There were darker things too, things the sailors knew, or thought they knew, but kept deep in themselves. As if to speak the thing aloud would give life to it and make it tangible.

The voyage had been a smooth one. Longer than anticipated, but that mattered little to the sailors. To the poor wretches who died before ever stepping foot on solid land, though, the delay must have meant a great deal. Their disease-ridden bodies were sewn up into canvas and given to the sea. The ship was emptier now than when they first departed.

Only the desperate came to the Agonos Isles, and they paid the Hesper’s captain with whatever they had to buy a spot on the ship’s crowded lower decks. Family heirlooms, foreign coins, weapons or fabrics. Some even offered to work to pay their passage, hoisting sails and swabbing floors. These desolate souls stood on deck, clutching the handrail as the ship came into port.

The passengers were a strange lot, the sick and the dying. There were lepers swaddled in soiled cloth, gloved hands concealing missing fingers. The blind clutched comrades and imagined the sight before them, feeling the warm breeze on their faces. The lame held themselves upright on the ship’s rigging or peered under the taffrail. Others had skin like cracked porcelain, early signs of Myrian’s Kurse, and these men and women already felt themselves drawn to the sea. Then there were those with invisible ailments, diseases of the mind. The melancholic. The cursed. The mad. Some of these were still below deck, unable to escape their tortuous phantoms even in this moment of hope and triumph.

The shores of Atychía. Calm, clear waters that lead to a pristine white sand beach. A sprawling city that climbed the cliffside like grasping vines of wood and rock. Above it all stood a tower of gleaming stone. The Agonos Conclave, their last hope in the world.

The Hesper dropped anchor in Atychía’s shallow bay, not daring to go any further. The captain, a weathered half-elf woman in a salt-stained red coat, knew from experience not to dock at the city’s crumbling stone moor. She addressed the crowd as sailors buzzed around the ship, making ready.

“We’re taking the skiffs ashore. If you’re too weak to climb down, ask my men for help.” She spoke in short, clipped sentences, as if she were barking orders over a howling gale. But there was a softness to her words. “Those of you who’ve changed your mind can stay on ‘till Safir Sehi. After that, you’re on your own.”

This was a lie, and the crew knew it. The captain would let them stay on as long as they liked. She had a soft heart for these wayward souls. For some, the ship had become home, and she could not cast them from their last place of refuge at the end of their lives.


The sailors lowered two skiffs on either side of the ship into the shimmering water and they climbed aboard. Many of them carried crude wooden clubs. They seemed restless and jumpy as they helped passengers onto the gently swaying skiffs, muttering prayers of protection under their breath. A far-off bell within the depths of the city tolled five times to signal their arrival. Even from this far the new arrivals could see figures, mere suggestions of people with the distance, stirring from their midday torpor by the ringing bell. They emerged from white-walled buildings and flooded to the beach in droves like ants.

As the last of the passengers boarded the skiffs, oars dipped into the water and began the last leg of their journey.

 

[Aegis]

( Desert Nights by Roseanne Schellenberger )
​

There was the darkness.

Evil, fanged things that shrieked and fluttered about in an attempt to break free.

A seizing, pumping heart unable to steady itself against the shake of a darkening mind.

There was the darkness.​

Then, stars. At once, the darkness that had hung like a suffocating drape over the half-elf girl parted and revealed the open expanse of the night sky, blue and purple stars glimmering like gyms across a canvas of black through the open roof of the carriage. Wind rustled in her hair as the low moan of a night breeze gave a chill to her otherwise snuggly heated body that had been wrapped in a blanket. A bump and rumble shook her core, and the grating slide of wooden wheels revealed that she must be in some kind of carriage; hushed whispers of her companions were stolen by a passing gale from the driver's bench just behind her head. Boxes of supplies shook in place beside her as Aris took up most of the floor space in the back of the carriage. Two trailing camels were attached by a length of ropes, and their heads were cocked with a curiosity to the girl as they walked. The red-orange of the desert had only recently given way to the dry stalks of a wild steppe, and if one closed their eyes to listen to the empty rustle of the grass--they could almost imagine that they were in a golden field somewhere out West in the mid-spring. However, in the South, such moments were often suspended between burning heat and an icy cold as much of the soil was still sand that was only now beginning to show any semblance of remarkable life.

Sand, an apathetic tool of nature that drained energy from the very soles of your feet. It stuck and stabbed across your skin, snuck its way into your boots, and dried your throat nearly as bad as the unwavering beams of the sun. Finally, it seemed, they had passed on from that land.

Across the steppe, any light could be seen for miles, so that meant stealth was of the utmost concern for any travelers who trying to avoid being found. However, the utter lack thereof meant that either they were completely alone without another soul for many days of travel, or that whoever might've been out there with them didn't want to be found either. At least, not until they had time to strike.

The group had come together in a rather quick and unceremonious way, and they had another full day's worth of travel ahead of them before they reach the foot of the mountain where they would begin to make their ascent--another day or so depending on how fast they were. A sanctuary is meant to be a place of respite from the rest of the world free from judgement, interference, and despair. One must choose their company wisely when allowing others to partake of their hidden fortress of respite.

In the distance, The Dragon-Tooth Spires jutted like blades from the ground--their large forms obscuring the low-hanging form of the moon beyond them. Their peaks were shaved down by distant clouds, but the sheer scale was hardly hindered. In fact, being partially buried in the sky only seemed to add an air of mystery and awe to the eyes of any onlooker. They were still too far to make out any distinct features with the exception of large ridges and patches of trees, true greenery compared to the withered stalks of the open steppe.

The horse at the head of the cart loosed a sigh as it shook within the restraints that kept it locked to the construct it pulled, and the heavy breathing in its nostrils hinted that perhaps it was time to stop and come to a rest.

[ BlueXBlood Corn Orc Vandal Xen6n Zazz ]​

 

[Zazz]

Corn Orc Vandal BlueXBlood Xen6n Aegis

PREVIOUSLY:

The heavy scent of moist salt permeated the arena in Kiledo, the hot desert sun assaulting the blood-soaked sand. Bal'kafaz could barely hear the thundering roars of the crowd that surrounded her; the dull thrum of her heartbeat threatened to burst from her ears. Every muscle in her body ached, screaming for rest. Blood ran down her face, down her neck, into the fur lining of her armor, drying in petrified rivulets. Beast after beast had been slain, their carcasses littering the arena. For Bal'kafaz, there would be no real rest until her inevitable death.

Bal'kafaz cracked her neck and retrieved her shield. She yanked her dagger from the split belly of the lion she had wrestled to death moments ago. The thick iron bars at one end of her execution ring were slowly lifted, and five serpentine heads over massive, clawed feet entered from its cage. An adolescent sand hydra was to be her next attempt at an entertaining death. Her opponents were becoming more and more absurd, more exotic, more lethal. The halfling stayed put, using this precious time to regain an ounce of strength and ready herself. Death would surely come soon, she thought. Just one more fight. She was tired, but she would not go until she was absolutely defeated. Her pride would not allow her a quick acceptance of the endless darkness. Nay, she would give the rich folk what they desired; entertainment.

It was not long before the great beast spotted her. Keeping her eyes trained on the creature, Bal'kafaz crouched to scoop sand onto her shield, holding it horizontal in front of herself. Her muscles burned with every movement. The young sand hydra stood at twice her height, and as it drew near, fear threatened to creep into her heart. Fear, and doubt. Would this be her final fight? The halfling slave steeled herself, determined to die an honourable death. With a hiss, the insatiable beast reared two of its heads and attacked.

She thrust her shield hard at the first head to reach her. Sand flew straight into the eyes of the hydra, and its snout collided with the metal with a loud thunk. The second head bit at her shoulder and received the spike of her pauldron in its maw, though it managed to lodge a tooth into the ridges of her armor. It screeched as it tried to yank itself free, jerking the halfling's shoulder in the process. Bal' grunted in pain and stabbed wildly at the head, her shield falling from her left hand. Blood spurted from the second head's several stab wounds, until finally it went limp. She barely had time to dislodge it from her pauldron before she was struck by a third head. Its fangs sunk into the right side of her torso, her armor just barely keeping her from being a pincushion. The air was pressed out of her lungs as she was raised into the air. The sand hydra hissed and screeched as the third head flung her back to the ground.

Bal'kafaz pushed herself up shakily, spitting out sand and blood. There was no way would come out of this alive. Even she could see that.

It took everything in her to regain a standing position. Blood leaked from under her armor. Luckily, she had managed to maintain hold of her dagger; she gripped it tightly in pain, panting for breath. She deserved her punishment, she told herself as she faced her foe once more. She had taken lives, and been caught. She earned her fate. Bal'kafaz stood, wavering in the heat of the sun, as the monstrous creature scuttled towards her.

That's when she realized... It was slow. She could outrun it. One head was down for the count, another blinded and angry. Three and a half heads. They would rip her apart if she focused on disabling them, but... The underbelly was unprotected. The young beast had not yet learned to evade its own prey. Bal'kafaz stumbled into a run, her legs tired and protesting, leading the beast away from the shield that lay in the sand. Adrenaline and insanity were the only things keeping her from collapsing and accepting her doom. The large creature lumbered after her, its dead head dragging through the bloody sand. Her lungs burned as she ran, fast enough to keep out of reach, slow enough to taunt it into a chase. Slowly, she managed to circle back to her original position to retrieve her round shield.

Finally, she faced the beast again. It rushed after her, heads hissing, mouths bearing fangs, hungry. Bal'kafaz forced a deep breath through her lungs and ran at the creature, a fierce battle cry commanding her burning, dehydrated legs forward. As she neared it, she feigned left, dashed right and spun to dodge a head, punched another under its jaw with her dagger-wielding fist, and flung her shield into the approaching mouth of a third. The blind one's fangs grazed her bicep as she slid under the hydra. Blood spilled as the beast's belly was split from heart to gut, her dagger razing through it with the last of her strength.

The audience watched, enthralled, as the great body of the beast collapsed, dead, on top of the halfling murderer.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

 

[BlueXBlood]

​

Dazed, the stars swayed in Aris' wavering vision, the half-elf slowly coming to consciousness. She lifted a hand to her face, and with a sigh, she let the weighing burden of exhaustion slowly melt away. The cool breeze was a comfort to her, and its whisper, soothing. It meant she was out of the blasted desert, and on her way to the sanctuary... Maybe?

Though she couldn't discern the sounds around her, something gave off the presence of more companions than Aris initially recalled being accompanied by... It was a tad bit concerning. She wasn't bound, though, comforted instead by a blanket wrapped gently around her. Perhaps it was safe, after all. Taking a chance, she propped herself up and surveyed around the carriage. Two strange individuals... both resembling traits of an orc and an elf in their own, unique ways. Who in Kirlia were they..? Why were they with them now?

Their presence left her uneasy, but there was little that could be done. R'hllor was there, and they didn't seem hostile to one another. All she could do, in the meantime, was watch and wait, till they would arrive at their new home.

Grains of sand that had found their way into her clothes grated against her skin, leaving her in an awkward, uncomfortable position. As sand does, it stuck to her like a nuisance, and part of her wanted to get up and dust herself off. She was too weak, however, and hopping off of a moving carriage after what was seemingly a very long nap simply wasn't an ideal move. So, instead.. she pulled her fedora over her eyes and reclined against the edge of the carriage, passing the time with a bit more rest.

[ Aegis , Xen6n , Corn Orc Vandal , Zazz ]​

 

[Xen6n]

The hybrid stared at the mass of blackness that covered the heavens, appreciating the sparkling gems that adorned them. He couldn't help but recall a far-off memory that kept coming back to him—the time he and his father used to lie on the grass in front of their family cottage, stargazing and sharing tales from faraway lands. The origins of the stars themselves was one such tale that stayed with him. His father told him that aeons ago, long before the creation of Kirlia, the abstract gods realised the universe was too dark to support the life they wished to cultivate. Attempting to bring the primordial light of the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Radiance to fill the endless void of space, they discovered that the primaeval light was too intense and bright to exist in the prime material universe. In search of another method, they started constructing countless portals around the cosmos that connected to the quasi-elemental Plane of Radiance. These brilliant portals, thousands of miles apart from each other on the realm's surface, were seen from the inhabitants of Kirlia as stars and constellations.

He studied the sky with a tiny sense of astonishment; it was a fantastic story that made him grin spontaneously. The realization that he might never discover his father and the passing of his beloved mother would always cause him to feel a twinge of melancholy. Though he eventually came to terms with it, there were moments when it would make him feel depressed.

R'hllor heard the rustle of sheets close to him and saw that Aris was now awake, who had been asleep much of the day. He knew she would bounce back from the incident. She is strong. After that incident he found out how truly mentally indomitable she was.

“Don't strain too much, and try not to think too hard. You'll be both mentally and physically exhausted after what happened.” He answered as she gently stood up, he noticed how much work that must have been for her to do that on her own. R'hllor noticed the uncertainty and caution she gave off as her eyes shifted to the two other people riding in the carriage with them. Although most wouldn't notice, R'hllor has developed a way of reading the impassive half elf after spending so much time with her, however, there were times he wondered what was on her mind.

“The one handling the carriage in front is a half orc named Khadija, she found me carrying you and was kind enough to offer us a ride out of the desert to the closest village.” He spoke in a hushed voice, loud enough so that Aris could hear him.

“I haven't told her about the sanctuary, I wanted to leave that up to you. She seems…aimless, as her friend as well,” He gestured to the battered half orc that lay across from them who looked like she hadn't seen better days.

“What do you say?” He beckoned Aris and suggested the idea of recruiting them, something R'hllor had a strong feeling about but even Aris knew he wouldn't normally do. They seemed very capable of handling themselves and weren't bad news, so they were individuals to think about.


Aegis Corn Orc Vandal BlueXBlood Zazz​

 

[Tool]

​

The Kellid named Annik, possibly Karwi Shadwar but DEFINITELY sticky, washed the blood from her body and furs in the briny, cold sea.

When she'd first arrived at the city Atychía of the Agonos Isles, Annik had found herself dizzy with the stink of this place. As a child, Annik had once stumbled onto the lair of the Great Troll Urx. He'd been asleep for the experience, but the girl had seen the piles of half-eaten corpses of men and animals, mingling with toll-waste and decaying together into a mulched soup that was, up until that point, the worst thing she'd ever smelled.

The city of Atychía of the Agonos Isles did not smell worse than the Great Troll's den in isolation..... but it was, to Annik's nose, a very close call. The biggest difference, she'd had the time to contemplate, was the cave's mouth. Urx's foul home had an end, a threshold beyond which things did not smell so bad. Here, the city Atychía of the Agonos Isles seemed to stink from shore to shore, the miasma of disease and rot and sickness and humans so numerous one couldn't run ten-hands worth without running into several.

Her first encounter with crowds in recent memory had come when she'd swum to shore after jumping off the longboat of the Stormsong tribe, a group of Ulfen who'd agreed to bring her here. Not Kellid, not anymore, but they were still kin to her people. A crowd of island folk had swarmed to her side like flies to new carrion, all of them with pleading faces and outstretched hands. When it became painfully clear that Annik HAD no money, most lost interest. Three young men with pinched faces and wiry arms had stayed behind and spoken to her, inquiring after her origins, the strange manner of her dress and slow manner of speech, had EXPLAINED how they were hungry and had nothing with which to buy food.

They gave their names as Blyn, Memet, and Ren.

Annik had offered to teach them how to find the tiny crabs that buried themselves in the sand or how to take a scrap of clothing and fashion it into a decent sling; there were a distressing number of carrion birds about the place, but so long as one stayed away from the filter-organs, the birds were likely edible. Blyn had taken her kindness as weakness...... and then there was no Blyn at all, and in swift succession, no Memet or Ren, either. The trio DID serve a purpose in death: feeding the desperate. None of the three had smelled sick to her nose, and so she did not stop those gaunt-faced, wary faces who descended upon the bodies and began using trio's own blades to cut strips of raw meat free. In fact, when the throng seemed wary of Annik standing so close to her kills, she dismembered the manlings quickly, cut their heads free, destroyed the skulls with a few swift stomps of her heel (Did the civilized know to stay away from head-meat? Who knew.)....... and left the fresh bodies for the starving.

Nobody came to her with outstretched hands, after that.

Annik began to spot the human predators in these crowds. A predator knew their own, and after a time, it was easy to see those who couched their ambushes in groups or who herded their prey into dead-end roads called 'alleys'. After two days of torturous plodding on stupid streets in this stupid city, searching for a stupid sick-man wrapped in yellow metal who didn't seem to be anywhere, Annik had abandoned ground-level and climbed the stone edifice of the nearest building. Buildings were ALSO very stupid, making the air stagnant, hiding the sky, and keeping the wind from making any headway inland...... but their roofs DID give Annik a convenient vantage point from which to search for the man in yellow metal.

It got boring VERY quickly.

The vultures here had grown fat and arrogant, and they'd been downright rude when she'd asked them about the man she saught. The crows and ravens were more talkative and more pleasant company, and when she began warning them away from diseased meat that would fell even THEIR stomachs...... they began to follow her around. Together, they feasted on more than one vulture. The Wild was not kind to un-earned arrogance, and neither was she.

After three days of torturous wandering from rooftop to rooftop, spending HOURS looking at faces that all began to blur together, Annik began to amuse herself by killing the people-predators among the crowds she found distasteful, namely those who took too much pleasure in their hunt. Malice was a uniquely people-trait and not one of which Annik was fond. More crows joined her after that. Their chattering gradually became tiring to listen to, but the birds were at least easier to understand than the people-races that crowded this decaying city.

When she found a group of humans who'd taken sickly but still comely captives to use for their own delectation, she'd descended on the pack from above in a flurry of savagery, accompanied by the sound of joyous crows and the furious beating of their dark wings. Annik remembered the rules her teachers had set down about walking amongst civilized peoples: Never eat the weak. And, if predators held slaves, she should feed them, arm them with whatever was available, and set them free, so that someday they might grow strong enough to eat predators in turn.

Slaves, too, were a uniquely people-custom.

Some of the freed captives had stayed around, joining Annik and the murder of crows in their feast of the few non-diseased slavers. It wasn't the first time Annik had eaten man-flesh, but there weren't any streams here to wash the sticky from her face and hands, and as such, Annik made her way to the sea. Most of the crows stayed behind to pick at what she'd left behind, but a small flock still followed her. The salt and sand washed away the gore and as she rinsed her leathers and wiped at the tip of her spear, another ship stopped moving in the distance, and it birthed smaller ships to begin bringing passengers to shore.

Baffling place. Why come here to die? The irony was, some of the wretched dying people-races could have been helped with this herb or that mushroom, but she could count the number of trees in the city on two hands and still have fingers left over. Maybe, despite what the sick had been told, the city Atychía of the Agonos Isles were where city-people sent their unwanted to die? It certainly didn't seem like enough people out of the population were taken into the extra-tall healing building to make it worth coming here on their own.

Anyway, there she was, squatting in the funny-smelling waves and letting the sea sweep the remains of her lunch out into the deep when heretofore unseen people stepped onto land from the baby boats. Annik straightened and a dozen crows got VERY excited, taking to the air and following the man-shaped-food-beast as she walked, because she might share food.


Corn Orc Vandal Aegis Goonfire Daylight Fantasy

 

[BlueXBlood]

​

The half-elf's silvery eyes peered from underneath the black, leather brim of her fedora, glancing beside her as she heard R'hllor's gentle admonishing. She turned to look at him, listening intently to his vague introduction of the half-orc and her companion. So... they were the reason they made it out of the desert unscathed. How curious.

Sharing about the sanctuary, though... That was no minor thought to her. In the old sanctuary of the northeast, before its destruction, Aris was forced to share it with cutthroats, mercenaries, and swindlers. It was far from a home. The Southwestern Sanctuary was her chance to create something ideal, starting with her and R'hllor. The two strangers simply didn't seem worth it. She contemplated this, wearing her thoughts on her face with a pensive expression. Something about the thought simply made her unsure.

Lifting her head to the stars, she pondered for a moment in silence. She could allow them to stay and rest there, but the thought of the two strangers couldn't find its place in her vision of the sanctuary. A consequence of being asleep during their time of rescue... She felt nothing toward them and cared less for whether or not she and R'hllor offered them direction. Just, why? Why bother? Perhaps she was being apathetic, but truthfully, little else was to be expected of her so early in meeting them.

Still, R'hllors words remained... He seemed to have far more sympathy for the two, and Aris found it hard to ignore. Especially considering that it was a rather unnatural inclination for him... It couldn't be avoided, the fact that she missed something during her brief coma, and logic encouraged her to trust him. She sighed, her furrowed brow expressing her discomfort. However, she then turned to him with a nod of reassurance, affirming whatever plans he might've been considering for the half-orcs. He was welcome to do as he pleased.

[ Aegis , Xen6n , Corn Orc Vandal , Zazz ]​

 

[Aegis]

Arnou Sylvain

T

he morning broke through the darkness of Arnou's sleep and dredged him from the deep slumber of his sea of dreams and up onto the stagnant sands of Atychía once more. Wind fluttered a moth-ball cloth hanging over what used to be a window, and the flagging fabric teased his eyelids with the beating of the low-morning sun. Yet, it couldn't be called any entirely unpleasant experience. The wind was cool, the holes in the stone of the building kept it from getting too hot even during the humid days, and if one listened intently--they could hear the singing of a bird's lullaby if they were lucky. IF they were lucky. Normally, only the murders of carrion crows flocked overhead waiting to descend upon the next meal left crumbled in the street. Such was the way of life in Atychía, an existence of simply living until you died; corpses were picked to bone in the streets by the starving and the wild.

However, if you kept your eyes closed and listened, the cool wind and gentle chirps were almost enough to fool you into thinking this could've been a paradise.

The Exiled Lord drew and deep and unwilling breath through his nose as he stretched his arms overtop his head and felt the straw of his makeshift bedding dig into his exposed skin. Loosing a yawn, Arnou opened his before sweeping the blackened bangs from in front of his eyes and once again assessing his surroundings: a cool, empty stone room in someone's former home. The furniture had long been scavenged for firewood leaving but a chair leg rotting on the ground, so The Man had instead employed his bedroll--the thing lousy with holes and patches, for the night. His sword, Lucsebras, a gift from his father, rested in a cracked leather scabbard laying just beside him. Adjusting himself atop the bedroll before turning over, a nicked and dented breastplate lay on his opposite side--the stories of many battles written in steel and wood across its hardened surface. Those two items were Arnou Sylvain's entire life and the full measure of his worldly possessions with the exception of a rucksack containing the bare necessities for survival and a small amount of money, for whatever good it was worth in these curs 'ed lands.

Like every other day for this past year and a half, The Exiled Lord rose from his place of slumber and swept his fingers through his hair to remove any stray straw from the innards of his bedroll that had been caught in his midnight locks. Arnou then knelt down and started the mundane process of rolling it up to be placed atop his rucksack once more; his fingers finding unwelcome purchase in the tears of overuse that were prevalent across its surface. A mental note was made to find someone with a steady hand and some fabric to once again patch one of the few comforts he had been afforded in this crypt of a city. Once finished, he knelt over and snagged his bag while keeping a knee atop the neatly rolled mat before opening the flap and retrieving breakfast, a stale quarter of a load of bread, and his whetstone accompanied by the necessary waterskin. Placing those atop the stone nearby with due care, Arnou set the bedroll atop his rucks entrance, closed the flap over it, and yanked down upon the creaking leather to really compact the bag before clipping the straps on hooks near the bottom.

The Exiled Lord tossed the bag near where he was going to sit, and then picked up his items while moving to sit against the wall surrounded by his meager possessions. Arnou snagged Lucsebras and pulled it from its scabbard before laying the blade across his thighs. The sword was duller than the day it came out of the forge despite the constant care of its owner, and it had clearly seen better days as the fuller and central ridge were crisscrossed with dozens of slashes and digs. Yet, it was a precious memory and a powerful tool in the hands of someone with training when used against a mob of starving people wielding clubs and farming utensils. Pouring water on the whetstone, The Man started at the tip and worked his way down each of the edges with a practiced discipline that left the blade singing with each swipe, but as the metal shavings began to mix with the water and the damp of mold in the abandoned room--his mind wandered. His nose smelled the muggy, dirty brine of a swamp. His ears fading to a distant clashing of weapons and the shouts of men. Arnou's mind was somewhere else indeed whenever he had a moment of silence with not but his own company. The longer he was away, the more his mind filled with guilt. Upturned faces floating in green muck up to his hips until their flooding armor sucked them under. The whisk and splash of arrows. The fire. The guilt bubbled up until it could be held no more, and then it spilled into hatred. Hatred? Hatred of what? Himself. Arnou hated himself. Yet, the more he hated--the stronger he was. Every day his mind was more sure of that.

Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of honing and hatred.

Then, Arnou set down the stone and gripped the hilt of his weapon tight with both hands while stabbing it out in front of him; the blade was as sharp as it had ever been and the now-high sun gleamed as though the blade was in fact a mirror. Metal twisted in hand until his face shown in the polish of the flat of the blade and in his eyes was a tired detachment. Arnou had been sent here to die by his kingdom, his father, his brother, and all the people he fought to protect. He couldn't blame them after all. What good was a soldier who couldn't follow orders?

At least, now, he could stay here until he died correctly--just like they wanted.

The Exiled Lord stowed his sword back in its scabbard before standing and gathering his things. Lucsebras fit comfortably around his waist with a worn belt, the armor a long process of leather straps, and finally his rucksack across his back. Arnou knelt down and retrieved the floor-bread before making his way to the window and sliding aside the curtain to let the full light of morning inside the decaying room. Teeth and lips nibbled and chewed at bread as tough as leather while he gazed across the sun-kissed tree and rock. He had found a small sanctuary, a noble's villa, atop one of the larger hills inside the city. While one might think it a place ripe for occupation, the two hour climb up and down was enough to dissuade the starving--whom had no energy left to give, and the opportunistic who liked to be where the starving were.

Despite the bread, sunlight painted a ruined city down to an azure bay, and both the beauty of the island and its harsh nature were apparent in one scene. Arnou wolfed down the remaining pebble of bread, and drank deep of his waterskin before turning to make his way to the door. Arnou gripped the wood in center--the boards so decayed that one could easily stick their fingers through, and pushed it open even as the top hinge let the door drag across the stone of the pathway. A fountain that had long been dry rose in the center of an overgrown courtyard, and Arnou regarded the larger two story building across from him. Empty. Windows shattered and open to the elements.

Then, he turned onto the path that lead down to Atychía, and started his journey with a grunt. Today a new ship was to make harbor, and today there would be many unfamiliar people in need of a sharp sword and strong arm; lest they become more carrion food.

MOOD:

Neutral

Outfit:

Steel Plate

LOCATION:

Agonos Isles, Atychía

Tool Goonfire

Daylight Fantasy

coded by xayah.ღ

he morning broke through the darkness of Arnou's sleep and dredged him from the deep slumber of his sea of dreams and up onto the stagnant sands of Atychía once more. Wind fluttered a moth-ball cloth hanging over what used to be a window, and the flagging fabric teased his eyelids with the beating of the low-morning sun. Yet, it couldn't be called any entirely unpleasant experience. The wind was cool, the holes in the stone of the building kept it from getting too hot even during the humid days, and if one listened intently--they could hear the singing of a bird's lullaby if they were lucky. IF they were lucky. Normally, only the murders of carrion crows flocked overhead waiting to descend upon the next meal left crumbled in the street. Such was the way of life in Atychía, an existence of simply living until you died; corpses were picked to bone in the streets by the starving and the wild.

However, if you kept your eyes closed and listened, the cool wind and gentle chirps were almost enough to fool you into thinking this could've been a paradise.

The Exiled Lord drew and deep and unwilling breath through his nose as he stretched his arms overtop his head and felt the straw of his makeshift bedding dig into his exposed skin. Loosing a yawn, Arnou opened his before sweeping the blackened bangs from in front of his eyes and once again assessing his surroundings: a cool, empty stone room in someone's former home. The furniture had long been scavenged for firewood leaving but a chair leg rotting on the ground, so The Man had instead employed his bedroll--the thing lousy with holes and patches, for the night. His sword, Lucsebras, a gift from his father, rested in a cracked leather scabbard laying just beside him. Adjusting himself atop the bedroll before turning over, a nicked and dented breastplate lay on his opposite side--the stories of many battles written in steel and wood across its hardened surface. Those two items were Arnou Sylvain's entire life and the full measure of his worldly possessions with the exception of a rucksack containing the bare necessities for survival and a small amount of money, for whatever good it was worth in these curs 'ed lands.

Like every other day for this past year and a half, The Exiled Lord rose from his place of slumber and swept his fingers through his hair to remove any stray straw from the innards of his bedroll that had been caught in his midnight locks. Arnou then knelt down and started the mundane process of rolling it up to be placed atop his rucksack once more; his fingers finding unwelcome purchase in the tears of overuse that were prevalent across its surface. A mental note was made to find someone with a steady hand and some fabric to once again patch one of the few comforts he had been afforded in this crypt of a city. Once finished, he knelt over and snagged his bag while keeping a knee atop the neatly rolled mat before opening the flap and retrieving breakfast, a stale quarter of a load of bread, and his whetstone accompanied by the necessary waterskin. Placing those atop the stone nearby with due care, Arnou set the bedroll atop his rucks entrance, closed the flap over it, and yanked down upon the creaking leather to really compact the bag before clipping the straps on hooks near the bottom.

The Exiled Lord tossed the bag near where he was going to sit, and then picked up his items while moving to sit against the wall surrounded by his meager possessions. Arnou snagged Lucsebras and pulled it from its scabbard before laying the blade across his thighs. The sword was duller than the day it came out of the forge despite the constant care of its owner, and it had clearly seen better days as the fuller and central ridge were crisscrossed with dozens of slashes and digs. Yet, it was a precious memory and a powerful tool in the hands of someone with training when used against a mob of starving people wielding clubs and farming utensils. Pouring water on the whetstone, The Man started at the tip and worked his way down each of the edges with a practiced discipline that left the blade singing with each swipe, but as the metal shavings began to mix with the water and the damp of mold in the abandoned room--his mind wandered. His nose smelled the muggy, dirty brine of a swamp. His ears fading to a distant clashing of weapons and the shouts of men. Arnou's mind was somewhere else indeed whenever he had a moment of silence with not but his own company. The longer he was away, the more his mind filled with guilt. Upturned faces floating in green muck up to his hips until their flooding armor sucked them under. The whisk and splash of arrows. The fire. The guilt bubbled up until it could be held no more, and then it spilled into hatred. Hatred? Hatred of what? Himself. Arnou hated himself. Yet, the more he hated--the stronger he was. Every day his mind was more sure of that.

Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of honing and hatred.

Then, Arnou set down the stone and gripped the hilt of his weapon tight with both hands while stabbing it out in front of him; the blade was as sharp as it had ever been and the now-high sun gleamed as though the blade was in fact a mirror. Metal twisted in hand until his face shown in the polish of the flat of the blade and in his eyes was a tired detachment. Arnou had been sent here to die by his kingdom, his father, his brother, and all the people he fought to protect. He couldn't blame them after all. What good was a soldier who couldn't follow orders?

At least, now, he could stay here until he died correctly--just like they wanted.

The Exiled Lord stowed his sword back in its scabbard before standing and gathering his things. Lucsebras fit comfortably around his waist with a worn belt, the armor a long process of leather straps, and finally his rucksack across his back. Arnou knelt down and retrieved the floor-bread before making his way to the window and sliding aside the curtain to let the full light of morning inside the decaying room. Teeth and lips nibbled and chewed at bread as tough as leather while he gazed across the sun-kissed tree and rock. He had found a small sanctuary, a noble's villa, atop one of the larger hills inside the city. While one might think it a place ripe for occupation, the two hour climb up and down was enough to dissuade the starving--whom had no energy left to give, and the opportunistic who liked to be where the starving were.

Despite the bread, sunlight painted a ruined city down to an azure bay, and both the beauty of the island and its harsh nature were apparent in one scene. Arnou wolfed down the remaining pebble of bread, and drank deep of his waterskin before turning to make his way to the door. Arnou gripped the wood in center--the boards so decayed that one could easily stick their fingers through, and pushed it open even as the top hinge let the door drag across the stone of the pathway. A fountain that had long been dry rose in the center of an overgrown courtyard, and Arnou regarded the larger two story building across from him. Empty. Windows shattered and open to the elements.

Then, he turned onto the path that lead down to Atychía, and started his journey with a grunt. Today a new ship was to make harbor, and today there would be many unfamiliar people in need of a sharp sword and strong arm; lest they become more carrion food.

 

[Corn Orc Vandal]

Khadija Aslan​

Group 2 ( BlueXBlood , Zazz , Xen6n , Aegis )​

Several days ago…

Khadija hadn’t planned on rescuing a half-dead gladiator from a blood soaked arena in the middle of the most decadent and dangerous city in all of Kirlia, but she’d never been one for planning.

The bard first set foot in Kildeo after a hellish escape from her homeland. She stumbled through the city gates without a coin to her name. Khadija had been in tighter spots before, but couldn’t remember when. So she begged and stole, busked and sang, just as she had in Safir Sehi. It had been humbling there, seeing Orcs look at her elven features with pity and throw a coin or two her way. It had felt wrong to steal from them as they turned their backs. But here, in Kildeo, Khadija had no qualms robbing Prigallans blind.

Short pork. Half-blood. Tusk face. She’d heard them all after a day. She smiled and grinned like a fool as they walked by spewing insults, and laughed and laughed as she cut their coinpurses and ran down winding alleys.

An ugly city of ugly people, and the sooner she put it behind her, the better.

So it was that she followed the crowds to the center of Kildeo. Some kind of event, Khadija figured, which meant more people and more marks. A couple more coins and she could buy a spot on a caravan out of the loathsome city.

The colosseum was at the center of Kildeo. Its massive stone pillars, hewn by Orcish slaves, rose monstrous against the blood red sky. Free admission, the guards said, a public execution for all to enjoy. Such acts of depravity were foreign to Khadija, but morbid curiosity saw her slipping into the colosseum’s hollow heart.

. . . . .

Khadija’s curiosity was more than satisfied after the first kill, but the beasts kept coming and the crowd kept roaring. A half-orc like herself, condemned to death for some unnamed crime.

No one deserves this.

Khadija turned away, heart leaping up her throat, each time a beast gouged, bit, or slashed the warrior. She anticipated a fatal blow, but each time the gladiator shrugged it off as if it were just a scratch. Khadija almost suspected some trickery, some ruse; not a fight to the death at all, but a show of sorts with no real danger at all.

Then the hydra emerged from the bowels of the Colosseum, and she knew the gladiator's lifeblood would seep into the sand tonight. She gritted her teeth, steeled herself as the hydra fell on top of her. The crowd roared in approval, waiting for the next beast to come in and rip the wounded gladiator to sheds. Khadija saw herself there, trapped under the gutted beast, and knew she'd have to do something.

A deep and authoritative voice rang out.

“Esteemed citizens of Kildeo! As we pay tribute to Fa-Ulat, let us salute this fallen warrior, their transgression forgiven through the sacred spilling of blood. Now, under the watchful eye of the Dread God, we welcome a most revered troubadour from this warrior’s homeland, to honor the most vicious gladiator this arena has ever known: Hülya Hanci, Harper of the Black Sands!”

Khadija hopped down into the colosseum, smiling and waving to a confused but applauding crowd. It was an old trick of hers, using some simple magic to amplify her voice, change the pitch, and throw it to resonate from a different location. Hülya Hanci was a real musician from Axasterke, but Khadija doubted these philistines would be able to tell she was an imposter.

The bard wasted no time, prancing around the blood-soaked arena as she played her tanbur, singing of famous gladiators from ages past. Her song echoed through the stadium as the crowd looked on, slowly turning from confusion to anger. She’d misjudged the mood. All the while Khadija kept glancing at the gladiator under the hydra, but the warrior hardly stirred.

Silence turned to boos and jeers, but Khadija smiled and played on as the crowd hurled rubbish at her. Guards emerged from the beast pens.

“Thank you, all, for being such a generous audience!” Khadija shouted, voice amplified through thaumaturgic magic. “Never have I seen a more grotesque gathering of tasteless savages; may I never step foot in this shithole you call a city again!”

The crowd recoiled as if physically struck. They howled for blood like beasts, urging the guards to cut Khadija’s tongue from her mouth. But they were let down. Khadija threw three small objects from her pockets, and the arena was suddenly engulfed in dense white smoke.

“Come on, you’re not dying for these tasteless boors today,” Khadija muttered as she pulled the gladiator from beneath the hydra. The warrior was barely conscious, but Khadija managed to throw a bloodied arm over her shoulder and supported her immense weight as they fled through the beast gate. In the dimly-lit hallway, they saw row upon row of creatures from every corner of the known world, locked behind iron gates. As they staggered out, Khadija threw the release lever for each door, much to the pursuing guard’s chagrin.


It’d been a tight few days, evading soldiers and citizens alike, but the half-orcs managed to slip out of the city alive, and with a couple stolen camels too. Wanted in two empires now. Quite the rouge, aren’t you? Khadija reminded herself more than once, not without a little pride.

She wasn’t so chipper once they started trekking through the Prigallan Desert, though. Khadija was a city dweller, and long stretches of travel did not agree with her. The gladiator, whose name she later learned was Bal'kafaz, occupied the small cart, laid up with her numerous poorly-tended wound, so Khadija walked along side so as not to overly-tax the camels and keep them on the right path as best she could. Was it the right path? She couldn’t be sure.

When they came across another couple in a similar predicament, it only seemed right to join forces, rotating turns on the cart while their wounded rested. Khadija was only too glad for the company, only to find that their new companions were a reticent bunch. Well, one was comatose, in worse shape than Bal'kafaz. No matter. Khadija talked enough for all of them.

Now night had fallen and Khadija watched the stars as they fell down the long black slope of the firmament. She walked along the cart while the others rode. She was silent. Perhaps just out of things to say. But she did have something on her mind.

The steppe was grass, as far as the eye could see. But now they were nearing the foothills of a mountain range, and Khadija noticed strange scrawlings on the occasional boulder. She dismissed them at first, crude and ancient drawings. But then the bard started to notice a pattern. Not in the incomprehensible markings, but in their companions. These strangers were following the signs, traveling from one symbol to the next like pilgrims, though they hardly seemed the religious type. Khadija knew some groups used secret languages, cants, that were unknown to all but the guild’s members. There were likely hundreds of cants and even more organizations that used them, but Khadija’s mind instantly went to the ancient and noble Order of Seekers, a legendary group that had vanished from Axasterke after ridding them of cursed relics from long ago. As a child, Khadija had dreamed of joining their vaunted ranks, only to learn they had left her homeland centuries ago. She could hardly contain her excitement. But she did. Somewhat.

“Really a stroke of luck, running into us, huh?” Khadija said casually to the cloaked man. “She’s not as big as my friend here, but still, I’d hate to have to carry her all this way.”

She let the words sit for only a moment before continuing, laying out the verbal trap she’d carefully planned in her head. “What brings you out this far without a horse anyways? Seeking something, maybe? Seekers? Are you Seekers? Areyouwiththeorderofseekers?” The words came spilling out of her mouth, any pretense of wordplay or guile immediately out the window the moment Khadija thought for a second she was travelling with not one, but two, real life, actual Seekers. Khadija leaned on the cart’s walls to get closer to the pair and the camels groaned in protest, coming to a halt. It was dark even with the starlight, but Khadija's sharp eyes saw both their faces in great detail, searching for the slightest clue as to their allegiance.

 

[Zazz]

"-orderofseekers?"

Everything hurt. Bal'kafaz awoke to unfamiliar voices, the rumble of a cart pulling her along, and the dry, gritty feeling of sand mixed in with blood all over. The warmth of the desert sun was missing, and as she lifted her eyelids, gentle starlight twinkled overhead. The weight of her armor, too, was missing. Had she died in the arena? No, everything hurt too much. Death would have been much more pleasant.

Bal'kafaz tried to push herself up, and immediately cried out in agony; her right side felt like it had been ripped apart by a thousand hungry snakes. Her vision went blurry as she hauled herself up against the edge of the cart anyway, peering over the edge. It was dark, there was nothing, and Kiledo was far behind. The halfling sat back, the muscles in her arms and legs screaming, her lungs huffing shallowly.

Someone had haphazardly bandaged her wounds. She had no memory of who, or when.

Finally, she took notice of the sources of noise; two others were in the cart with her, and one up front leading the animals. Instinctively, she reached for her dagger, but it wasn't on her person, either.

"Where am I," the half-orc croaked. Her lips were dry and tasted of sand. "Where is my armor?" Placing a hand over her bandaged side, she grimaced, setting her head back and closing her eyes. Even if she wanted to defend herself, she couldn't. She had nothing left to give.


Corn Orc Vandal BlueXBlood Xen6n Aegis

 

[BlueXBlood]

​

Goodness, gracious... As soon as Khadija opened her mouth, the half-orc's presence almost became too much for the weary Aris to bear, words pouring forth incessantly. She was forced to pause and process what in Kirlia had just been said. Seeking something? Seekers? Order of Seekers? Did she... actually just say all of that? Forget telling them about the sanctuary. From what Khadija's words implied, she knew of their secret little society altogether. Aris would've been deeply concerned if it weren't for the aura of childish excitement the bard brimmed with. She couldn't help but stare with a confused and quizzical glare, unsure what to think of this individual.

She flashed a concerned side-eye at R'hllor, daring to second-guess her decision to trust him. If the resting half-orc was anything like the one staring into their souls currently, Aris would be in for a headache. She already was, in fact. It had only been moments since she had awakened, fatigued like nothing else in this realm, and almost immediately, what was supposed to be classified suddenly sounded like a perfectly normal inquiry for this stranger. Their lack of restraint certainly caught her by surprise, but maybe that was just Aris' antisocial tendencies getting the best of her... Maybe. She preferred believing that she had a valid reason to be uncomfortable instead.

With a hesitant nod, she affirmed Khadija's question, then raising her chin to point back to her interrogatively. So, what if they were Seekers? How does she know something like that anyway? She couldn't imagine someone in their... say, 20s, being around in the Order's days of renown, which Aris herself would not have known about without her fortunate encounter with them. Was she also a Seeker...? Or perhaps a contact? Aris had scarcely ventured into Prigalla, let alone beyond it, so the existence of Axasterke was foreign to her, along with the Order's prior presence there. Thus, she remained befuddled at every attempt to explain things with her thoughts alone.

As Aris awaited a response, she took the moment to appraise the half-orc, her gaze cascading down what was visible of her from inside the cart. She didn't strike Aris as a fighter... not in the same way as herself. Yes, she carried two blades, it seemed, but her demeanor was simply too light-hearted for the half-elf's taste. Too playful and easygoing... As she leaned against the wall of the cart, Aris could blow her brains out at any moment with her revolve-... Wait, damn it, did that even have ammunition? She didn't even think to check. She wouldn't be able to evaluate her gear in the dark anyway, but the thought unnerved her. It almost made her despise the thought of naps, regardless of whether they are demonically-induced comas or not.

But in the end, this was all in Aris' head... Though perhaps R'hllor was capable of picking up a tell or two, in Khadija's eyes, the half-elf remained calm and stoic, responding with nothing more than the two gestures before patiently awaiting her reaction. Two sharp yet deeply vacant, silver eyes, holding her gaze with an allure of mystery behind them, and though incapable of speaking a word, her silence spoke volumes of her indifferent and reserved character on her behalf.

Aris instinctively turned to Bal as they awoke, though, distracting her from her heavily one-sided conversation with Khadija. Bal's first questions piqued her curiosity, and she looked at Khadija with an eyebrow quirked inquisitively, inviting her to explain on their behalf. Aris hadn't considered that the injured one was also unaware of the recent events... She simply didn't know enough herself to guess. But, since she woke up, what was new? Aside from everything, of course. Everything, at that point, was unbeknownst to Aris, as the past few days of travel were blurred together in darkness within her memory. As if her response would be different, had that changed, though... She was mute anyway. And so, she just stared.

[ Aegis , Xen6n , Corn Orc Vandal , Zazz ]​

 

[Corn Orc Vandal]

Khadija Aslan​

Group 2 ( BlueXBlood , Zazz , Xen6n , Aegis )​

A subtle nod from the silent woman was all it took for Khadija to explode. “YES I KNEW IT,” she shouted into the empty steppe, practically leaping into the air, triumphant. She quickly came back to earth when her companion let out a pained moan, stirred to painful consciousness by the bard’s enthusiasm.

Khadija’s olive face reddened for a moment but she regained her composure, as if she hadn’t just laid all her cards on the table. She studied the woman’s features again, now marked by a look of confusion.

“Listen, I’m not some Prigallan rustic; no offense to my companion here. I was educated at the Imperial Academy in Safir Sehi, and that’s nothing to scoff at. I know a thing or two about the Order. How it saved the world from certain destruction, how they protect Kirlia from powerful relics, all that. The Order left Axasterke, but we never forgot the Order.”

In truth, Khadija daydreamed through most of the history lessons, but she absorbed just enough knowledge via osmosis, and filled in the gaps of Seeker lore with her own fantasies and far-fetched stories. Most of those outpaced even the most romantic myths and legends surrounding the fallen order.

Khadija hopped onto the back of the cart, one leg dangling and her back leaning against the rough wooden edge.

“Yeah, you two were real lucky running into us,” Khadija repeated. “Back home, we have a saying. ‘In the tapestry of fate, each deed of kindness is a thread that binds us, returned in kind.’"

This was a lie, of course. No one in Axasterke said this. She continued.

“One good turn deserves another, you know? And I’ll be honest, we'd really appreciate some kindness coming our way. Mind if we tag along to your home and stay a couple days? Just long enough until my friend rests up, of course, and we’ll be out of your hair!”

Khadija smiled broadly, hoping her affable grin wouldn’t betray the true desperation of their situation. She had no doubts that they were being pursued across the steppe by all manner of bounty hunters and soldiers, each looking to decorate Kildeo's beloved colosseum with their heads on spikes. They’d just stayed one step ahead so far, but they were moving slow with Bal’s injuries. A place to lay low for a couple days would mean the difference between life and death.

But it was beyond that. If these two were really Seekers, then they had knowledge. Information on the Cradle. They might even know its location, where it was hidden. If I can just get into their little camp and look around, I’ll have an actual lead. No more wandering around like a headless chicken.

Bal stirred again and spoke, possibly the first time since they left Kildeo.

“Our brave warrior awakens!” Khadija exclaimed, half in jest and half in genuine shock. She hadn’t been entirely sure the gladiator would ever awaken, truth be told. Her wounds were deep and she’d been feverish the past few days. It was more a testament to Orcish resilience that she survived this far. Khadija had managed to staunch her bleeding wounds, but that was the extent of her abilities. “We’re in the Hakugei Steppe I believe. Home of the nomadic Mandakh tribe, endless grass, and our new friends here,” she gestured to the pair of strangers in the cart. “Don’t worry, your kit’s under the straw there. Little dinged up, if you don’t mind me saying. I think you're due for a new breastplate,” Khadija added. She hid it so passerbys might not identify them instantly, but the Seekers didn’t need to know that.

Khadija produced a small leather flask and handed it to the gladiator. She placed the back of her hand on Bal’s forehead like her mother had done when Khadija was a child, and was pleased to find she was no longer hot to the touch. The half-orc had been babbling and thrashing for two days about guilt and shame and blood and murder, totally delirious, always grasping for a weapon to fend off imaginary beasts. Khadija decided to take them away after Bal found her dagger one night and nearly gutted her like she did the hydra. She slept with one eye open after that.

“Looks like your fever broke,” Khadija announced with all the authority of a professional healer. “How’re you feeling?”

Khadija wondered how much the half-orc remembered of their crazed escape from the city, and how much of that they should share with the Seekers. They seemed reluctant to share anything about themselves, so Khadija figured she would mirror them. Keeping her mouth shut was not the bard’s strong suit.

The silent woman remained as such, and Khadija shifted in her spot. She wondered if whatever rendered her comatose also scrambled her senses. “Your friend doesn’t talk much, does she?” Khadija said to R’hllor. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that!”

 

[Zazz]

Her brows furrowed. "My fever? What-" Bal'kafaz opened her eyes again to find Khadija doting on her, the other half-orc awfully close. "I'm.. I'm fine," she huffed, swatting the bard's hand away. It was a lie, of course; she was far from fine. Nothing seemed broken, at least, but everything hurt.

The half-elf gladiator took a moment to size up her apparent caretaker. She did not look like the orcish slaves she had seen in Kiledo, or fought in the arena. But her skin was green, like them, and she had tusks, like them. Like herself. Bal'kafaz could have almost passed for an elf, had she not grown too large, or if she never spoke. But this loudly dressed, honey-eyed, fast-tongued halfling would not have survive the life Bal' had lived.

"You.. are not from Prigalla?" It was more of an observation than a question. Finally, it clicked; she remembered those eyes, just barely. "You robbed me of my death."

The other two in their company were not Prigallan elves, either. Nor was she bound. She did not know of this Hakugei Steppe nor the Mandakh. Nor did she know anything of these Seekers. What were they seeking?

Corn Orc Vandal Xen6n BlueXBlood Aegis

 

[BlueXBlood]

​

When Khadija brought up the idea of repaying her and her good deed, Aris held her impassive expression. Many thanks for saving them, yes, yes... But did she care enough to feel indebted? Of course not. Still, nothing kept the half-orcs from following her and R'hllor back to the sanctuary, so, really, what was the point in reservation? With a half-hearted flourish of her hand, Aris dismissively allowed Khadija and Bal to do as they pleased. Sure.. They could rest at the sanctuary for a couple of days. Maybe they could help in repairing the dilapidated thing anyway, even just a little.

"You robbed me of my death." Those words were rather vivid to Aris as she eavesdropped.

Did she? Huh. Her gaze subtly shifted between Khadija and Bal, watching intently as the two half-breeds conversed. She couldn't begin to imagine the context, but it was amusing, to say the least. The injured one... She, too, was her own intriguing subject of curiosity as well. Either a heavily abused slave or a gladiator, from Prigalla, it seemed. As for Khadija, though... If she was truly "nothing to scoff at," then perhaps she didn't need their guidance quite as much as R'hllor had suggested. Surely, Aris didn't buy into her supposed prestige, but it could easily become her excuse not to invest in them. Maybe they would simply rest with them for a few days and be on their way. That would save them the trouble of feeling responsible for the duo.

Khadija's perception of the Order, however, was fascinating. What a droll take on their current circumstances. A grin played on Aris' lips as she heard the half-orc's remarks about how they "protected Kirlia, saved the world," et cetera, forcing her to stifle a chuckle. She wondered how proud and enamored Khadija would be of the broken and dysfunctional collective Aris was familiar with instead, the Order of Seekers that she knew. Perhaps "Seekers" meant something more virtuous to others, but to Aris, they were merely Seekers of Lusts. Personal wealth and advantage were their virtues now, and Aris would be sinning gravely if were to say that she was any different. Regardless of whether she wanted treasures for the prosperity of many or for self-satisfaction, her actions still manifested the same as any other, self-centered Seeker.

After Khadija acknowledged Aris' unusual silence, the half-elf lifted her leather choker to reveal a bizarre, unique tattoo on her neck. It was fine. None but the council of Iyesgarth would recognize it for what it was, save for a few experienced mages like the man sitting beside her. The mark of silence... One of the greatest inconveniences in Aris' life, yet she'd learned to care less for it. Over time, found that she enjoyed many other things above conversation anyway. Now, speech was simply unnecessary. Though, it did little to enrich her image in the eyes of others, as she could do nothing else but emanate cold impressions.

Reaching for the sheet she had been covered by prior, she slung it across her shoulders and reclined comfortably, entertaining herself with the sight of the two strangers as she waited for them to continue progressing toward the sanctuary.

[ Aegis , Xen6n , Corn Orc Vandal , Zazz ]​

 

[Corn Orc Vandal]

Khadija Aslan​

Group 1 ( BlueXBlood , Zazz , Xen6n , Aegis )​

"I'm fine," The warrior huffed.

Khadija was reminded of a wounded animal, concealing its injuries to avoid unwanted attention from predators. Did the gladiator see her as a predator? A laughable thought; even in her diminished state, Khadija figured the fighter could still crush her head like a grape. Maybe she doesn't trust the Seekers. She probably hasn't even heard of them before. Poor, benighted soul. What it must be like to live in the dark, I wonder.

"Hm, really? I wouldn't say I was fine if I'd nearly been ripped in half. But if you say it is so, then I suppose I must believe you!" Khadija said, hopping off the wagon to avoid any more swats from Bal's callused hand.

"You.. are not from Prigalla?"

"Hah! No, I am not from Prigalla. What gave it away? The fact that I've bathed in the past month?" Khadija retorted, although she wasn't sure the last point was true anymore, a possibility which horrified her. "I can forgive you for trying to cut my throat the other night, but Prigalla? Really? That might be unpardonable," She chided. Axasterke Orcs had little but contempt for their former Elven colonizers, and after seeing their society for herself, Khadija was no exception. True, Axasterke appropriated much of Prigalla's culture, but they considered themselves elevated, more refined. Better by every metric.

The gladiator further insulted her efforts to save her. Apparently, the warrior wanted to die, a desire alien to Khadija. She certainly didn't plan on apologizing. Quite the opposite.

"Hm. I'm assuming you meant to say, 'Oh, thank you wise and mighty stranger, for rescuing me from the very jaws of death itself. How might I ever repay you?' in your coarse Prigallan way. To which I say, I've never been able to resist helping a princess in peril." Khadija meant it as a joke, imagining for a moment the brutish Bal in fine, colorful Axasterke robes instead of blood-stained and battered armor, but the thought didn't bring her the laughter she'd anticipated. Just pity. Another so-called "princess in peril" came to mind, but she shook free of this lapse and continued. "Don't think of it as the ending of a good book robbed, but the beginning of a new chapter!... You have books in Prigalla, right?"

The silent woman dismissively waved her hand, a gesture which meant "to hell with you and your family," in Axasterke, but Khadija chose to interpret it as "you may come and break bread with us, and we will share with you the secrets of the universe," a reading which she much preferred. The bard nodded solemnly in return, taming her wild joy just this once. The woman revealed a strange tattoo on her neck, which Khadija leaned closer to examine. "Ah, yes, of course," She said, nodding in understanding. Of course, Khadija had no clue what the woman meant by it, but what was she supposed to say?

"Well then, I'll urge these beasts on and we'll be at your stronghold in no time!" Khadija stepped around to encourage the camels onward, but the beasts were already kneeling on all fours, evidently exhausted from the long trek and heavy load they puled. She tried to rouse them to action, but to no avail; they simply moaned in response to her prodding.

"Hm. Perhaps we camp here instead? Another night of sleeping in the dirt won't kill me." Khadija considered the thought. It certainly felt like it might kill her.

 

[Daylight Fantasy]

[youtube]1Up9z9G8-E4zmBgk6bKpviS4UFd-IZzM2[/youtub]

Title of Song

Ying Ming-Xia

Group 1 | Tags: Aegis Goonfire Tool Corn Orc Vandal

"It's times like this where silence is a virtue."

Flinging a hand-held bag to the ground, Ming-Xia was quick to dive behind a few bushes and trees. In the distance, He heard the voices of the Ying and Zhao sect soldiers as they shouted commands and speculations in the woods, all were searching for where the male was hiding. The items scattered around the opening from the repercussions of the fall as Ming-Xia waited for the troops to go away. Since the destruction of the Hua dynasty and the creation of the sects a century ago, the Ying and Zhao sects never got along. That wasn't to be expected, of course, no one could work out how to rule a once successful rule. It took a long time before he heard the leader of the troops call everyone over and he heard their footsteps got quieter and quieter. As soon as the footsteps were near silent, the journal, writing utensils, sword and bottle Ming-Xia had spilled were hastily shoved into the bag as he ties his long hair into a high ponytail, allowing for a few strands of hair fall onto his face and he grabbed his bag hastily and leaped into action, leaving the sects he once called home in search of unanswered questions and relief.

The events of his disappearance were five years ago, and he remembered everything that happened. As he wrote his last sentence, the male read over his journal, its contents filled to the brim on progress and even more questions than he left the safety of his sect. It was a miracle that he avoided the sect's gaze. He was always near the sects, the constant hiding was a hassle given the level of security around them. The troops and people they sent out were always a challenge, only escaping their gaze by chance. Once he had finished with the contents, he cleaned his brush, gently put them away, and flung it over his shoulder, ready for whatever came next.

The salty breeze of the sea filled his nostrils, its ever-so calming presence eased the tensions in his body since he went abroad the Hesper. Ming-Xia has been eyeing this place for a while, the Agonos Isles, that is. He heard and listened to the whispering around its reputation around since his escape but he simply shook his head, waving any doubts from his goals for coming all the way here. Ming-Xia sat near the edge of the vessel, watching the journey through the windows. It was a long journey when he first boarded the ship, the captain, in particular, was willing to let him in, despite the worn robes he was wearing. He sensed some of the passengers looking his way, glancing at the male as his hair covered most of his face. Perhaps it was the curiosity of such a passenger boarded the ship, or it was that he stood out from the others.

At last, the ship has anchored itself to the bays of their new destination. The voice of the captain was Ming-Xia’s call to get up and leave the vessel as it rang throughout the ship. He followed some of his fellow passengers to the front deck, staying within the crowd as they got ready to depart. The shore down below them wasn’t quite as pristine as one could imagine, but it matches with the gloomy aura around it. With the help of the sailors, Ming-Xia lowered himself down onto the lands that he looked forward to. He didn’t know how to feel about the lands, the white buildings were certainly something. Moving forward towards the shore, he assumed that the island was abandoned, given that there was little to no population here. However, it was quite the opposite. Not one, two, but a crowd of people raced towards the shore to see the departed passengers, their wooden clubs ready to swing at them. Ming-Xia grimaced, having no intention to fight at all, he looked around and put his bag in front of him as a shield to avoid physical confrontation.

Spoiler: uncoded

Flinging a hand-held bag to the ground, Ming-Xia was quick to dive behind a few bushes and trees. In the distance, He heard the voices of the Ying and Zhao sect soldiers as they shouted commands and speculations in the woods, all were searching for where the male was hiding. The items scattered around the opening from the repercussions of the fall as Ming-Xia waited for the troops to go away. Since the destruction of the Hua dynasty and the creation of the sects a century ago, the Ying and Zhao sects never got along. That wasn't to be expected, of course, no one could work out how to rule a once successful rule. It took a long time before he heard the leader of the troops call everyone over and he heard their footsteps got quieter and quieter. As soon as the footsteps were near silent, the journal, writing utensils, sword and bottle Ming-Xia had spilled were hastily shoved into the bag as he ties his long hair into a high ponytail, allowing for a few strands of hair fall onto his face and he grabbed his bag hastily and leaped into action, leaving the sects he once called home in search of unanswered questions and relief.

The events of his disappearance were five years ago, and he remembered everything that happened. As he wrote his last sentence, the male read over his journal, its contents filled to the brim on progress and even more questions than he left the safety of his sect. It was a miracle that he avoided the sect's gaze. He was always near the sects, the constant hiding was a hassle given the level of security around them. The troops and people they sent out were always a challenge, only escaping their gaze by chance. Once he had finished with the contents, he cleaned his brush, gently put them away, and flung it over his shoulder, ready for whatever came next.

The salty breeze of the sea filled his nostrils, its ever-so calming presence eased the tensions in his body since he went abroad the Hesper. Ming-Xia has been eyeing this place for a while, the Agonos Isles, that is. He heard and listened to the whispering around its reputation around since his escape but he simply shook his head, waving any doubts from his goals for coming all the way here. Ming-Xia sat near the edge of the vessel, watching the journey through the windows. It was a long journey when he first boarded the ship, the captain, in particular, was willing to let him in, despite the worn robes he was wearing. He sensed some of the passengers looking his way, glancing at the male as his hair covered most of his face. Perhaps it was the curiosity of such a passenger boarded the ship, or it was that he stood out from the others.

At last, the ship has anchored itself to the bays of their new destination. The voice of the captain was Ming-Xia’s call to get up and leave the vessel as it rang throughout the ship. He followed some of his fellow passengers to the front deck, staying within the crowd as they got ready to depart. The shore down below them wasn’t quite as pristine as one could imagine, but it matches with the gloomy aura around it. With the help of the sailors, Ming-Xia lowered himself down onto the lands that he looked forward to. He didn’t know how to feel about the lands, the white buildings were certainly something. Moving forward towards the shore, he assumed that the island was abandoned, given that there was little to no population here. However, it was quite the opposite. Not one, two, but a crowd of people raced towards the shore to see the departed passengers, their wooden clubs ready to swing at them. Ming-Xia grimaced, having no intention to fight at all, he looked around and put his bag in front of him as a shield to avoid physical confrontation.

 

[Zazz]

Group 2: Corn Orc Vandal BlueXBlood Xen6n Aegis
____________

Bal's face scrunched in confusion at the other half-orc's absurity. She rubbed her temples, then the back of her neck. Gods, she was tired. The large half-elf held her tongue, having learned from a young age to do so. Though, that did not stop the beginnings of anger at being mocked from creeping up her neck. Filthy pig-skin, preaching to her about bathing.

"I am no princess," she huffed at Khadija over the edge of the cart. "I committed a crime, the punishment was a good death. I carry no debt to you, sir."

 

[Goonfire]

GROUP 3
THE ISLE OF KUPARI

​

Whether exiled, wanted, or a runaway, all those without a place in society seem to find trouble, despite their best efforts to avoid it—or, more accurately, trouble finds them.

It all happened so quickly. Perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity. Maybe bad karma proved to be a cruel mistress. It was even possible for one to have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. No matter their circumstances, all captives aboard this boat had three things in common: their lack of equipment, their destination, and their dire situation.

It was hard to say how long the winds had carried this dwarven vessel across the West Braethian Sea. The "cargo hold" was pitch black; the only light came from a Kupari slaver's lantern on the rare occasion he checked on the prisoners. The dwarven-forged steel shackles held tightly for the entirety of the ride; one's wrists and ankles only chafed more quickly if they struggled. One person, who seemed to have only stumps where her hands were, found herself wrapped in additional rope with a glowing red choker pulled tightly around her neck.

The muffled cacophony of ship bells ringing preceded the boat skidding to a halt on a sandy beach. Vicious taskmasters flooded the hold, brandishing whips and saps. Though the chains were unhooked from the hull interior, the prisoners were still bound to one another. The dwarves forced them to march off the boat and uphill, deeper inland. Those who dared resist were beaten unconscious with saps. The message was clear: There are no heroes here. Do not try to be one.

The forced haul brought the captives along a path lined with decaying tree stumps. The verdant forest beyond it was beautiful and lush, though woefully out of reach for any trapped in this shameful three-hour procession.

The Kupari led their new slaves to the shores of a small lake. The last light of the setting sun revealed an imposing citadel resting on the rocks in the middle of the lake. Smaller ferries awaited. With the threat of on-the-spot torture looming over them, the first in line dragged their neighbors onto the boats. The new guards joining them carried sparking, fork-like metal wands and branding irons that didn't cease glowing an angry red-orange. These skifs carried them to a narrow dock before a steep, winding slope. Was it difficult for strings of eight shackled people to climb? Definitely, but their suffering amused the jailers.

Every sense screamed for one to run, yet the binds held and the jailers nudged them across the bridge into the stone dungeon. Bloodcurdling screams and unsettling noises echoed from deeper within the citadel. A scribe waited at the end of the first block of holding cells, the spine of a book nestled in the crook of her arm. She tallied the number of new arrivals as four were loaded into each cell. Even with her black mask, she could not hide the weary look in her eyes as she scanned each prisoner.

The chains connecting all their shackles were disconnected, though the ones keeping them from running or fighting remained. Once the four strangers were shoved into their cells, the iron doors screeched and slammed shut behind them, the locks engaging. Their cell had the bare minimum: shallow stone ledges on which they could sit and a hole in the corner with a nauseating stench and a peculiar heat emanating from deep below. The jailers exited the room, leaving the captives to talk freely amongst themselves for the first time since they arrived in this godsforsaken labor colony.

AriAriAbabwa escapist Rohan

 

[Xen6n]

To be honest, R'hllor didn't expect anything from Aris regarding the situation, but he could feel the wheels moving in her head as she thought about his offer. She can be a bit of a promiscuous person at times, which made R'hllor wonder what she would say next. However, he is confident that she will always be loyal to herself and not endanger them both. He has put his life in her hands before, her motives were not to be questioned in his book.

R'hllor gave a slight smile and nodded in acceptance as she accepted his offer, even though she had to admit it with hesitation. Then he looked at the orc hybrid that at last spoke to him.

“It was, we appreciate you helping us. We had…complications.” He answered, taking care to be concise and evasive while describing their last mission. Occasionally, though, because of the cut throat environment he is accustomed to, he could inadvertently omit details when providing an explanation.

“I'm capable, but running into you did save me sometime, well a lot really.” He murmured, cracking a tiny smile at her answer. It was his way of being friendly, not that he was scared of coming across as unfriendly; R'hllor has a great deal of charisma, which has come in very handy on his travels around Kirlia, particularly when it comes to bargaining, invoking otherworldly beings, and even obtaining important information from obscure sources.

But the next few things Khadija said caused him to furrow his brows in both intruige and bewilderment. He knew the Seekers had a reputation, although one that the public did not know about. Furthermore, he was very certain that the vast majority of that small fraction who were aware of the Seeker's reputation were only aware of its decline from its heyday. Thus, the sudden babble from Khadija and her enthusiastic tone did catch him off guard as he shared the same cautious, albeit curious at the same time, expression as Aris had.
​

---

He laughed and raised both his palms in a surrendering gesture at the side eye Aris shot him. He wouldn't blame her if she started to doubt his advice regarding their possible recruitment. She didn't appear to be the kind that complemented Aris' stern and distant manner. She appeared happier than most, which ordinarily would have unsettled him, but he was exhausted and chose not to think about it too much. He only needed to have a small amount of faith in his mystic senses to determine that she was safe. It nearly made him laugh out loud to think that Aris was attempting to understand what she had said. He didn't want a punch coming his way so he kept his composure.

Although R'hllor's body language seemed distant, much like Aris', he was fully present in that instant. A regular person would feel comfortable with him and younger people would likely look up to him because of his effortless soothing aura. Even without magic, it was small things like this that can make him dangerous.

Khadija's ecstatic response after she confirmed that we were Seekers was humorous. In this world of suffering, it was uncommon to encounter someone as joyful as Khadija, who appeared to have experienced some of it. Despite this, she continued to embrace her inner child, and R'hllor was not at all offended by it—in fact, he welcomed it. Though they were both depressed blobs, the optimistic energy might rub off on him and Aris.

“Safir Sehi…that's Axasterke,” He acknowledged the name with a response. He remembered casting the Sapphire Bands of Stor'aahn, his first spell of extradimensional invocation, there. It was also the place where he learned about the founding of the Order of Seekers. Such old history was thought to be nearly lost to time, so it surprised him to see someone who was aware of the Seekers' illustrious past and their beginnings.

“That's impressive! Your people preserved that ancient history, I'm glad it isn't totally lost to time. Nowadays, that's not the case.” R'hllor replied in intrigue. Khadija seemed to glorify the Seekers way above what they deserve now, he doesn't share more of the current status of the Order of Seekers, not wanting to ruin their fantasy.

“Hmm, I don't appreciate being led in an unofficial quid pro quo basis, but I'll let it slide,” His tone darkened along with his expression. He took things like this very seriously because he deals with equal exchange habits frequently; they were delicate matters for him, so exchanging something for something without first addressing it triggered something. However, he knew she didn't mean any offense and returned to his normal self.

“...but sure, you can come along, my friend here also agreed, you can tag along.” With a leisurely gesture, he crossed his legs and propped his arms behind him as he reclined slowly onto the carriage.
​

---

He turned to listen to the battered orc hybrid's voice, too; from her agonizing groan to the way she appeared, he could tell she was in anguish. It appeared as though a Wyvern had consumed her and then spat her out. He was tempted to heal them since he could practically feel her suffering, but it was an unpleasant sight. He would allow Khadija to reply to the sorry lot, who had likely woken up from whatever horrible situation she was in.

Following this, he saw Khadija fidgeting uncomfortably, and he would have assumed it was due to Aris' silent manner, which made sense because even when she didn't speak, she came across as aloof and cold to everyone she encountered. R'hllor didn't see it that way; Aris simply enjoys being alone herself. She relies solely on herself for genuine solitude, something she cherishes greatly.

“Don't fret about it, it's nothing against you, she has taken a vow of silence. A powerful binding force against her ability to speak, the mark on her neck.” He replied to Khadija while he motioned in Ari's direction while explaining to her.

He couldn't help but watch the injured orca as they continued their chat. He noticed right away that she was a confrontational type and that she was sizing up Khadija, who didn't look menacing at all. In addition, he saw that she was more orc than elf in contrast to Khadija, who appeared to have more of her elven ancestry. Her magic, which was controlled yet flowing like a shallow river, further supported his observations. The second orc, on the other hand, their magic seemed to be rigorous, wild, like a beast attempting to escape its captors. She was certainly unique, but even so, he didn't think she was someone to watch out for.
​

---

He was only partially present during most of their exchanges, mainly glancing about the woodland they were in. He was on the cautious side because it was late and he wasn't feeling too lucky right now. As soon as he believed things couldn't get much worse, the carriage suddenly stopped, and he saw Khadija struggling to get the beasts to cooperate so they could resume their journey.

“I agree, we should camp, we're all exhausted. It wouldn't be wise to be tired when we reach the Sanctuary, some challenge might be waiting for us there.” He said, specifically the last part to Aris. It was known that the ancient ruins of the Sanctuaries were heavily guarded; he was not sure but he hoped Aris knew what she was going to do when they reached there.


Aegis Corn Orc Vandal BlueXBlood Zazz ​

 

[Corn Orc Vandal]

Khadija Aslan​

Group 1 ( BlueXBlood , Zazz , Xen6n , Aegis )​

"Not a princess? Well, you certainly had me fooled!" Khadija exclaimed as she pulled a small weathered canvass tarp from the cart. "But if I so robbed you of your glorious and well-deserved death, then by all means, return to that cesspool of a city once you've recovered. I'm sure there's a beast or two left in the city that you failed to eviscerate. Perhaps they can conscript a stray cat or two. Just know that I will not be accompanying you; I happen to like my head where it's at, and would rather not see it on a spike adorning the city walls."

The young half-orc proceeded to fumble with the tentpoles for the twelfth time in as many days. Perhaps something would click with this attempt.

Khadija's eyes came alive at R'hllor's mention of her homeland, forgetting any mention of Seeker history. "You've been to Safir Sehi? Seen the Elmas River, glittering with sapphires? The ebony spires in the Kara Çöl Desert? Merchants selling everything you could imagine in Merkezi Square? Tell me, what did you think?" She felt a sinking, gnawing sensation grow in her gut, a silent ache, but the feeling only served to bolster her resolve. To rid herself of it by returning home vindicated and triumphant, by whatever means necessary.

"A vow of silence is certainly not for me, but to each their own," Khadija said as she struggled to assess which end of the canvass was intended to be the front. Was there a front to a tent?

"Still, that must make her quite an easy travelling companion. My ungrateful friend here was much the same for most of our trip, save for a few moans and groans. I think I preferred that." Khadija wondered if the mark of silence was part of the Seeker's ancient rituals, discarded it just as quickly. R'hllor had no such brooding quietude; quite the opposite. Khadija found him pleasant enough, perhaps the first pleasant encounter in the month she'd been away from Axasterke. Civilized, in her words. He was more or less what she pictured as a youth when imagining a Seeker.

"May as well add another voice to the chorus, in a manner of speaking," Khadija said, abandoning the tent for a moment. It collapsed as soon as she turned her back. From a fold in her sash, the bard produced a small journal bound in battered leather, a reed dip pen in need of sharpening, and a tiny, half-empty pewter inkwell stoppered with cork. Khadija set the items before Aris. "Only a few empty pages left, but I'd be honored to have the thoughts of a Seeker grace them. Just don't poach any of my work, or you'll have one very unhappy musician on your hands," Khadija joked. The journal, and the mad musical scrawling within, was of little importance to Khadija. If it were lost or destroyed, she could simply make more music, and she memorized most of her good work anyways. The lyrics she jotted down were in her native tongue, so the Seeker would glean little insight from its contents. Still, it was a show of good faith. Khadija snapped her fingers and a smokeless blue flame, bright as a candle, hovered over the half-elf's shoulder. Not so much for her benefit, but for R'hllor, who Khadija assumed might have difficulty reading his companion's writing by starlight.

Khadija returned to the now-crumpled tent and redoubled her efforts to establish a worthwhile sleeping spot.

"It wouldn't be wise to be tired when we reach the Sanctuary, some challenge might be waiting for us there."

With her back turned, Khadija raised an eyebrow at this. What type of challenge could be waiting for them at their home? Perhaps something was off about them. She chose to keep these reservations to herself.

"I certainly hope not. Travelling with her is challenge enough for me." Khadija wouldn't be so hard on her companion but after Bal exhibited little but distain for Khadija, who risked her life for a stranger, she was starting to wonder if rescuing the gladiator had been a wise decision. Still, she did not regret it, if only to spite the Prigallan audience and ease her conscience by not being a bystander to such depravity.

Khadija stepped back from the tent, admiring her craftsmanship. We'll make an outlander of you yet, Khadija.

The shelter sagged dramatically in the middle, to the point where the top nearly grazed the ground, and it looked as though a strong wind might knock it over, but luckily there was little wind this night. It was certainly a step up from her last few attempts, which ended with Khadija growing frustrated and throwing the tarp over herself and Bal like a giant blanket to guard against the cold desert nights.

"Shall I start a fire?"

 

[BlueXBlood]

Group 2 - Aris, R'hllor, Khadija, and Bal'Kafaz ​

As the writing kit was laid out before her, Aris' eyes caught a portion of the bard's "mad scrawlings," and to her surprise, she found it intriguing. She only glanced at it for a moment, but she mentally took note of it, setting it aside to experiment with on the Ocarina, if she could get away with such a thing. Turning to an empty page, she fiddled with the reed pen between her fingers, pondering for a moment. She didn't have much to say, and if it were going to be immortalized in ink, she'd rather not waste words. She paused.. and then began to write.

Thank you for helping us. You've earned favor amongst the Seekers. - Aris Iyesgarth

That should be fine... Aris imagined the bard would enjoy a pleasant sentiment like that written in her journal. Once the two began discussing potential dangers in the sanctuary, she chose to chime in and put their minds at ease. She shook her head and mustered a soft, reassuring smile in an attempt to assure them of their safety. Yes, it was abandoned, but at the very least, there were no self-interested rogues to deal with. It was perfect, in Aris' mind, and she was greatly content with it.

"Shall I start a fire?"

If she's capable of it, Aris thought, quirking an eyebrow skeptically at the half-orc. Her gaze drifted to the tent that she had set up, appraising it with an equal amount of hesitance and distrust. Khadija had never given off the right impressions of a fighter or mercenary, and her handling of the tent only served more against her image in that regard. Still, Aris hadn't heard a single complaint, and Khadija seemed determined to get it right. That, in and of itself, was at least a bit refreshing.

At that point, it was likely time for Aris to get up and attempt to be useful... Weakly, she shuffled off of the cart, and as her feet met the ground, her legs nearly gave out. Gracious.. she held onto the edge of the cart and looked upon her weary state with distaste. The fatigue was a less-than-pleasant sensation, and Aris was visibly bothered by it. Little could be done, though, so Aris suffocated the temptation to complain and began gradually approaching Khadija. Reaching into her satchel, she pulled out a piece of flint and offered it to the bard. Though... if she could conjure a blue flame like the one prior, it was likely that she didn't need Aris' help to start a normal campfire. Still, the offer was there.

[ Aegis , Xen6n , Corn Orc Vandal , Zazz ]​

 

[BlueXBlood]

Group 4 | Rael, Eibor, and Quart
The Forests Southwest of Iyesgarth ​

The night sky hung peacefully over the rolling hills, with accents of dim starlight speckling the heavens. The many scattered rivers of the north came to coalesce in the forest, streaming through the woods with soothing whispers as they hastened toward the Carved Sea. As the flowing water sang to the nature around it, the forest was filled with a sense of serenity.

The moonlight seeped in from the canopy of trees overhead, adorning the path through the forest with a faint, alluring luster, and the arms of the trees were carried along by the winds in a gentle dance. It was a moment of tranquility in the wild, a moment that any seasoned traveler knew would be short-lived and thus became worth cherishing. The warm, humid air during the day became a cool and damp breeze in the night, refreshing before it became a threatening chill to weary wanderers camping for the night.

Rael was no exception, and the further the moon rose, the more sleep tempted him to rest his weary eyes. He was forced to wait, though, anticipating the return of his companion, Eibor, who had set off in search of information on his behalf. Information for a mysterious bounty he had received back in the outskirts of Iyesgarth.

"Sell-sword... Rael. I have a proposition for you." Those words emerged in his memory, reminding him of the night he had been entrusted with this hunt. That strange, fateful night, when a nameless man bestowed upon him a task, carrying promises of riches in exchange. It was against anyone's better judgment to accept such a suspicious deal, but in the face of such potential wealth, who could have the strength to resist? Certainly not the common mercenary, let alone someone of Rael's lifestyle, which demanded a heavy effort to survive.

An ex-conscript for the Helegian Imperium, now living in a land completely foreign. The life of a sell-sword was not kind, and it could only be assumed that a bounty with such a reward as this one was going to be no easy feat. To make things much worse for the half-elf, the anonymous employer had given nothing but a name and a picture...

A half-elf, like him, referred to by the name of Aris. The man couldn't say what exactly she had done, nor could he offer a lead as to where she went since. He merely stressed her apprehension and that she be brought in alive. That was the condition for the full reward.

The heavy beating of wings echoed from above, interrupting Rael's train of thought. It was safe to assume that Eibor was drawing near. The timing was ideal, too, as the serenity of the forest was beginning to vanish, and the mercenary could tell that they ought to make camp soon. Though many kept to skepticism, those who fancied tales and rumors understood that the night was an ungodly hour, harboring dangers and preying upon travelers in their time of weakness.

Some who were far more superstitious would even claim that abominations inhabited those hours of darkness, roaming about with ferocious intent. Ghouls... Spirits... and the like. It was ambiguous whether or not they truly existed, but if there was any such a time for them to be about, it would be the time of cold and ominous dread underneath the moon.

By good fortune, though, Rael found himself in a small, shaded clearing that seemed safe from harm. If he chose not to pitch a tent, the sturdy roots of the trees nearby invited him to rest at their feet as well. Nature had left him with a kind offer of sanctuary for the night, and all that was left was to wait for his Cojaega friend to descend and bring him news.

[ LumeNym , Rusty of Shackleford , Nebulous Stars ]​

 

[LumeNym]

Group 4 | Rael, Eibor, and Quart
The Forests Southwest of Iyesgarth

These woods of the North were fine indeed, with the gentle voice of the river-song and the cool breezes carried over the earth's gently-sloping hills and crevices. The briny scent of the Carved Sea still reached the Cojaega's heightened senses, but it was distant and mild, not overtaking the more delicate scent of the rich soil, still soft and malleable from a shower likely a week or so back. It didn't carry the deciduous notes of their homeland, nor were the prevailing winds quite so guiding, but it was pleasing nonetheless. The bird closed their eyes for a moment to take it yet further in, the feeling of the northern winds between their primaries, how the currents seems to guide their tail in a gentle swaying motion, the manner in which the sounds of civilization blurred into the snuffling calls and chirping cries of the beings of night waking to once again stake their claim over these lands men had the gall to call their own. It never ceased to lighten the bird's mood, taking in these feelings. Perhaps, for a few more moments, the terrors of the worlds without and within would stay hidden beneath these simple feelings of a more uplifting reality.

Eibor knew they wouldn't last, however. Reality was never so kind as these moments would lead one to believe. They made a mental note to record the previous thoughts when they touched down at their destination.

It wasn't uncommon for Eibor to gather information for their acquaintances; perhaps it was something in the blood of a Cojaega that knew that information uncovered was information earned, though in the young bird's mind it was instead the simple joys of learning new things, being useful to others, and occupying the plethora of open time they had compared to the Hunt-bound. Most recently, a man with whom Eibor had enjoyed a surprisingly informative conversation with during a resting day a month or so past had taken on a bounty for a certain half-elf of ash-blond hair and pale skin. The bird kindly offered to search for the individual, as an exchange for the pleasant conversation and more to come in their partnership, and thus set off to scout the continent. The search had taken them across the far breadth of Kirlia, but though it was a challenge, they eventually happened to be in the right place at the right time.

Swooping lower as they approached where the meeting point should be, Eibor turned their thoughts back outward and began scanning between the leaves and branches dappling the fading landscape. They crossed over a babbling river dimly reflecting the last of the day's light before spotting their target settling down into a clearing a short distance away and began to make their descent. It had been quite some time since they had talked with anybody, as this search had occupied most of their time. But the bird had the feeling that this was worth the trouble. A new partnership was at stake, and this time they would make sure it didn't end so poorly.

With a final few heavy flaps, the Cojaega touched down gently against one of the large roots protruding from the trees lining their refuge. They took a few moments to glance over the man settling in among the roots, before tucking in their wings and adjusting their footing, getting used to the feeling of being connected to the ground once more. They still couldn't help feeling sorry for these grounded creatures who were always so in need and yet always without. He hadn't said much about himself when they had talked previously, but they could tell the man had a most troubled past, and had gotten on the bad side of a lot of people. Tragic indeed, and yet entirely typical for these folk. They stifled a chuckle at the thought.

"Good evening, my friend. I hope your time in the North has been as kind to you as it may." Though Eibor's beak did not move, their cool yet charismatic tone was audible throughout the clearing, their psionics projecting their words through the air. "I expect that you will be most pleased to hear that I return with the fruits of my search, and they are sweet indeed." Eibor crouched with their head lowered, a sign of respect they had learned from observing other men, and turned their murky eyes up to the poor creature in expectation.

​

[ LumeNym , Rusty of Shackleford , Nebulous Stars ]​

 

[Xen6n]

He noticed the mention of Axasterke piqued her interest, probably born in that land, which did baffle him at first as to why she would be so far from her motherland. He then realised it was a stupid thought, many souls (even in Axasterke) sought to travel and migrate around the world, it was a common occurrence.

Chuckling in response, he recognized everything she mentioned despite the pace at which she was talking.

“It's a hidden gem among the lands of Kirlia, I wish I could've stayed there a bit longer than I did.” He responded modestly, Axasterke was one of those places where the true wonders were hidden behind the surface of Axasterke's lore. He had made quite some memories there, seeing that it was the first place he went after leaving Bor.

R'hllor thought that Khadija's attempt to make a tent was quite something, and she seemed unaffected by the poor quality of the tent, her confidence unwavering. That part of her revealed to him that she had room to grow, and he knew that the Order of the Seekers in the past would welcome her since she possessed resilience, which was one of their most prized attributes.

A quick spell would take care of it, but after a while he realized he had become too dependent on magic. As a result, he almost never uses magic in circumstances other than those involving life or death, preferring to avoid combat wherever possible. Don't forsake this for pacifism; R'hllor is happy to use incredibly destructive and immoral spells when necessary.

Hopping out of the carriage, R'hllor would stroll over to a nearby tree, carrying his Enchanted Bag of Holding with him. He would settle down on the ground, leaning back against the rough bark at the base of a tree. He would observe Aris and Khadija's interactions from a distance, hardly listening to anything that was said. The realization that the two would actually get along made R'hllor smile. Despite having completely different personalities, the two seemed to get along just fine. It's true that opposites do attract. However, witnessing Aris perform modest deeds of compassion was uncommon; he hoped that this would change in the future.

R'hllor would lie there, a yawn that he could not control coming over him as weariness steadily set in. He would carefully reach into his Bag of Holding, a simple hemp pouch that held a pocket dimension that contained all of his necessities. The Bag's ability to keep food and beverages in a pocket dimension section that had the necessary heat or cold to support whatever he wished to store was another of its many magical attributes —it was his greatest achievement within the School of Enchantment. Of his efforts, he was proud.

Thinking of what he wanted to take out of the satchel, he carefully withdrew the storied Book of the Vahnih from the satchel. R'hllor opened the book and quickly perused the pages until he came to the planeswalker page. The fabled Book of the Vahnih served as a handbook, encyclopedia, memoir, and spellbook, among other things. He had always been fascinated by the idea of planeswalkers, though; these enigmatic beings were thought to represent the pinnacle of cosmic freedom. Even their origins were explored in the book:

"The Universe Wants To Break Free, So It Manifests Chaos.”

And that chaos was the planeswalkers themselves. In a time where order was prevailing over chaos, the planeswalkers served as the counterbalance to continually tip the scales back.

Suddenly, he felt the small light in front of Aris ignited by Khadija using magic, drawing his attention away from his thoughts. He was aware she could use magic, but he was curious as to where she learned to use it, she could've self-taught herself, which is an impressive feat by itself if that was the case, but curious gnawed at him.


“Khadija, where did you learn how to use magic?”


Aegis Corn Orc Vandal BlueXBlood Zazz ​

 

[Zazz]

GROUP 2: Corn Orc Vandal BlueXBlood Xen6n Aegis

__________

"Not a princess? Well, you certainly had me fooled!" Khadija exclaimed as she pulled a small weathered canvass tarp from the cart. "But if I so robbed you of your glorious and well-deserved death, then by all means, return to that cesspool of a city once you've recovered. I'm sure there's a beast or two left in the city that you failed to eviscerate. Perhaps they can conscript a stray cat or two. Just know that I will not be accompanying you; I happen to like my head where it's at, and would rather not see it on a spike adorning the city walls."

Bal'kafaz held her annoyance from her expression as best she could; showing anger outside of the arena only led to pain and suffering. This foreigner clearly had no awareness of their cultural differences, despite their shared heritage. She didn't understand, didn't know, the actions that had led to the gladiator's consequential punishment. No, Khadija did not understand honour. She was a privileged fool.

The beat up half-orc froze for a moment when her savior/captor produced a blue flame out of thin air. Magic, she understood, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. Bal'kafaz had come to distrust those who wielded it. She remained still and observed quietly as the half-elf in the hat scrawled in the book provided. Of course, she did not know what Aris had written. Couldn't know. The letters may as well have been splotches of ink, or blood splattered across sand.

"Shall I start a fire?"

If she's capable of it, Aris thought, quirking an eyebrow skeptically at the half-orc. Her gaze drifted to the tent that she had set up, appraising it with an equal amount of hesitance and distrust. Khadija had never given off the right impressions of a fighter or mercenary, and her handling of the tent only served more against her image in that regard. Still, Aris hadn't heard a single complaint, and Khadija seemed determined to get it right. That, in and of itself, was at least a bit refreshing.

The bard's tent was... something. Bal'kafaz caught the mute half-elf's expression of skepticism and had to cover a snort of amusement with a cough. She, too, hauled herself out of the cart with much difficulty, holding both her wounded side and the wood as the stars spun.

Once the world stopped moving and the pounding in her head subsided, Bal' limped over to Khadija's saggy shelter. In less than a minute, the thing was considerably more stable. Bal'kafaz sat beneath it with a grunt, beginning to tend to her, now bloody, bandages. "Great."