Fantasy 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐚 ; ic

[miyabi]

MISSION

Blood On The Cobblestones

scroll

MISSION:
Newly inducted members have been summoned; Wolftrenk, a city near the Black Order’s Eaveton Keep in Aclait valley, has murmurs of murder. Bodies speckled just outside of the city, those of formerly missing peoples, have been found left and right--horribly mutilated, mouths found agape. There is talk of witchcraft, shapeshifters, and a fellow city dweller gone rogue--tasked with investigating these incidents, the group must find the culprit before they strike again. Although a seemingly easy mission, the group must stay cautious--one misleading piece of information could throw the entire operation off. Will the newly assembled group work together or go their separate paths, risking failure?

COUNTRY: Hestea
DIFFICULTY: 6.5/10

UNIT I: track
Ymir, Veli, Gavriil, Xiangyu, Casimiro, Naya, Petra, Farukshay
Task: There has been a report of trace evidence just outside of the city, breaking off into the Shadowing Wilds: a dense forest just on the outside of Eaveton Keep. Unit I is tasked to find the origins of the evidence while fighting off the various creatures that riddle the woodlands.

UNIT II: collect info
Killian, Ales, Maeve, Safira, Omalora, Matthias, Bena, Teru
Task: As suggested by Glane, Unit II will be performing interviews, collecting as much information as they can on the deaths that have happened in Wolftrenk. Their starting point will be at the Sunshield Tavern, a bustling building with often unruly patrons, harlots, and drunken regulars. There must have been someone that has seen something.

♡coded by uxie♡

• .
• .

• 
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  intro

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  iron

  
  
  
  

  woodkid

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  CHAPTER ONE:
  CALLING THE BLACK ORDER

  
  
  
  

  A

  n endless snarl of words -- some that twisted into meaning, some into babbles; the victim, as much as one would like a positive outcome, met death. And, death then, was excruciating.
  
  It wipes away the blood from its cheeks; no one has heard a thing, it seems, and as the creature departs, the shadow of a young boy stands far in the distance--he is quiet, eyes widened in fear, yet unable to make a sound. Frozen is what one could describe him as, and that he was. There was the steady scent of sulfur, followed by iron and spilled ale; not a single moment in between each breath was captured--the victim, as drunk as they were, felt the ripping of their own flesh.
  
  Deep within the city is a stirring of closed windows, hushed voices, and hurried footsteps. The young boy lifts his palms to the sky, praying into the night. Moonlight engulfs the body, shining it brightly--the blood is drained, yet the flesh still glistens; meat hangs off the bones, ribs are torn open, and the heart still beats.
  
  — Wolftrenk, Hestea
  
  The wind is cold, grass damp with droplets of water. Unlike any other day, the sky is dark; as if the universe was aware of the cruelty stricken the nights prior.
  
  They arrive, with heavy hearts, and surround another corpse. Much like the others, the victim’s mouth is agape, limbs contorted; the poor soul must have suffered greatly. Smoke surrounds them as mourners light their torches; the sounds of children playing, ignorant--even willfully so--rush past. The sun is out once again, yet the light is dimmed by the clouds, adding to the grievous atmosphere. “We found the body only a short ways away from the city entrance,” Glane, Wolftrenk’s commander, interrupts the group’s collective silence. He has seen it all, from not only a distance but in his face; the savagery of these attacks, how the sky could turn dark within an instance, how the shadows at night can feed on those who are alone. And yet, Glane could not fully process it, nor could he describe the perpetrator.
  
  It hits the city all at once. Lock your doors at night, do not stray from the torchlight, do not speak to strangers in the night. What was once a city of laughter and clanking tankards became a city of fear and anguish. “We have a witness: a child,” the Commander is hesitant, but brings forth the little boy. A tremble runs up the mountain of ridges along his spine; his eyes belong to the cracks in the cobblestone, never to leave them, even as he speaks.
  
  There is a silence, a deafening one. Soon, though, the boy speaks. His words are muffled within the confines of his rough, dirty palms, yet he continues to speak.
  
  “My mama said to tell you, so I will,” warily, he continued, eyes still set to the myriad of stones beneath their feet, “I saw it--that thing--it was a woman. But a beast?” The little boy cowers, unable to comprehend what exactly he’d seen; a woman? Yet, a beast? “She was beautiful, so I followed her. And then I--I saw it. There was a smell, too. Like eggs? Yes, eggs. Ones that have sat out too long in the sun, I remember it,” one could only imagine the devastation he’d experienced. There was an audible gulp as he attempted to recollect his thoughts, hand reaching to pull at the collar of his shirt as if it strangled him.
  
  “May I go now?” It was obvious, the heavy discomfort jammed in the back of his throat; beads of sweat running down his cheeks; eyes that, although beckoning to look up at the adventurers, firmly positioned themselves to the ground. "Mama needs me. May I?"
  
  There was a silence as the child ran off, eyes falling back onto the body. With further examination, there are claw marks, yet not a single sign of struggle. With no strands of hair, no fibers, the scene is almost too clean; it couldn't have been a natural phenomenon, especially with the lingering scent of sulfur. "We suspect it could be another one of the Gods' beasts; we're just unsure which one," Glane gritted his teeth as he handed the team's Captain a scroll, filled with starting points.
  
  "You should start at the tavern, that is where the victim was last seen."
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  cast

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  cast.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Y. Yaotsai

  
  
  
  

  
  

  played by

  
  

  miyabi

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  S.Moi Rai

  
  
  
  

  
  

  played by

  
  

  Shadow

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  V. Godzyovina

  
  
  
  

  
  

  played by

  
  

  mother of sorrows

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  F. Selah

  
  
  
  

  
  

  played by

  
  

  .V1LLAINISM._

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  a.waldgrave

  
  
  
  

  
  

  played by

  
  

  miyabi

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  t.yili

  
  
  
  

  
  

  played by

  
  

  mother of sorrows

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  g.i.ilarion

  
  
  
  

  
  

  played by

  
  

  PRETTY HATE MACHINE.

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  m.f.burns

  
  
  
  

  
  

  played by

  
  

  .V1LLAINISM._

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  s.a.burhaan

  
  
  
  

  
  

  played by

  
  

  fancries1

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  o.atachade

  
  
  
  

  
  

  played by

  
  

  numbles

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  p.erdenay

  
  
  
  

  
  

  played by

  
  

  Folklore-Frith

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  b.solasta

  
  
  
  

  
  

  played by

  
  

  Folklore-Frith

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  m.lacugrove

  
  
  
  

  
  

  played by

  
  

  Mire

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  c.herrera

  
  
  
  

  
  

  played by

  
  

  E q u i n o x

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  y.xiangyu

  
  
  
  

  
  

  played by

  
  

  Abendrot

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  n.volkovna

  
  
  
  

  
  

  played by

  
  

  ravensunset

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

intro

cast

hope died in heaven,

and the sky

wept

time

0600h, dawn

day

friday

location

wolftrenk, hestea

status

open; not accepting

cs

lore

ooc

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[miyabi]

MOOD: stressed inwardly, calm outwardly

OUTFIT: click

LOCATION: shadowing wilds

basics

MENTIONS: addressed all of unit 1 and mentioned omalora, THE BABY

INT: mother of sorrows .V1LLAINISM._ Abendrot ravensunset E q u i n o x Folklore-Frith PRETTY HATE MACHINE.

tags

TL;DR basically, unit 1 is in the shadowing wilds--they hear some whispering, not a lot. it'll get worse BYE. i didn't know how open to make this post, so i left it at that.

tl;dr

— ymir.

to reach for faith and hope it reaches back.

Barren and devoid of life, Aclait Valley had had a sudden resurgence of tragedy; death at every corner--from both sickness and beasts; personal anxieties and beliefs that caused rifts between denizens; the clash against good and evil at the hands of humans themselves. Far beyond these worries came mystery--who, or what, was tearing apart the veil of false security had yet to be discovered. That was the unsettling truth, one that Ymir would’ve rather had been tall tales than the former. Losses were sure to happen in Drasira, but with Wolftrenk’s increasingly declining population, a case like this had been all the more devastating. For the past week, she’d pondered upon her own ability; being assigned the captain of their unit, Ymir--although confident in her abilities--remained doubtful of her own leadership. One wrong move and she could lose someone--or everyone. Perhaps it was fear, the crushing loss of those she trusted remained at the skyline of her thoughts.

Ymir had woken up far before dawn, the unsettling feeling in her stomach had grown. To lead was an honor, but a nerve wracking one. The weight on her shoulders had gotten heavier, no doubt about that and, unfortunately for her, the only way to truly cope was to work herself. Training day and night, distracting herself from the burdening thoughts that continuously bombarded the crevices of her mind.

The truth should have been easier to accept. In no way would anyone during these adventures come unscathed; with the limited amount of knowledge from the guild to their unit, there was no way to tell the degree of danger they were truly in. Nobody was ever ready, not even the most seasoned of monster hunters; however, there was one thing she was determined to uphold: to hold onto hope even in the darkest of times and ensure that her unit would not succumb to the tragedies of loss upon one another.

She wanted to be hopeful; she had to be, as foolish as the thought may be. To be truthful, however, Ymir wasn’t the hopeful most would’ve expected from her optimistic and jovial exterior. The woman was already tortured by the inner turmoil and recounts of possibilities regarding her family; to keep up the facade was exhausting but one most necessary. In her eyes, Ymir had to keep it together for the sake of everyone else: should she outwardly express her own melancholy, Ymir wouldn’t know how to look them in the eyes. It wouldn’t be out of shame, but to save herself from the pitied gazes she thought she was sure to collect. A leader had to be strong; if she wasn’t truly capable of it, Ymir was going to make sure that she was damn good at faking it.

In her own turbulent heart did she suffer in silence.

Her thoughts were louder than the galloping--hooves harshly beating against the cobblestone that once had never been touched by death. And for a while, during their small trek to the scene, Ymir was silent. Had it been her own internal monologue or recollection of trauma, she wasn’t quite sure. Not only had she had her own issues to deal with, but to think of such a young child witnessing death at such a close range, Ymir felt nearly sick--such a treacherous incident should not have been in the presence of youth. Horrors were the perpetrators of lost innocence.

They'd finally come to a halt. After collecting the varied information from Glane, there was one thing left to do: track whoever, or whatever, plagued the streets of Wolftrenk. Ymir, heavily clad in specially crafted armor whose pieces had mainly come from Omalora, pressed a firm hand against the Medallion of Nazor. Boots collided with the damp soil; a dull thump before Ymir’s voice seeped into the air, intertwining with the already lingering scent of sulfur. “Remember when they made us fight off some Rotghouls in here? Ha,” there was a nervous laugh paired with the awkward turn of the head, “uh. Anyways, we stick together. And whatever you do, never follow the whispers.”

It looked as if the forest’s fog had gotten thicker since their last encounter--a practice mission that had, luckily, left them mostly unscathed. “Xiangyu, Naya, you think you can track where that smell is coming from? Maybe find some footprints?” Her eyes went back and forth between the two before fluttering onto the rest of the team.

"You guys know the basic formation; let's keep it that way for now.”

The group is cradled into the forest’s density, surrounded by the reminders of practice missions and looming stares. Ymir felt watched and anyone perceptive enough could have felt it too: eyes like daggers into one’s form, yet with no specific direction. With the fog, the air felt thicker; heavier, lungs filled and damp feeling--suffocating, even. There were only slight whispers, enough to make one question whether or not they’d heard anything at all, but they were present, further solidifying the fact that the Shadowing Wilds was more than forestation.

It was Doom's doorstep.

code by valen t.

 

[Folklore-Frith]

location?
shadowing wilds.
interactions?
Ymir; miyabi , Naya; ravensunset , Casimiro; E q u i n o x
mood?
outwardly; calm, cool, collected. inwardly; worried.
outfit?
nothing much.

petra erdenay.

Returning home under these conditions was less than ideal. Seeing her people mourn without her—not that she did much mourning outwardly to begin with—was upsetting in its own right. Petra's mind wandered through the possible outcomes of this, and wondered about their mother. How was she doing? Was she safe? Petra had no doubt in their mind that Parisa was torn to bits over this. A desire to seek her out followed Petra the moment they received the details of this mission.

Petra knew they wouldn't be able to. Their mother wouldn't want them to distract themselves from solving this slew of murders, and Ymir would get right down to business. Something she admired about the Captain.

The ride there was a long one. Be it the product of time or the mind. Either way, it didn't feel like returning home. Petra had a long standing love of the Hestean people. They had a strong sense of community—a blessing and a curse, evidently. They had welcomed her and her mother with opened arms and gaping wounds. Maybe this mission would bother her more than she had been telling herself. A sinking feeling began in her gut and felt like it would drag her entire body down. It had started at dawn, and would persist through the rest of the day. It wouldn't go away until they fixed this. It wouldn't go away until they heard news of their mother.

Was she safe, still happy here? How was the clinic and the new medics?

Petra didn't have the ability to return here and take up the honor of Hestea's medic, but something old nestled in her chest. A remembrance of what it had been like to service an entire population and receive more than coin.

Petra was dragged from their thoughts by the voice of Ymir. Glane and the child hadn't helped the direction her mind was going. Petra didn't miss a beat. "Smelly assholes," they replied smoothly, voice as stoic and level as always. Without waiting, Petra had taken position in the basic formation, where she would be surrounded by those specializing in weaponry. Training with these people for a year didn't stop the feeling from creeping up her back. Light, but begging for her to remain alert. Trust didn't come easily to Petra, and they never knew why. Probably because she didn't bother to get to know most of them.

But Naya? They knew Naya. And she was ahead of them instead of behind. Petra would make due, but they knew the feeling wouldn't fade anytime soon.

Petra nodded to Casimiro, when he settled into the formation at her flank. They rested a hand on their short sword. A gift from a noble from Hestea. Another hand rested on the satchel she kept, filled with properly prepared supplies. Knowing these woods, shit was about to go down. The whispering had only just begun.

A hammer can build a house, and crack a skull.

coded by incandescent

 

[ravensunset]

Naya was no stranger to death.

Or to monsters, for that matter. She had been training for a year, until throwing knives and shooting arrows and running through the forest around the Keep grew repetitive, and her fingers itched for a real risk, something more than just a practice venture to the woods, a chance to prove her worth. Or perhaps to test it. The rush of excitement at the new adventure overrode the dread that came with the quiet town. Naya was confident. In her abilities, sure, that this time she’d show up, no missteps, but in her team too. Ymir’s strength, in personality and combat. Petra’s presence, a familiar face, one she knew would keep them alive if it comes down to it. Velivir being another Sredzymi presence, and Xiangyu bringing another scout to the team, to name just a few of many.

Trust was no easy thing, and Naya would rely on no one but herself for this mission, or any she could foresee, yet, she couldn’t deny the skill present in the group. If they weren’t a team yet, they would be after this was successful.

They’d made it through the town, much to Naya’s appreciation. The smells around the population there were ones Naya hadn’t quite yet gotten used to, and, the further from civilization the closer she was to where she worked best. The town had been, well, unsettling anyhow. The way grief and fear mingled in the air, the people’s fear turning into expectation placed onto them. The sight of death, locked in between stone walls. Naya didn’t know what to do in the city, and had stayed silent for the first part of their mission, but now that they were out and looking for the source, she could begin her work.

The forest, though so different than those that she knew, had the same quiet buzz in it, the promise of life just hanging on with its last bit of strength, both peaceful and malevolent. Invisible eyes from any direction, never a respite from watching. Tracks sunk into the ground, leaving their mark to be analyzed just as deeply as anywhere. The fog was damp, yet cool, and she couldn’t wait to slip into its hold. So, Naya was confident.

Death stalked the town, lurked in the forest. It had reached out and claimed too many already. Naya’s job, then, was to stalk death. Perhaps more importantly, Naya’s job was to be the better of the two.

She caught Ymir’s eyes briefly before settling into formation a bit behind her, on the outskirts of the group, "Shouldn’t be too hard to find. So long as we stay alert," she responded, keeping her voice just loud enough to carry over the team and not further. With the response, her eyes moved across the team to meet Xiangyu’s for confirmation, checking they were on the same page.

Letting the faint smell of sulfur catch in the air, she turned to where she could best guess it was coming from, and started moving towards it. It was a comfort, the way her boots sunk softly into the soil, the movement easy and familiar. With the scent increasing, just barely but nonetheless, and the group beside her, Naya kept following, until she realized the sulfur wasn’t the only thing in the air increasing in strength. The whispers, just on the outside of their hearing, seemed to be growing louder as they continued in the same direction. Naya didn’t stop, but turned to look at Ymir, the warning of not following the whispers repeating in her mind.

scout

Naya.

• aaaaaaaaa
• aaaaaaaaa

• filler tab!
• 
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Location

  
  
  
  

  shadowing wilds
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Interactions

  
  
  
  

  all unit one members, mentions miyabi Folklore-Frith Abendrot
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Mood

  
  
  
  

  confident, excited, but staying cautious
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Outfit

  
  
  
  

  dark fabric clothes covering her entire body, with light leather armor over her chest, dark gloves, and her wolf-shaped mask covering her lower face

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[fancries1]

shaken, excited

Safira Aaima Burhaan

The fabric of her stained skirts brushed against her horses' fur as the animal walked along the filthy cobblestone path. The rider holding onto the reins with one hand as she struggled to balance a bundle of parchment with the other. The horse's movements, while considerably slower than the rest of the group's, and certainly not fast enough considering the urgency of the mission at hand, were still not making the young woman's job any easier. She couldn't help but let out a rather unladylike string of curses as the bouncing motions forced her hand to accidentally scratch off what she'd been writing. No doubt, she would be forced to spend the night transcribing her notes and findings of the mission if she wanted them to be eligible. She should've been annoyed, frustrated, perhaps even angry - all complimenting the unease and terror that every sensible person would feel during their first mission for the Black Order. Oddly enough, though, she felt none of those things. Quite the opposite, really.

Safira had barely been able to catch a wink of sleep the previous night, and just about every night since she'd been assigned her first mission, for that matter. Not out of anxiety over the notion of possibly coming face-to-face with a bloodthirsty monster, or encountering any other of the countless dangers that awaited them on the road. It was nothing but the pure excitement pouring through her veins that made her unable to fall into the confines of well-deserved slumber. The sheer thought of what her job entailed - being a scholar for the order - tasked with the exploration, puzzle-solving, and investigation she was so fond of. And if that weren't enough, all focused entirely on the area of research she was most fascinated by: magic. The unknown and mysterious forces that had plagued their world from the dawn of time that only such a limited amount of people could actually fight. The promise of an entire ocean of undiscovered potential and limitless possibilities was tantalizing, almost enough to make her forget the unmistakable fact that she was still placing herself in a precarious position.

It was a fact that was only made better when she was given her first official mission. Head into the village, question the citizens, find witnesses, and try to find out more about whatever was terrorizing the people of Hestea. It was, simply put, the perfect match. If there was one thing living in the high courts of Al Visar had taught her, it was how to weasel important information out of even the most stone-faced and stoic of nobles - doing so with drunkards and harlots could very well prove to be the easiest task in the history of the Black Order itself. And, even if things happened to go sideways, the higher-ups had enough foresight to leave the second unit with enough skilled fighters to protect themselves. She could only hope they would be so kind to extend that protection to herself, though. As something told her the dagger she now hid within the confines of her skirts would not be enough to fend off against whatever monster had caused the carnage she'd seen just recently.

There were not enough books detailing the horrors of war that could prepare a person for the gruesome sight of the monster's victims. Their flesh had been pulled apart to the point it could barely be recognized as human, let alone identified. And the stench, putrid enough to make even the dingiest of Hestean streets smell like roses in comparison. It had taken Safira some time to compose herself enough to write down the details of what they'd found, and even then she'd barely managed to make her hand stop shaking long enough to write down the words. And that boy's testimony... his words hadn't ceased their echoings since he'd told them what he'd witnessed. A woman smelling of rotten onions. It could mean all sorts of things. From the boy simply being confused - likely an effect of seeing such horrors at a young age, to him lying (though it was unlikely, Safira could spot a liar from miles away), to the woman being lost in the forest and completely unrelated to the case, or the most interesting of hypothesis; the woman being the monster herself. Perhaps one of the creatures she'd read about, the type that possessed the power to take on the likeness of another creature, sometimes even of a different species. The prospect of the team a creature such as that and being able to study it with detail was fascinating. And it only strengthened the views that she had for so long held so dear to her heart.

They needed to rid the world of these dangers. And to ignore them, like other nations had chosen to do, was nothing but a fool's gamble.

Now having finally arrived to the tavern, Safira carefully dismounted her horse and packed her supplies inside her leather pouch. Scrunching her nose in disgust as the smell of nearby patrons assaulted her nose, she reached for a small vial of flower petals, which she lightly dabbed underneath her nose to help mask the offending smell (a trick she'd learned during her time in Hestea). And then, walking with as much confidence as she could muster to hide the fact that the environment was entirely foreign to her, she entered the tavern.

The tavern was new to her, yet didn't defy any of her expectations of what such a place would look like. It was dark, save for a few candles lightly illuminating the tables and some of the walls, scarcely decorated save for a couple of banners and pots with dead flowers, and filled with more stains than she could count (whether they were from alcohol or...other substances...she didn't care to find out). There were instruments in a nearby wall ready to be used, though there was no one playing them. And the patrons, though there were a few of them, weren't as lively as she would've imagined. They weren't as solemn as those outside the tavern, mind you, and some did manage a laugh or two while balancing a harlot over their knee. But she could tell there was something missing. A friend, perhaps, or simply the energy these places were known for. Stolen by the monster, and replaced by inescapable tension that could be cut by a dagger.

There were some looks with raised eyebrows sent her way as she strutted to the bar, but her deadpanned expression hid any reaction to the matter. Imitating the way she'd seen Hesteneans acting, she harshly flopped down on the barrel that served as a barstool and placed a couple of coins on the table. "A beer, my good man," she bellowed, with more volume than she usually would have, but enough to fit the persona she was trying to emulate. She doubted the normally closed-off and community-based people would be open to complete strangers meddling in such personal and dangerous issues, so it wouldn't do them any favors to show who their intentions truly were. Not at first, at the very least. It would be easier to gain the patron's trust first, and then start asking about their disappearing victims. A plan that she could only hope her teammates, some of which were already in the bar themselves, would follow. Or, at the very least, propose a better plan that she could adapt to. And if they didn't well, she didn't worry too much about that. Group work had never been her strongest quality.

"On second thought," she said, placing another coin on the table, "give me your strongest drink. Whatever's enough to knock a man dead. Gods know I need it after the day I've had. Dreadful." Safira debated giving more details as to what she was talking about but chose against it. Giving far too much information without being asked could seem suspicious. And if what she'd heard about bartenders was true, was the fact that they were there to lend an ear to anyone willing to pay enough coin. If she was lucky, it wouldn't take long them to ask about what she was talking about, and said conversation could lead to the information she so yearned to have.

• .
• .
• .

• fit
• location

  
  

  Hestean tavern
• tags

  everyone in unit 2

coded by reveriee.

 

[.V1LLAINISM._]

FARUKSHAY SELAH

MOOD: a gay in distress

OUTFIT:_____

MENTIONS: miyabi mother of sorrows et all

INTERACTIONS: N/A

TAGS: tags tags tags tags tags

أرجوك يا الله احفظ الأبرياء من الشر وأن تلد النور ، فما من شيء أقدس منك آمين>>

He pleaded through clattering teeth, eyes wound shut as the holy whisper accompanied the hollow chorus around. Fear. Unfortunately, the emotion was a common dweller of all his mind, body and soul. A semblance to the holy trinity. Something he wasn’t proud of, and yet, could do very little to tame. For he was petrified- quite possibly more than the others, despite having trained an entire 12 gruelling months. It almost seemed that he could never get used to it- and given his current state- that he never quite would. A well-lubricated gulp sung louder than anticipated, thus making him shrink further into the lean body that was his own. Why, to draw attention to himself in a place as deadly as this would not only invoke more fear, but consequences larger than both heaven and hell divine. He stifled yet another, worn boots quivering with every uncertain step, & into the forest he followed.

Hestea. The land of sorrow. Quite a fitting name, unfortunately for them. Although he held very few grounds to judge, given his former lack of ahem, luxury might say you. In any case he actually found great solace within the decaying cobblestones & morose faces, why , it almost felt as if he’d never left in the first place. It was the forest he had several qualms with. A grave picture, Faru stalked forth alongside his most trusted counterparts- nearly at centre formation but not quite, given his jittery movement. For, he’d thought it best to be covered from either & all perspectives, due to his less than matured experience. Better safe than sorry, right? In his hand dawned a small pocketbook, leather-bound and torn at the edges. His notes. With sketches passionately etched into the yellowed parchment, Faru flipped through each page until his vision had become enraptured by the creature depicted before him. It was a shifter, one that bore a thousand of faces & wore them like masks to a masquerade. They seemed to be the culprit at hand, violent in nature, targeting humans and hmmmm perhaps even a Straras? Well, the child had mentioned seeing a woman…. His mind began to spiral, whirling into a feast of possibilities, abandoning attentiveness on both the path ahead and his crew mates…

Suddenly, a sharp collision had sent him flying onto his rump, spectacles and book cast astray, leaving him completely dumbfounded in the midst. Now, with his vision impaired, Faru could very barely make out the silhouette of a rather thick oak tree, the very assailant that’d caused him such abrupt misfortune. He sat, trying his best to regain full consciousness despite having had the complete wind knocked out of him. It’d only taken the echoing snap of a twig for realization to strike: he was in the forest in wolftrenk, spectacle-less, on his behind and now with a gnawing ache at the centre of his cranium. Fudge. Fudging fudge fudge. He cursed both internally and underneath rampant breaths, practically springing into action as he underwent cat formation- both hands and knees digging into the soil as he patted away, hoping to reunite with his spectacles. After spending minutes & receiving no fruition (save for several grains of dirt and a worm- much to his horror), Faru had decided fo call out to one of his teammates, whom he’d thought were close by. After all, their leader, Ymir was of the patient and understanding kind, always ready to wait whenever he found himself struggling, so, why would it be any different now?

With a pained sigh, Faru called out reluctantly “Ymir…. team, I seemed to have misplaced my lenses again. And possibly my dignity as well..” he trailed off through a silent wince, rubbing his rear with a graphite-smudged hand. Ouch. Though apart of him had felt guilty, knowing full well that this little interruption would only extend their stay within the haunted forestry and perhaps even the mission altogether, he’d have to think of a way to make it up to them, to redeem himself once more…. If they ever responded, that is.

Coming to a shaky stand, Farukshay tried once more. “Ymir…? Veli…..?” He croaked, footsteps painstakingly slow as he began to scan with what little vision he had left, only to see nothing, to see no one. And at that moment, his breath caught in his throat. Taken by terror, the scholar began to deny his reality. “No, no, no, no, no, no!!” He exclaimed through piercing whispers, hands flying to tangle into his mane upon his severely distressed recognition. For he was lost, cast astray & there was no doubting that. How that had come to happen was beyond him, for one moment he’d been divvying up possible conclusions and the next, he’d run into a tree, a tree God’s know where or how far from the formation. He was a dead man walking. Perching himself on what felt like a very large rock, Faru attempted to calm himself,
mind warring between action & rationale as he did so. If he sought them out now without his glasses or his book he’d end up like their poor subject Mr. Augustin And if he stayed and sat idle, he would end up like their poor victim Mr. Augustin. So really his only viable options were death and well, death. This was not good. This was not good at all.

<< فاروكشاي >>

His head snapped, raising from the confines of sweat-drenched palms. He froze at the sound of his name, having come from a voice unfamiliar to him- or should he say, voices. Eyes widening in shock, the man stammered, as if trying to get a word out- perhaps a manly threat even, but all he could profess were soft sputters and a pathetic whimper. He was going to die.

<< فاروكشاي >>

They called to him once more, only with more conviction, with more adulation, as if purring. He gasped, beginning to tear at the light fabrics of his amourless sleeves, revealing deeply tanned yet marred skin- a tribute to his many training accidents. The scholar’s pace quickened as the voices began to grow louder and louder- seemingly matching in speed, he began wrapping the fabric around his scraped palms- once- then twice- and then enough times to form a ball around the lengths of his fingers. Once both hands were complete and the whispers nearly unbearable, he forced the now cotton pads to his ears, muffling the whispers as best as he could. And yet they still seemed to grow tauntingly louder and louder, like Ill-intended mockingbirds, hovering, preying, enticing.

<< فارو سويت >>

They sang harmoniously, the words of a dead woman. A loud cry erupted from the depths of his chest, tears brimming his eyes at the pained memory. Her smile, her face, her touch. Only god could save him now.

º º code by ditto º º

 

[.V1LLAINISM._]

MATTHIAS BURNS

MOOD: shook fuckboy

OUTFIT: YAGA

MENTIONS: safira + et, all

INTERACTIONS: me @ me

TAGS: .V1LLAINISM._ fancries1

"Mama needs me. May I?"

The boy’s voice haunted the perimeters of his mind, leaving the oft jovial man wordless within his journey. Home, he thought, astute eyes cast down as his noble steed trode over the unfinished paths and muddied terrain. He was home. Except this wasn’t the home he’d once known, no, it was anything but. Kissed by grief itself, he watched as the once somber faces darkened & sunk from pressures more and more unsurpassable than the last, as if imprisoned by sorrow and forced to rot for all eternity. When would the suffering end? For the children no longer played in the streets and instead, they witnessed gruesome murders in the nighttime. The streets bore very few smiles to reciprocate, very few cackles to accompany. This was not the home he’d remembered, no, nothing of the sort.

And yet despite the cosmic change, Matthias still bore the same shame he’d carried with him all throughout his life. Glances of his teammate’s wrinkled noses and horrified grimaces had since silenced his never ending ploy for meaningless conversation. Why, one quick insult and his dignity would fall to the gutters- alongside the rest of Hestea. For, as much as he’d missed his shabby little community, there was no defending it- and even less of a chance of saving it for that matter. Though it’s not to say they wanted it to be like this, why it’s been said that some things were just born unlucky- as if shadowed by a black cloud until death’s pass. Matthias frowned, heart yearning to recover the Hestea that still had hope, the Hestea that still had life. But it seemed that they had died long before the team had even entered. None walked with a beating heart.

Dismounting from his copper-coloured horse (lovingly nicknamed “stinkstink” due to his terrorizing bowel movements) Matt took a moment to stretch before following after his counterparts. What could he say? These horse-drawn voyages had yet to become his forte, in fact he was more of an on-foot kind of lad himself. Entering the tavern with long, eager strides,, Matt stifled a laugh at Safira’s peculiar behaviour. Did she really think they acted like that? A playful roll of his eyes and he was off on his own, not wanting to overwhelm the poor regulars by bunching into a conglomerate. After all, it’d only draw more attention to them- which he was usually not averse to either- it was just, just good to lay low for now. Quick to locate the instruments mounted upon a nearby corner, it suddenly began to click. Why of course, the one thing they were missing, the one void that needed to be filled was the absence of music. And whom better than to play than a bard with questionable decisions and an irritating disposition? Winking at a trio of nearby ladies, he plucked a lute off of the wall to the sound of their girlish giggles. He’d make sure to reconvene with them afterwards.

And suddenly, the hollowed tavern began to emanate with the finely-crafted tune familiar to most- a sea shanty by the name of ‘Drunken Sailor,” one of his personal favourites. All the while Matthias traipsed through the room as his fingers plucked effortlessly, not needing an attentive eye to watch over them, as if it just came naturally. Though years of laborious practice and self-discipline would state otherwise. The brunet paused before every stranger, inviting them to melodiously accompany him and hopefully gain companionship for the rest of… however long they were going to be here for. Only, with every rejection he began to lose hope, mind rerouting for another strategy- something- anything to get the job done. Though, it was not until he’d halted in front of a stout redhead, did his situation begin to look upward. Supple cheeks rose in a toothy smile as the woman shyly confessed that she was anything but of fair voice- to which he kindly reassured, stating that he too would take a leap should she follow. He didn’t know what it was, but there was something about her that simply drew him to her, as if she reminded him of someone, something unforgettable.

After seconds of convincing Matthias had successfully gotten the woman- Peggy off of her seat and beside his own tall figure. The bard did his best to suppress a smile every time her throat broke, eyes flickering over in a knowing manner as their voices- both light and dark, collided within a brotherly symphony. He let out a laugh as the song concluded, head raised aback and broad shoulders bouncing alongside every lackadaisical clap. For it was exhilarating, it always had been and he was certain that it always would. Peggie too bounced up and down as she clapped for herself, not once paying mind to the several eye rolls and few “piss off”s here and there. Why the adrenaline had left her completely unbothered, that and she seemed to be quite used to this sort of behaviour- a token for being vibrantly different…. And a big gossip.

“Care for a drink?” Matthias inquired through mischievous eyes, hoping to learn more of his new and insanely unpopular new friend.

The red headed nodded almost immediately, scarlet curls bobbing up and down as she practically beamed with every step forward. She was a lot like ‘Delia now that he’d gotten a good look at her, no wonder he’d found such a sibling-like appeal to her. Why, she was just like his little sister.
Taking a seat close to Safira, Matthias motioned for the young woman to join them right at the centre. Only, before he could even introduce the both of them she was off on her own sermon.

“Hi!!” She waved, practically smiling ear to ear as she came to face the woman. “My name is Margaret but you can call me Peggie, everyone does! Well…. Except for that man over there, see him? Yeah, he calls me a little s-h-i-t but that’s only because his brother just died.” (Help??) she concluded through yet another perky smile, as if she hadn’t just dropped a death bomb out of nowhere. A sudden gasp escaped her lips and she continued, barely taking a breath between each sentence “Oh! Are ya Matthias’ friend? You’re so pretty!! Are you new here? Do you like Hestea so far?? It’s a little putrid but ya get used to it, where are ya from? Do ya like the colour blue?”

It was at this moment that Matthias knew, he had fucked up.

º º code by ditto º º

 

[miyabi]

mood :

annoyed

location :

tavern

outfit :

mentions :

Shadow and the rest of unit 2 ( .V1LLAINISM._ mother of sorrows numbles PRETTY HATE MACHINE. fancries1 )

interactions :

Shadow

WALDGRAVE

ALES

Land of sorrows, hidden woes, reeking of death and its hollow people; Ales’ home, while it may have not been as grand as Al Visar—or, rather, any other nation—it had its people. Nestled together, by each other’s side in the face of adversity, solidarity amongst people made even the darkest of days far less intolerable than the stench—though that stench, she’d already become nose-blind to.

Human nature was a curious thing.

There was an extensive list of behaviors Ales herself couldn’t quite understand—yet Ales was one to contribute to it; people were willing to lend their bodies for the thought of free alcohol; people were willing to throw themselves in front of dangers for the ones they loved; people were foolish enough to believe in the good of others; lastly, there was decorum in those whose beginnings were far more forgiving. And while often these thoughts are pessimistic in their own cruel, unnerving way, Ales found comfort in it. In a world filled with flaw, she could dwell without the constant fear of judgement. Ales, much like most in her position, had little care. The opinions of others had made such an impact that she, further accepting her fate, would not be the woman her father wanted her to be.

And for a while, she wallowed in it. Screamed, cried, broke down—eventually leading to numbness, a void that allowed her to remember one thing: no matter what she did, her bastard father would never be proud. Ales, although despising the thought, accepted it for the most part—how she would never be like her father or adoptive brother Killian, two brave men proving valorous. She needn’t fester in her own self-pity, there was no use for it. Joining the Black Order at least gave her some kind of cause, the reason for her being inducted still a mystery. And for once, maybe she would be able to do more good.

The intentions for accepting, however, are still unclear to her own self.

“Sieg, my friend. Good luck with this one,” Ales snorted as she turned her head towards the burly Blacksmith known for his own lack of social aptitude. Her horse whinnied, stomped his hooves against the stones just as Glane turned. Though one to favor action, the woman was relieved; to spend a time in a tavern, an atmosphere she was most familiar with, gave her confidence. She, however, could not help but keep this poor soul in her prayers.

There were the ongoing thoughts of what that child had endured—something that Ales, herself, was all too familiar with. Horrors such as that left a lasting impression most notable to the youngest of minds—if only these minds weren’t as curious as they were. Perhaps then, the endurance of terror itself, would be put at bay. From the tremble in each step the child made—quick, short strides his little legs could bear for the moment—to the onlookers whose sullen mien did nothing but earn a few disgusted yet sympathetic glances from Ales, it was apparent that once again: Wolftrenk was under civil unrest.

The pungent scent of blood mixed with alcohol lingered; most of it could’ve been herself, the rest of it came from the town itself. Scents had gathered in her clothes; porous cloth seldom washed with the constant work she and many others had to do to survive. In the corner of her eye was a small group of men, gathered with solemn smiles on their faces, as if to cope with the fact that there was another lost. To her, it was obvious: they suffered as much as the others did. These men simply chose not to be swallowed by their own fears, but by the clutches of mead.

“To Augustin! And may that bastard rest in peace!” Their voices, amidst the haze, attacked her senses; they were loud, repugnant, and the perfect people to ask. They were Hestea’s maladies, drunkards with nothing else to do but drown in harlots and mead, and the most relatable people she’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. Drunkards, however, often told their truths— Ales fixated on that idea.

She approached, shoulders straight much like her stride with a strike of false confidence mixed with a saccharine sweet, melodious tone Ales, herself, couldn’t quite stand. “Oh, boys,” her words danced on her tongue, kissing the air—breath sweet like honey, “care for some company? Diana, nice to meet you.” As much as she was crass, she was brilliant; like a chameleon, able to melt into her surroundings—some would even describe Ales as a well-rounded mimic, though she never quite used this to its fullest advantage. Her demeanor was no longer that of Ales Waldgrave, but of Diana Cantrell: a woman well-versed in whatever the hell these men were interested in. And hell, she would milk it for all its worth.

Their eyes had nearly popped out of her head—had it been the ungodly amount of cleavage or the fact that a woman had even approached despite their sorrow. “William, my lady,” the man, whose cleanly shaven face was painted in melancholy, responded—hand outreached with grime. Inwardly, she’d grimaced—wanting to hold her nose, retract her calloused hands, but she didn’t. Ales needed to get answers one way or another, and while this way was unconventional, it was better than talking to the haggard looking woman in the far corner of the tavern.

Hollow, reddened eyes stared intently; most would only sum it up to the city’s very own crackhead. And somehow, in her frequent glimpses towards the woman, she’d vanished. With no trace, but a smell as foul as described. Ales, however, couldn’t quite place the features sprawled across the woman’s face—shrouded by an uneasiness that wavered in the air. Was anyone else able to smell it? Or was her mind playing tricks once again? “Can you tell me? About what happened? I’ve just come to the town and—”

“He’s dead,” William muttered in between heavy gulps, slamming the tankard firmly onto the tabletop; his eyes told stories of pain, one most memorable. Augustin, the victim of last night’s horror, must have been a close friend. “Last I saw him was here. We’d drink, bring ourselves a few wenches. A mighty good time, if you ask me. There was one girl in particular that took interest in him.”

Her interest was piqued, without much fight to it, the man was willing to spill. That was, until he stopped in the middle of his explanation to rub his fingers together. “I will tell you the rest. For a price. I take payment in all forms,” he sucked on his teeth, nudging the man next to him. And within seconds came the bellow of hearty laughs loud enough to make one’s ears ring. Once again she was disappointed, but not surprised by the sudden request—should one call it that. With a half-hearted laugh and equally unimpressed stare, Ales grabs the man by the back of the hair, no longer able to tolerate the thick atmosphere of intoxication and stench.

SMACK. His face, slamming into the hardwood, left droplets of dark red blood. There was a sudden silence from the group, William grabbing at his nose with a whimper. “Tell me what you know or I will make it worse,” Ales spoke through gritted teeth, voice lowered and filled with disdain. From then on he was hesitant, with a tremble dancing across his lips, barely a word spoken without being interrupted by a quiet sob that Ales beckoned forward.

coded by reveriee.

 

[fancries1]

disgusted

Safira Aaima Burhaan

The bartender offered nothing but a grunt in reply as he loudly slammed a mug on the table. Safira, mindful to maintain her "Hestean" demeanor, inspected the foul-smelling, vomit-colored liquid with disdain. She'd asked for something to bring down a beast, sure, but the poison currently overflowing from the mug had certainly not been what she'd had in mind. It was nothing the likes of which she'd seen before. Of course, granted, that was to be expected from someone who'd never been allowed nor interested in bars and casual drinking, save for the occasional cup of wine for particularly stressful evenings. The drink's potent odor invaded her nostrils as she twirled the cup around, surpassing the barrier she'd created with her flower concoction - its stench powerful enough to make her gag and turn her head away. An action that fortunately captured the attention of the otherwise apathetic bartender. Perfect, exactly what she needed. And now to actually make him talk...

"Been a while. Not used to the stuff anymore I suppose," she offered as a lame excuse. One that, judging by the bartender's raised eyebrow, he didn't believe. To mask this, Safira quickly took a swig of the drink and discreetly dug her nails into her thigh to stop herself from making her disgust too evident. It cost her an inhumane amount of willpower to detain the vile rising in her throat, and for the very first time in he rlife she found herself almost allowing the smallest sentiment of empathy for the people in the village to reach her heart. It was no wonder Hestea was the way it was if that abomination of a liquid was the only thing they had to quell their troubles.

"Wouldn't recommend it to outsiders," said the bartender, finally Her tightly-shut eyes and the way in which she grasped the cup provoked a chuckle from the bartender, finally breaking his silence. She didn't react, careful to seem as normal as possible while she internally beat herself for allowing her cover to fall so quickly. It wasn't her only plan - she never left for a mission without alternatives for whenever the inevitable happened and they had to adapt - but it didn't make it any less frustrating. Months living alone in Hestea and a year working amongst people whose behavior she was trying to emulate, and it still wasn't enough.

"Damn it, I need to do better," she thought.

"My mistake, then. Should've chosen something lighter. Hard as it might be to swallow, at least it's doing it's job. Wouldn't want to stay here without some help, if you get my meaning." Speaking so freely and casually (at least, as casually as it could be coming from her mouth) felt odd, but it got the reaction she wanted from the bartender. A veil ofsorrow and anxiety befel the man and quickly forced him to retreat to the counter behind him. His hands busying themselves with the nearby bottles, despite the fact no costumer had asked him for anything. He was just as disturbed by the mention of the village's wave of atrocities. It was to be expected of any sensible villager. But his proximity to the only deal they had - that being that the victim had been seen in the bar, made him the perfect witness to gather information from. All while the rest of the team wasted their time playing around with patrons who were so drunk they could barely form a coherent sentence. As Matt's music filled the tavern, Safira couldn't help but smile. She couldn't wait to see the look in Zohair's face when she told me of how helpful she'd been.

"But look at me rambling around! I apologize, I'm sure you must be sick and tired of talking about the topic. It's just - well, I'm certain it must be hard, especially to those acquainted with the victim," she didn't miss the way he stopped moving as she mentioned the victim. "It was just a couple of minutes from here, wasn't it? Did you knew-"

"No. I didn't," he rudely cut her off, silencing her momentarily. So much for manners, though she should've known better than to expect high-class courtesies considering where she was. "Come now," she continued, despite the warning glare from the bartender. "Surely you must know something. I mean, with such noteworthy cases in a small, tight-knit community, I doubt there's space for much secrecy amonst the people."

He turned around once more, his rag and bottle long forgotten on the counter as he quickly approached the girl. Safira gulped, frightened of the seething anger eminating from the man. Though, upon closer inspection, she realized that it wasn't anger as much as terror that dominated the man's features. He was practically shaking, with wide eyes that peered into the very depths of her soul as he stuck his face closer to hers. Despite his attempts to appear threatening, she couldn't help but feel like he was indirectly warning her. Whatever his reaction was, she knew that whatever he was afraid of wouldn't be as kind. "Listen here," he growled, soft enough so only her and those nearby could hear, "I don't know why you've come here, and I don't care. We ain't telling you shit. You keep bothering me, and I'll have you thrown before you can bat an eye. Understood?"

So perhaps she'd bitten more than she could chew, fine. But her plan hadn't been twarted just yet, and she still had a fail-safe trick up her sleeve. One that had never failed her before, especially when dealing with other people. What stopped her short wasn't the bartender, though, but a stranger sitting next to her and practically assaulting her with questions and compliments. Some of which, she had to admit, were enough to make her blush (she thought she was pretty!). It was almost pathetic how this girl could have her stumbling over words and even stuttering in just a second, such was her discomfort with complete, uncorrupted and well-meaning sincerity. Despite the girl's politeness, Safira narrowed her eyes (though it was mostly at Matt for bringing the girl over in such an important moment). "Thank you. No. Could be better. The color blue is fine," she doubted the energetic girl would be a fan of her dead-panned replies, but she wasn't about to reveal that much about her personality without knowing who she was first. It was evident that, although she was obviously Hestean, she didn't carry herself in the same way most of them did. More akin to those in the higher class of society that she'd been briefly acquainted to before her vanishment. And if there was one thing she knew about rich people like herself, it was that they weren't to be trusted. Still, she could prove to be useful. "Matt, I didn't know you had friends here. How interesting. Tell me, Margaret, how long have you been here?"

Their conversation was cut short (yet again) with the fight breaking out between Ales and the man she'd been practically throwing herself at. Something she thought she'd been excelling at, except for the obvious sign that came with her threats. Without missing a beat, the bartender moved from behind the counter, probably to help his patron free himself from the woman's grasp or simply to stop him from telling him what he knew. Though Safira quickly moved to block his path, proudly dangling a purse in front of his face. The weapon she'd planned on using before Margaret had distracted her.

"Stop! Listen to me!" Her words were louder than she intended them to be, but it allowed her to be heard with all the chaos in the room. "Let's not make this any uglier than it has to be. We're getting the answers one way," she shook the purse so the coins could be heard, "or another. Help us out and I can give you all the coin you want, with some extra if you promise not to alert the authorities or anyone else of what's happened here. We want to help you, don't make us do the opposite."

• .
• .
• .

• fit
• location

  
  

  Hestean tavern
• tags

  Interactions: Matt, Peggy .V1LLAINISM._ , Ales miyabi .
  Mentions: Zohair PRETTY HATE MACHINE.

coded by reveriee.

 

[Shadow]

Siegr Moir-rai - Blacksmith

A vague unease had settled into Siegr’s chest since the boy’s divulgence: but then, there was a sensation of unease in the very air of the sorry town of Wolftrenk.

Siegr's eyes traveled sharply about the dismal townscape as his mare's hoofbeats marched over the roughly-cobbled streets alongside the rest of their company. There were few townspeople to be seen, but even he could detect the abnormal hush muting the spirits of everyone and everything they passed.
Yet he struggled to imagine what this town might have been like before the threat of a horrid death was hanging over every door. To his imagination, the ramshackle homes and streets steeped in filth didn't seem likely to lend themselves to merriment at any time.

Even so, he recognized the looks of nostalgic familiarity on the faces of some of his companions, subdued as they were.
Siegr tilted his head back to the gloomy sky, resisting the urge to wrinkle his nose or pull a cloth over it as a tide of memory washed over him: thoughts of the sweet misty air of Nai Sie and the rich greenery abiding there. To be sure, it had been some time since he had breathed it in, but the woefulness of the day had given his own heart a sense of longing.

The tavern they approached was familiar enough, however: in spite of its crouched and dirty façade.

Siegr's gaze swept over to Ales just at the right moment to catch her words, and he exhaled sharply, inwardly protesting against the upward tug of his own lips. There was no response to be given to the well-wishing, but he was reluctantly grateful for it, even as a sense of inadequacy brushed through him.

In truth this task was one wholly unsuited to his meager social abilities, but Siegr considered that his large frame should be intimidating enough to the likes of the tavern’s patrons for their purposes.
Anyway, the social caliber of the rest of their unit suggested that his own ineptitude would hardly jeopardize their success. The bard alone would probably have sufficient skills to complete the task unaided, though naturally, that would have been unwise.

Crossing the threshold of the tavern was an immediate assault on his senses. The scents of stale alcohol and a multitude of bodily odors coalesced with the muddled roar of drunken voices, and the state of any visible surfaces echoed the sensory warning to touch as few things as possible.
After a few steps across the stained floor, Siegr was able to gather a rather transparent understanding of the tavern's patrons from a second glance around the darkened space. No one was particularly distinctive in the crowd of grimy hands reaching for mug handles or a harlot's waist, and the eyes that rose to meet his own were mostly blurry and unfocused. Truly, a haven for the grief- and fear-stricken.

While Safira absorbed the interest of the bartender and Ales gallantly approached a particularly morose group, Siegr made his way to an inconspicuous alcove near the midpoint of the building where he felt certain he would be able to react with reasonable speed to any disturbances.
Fortunately, the first disturbance was one that required little from him, as their bard swept an instrument from the wall and appealed to the woebegone crowd for a moment of levity.

Though he watched with middling interest as a cheerful young woman rose to accompany Matthias in his tune, Siegr's attention was drawn to the bar where the bartender had leant into their scholar’s face and was muttering something that Siegr took to be a threat, judging by the tense pull of the man's shoulders. He readied himself to intervene, but Matthias and his new companion appeared to momentarily dissolve the tension when they joined Safira upon the barstools.

Siegr's attention drifted then in the direction of Ales, and he caught the shift in her posture just before she introduced a man's face to a table with some force. Again, he tensed in preparation to provide support, but the group of drunkards surrounding the bleeding man seemed to hold enough collective intelligence to keep themselves out of a fight with the rogue.
Alas, the bartender was not so keen, so Siegr finally took the occasion to regain his feet and approached the center of the room, carefully watching the man’s aggressive posture waver in response to Safira’s rather unmistakable offering of coin.
Sieg hesitated, still several paces from the counter, concerned that his interference might jeopardize the enticement of the bribe.

Considering his options carefully, he reached into the small leather bag at his waist, pulled out a small token, and stepped gingerly to the left-hand side of the scholar's standstill with the stout man. He placed the carved smiling frog on the counter by the bartender’s elbow and faced himself toward the wall of empty mugs with practiced leisure, leaning lightly on the counter's edge.

“We are only here to help,” he said mildly, just above a whisper. The bartender was forced to lean closer if he wanted to hear.

Then, deft fingers hopped the trinket from the counter into the pocket of the bartender’s apron, and Siegr backed away; leaving Safira to her transaction, he returned to his prior vantage in the alcove.

As he settled back in his seat, he traced the room with his gaze again, noting the tense postures in some and the distracted slouches of the rest. He was beginning to doubt that the stillness would hold, but it didn’t seem as if a brawl with this lot would be particularly troublesome. He did hope, though, that the diplomatic and persuasive efforts of his companions would at least draw out the answers they sought before the full extent of alcohol-fueled chaos unfolded. Shaking viable information from barely-conscious drunkards was hardly an ideal way to finish out the morning hours.

Location -
Wolftrenk Tavern

Tags -
Unit 2

Outfit

 

[mother of sorrows]

mood

on guard

location

woods

outfit

peep my fit!

interact

faru

velivir

the ranger with a curse on their back

Velivir has seen the face of evil when they were just a child.

It is a given, when you live in a land as strange as Sredzym, that you will find things older than the oldest ancestor of you. There is something, something about the primal darkness enveloping the land - the dark of a womb - that attracts such terrifying sights. Is the ice not so old? Are there not gods sleeping beneath it, their slumber lost somewhere below their feet? It took their breath, to think about it. They are walking over bones of ballad-kings and monsters so cruel they had to be slayed with swords of heaven-fire and hell-stone. You have to watch your step, when you do; you do not want to disturb the snow, or the sleep of whatever is buried below it. Srezdym is a land of sleeping things , and a land of monsters as twice as odd as any other. They and their father would trek, sometimes, to the edge of the island to hunt for fish; when the season was just right for them to birth out to the open ocean. The sand there is void black, black void and the sea so cold it only hosts the most resilient of fish. There are stories of sailors sailing out in this part of sea, hunting for whales deep in the waters; and coming back wide-eyed in the face of nature's brutality, bringing tales of creatures so incompherensible words fail to describe them.

Velivir would have thought it an exaggeration, had they not seen it themselves.

Their webs pulled in a two-faced young whale once, their faces distorted. Human teeth, glistening with blood beneath slick lips and eyes that poked out of their sockets. What was the most strange, however, were the long, twisting lines on it's stomach; Veli had tried to follow them, even as their father slayed the beast, but it's shape slipped beneath their eyes like slick oil. Like no matter how much they stare, the lines refuse to be understood. If there is some natural logic behind the twisting, constantly shifting lines the whale wore, it is not a logic Velivir understands. It's call was long and shrill as it bleed out on the black sand, round eyes staring at the grey skies above; a call like a human child's, yet it's pitch put Velivir's teeth on edge.

It's family sang long into the night, swimming close to the shore. They hear it still during moments of awake-yet-not, if they ransack their brain for the memory.

The music of monsters. The God-forsaken things Velivir has been training to kill from near childhood.

They would not say the land is corrupted; to say that would mean Sredzym is unique in it's plight. Monsters are everywhere, jaws open for prey and teeth sharp to tear flesh. Perhaps it is the isolation and starless gloom that invites such thoughts, when you only have your family and a fire to beat them away. This accident - of a woman-beast stumbling over the muddy streets of Wolftrenk, leaving behind half-eaten bodies and warm blood still speckled on the walls - left an unpleasant pit in their stomach, memories of days gone by making their presence known. Velivir thought he had left Mila back in Sredzym, back in their home woods of sharp mountains and freezing waters.

They should have known she was going to rise back to life one of these days. Mila is an unburied corpse in their mind, rotting and bloated, but what is Drasira if not a place where even the dead may walk?

An animal scream, cutting through the cold, endless night like a red hot knife. Velivir startling from their sleep, hiding under warm furs with their siblings still stuck in their dreams. Them tracking over freshly fallen snow, to the edge of the house, where they kept the elks.

A giant beast of exposed bone and sinewy muscle, a baby elk limp in it's dripping maw. Hot blood and saliva pooling on the woodboards below.

And a too familiar face staring back. That part never changes, no matter how often Velivir dreams this again and again and again and -

It is as if Mila was never truly gone. She is always there, scratching at the back of their mind like a wolf at the door. What a start to their life in the Black Order - it was all too close to things Velivir would rather not remember. A snake eating it's own tail, truly. Velivir could laugh themselves sick.

Their breakfast, meager as it was, could have been made of rocks for how difficult it was the ranger to eat. Their stomach refused to cooperate, forcing Velivir to settle it with tea made from herbs and roots picked from the black soil. It did not do much to give them strength, but Veli, to their credit, is used to harsher terrains than this. Velivir's pitfalls are large indeed, but nobody can deny they're tough. Being raised in Sredzymi wilderness, where the nights are long and the forest just as infinite, will make even the weakest turn to stone. Even as they've trekked into the depths of woods to search for anything that could be seen as evidence, the bad feeling that's tearing them apart has yet to leave. With the murders fresh on their mind and the fog clinging to their little group, it is expected to be on edge. Putting aside uncomfortable familiarity, Hestea's wildlands are a beast for themselves; their training here is not enough to prepare them for every danger there is to be found. Veli grimaced under their mask as their horse trotted along the others, watching the traitous twisting roots with suspicion. One wrong more and it would be disturbingly easy to get lost.

And if you get lost here, well.

You have to hope the Gods are feeling merciful.

Micmic was flying overhead, her shrill calls the only sounds of birds in the area. A too silent forest was never a good thing, especially here; it seemed as if all the animals were holding their breath, bracing for something to happen. Velivir watched as she circled the skies above, their eyes on the sky. She is trained well; her eyes were twice as sharp as any of the group member's. Fog circled around them like a tiger watching a wounded deer, their hair standing up with tension. Their horse neighed nervously under them, skittering ther front foot as they rushed to a halt. Ymir stopping drew Velivir's distracted attention, bringing them from their somber thoughts. Perhaps they were overthinking this; they were trained for a good while, after all, and Veli has the honor of previous experience. They're in a group of trained members, one they are familiar with at this point. Following suit, Veli stepped of their horse, it's head swiveling to look at the surroundings. Heavy fog, gloomy trees stacked together like an army of men, a beaten path; and distant whispers gnawing at the edge of their hearing, making their lips tighten. They know better than to listen to the things that go bump in the night.

The Shadowing Wilds, as terrifying as the tales of their childhoods. Veli offered a small smile at the others, before remembering it goes unseen under their mask; replacing it with a quick nod. ''Ah, the Rotghouls. '' About as smelly as the rest of Hestea, Not that they would say that out loud. ''Being chased up a tree by one is not a memory I like to recall.'' They said to Ymir's reminder. A shriek stole their ears and eyes, however, as Micmic swooped in - Velivir held out their falconry-glove clad arm in half-instinct, the owl landing on it with practiced ease. The bird's white wings fluttered as she gained her balance, her face (a mimicry of a human one; their father called such owls blessed by the Gods, rare as they are) gazing at the group. Her lips formed words, too quiet to understand - but Velivir understood her body language as well as their own at this point. Something up ahead - footprints of some kind, it seems, along with tracks.

''Something must have made it's way deeper down the road recently.'' Velivir added, petting Micmic gently on her round head. She chirruped, straightening on their glove. Her heads turned endlessly, eyes wide and bottomless. Teru has made no secret of how disgusting he find her; something Velivir is very touchy about. She is just unique looking, they will insist, as if the thing doesn't have a human mouth and nose. It's a never-ending topic of arguments between them and the healer.

Naya lead them a bit deeper; Veli trusted her, if they are not too close in friendship. A fellow Sredzymi, one of a background as similar as their own is one they appreciate. Speaking of friends, Veli turned around, about to call out to Faru - a good friend, really, their closest friend out of the others. There is hardly a mission where they are found separate. It was perhaps the scholar's calmer nature that made their friendship work so well, but Veli appreciated his company whenever they were out and about. As nervous as Faru can be, he is truly a kind man and that is as rare as gold these days. Smiling to themselves, Veli grabbed hold of their horses' bridle, wanting to ask Faru how he is holding up -

Except.

Except, Faru was not there.

Velivir stopped dead in their tracks.

The man was not there.

Their stomach dropped.

They could not have overlooked them, not in such a small group. They knew their face well, and yet it was gone. Their smile dropped like dead weight, throat closing up - for a second, they hoped they were mistaken. They counted over the others again, cold sweat pouring over they neck to find it a number less.

Faru is gone. When did he disappear? How the fuck did they not notice?

''Guys?'' Velivir started, staring at where Faru should have been. Their face was pale under the mask, all blood gone from it; their shoulders stiff like a statue's. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, their mind screamed, eyes moving rapidly. ''Faru is gone.'' Panic was edging in on their voice, making it far quieter than their standard.

Faru is gone, and inside their head Mila was laughing.

Bad memories, huh?

nine lives