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Fantasy Of Black Waters [soft reboot] A Witcher 3 Inspired, Dark Fantasy RP

Characters
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BasiliskVeranda

BasiliskVeranda

80s Trash





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    OF BLACK WATERS
    THE PAST INFORMS THE FUTURE


    I wish to express in this letter one simple declaration: we are fools. We are fools, and we are sorry.
    As I write this, I know I am the next to fall.

    Deep within the mines off of the sleepy, remote village of Claerview, there lived a legend of rare stones and a rarer sickness. A sickness that breeds other sicknesses. A sickness of black waters. Don't bring back what sparkles, it is a pretty death. This, the old women of Claerview said. And how did they know?

    Stories, folklore, and fairy tales. No one is to explore, the entrance barred for good reason. We should have listened, and yet we went as adventurers are apt to do, seeking tales for our own children to tell for years to come.

    After constant digging and costly ventures, we hit what we thought to be the end of the whole place. No real treasure to be found, but a flat bedrock with black water up to the calves, and some odd looking glyphs. Jeremy pocketed a few stones; they were but obsidian and ruddy quartz. No real treasure. None came to sickness. The bird of warning made no cries, and nothing was foul enough to warrant concern.

    But it was foul, and it followed. It followed, and the weeks since have seen small gurglings of what we wrought.

    Fletcher is dead. He died in a pool of his own blood, eyes scooped out of his head. The culprit was his elderly mother.

    Kelis is dead. She died traversing the Ferrow Bog, which is home to not much else but frogs. I found her top half in a tree, and the other fused within a large stone.

    Jeremy, the light of our troupe, is dead. The youth erupted via a crash of lighting, as made apparent by the scorched marks and debris about the field.

    Agatha is dead. Her illnesses was the kind that seeps from the mouth. It just wouldn't stop. I locked her away to prevent the spread. She is now a heap of tar.

    I do not write this to let it be known that I know I am to die. To die by sabotage from geriatric, black-watered nightmare, freakish storm, or plague-curse.

    I write this to let anyone who may read this know, that this was our fault. It was our fault, and I am sorry.

    I also write this because, I feel, that I am the one meant to write what I see taking shape. For why else would I still draw breath, as the others were to die so fitfully?

    The months that followed proved more potent. I suspect I am here to tell you this, most of all:

    Our world is changing; people who were clear-eyed have snapped at the smallest of slight, killing those around them. I know of a woman who swears she saw a slack-jawed creature erupt from the black waters of a small pond and shuffle her young son away to the world beyond. I couldn't possibly hope to catalog everything I've learned and seen, but I shall try.

    I shall try, perhaps, even after death, to do this service. It is the least I can do for damning us all.

    I suspect, you who may be reading this, shall now be seeing things fantastical and horrifying. I suspect you shall see what we wrought, and what we wrought was bound to happen eventually, or perhaps, had happened long before.

    I shall not see the final culmination of this evil, this I know. I was dead the minute I stepped foot in those mines. And I damned a whole world to die alongside me.

    —𝕿𝖞𝖇𝖆𝖑𝖙 𝖂𝖞𝖓𝖓 𝖁𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖙𝖆𝖘

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    OF BLACK WATERS
    BASICS




    World Name: Seldona
    'Black Waters': Common term referred to in folklore text; means a great sickness that reshapes the world into magic, misery, and monsters. It is an infection. We're still going off of the Converging of the Spheres a la The Witcher series, but please keep in mind that this is more eldritch and less fanciful than it was played last time. More inter-dimensional crap, less sparkles.
    Tybalt: Writer of helpful, deus ex machina-esque letters to aid the crew. Often wrong/misinformed.





 
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    MONSTER INFO
    COMMON CRITTERS, QUEST BEASTS, AND CURRENT NASTIES


 




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    UPDATES/CURRENT QUEST


    Currently the cast has managed to fall into a trap set by the CROW QUEEN, which leads them to the below Tomb. This is the perfect time to get your character REBOOTED/a new one coming in hot. We are not erasing what has come to pass. What we ARE doing is stepping back to the DEAD DROP into the tomb.

    We are also shifting the first quest Devon gave from HARPY to CROW QUEEN. We are also scrubbing the fanciful characters part out, and anyone who has not expressed a desire to rejoin has their character deaded.

    To make this simple, you can repaste your descent if you want, or make up a new fall. Please discuss in the Discord if there's info we need to know about your 'rebooted' character.

    We are trying to make this very easy to get restarted, so please, if you're lost, just talk with the crew in OOC. Think of this reboot as a chance to try again, and also, as a chance to hone your vision.

    THE TOMB OF CROWS

    They fell, as ethereals from heaven, into the pit of despair. Yet it was not fire that they found—brimstone, or the coldness of the underworld some described it to be—but sand. It cascaded in waves of burnt umber yellow, lilting betwixt columns of dark, obsidian stone.

    The walls themselves were, at times, that same stone. Or, as plates of sand seemingly pressed into perfection. Strange symbols cropped up in engraved circles, and while some parts seemed barren and filled with dry earth, others seemed dark and damp.

    Beyond all the shifting corridors there lived a maze; made equally of sand, and strange, black obelisk-like objects. Clearly, this was a Tomb, in the strictest sense of the word.

    An adjacent, hobbled library with various instruments situated itself neatly near the maze; so many offerings to be seen, but not much worth except tools to work the alchemists' crafts, and literature written in a tongue so foreign it seemed profane.

    Some rooms were filled with free-form bones as if armies were felled and stuffed where crevices lived. Other rooms and further walls had sleeping corpses; adorned in yellowed cloth and fit snugly in golden caskets.

    Beyond all that lived a sound. A sound of metallic boots to scuffled, pressed-sand floors, or obsidian-slick tiles where applicable. Soldiers marched, from head to toe in black crystal and metal. Beyond all that lived more sounds; flightless, festering crow-like monsters that were more reptilian than avian. The noisy chatter of skittering, flesh-eating scarabs, infesting what they could find to burrow within, also made up the cacophony.

    The worst of all these sounds was the wailing of the Mother of Crows; her hacked-up speech in garbled multi-tongues and screams of emotions were sandstorms in her dusty kingdom. She lives within the Maze's core, and beckons with her liar's tongue, felling walls to twist victims to meet the foot of their destruction.

    The King? Well, ailed as he is, rests far from her maze, surrounded by guards of black, upon floors of black...ever encumbered by his woman's wailing. He loves her so; and yet she has made a monster of herself, and of him.

    No sunlight creeps through, although torches find purchase, which means oxygen is available by either natural or prenatural means.

    There may very well be a small pond or inlet of a river, however the mud may very well have taken it all. All life within these walls is of the dry sort. Fantastical mushrooms, of course, crop up within the folds of damp walls, where the water above this tomb finds divination downwards. They may poison and may tip, and are not for eating.

    This is The Tomb of Crows; a black-winged mother rules its machinations, beckoning to drive her victims to madness if they manage to catch her ear. Her blindness does not stop her from devouring the foolish. For it's quite hard to escape when one's own companions seek to assail them.

    Walk quietly, young travelers. Walk quietly, and keep your lights low. Hide in the shadows, dodge to the rooms, and you might yet escape the great below.





 

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WITH: ????⠀ WHERE: The Dunes⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ MOOD MUSIC: Florence + The Machine - What The Water Gave Me⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ OOC: reboot time! I'm literally just repasting the fall. Feel free to do this as well if nothing has really changed about your character. Tybalt's letter incoming once we have a few more either...repasted falls, or like, interactions. ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

They fell, as ethereals from the heavens into the pit of despair.

Torches affixed below lit what they could, but the black-brown backdrop of fathomless depths could not be made less murky at the beginning of their descent. Vel and Fletcher fell through darkness for what felt like forever, arms splayed, until the blond took over to lock his limbs as best he could and relax his knees. If they fell on loose, soft earth, they'd be alive at least. If they fell on anything less than that, both Vel and Fletcher were sure their organs would rupture, and there'd be no coming back for the both of them.

Then again, if any of the others ended up falling on firm ground there was a high probability they'd break their limbs apart as well. Luckily there were apparently plenty of tall, soft sand dunes. Unlucky for the host and his demon, however, they were not falling towards any of them.

"Ahhhhh for fucks saaaake!—" the battered thief and his demon bellowed in unison, creating a moment of pure cohesion, which was ignored for the experience of being hurtled through the air.

Strange symbols cropped up in engraved circles on impossibly tall walls as the party dropped. While some parts they could see from below them seemed barren and filled with dry earth, others seemed dark and damp. Beyond all the shifting corridors there lived a maze; made equally of sand, and strange, black obelisk-like objects.

Clearly, this was a Tomb, in the strictest sense of the word. Clearly, they were all about to meet their untimely ends by the absurdity of falling through a bottomless pit, and into a sand trap, after being massacred by sentient crows.

Fletcher was making peace with his one regret; never managing to settle down and fully endear himself to someone. Veldspar, however, was simply panicking.

One might think that Veldspar would be able to simply resume where the soul had been lost. Should Fletcher die, could he not just simply expand outwards into the muscles, the bones, the heart, the meat, the mind? One would think so, but this was incorrect.

Growing from slug-size to whatever Vel was now had brought...unusual consequences. Without Vel, Fletcher could only survive for a short while, perhaps a handful of hours, but no more than that. Without Fletcher, Vel could animate the corpse for about as much the same time until he had to flee. There were possible other hosts, but he'd been re-poured to fit the mold, so to speak. And mold him, Fletcher had, despite all attempts to the contrary.

Furthermore, Vel needed Fletcher for his unseemly end goals, at least this he told himself. While this was in part very true, there was a greater truth beyond all the fat and lean of muscle and skin. The truth was that he simply didn't want to lose the little bird so soon.

As the ground beneath them rushed, Veldspar made a move both brilliant and incredibly stupid. He gurgled free through Fletcher's organs and muscles, stretching himself just so to still maintain hold on the place where mind met spine, and ripped through the cuts farthest away from Fletcher's organs and arteries as he could find.

⸸ ⸸ ⸸

As liquid, twisting, inhuman lines of ink finally formed into grotesque, tar-like feather-shaped tendrils, Vel's pet name for the blond rang true. This risky move provided just enough air resistance and enough of a counter weight to scuttle them like a twisting leaf, until the blond thief managed to flick near loose soil.

The host and his demon landed in the spot Vel had aimed for, black splattering the soil not unlike when a bird hits a stained glass window. The sticky liquid agonized, dragging over the sand, as if still yet trying to stop the fall that no longer was coming. The thin masses writhed as leeches might.

Fletcher used every single ounce of his willpower to lurch up with his forearms braced to the soil, his breathing labored. For a few beats, he simply inhaled and exhaled, trying to remind himself perhaps that he was alive, or collect himself, or process this descent. Then every ounce was used once again to pull the vestigial, errant coils of tar into himself once more. This, Fletcher did, with what power he did not know.

The tendrils seeped back, fighting him to stopper the cuts, black mixing with the red of his blood. Too soon—

"Stop, stop..." Fletcher wheezed, "I'm alive, please...stop!" Valoria's spit and leaf shenanigans had helped greatly, and although Gwyn's stitching had burst in places, Vel had wasted no effort keeping Fletcher's organs as intact as possible. He'd smeared himself in the wounds, like liquid skin poured molten. To go to all this trouble...seemed so foolish. Running on pure adrenaline, the thief struggled to right himself, but finally managed to sit up and look around.

With shaking hands and doe-weak limbs, he tried to stand, but found it useless, sinking to the sand again. His body had become both taut and weak not only from the crow-fight, but from the efforts Vel had made to keep him whole, and the descent.

He couldn't see the others beyond the vast abyss of sands, pillars, and random black stones...if he had fallen near them, they were obscured in the dunes, or perhaps...perhaps he was the only one who had landed in this area. Was he truly—

"Hello?" he started, voice impossibly thin as he wrapped his arms around himself, remnants of black making his hands sticky, "Aghh—demon, er...Vel are you...?" The silence around him deafened, his heart beat making up the only sound he could currently hear.

"Bollocks."

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GWYNDILIN ABERNATHY
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WITH: Fletcher + co. nearby⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ WHERE: tooooomb baybeee⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ MOOD MUSIC: Gorillaz - Rhinestone Eyes⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ OOC: uwu not much rly changed w this post, rip the tiddies ⠀ ⠀ ⠀


Suddenly, the earth collapsed beneath them.

A seismic whirlpool of sand had grabbed Gwyndilin by the ankles. It pulled her beneath it's surface like devils, seeking to drag her to perdition personally. For a moment, she was utterly consumed by it; Sand obnoxiously filling every crevice it could find. When she next opened her eyes, she was met only with darkness-- A perilous freefall into the unknown.

"hhooOOOOOOHHHH FUUuuUUUCK!"

She shouted, spitting up a mouth of wet sand as the ground below began to take shape in the darkness. Torches haphazardly dotted the space, yet there was still a horizon of pure abyss, it's length and depths immeasurable. Somewhere in the distance stood strange pillars, and markings along walls of which she did not recognize. The very nature of this den was sick. Afflicted as the land was, potent with horrors yet discovered. For a moment, it captivated her. A moment in time where the earth had paused, on the precipice of what could be mistaken for the underworld itself.

Gwyn thought of Markis. His favorite chair. His delicious stews. His bellowing laugh. His loud snoring.

Things she regretted taking from this earth.

But, most importantly, Gwyn was thinking about how much this landing was going to hurt. Assuming it wouldn't outright kill her, that is. Though would that really be so tragic?

Thankfully, the sand fell at a faster rate than she did; A tall pile had formed below her, joining itself with the base of a nearby dune. Gwyn did her best to protect the important bits-- Arms cradling her head, and her legs tucked close to her chest. In this cannonball position, Gwyn hit the pile hard, sinking into the dunes face considerably. The force of the landing did it's job, and Gwyn let out a muffled, pained yelp from somewhere deep in the pile.

She flexed the fingers of her right arm, digits curling in the walls of sand surrounding her, to much relief; This one was still in tact.

But the left arm very much was not. Unable to move it without considerable pain, Gwyn could feel her arm had been properly broken in at least one place, having slammed into a rogue boulder displaced in the sand. Perhaps a bruised rib or two. Of course. It was foolish to think she'd be lucky enough to land unharmed.. To make matters worse, just as she struggled to push herself free from the mountain of sand above her, attempting to balance the rough irritant with its suffocating properties, came a second force above her, slamming into her body with only perhaps a feet or two of sand between them. This warranted another pained groan from the sand, like they had disturbed a slumbering beast.

God shits in my dinner once again.

She could hear them speaking, if only slightly-- A faint "Hello?" able to reach her ears just barely. She certainly felt their weight upon her chest-- Her poor, poor breasts being crushed under the pressure. Had this not been the case, and she weren't steadily losing oxygen, she might have felt relief that another had survived the fall. A hand manages to snake through the dirt, pushing its way up until finally, the surface is discovered. She hadn't been buried too deep, thankfully, and began patting the area nearby wildly. Her pale digits instantly curled around what she assumed to be an ankle; The foot planted firmly atop her right breast. Or perhaps it was a wrist, she couldn't tell-- Either way, they had earned themselves a proper slap, whether they realized it or not.

Regardless, despite whatever displays of shock or fear it's owner might profess, her grip only tightened, using this unknown limb as leverage to raise the top half of her torso from the dune. The action itself not as majestic as sea serpent rising from the waves, but rather a corpse clawing from it's grave.

With her eyes crammed shut, sand spilling from every part of her, her head turns to the side, coughing and spitting the remainder of the dirt from her throat. Sputtering for a moment, she drew a shuddering breath. If she could feel her other arm, she might have wiped the dirt from her eyes, but instead addressed the person atop her body with a rasping, pained voice:

"Could.. you please.. get your arse.. off my tits."


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Kaykavus Nadir

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Alrick's unleashes a flurry of blows, shattering birds around the two as Nadir steels his mind to fight through the pain.
"Heh, perhaps they'll do us the courtesy of making up a better story? This tale wouldn't sound very heroic I imagine." It causes Nadir to chuckle, until the sound is cut off by a voice behind him. He's almost foolish enough to look, until a bird's talon comes to savage his leg again- it is batted away just in time,
"Duck, you feckless, stupid shit-weasels!" What? But the thought only pauses him for half a second, and Alrick grabs him and takes both to the ground. Nadir's chest compresses under the other man's weight, but he buries his face upon feeling the heat of the flames over him. What follows is the sound of falling birds, most of them dead - Most of them. Alrick shields him from the worst of it, but a few land on exposed limbs. The result is no worse than discomfort, and patting out a few near-fires.

Finally, with a moment of respite, Alrick moves to his feet and offers Nadir a hand. The foreigner stares for a moment, only a moment, before taking it and pulling himself up to his feet. The larger man then grasps Nadir's forearm, and locks his eyes into Nadir's shadowed slits,
"Not many would accompany a stranger into damnation itself. I don't know you well Nadir, but it would seem you are a better man than you let yourself believe. I am in your debt. Let it be known I will shed my blood by your side when the time comes for it." Nadir merely stares, silently, unsure how to feel about the compliment. The man did not know extent of Nadir's failures, but then the two are mostly similar in the nature of their sins. Mostly. He does not respond, until the moment is interrupted by a raven haired woman:
"What in the hells is GOING ON!?" Nadir merely shrugs, as there is little else he can add to make sense of this, while putting his caltrop back into the satchel. Alrick's answer is not much better,
"You know what happened here." It is all he says before he and the woman move to the group trying to keep Fletcher alive. Nadir does not stop them, sighing to himself and looking about the field. A little more than fowl humour. He chuckles to himself, offering a last look to Fletcher before deciding to scour the field; the night is not over, and he will need his weapons when that moment comes again. Besides, he is no medic.

The birds are scattered damn near everywhere, and the arrows that did not find their targets will be impossible to find at this hour - There is enough of a pain scouring the dark for the ravens at all. He sweeps the floor for arrows, pulling them from the bodies and shoving them back into the quiver at his side. Much happens behind him: Gwyn finishes her patchwork on Fletcher, and begins organizing a healing team; Baldur reveals some amount of medical knowledge, the details of how being something best left undiscovered; Shia joins in the efforts, searching for padding; and Lori does what she can as well. The cut on Nadir's leg stings fresh, but he walks on it quite easily. Still, for a second he wonders if he should receive some medical attention himself... I will be fine, he decides, more-so for the sake of avoiding the racism he'd heard of for this place; he was not targeted for his accent, but showing his features is pushing it. His eyes catch a drip of red on the rim of the slits, and touches his finger to it to find old blood. Tenacious birds, he concludes, his mind not changing.

He pulls the last wardart he can find for himself, noticing Conner scavenging arrows. He yells out to the man,
"Scavenge the arrows, we are not home yet." As he finishes saying this, it is then his ears pick up the words by those around Fletcher. He tries to place the voice - A male's, but not one of those he has become acquainted to.. No, in fact, it is entirely alien.
"He embraces pain darkly—but the dance of blades is...wonderful art-making." Nadir furrows his brows, stepping towards the others. He feels a draw to caution within him, and takes the suggestion to heart with his hands grasping his polearm. "Inconvenient that I'd be forced to speak so soon and without strength to renew Us. This complicates, but at least the ghost's useless letters will be corrected for Our sake. I'd hate to lose the little bird to his foolishness." Kaykavus takes to a position near Fletcher's side, though not too near. Alrick responds with more assertion than he, and places his hammer over Fletcher's chest,
"So explain just what you are and why you are in our compatriots body. Quickly, if you would." Nadir is dubious in that moment, doubting Alrick's resolve, and uncertain of the reason for the extent the man is willing to go. Regardless, Nadir lifts his weapon from the ground and prepares to swing for the blonde's neck - Alrick may hesitate, but Nadir will not. He watches intently, arms ready to draw. Fletcher's body speaks again, but it is not the blonde man he knows:
"Such a big, strong man to threaten two weakened creatures out of fear." What. The voice is something else, something calm but inhuman. "Fine. To put it into words even you can understand: My name is Veldspar. I'm something of a spirit. Your compatriot is my very willing host." If anything were different, if those present were far, far away, the explanation would have been stopped at 'spirit' by an adequately sharp arrow. But things are not different, and they are not far away, so he must act with some more restraint than he would recommend. "Does this answer suffice, or should I go into agonizing detail, while I doubly agonize to mend what I can from what could not be mended by—" It stops, abruptly, mouth left agape. It stares silently, not saying anything for a time. Discomforting, and before Nadir can draw his bow and bring the blonde man some mercy, its lips flap some more:
"—you let one escape? Wonderful. Brace yourselves, and hope We don't impale on an obelisk lest you never find your way out." Nadir tilts his head, confused,
"What are you talking abou-" His words are silenced as the ground opens up, sand pouring from beneath and pulling him within.

The sands erupt at his feet, pooling around him and the others. In surprise, he instinctively tries to pull away - But he can not, he can not even try to move away. He is pulled down to his ankles, all that is below being made immobile by whatever force has summoned this anomaly.
"Kavat! What is this!?" The others merely sink, not even the spirit is able to resist. The sand reaches to his knees, he drops his polearm and his hands desperately claw for a grip to pull himself out. No! No, no, no, no, no! Fingers rip out bundles of grass and pull the brambles, but nothing even slows the descent. The sand reaches his waist, and in that instant his jaw flops open, limp, and his head snaps to the forest. The lights are there, closer than before, brighter than before, visible to any who look. The lights are not stars, not stars at all. Their distance still feels so very far away, yet they rest in the sockets of a hooded man stood only at the edge of a torch's illumination. The details can just barely be discerned, but the hood is pulled back to reveal sockets filled with black, only miniscule dots of light to fill the void within him. It opens its mouth, limp, and speaks without moving it: "Darkness bright, found not in tongues, not in light. I shine through you." Its mouth closes again, the hood is pulled down over the face, and the man steps back into the darkness. Nadir leans back, pressing his head deeper into the sand, letting it take him to wherever he must now go.




In strange places​
Nadir slowly comes to, his hands coming to rub his eyes. It is dark, it feels as if he just awoke from a nap. He brushes his legs, feeling like something is touching him. He brushes his shoulder, feeling it touching him there... Wait, his mind slowly comes to attention, and he feels it. It isn't a touch, it's wind. And he wasn't sleeping, he's falling. The realization warps instantly into panic - He yells out, only dimly able to see the bottom. The room has many details to it, none of which his mind cares to note as much as the rapidly approaching ground. That is, he thought it was the ground, until the side of his chest collides hard with a tall black spire. The chain clangs hard, and he feels something crack. An explosion of pain erupts in his chest, and the collision sends him rolling in the air. His back hits a sand dune, hard, and the pain in his chest intensifies. One arm wraps around his chest, and he grits his teeth - Spittle seeths through his teeth as he restrains a yell of pain. His mind races back to him as he sees an object falling from above him - He squints his eyes, but just for a moment. He scrambles to his feet, and moves from his spot just as his voulge's point impales the sand. Relief washes over him, but not for long; he can feel the rib is loose over his lung. Nadir is no medic, but he is educated - He will need to bind it, or it will puncture from inside. That is, if it hasn't already. He grabs his polearm and moves on.

"Hello!?" he yells out, thankful that the pain is not made worse from speaking. "I am here! Please, help me, I believe I broke something!" Hesitantly, he pushes himself up to his feet, wrapping an arm around his chest and holding pressure against the rib. "Please! I-" he stops, the frustration and pain momentarily demanding to be released, and he yells out in anger, "I just don't want to die on a contract for skull-dented peasants, and their drunkard lord, hunting a /rivit o vlet kavat uno muldi!/" He takes a few moments to calm himself, sighs, and continues walking, "All I wanted was money. Just some money." Suddenly he stops, his peripheral vision finds something on a black pillar slightly buried in the sand. It is distant, but the image is nearly unmistakable. His head slowly turns to see it directly, eyes locked on the face of the pillar, and sees two dots of light staring back at him.
"No." He whispers, his energy renewed, he whips around and runs as fast as he can. Damn the rib, something far worse is following him, and he does not wish to be caught. He scrambles down and up the dunes with boundless energy, fresh panic building in his mind. He turns to the left, eyes glazing over another of the obelisks and... No! his eyes snap back to its face, beholding those same dots. He stops, turns away from it, and runs in a new direction. Must get away. Have to get away. He scrambles up one of the dunes of sand, and poor footing sends him tumbling down the other side. He rolls, one arm going to the rib to protect him from further damage, until he stops at the bottom of the hill. On his back, he reaches for his voulge and points the tip to the dune. His eyes watch from where he fell, waiting for it... waiting... waiting...

Nothing comes for him. He breathes out a sigh of relief, though suspicion is still heavy within him. He turns around, face mere feet away from another of the obsidian towers. His eyes stare into the stone, and the dots of light stare back at him - He falls on his back, the lights fall with him, and he pulls his bow and an arrow free. He nocks it, preparing to fire, but then he stops... His eyes squint - The lights fell with him. Slowly, cautiously, his feet take him to a low crouch. He slowly approaches the stone, the eyes move with him. He moves his head to the side, the lights move to the side. He stands tall, and the lights follow him again. Nadir stares, panic calming into sickening unease. He comes closer, drops the arrow into the sand, and reaches out to its surface. As his fingers are a few inches from the surface, he begins to see their reflection. He steps closer to the stone, and he sees unmistakably what possesses the lights. It stands at his height, wearing a red sash and partial plate, a polearm gripped in its hands, a cut over the leg, and a face obscured by armour.
A face that would show pure fear.



"You will return to me."
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BasiliskVeranda BasiliskVeranda mothspit mothspit Everyone Everyone else
 

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↽LOCATION⇁‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽MUSIC TO SET THE MOOD⇁
Beach themed shit show‏‏‎ ‏‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎Same Vibes

↽INTERACTIONS⇁‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽OOC⇁
The Gunrunner The Gunrunner | ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Uh this is how writing works right?

w/tags idk where u kids r BasiliskVeranda BasiliskVeranda | mothspit mothspit
& Everyone else


❂ Jemisha Montallon ❂​


She screamed like a baby in a tumble dryer, garbled, muffled, intermittent, but none the less distressing and intense. Her arms flung about at her side as if hoping that they would suddenly become wings. Her body twisted and she had a second to yelp out a curse before her face was filled with sand. Jemisha sputtered, rearing back with eyes flung so wide that each iris was a perfect orb of rusty chocolate. She fought to reinflate her lungs, coughing violently as she managed to maneuver her body into a sitting position.

"Well, fuck me sideways." She wheezed, frowning as she narrowed her gaze on the shattered pieces of ceramic. The sand around it was stained darker and she discovered that it was still slightly damp to the touch. Her right brow twitched, lips pressing into a flat line for a moment, before she tried to take a deep breath. It only felt like a runny nose at first and the itch at the bridge of her nose caused her to keep sniffling; it wasn't until she licked her lips that she tasted that familiar coppery twang and connected the dots. She lifted a hand to her nose, scowling at the smear of blood coating the pads of her fingers.

Distantly she was aware of the pain pulsing through her nose and the increased effort it took to breathe, but chose to ignore it. Without her divination set, there was no way in hell she was going to be able to find that artifact. Her hands frantically patted herself down, searching for the sheepskin flask clipped to her belt. Jemma released a sigh of relief as soon as she found it, untying it and giving it a good shake. From the sound of the water sloshing around it was probably half full—half full was all she needed.

Standing proved to be difficult with legs as wobbly as a newborn calf, yet she managed. Jemma fastened the flask back to her belt before aggressively shaking the sand from her hair, "I! HATE! SAND!"

She was a beat away from screaming and kicking the sand in retaliation when another voice echoed in the background, "Hello!? Hello!?"
Jemma froze, jerking her head up. She scanned the hall on either side of her, nothing but endless stretches of sand and stone each disappearing into the darkness. The only light came from the hole she had presumably fallen through. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth, throat suddenly dry as she stood in silence.

For a moment she thought that she had imagined the voice before it echoed again, a faint garbling of words, "I am here! here! Please, help me, help me I believe I broke something! I broke something!"

Her feet slid against the sand as she broke off into a sprint, darting into the darkness and toward the voice. She couldn't see shit, so it was a surprise to her when the hallway came to a trisection. "Holy titty fucking Skotadi!" Jemma hissed, falling back onto her ass as she desperately tried to rub the pain from her face. Tears pooled in her eyes as the pain vibrated from her face and all the way down her body. Her head rang and she thought she might throw up. Jemisha used the wall to pull herself to her feet, wincing as she poked gently at her nose.

"I just don't want to die on a contract for skull-dented peasants, skull-dented peasants—" The corner of her mouth quirked upwards for a second before the amusement faded and she was moving again. This time she let her fingers trail along the wall, careful not to go so fast so she could avoid running into another wall. "—and their drunkard lord, hunting a /rivit o vlet kavat uno muldi!/"

Jemma slowed, heart thudding against her rib cage and lungs burning for air. Leaning her hand against the wall, she took a moment to bend at the hip before rocking back on her heels, "Balls...I'm out...of shape." Shaking her head, she started walking forward again. It was getting lighter and her hand fell away from the wall as soon as she could see it. The return of light encouraged her to move a bit faster. Jemma didn't pause to wait for the voice to speak again, more focused on the idea that light usually meant a way out.

The corridor began to widen and the sand became more abundant and a bit harder to walk on. Her calves were screaming bloody murder by the time she cleared the peak of the first dune. She coughed into her arm before unstrapping her shield from her back. Plopping the shield into the sand, she rotated her shoulder, taking an extra second to stretch before she settled herself on top of the shield. Grabbing at the sides and curling into a ball as much as possible, she scooted herself over the edge of the dune.

She grinned the whole way down.

The fun, unfortunately, ended the moment she came sliding to a stop at the bottom of one dune and the beginning of another. Jemma expressed a flat note of irritation, getting to her feet and snatching her shield from the ground.

She barely had a second to catch her breath at the top of the dune when an ear splitting shriek alerted her to a mass of feathers and limbs running at her. Jemma threw her shield up, bracing herself as the avain creature threw its weight at her. Grimacing against the shock reverberating up her arm, she tried to keep herself from being pushed over the edge. The thing screeched at her, claws digging into the wood of her shield and chipping away splinters. Jemma screamed back, pushing forward with all her strength even as she continued to slide backwards.

Unable to think of another option, she bit down on her lip until she could taste the blood pooling in her mouth. Jemma smiled with red stained teeth, slamming her front foot into the sand just as she felt the over begin to give way, "Amacias!"

The dune rumbled, sand quaking as it rippled like waves and the monster began to sink. It flailed, clawing, screaming, as the sand leisurely began to swallow it. Jemisha lowered her shield, jumping away from its reaching hands, gasping for breath as she circled to the other side of it.

She watched it struggle to free it's legs, pulling at the limbs futilely. Her dagger met flesh, soft and pudgy, and made it a satisfying squish as the tip of the blade sank deep enough to make it scream. She twisted the blade in her hands, all the while sinking it deeper and deeper. Skin and feathers tore to shreds as the knife rotated, the sound of its muscles and nerves being gouged growing louder. Then, without warning, she jerked it all the way into its back, until the shiny metal had disappeared inside and the black handle was pushing against broken feathered flesh.
Its cry was a a brilliant sound, guttural chokes mixed with an agonized roar. A smile touched her lips as she pulled the blade out.

The creature continued to scream, convulse and tremble like a rabid animal. A cascade of the beast's life source gushed out in all directions, seeping into the very sand that had consumed almost half of its body. Sinking into a crouch, Jemma sunk her fist into a cluster of feathers, jerking its head back so that she could stare into its beady little eyes. It snapped at her weakly, but was unable to do anything as she pulled at the threads of energy that bound its life together.

Jemma felt the open wounds on her cheek and lip kit themselves together, the pain in her nose dissipated, and after a couple more seconds it was a lot easier to breathe. Jemma hummed, rotating her shoulders as she rose to her full height, wiping the blood from her face with the edge of her sleeve. "That wasn't so bad," She mused, sounding a bit surprised as she nudged the dead body with her toe. Plopping her shield back into the sand, she slid down the side of the dune, and was once again met with a never ending hill of sand.

At the top of the third peak, she heaved a breath, resting her hands on her knees. She was quickly growing tired of the sand, the dryness, the stuffy heat. "This better be fucking worth it," she muttered before rising to her full height. Staring out from the top of the dune, Jemisha framed a hand across her brows and squinted. From where she stood it was impossible to tell if that was a hunk of metal or someone wearing armor or another ugly bird man.

Jemma frowned at the thought, not entirely fond of the idea of having to fight something again so soon. But if it wasn't, they could be useful to getting her out of this beach themed shit show. Using her hands to cup her mouth, she shouted, "YOU THERE!!! SQUAWK IF YOU'RE AN UGLY BIRD MAN!!!"



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Alrick Gottzmann

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Hearing such an inhuman laugh emanate from Fletcher sent a chill through his spine. The sound even seemed to hang in the air for a moment, as if Sedona itself was unsure what to do with something so unnatural. Rather than scare the man away however, he only pressed his hammer against it further. His time with the Huntsmen Order had provided him with little other than painful memories, yet there were some valuable lessons learned in that time. One such lesson was this, if you don't understand what you're dealing with, best to kill it. While Alrick wasn't fond of the idea of following such teachings, the idea seemed tempting at the moment.

"Such a big, strong man to threaten two weakened creatures out of fear. Fine. To put it into words even you can understand: My name is Veldspar. I'm something of a spirit. Your compatriot is my very willing host,"

Were it not for the otherworldly voice emanating from the blondes body, Alrick may have mistaken him for Fletcher himself. The biting tongue it had was near identical.

Spirit? What lingered within Alrick's own beleaguered soul seemed to be drawn forth by the words, finding something familiar in them. Eyes closed shut to try and block out the intruders, but it was in vain. It seemed they (it?) were finding their footing within the shattered remnants of their host. Is it one of us? Then why isn't it with us? No... No it is other. A foreign shadow, lingering where it doesn't belong.

And you are so different?

You belong to us now, and so we belong. It does not.

Were I not busy with other horrors I'd contest that statement.

"Does this answer suffice, or should I go into agonizing detail, while I doubly agonize to mend what I can from what could not be mended by—"

Breath hitched as an agonizingly familiar feeling began to envelop the group, though only Alrick and the Fletcher's unexpected occupant seemed to realize it. Bile began to rise in his throat once more, and a disgusting taste filled his mouth. It wasn't the foul water he had tasted before though, it was coarse. Earthy even. His head suddenly snapped towards the earth beneath him as strange runes seemed to be circling around each member of the group. So foreign were they that it almost pained him to see it, but he couldn't avert his eyes. They wouldn't let him.

She found us... How could she find us? We have only just found ourselves. The thousand whispers questioned, horror rippling through the voices like an unending tide through his head. If only the gods would grace him with blissful unconsciousness so he could be parted from all this madness, but the gods had abandoned this world long ago now.

"—you let one escape? Wonderful. Brace yourselves, and hope We don't impale on an obelisk lest you never find your way out."

And with that the world quite literally began to fall apart. The ground gave way to shifting sands, consuming greedily everything it touched. If the gods did still exist, then they truly they despised this group in particular. "Is a moments respite to much to ask for!?" Alrick raged at the heavens before desperately clawing at the sand. It was a practice in futility, but Alrick was not about to go quietly.

A strange surge of strength courses through the weary, bloodied man, trying to give them the ability to escape this fatal trap. We will not be denied our desires. She will not take it away from us!

Even this surge of energy could not hope to resist the insatiable hunger of this pit. As the grains pulled him deeper, Alrick took a few haggard breathes, his eyes looking toward the sky before all was consumed by black.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alrick had only felt the kiss of the oblivion one other time in his life. A time when the past came to reap the seeds he had sown. It was a blood harvest, cutting down all he had attempted to rebuild. It left nothing but the form of a broken man lying in a pool of his own blood, homesteads engulfed in flames surrounding him. It was a fitting end in many ways. Despite the bloody horror all around, there was a strange form of justice to the situation. In all ways except one. One innocent who was taken, one who would not be granted the mercy of a swift death. Even in protecting her, he had only damned her further. The cries still rang in his ears, a wail that pierced him deeper than any blade ever could have. Were that there was any justice left in the world, she would be spared.

Tears streamed down his face, even as darkness consumed him. He raged against it, knowing that none would spare her the endless cruelties that awaited. But none could defeat death. A final plea for retribution left his cracked lips before black consumed all. Just at that moment, his plea was answered.

And just like back then, his eyes opened. Though rather than a solid surface it felt as though he was floating in an endless sea of nothing. It was... Peaceful. A moments respite from the hell his life had been. Of course this peace parts from him quickly as a new scene of terror unfolds before him. An endless hellscape of sand, dotted with pillars of jet black.

As his descent continued, it became increasingly clear that his trajectory was less than optimal, as one of the black pillars grew larger and larger in his view. Alrick meanwhile could do nothing but watch, his course a predestined fate. To think of all the things that were to claim his life this day, it would be splattered against a rock. Laughter racked his body for the first time he could remember, the absurdity of this day simply to much to bear.

A resounding crack could be heard throughout the tomb as Alrick hit his mark, soon followed by a dull thud as he hit the ground. Both arms were twisted in ways that would cause ones stomach to turn twice over, while one of his legs had a bone jutting out from his skin. There he lay for a time, yet death still seemed hesitant to take him. We will not let it. Not yet.

With this declaration from his passenger Alrick's fracture snapped in place, eliciting a blood curdling scream that seemed to echo through the vast expanses of nothing. Our work has only just begun.

Further screams rang out has bones continued to snap in place, internal bleeding ceased, and wounds were bound shut. It was pure agony, the kind he had never imagined possible. Yet he was kept awake through it all, not allowed the mercy of blacking out by his 'savior'. For an eternity this seemed to continue, until at last the pain subsided. Rolling onto his side, Alrick began to retch violently, blood and sand coming up with what little food he had left in his stomach.

"W-what have you done to me? This... This isn't right." For once, the voices within him refused to speak however. Had it sacrificed itself for him? No. There was quiet, but he didn't feel alone. It was much reduced for the moment, but it lingered still.

Looking to his hammer, now covered in more of his blood than the crows, Alrick grasped the aged weapon before shakily pushing himself to his feet. The process was agonizing, whatever his occupant had done clearly not having worked fully. Still, he could walk, if only barely. So that's what he did, he hobbled off into the wastes around him, stopping every minute or two to double over in pain. What a pitiful sight he must have made.

The wastes proved to not be as empty as suspected as a voice finally got Alrick's attention. Granted it sounded like desperate screaming, but it gave him a direction towards something at least. Hobbling and wobbling along, a familiar figure soon captured his weary eyes. Nadir, currently favoring one leg over the other, resting against one of the obelisks that had so kindly welcomed the ex-knight into this warm and fluffy realm. Yet they were not alone. No, this day couldn't go without a new twist every few minutes. Now a new face emerged from a nearby dune, who had apparently grown a distinct hatred of crows as well.

"SQUAWK!" His voice bellowed across the vacant dunes before ethereal silence reigned again. On most days he would be more cautious, try and discern the newcomers motives. Now he had neither the patience or desire to do so. Besides, if you don't make yourself laugh every now and then, you'll go mad. Of course such preventive measures were likely pointless by now. Waving the stranger over, Alrick turned his attention back to the one companion he had.

"Nadir? Is that truly you, or has my mind finally been broken?" A weak laugh escaped his drying throat, but there was no response. Working his way closer, Alrick found the man not resting. Rather he was staring into the obelisk, a look of terror so tangible it shook even himself. Yet when he stated at the obelisk he only saw their reflections. He himself was quite the sight, fresh wounds that looked like they were haphazardly sutured, blood smears covering much of his form. It wasn't a pleasant sight to be sure, but there was nothing to cause such fear.

Grabbing his delirious companion, Alrick attempted to pry the man away from the stone. After his recent experience, he wasn't keen on being near one any longer than was necessary. When the newcomer arrived he'd turn to greet her, weapon in hand. Another foreigner by the look of it, with ebony skin and strange tattoos. Certainly not the strangest sight he had seen this day.

"The crows have been busy today it seems."

​


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"My life for absolution."



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ＦＬＥＴＣＨＥＲ⠀ ＮＩＬＥＳ⠀ ＣＡＭＢＲＩＡ
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WITH: mothspit mothspit Keidivh Keidivh The Gunrunner The Gunrunner Hell0NHighWater Hell0NHighWater ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ WHERE: Dunes⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ MOOD MUSIC: Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Y Control⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ OOC: A darker shade of Vel, but also some comedy. Hi! Sorry for taking so long. I'm also pushing up a bit on meeting up with everyone. Feel free to 'backdate' reactions between you until asshole mcdemonface start yapping. Just want to get people together.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀
The pain of the dead-drop, even if buffered by the slinking parasitic tethering, was agonizing. Fletcher felt the creature vibrate through his veins—a paltry panacea, but an effort none the less. It did not speak as it had before. It did not crawl into his mortal mind and let slip words from his tongue. It did, however, speak in the language of drudging efforts. A start and stop inside the bones, muscles, tendons, organs, and ligaments. Fletcher was the suit this creature wore, and wear him excellently he had and would. Mending the suit seemed to be the desire. Little did they truly both know, the suit also wore the "man" within.

"Ugh," Fletcher spat sand from his mouth and roused, attempting to stand or at the very least kneel. It was difficult, to say the very least, and he wasn't quite able to manage it. Everything hurt; he discovered new muscles he didn't even think he had, because they were on fire.

Abruptly, something snatched at his ankle. In this, the blond thief felt a shock of white-hot instinct ring through his body. He was going to be enveloped by a creature of the deep sands. It would no doubt eviscerate him with whatever claws it seemed to have. At this moment, he felt something. Something that was rare and true, but it existed in almost every mortal except for him. Fear. Yet it was not his fear he felt, but the fear of the thing that coated his bones.

It was not ready to dwindle to nothing, and though not mortal insofar as age and decay are concerned, it lurched the blond's body in that terror.

"Fuuuuuuckkkkk!" he bellowed, voice colored in the tones of the beast that roused enough to bleat a shrill distress. Not unlike a high-pitched, octave-notched youth, his voice cracked as his fist also cracked on impact...directly into the chest of the woman who had used him to rear herself out of the dunes. The dunes he had fallen on, that she had fallen on prior. He had planted his whole arse on top of her.

He had also made it worse, because as his fist directly connected with said tits, he realized just who she was. An error that would potentially spell his death. Though it would've been a sweet punishment to be plain, it seemed both souls that lived within his skin did not yet want to die for the error of hawking a fist into Gwyn's chest.

"Could.. you please.. get your arse.. off my tits."

Sadly, the only thing Fletcher was particularly good at, save for flinging himself into death's sultry embrace, or perhaps dancing with blades, or stealing things...was a defense mechanism built on a childhood he could not remember. One the beast bade him forget, perhaps out of kindness, but furthermore out of a desire to keep him in its clutches.

"Ah," he started, a blunt noise from an expressive mouth that hitched at the corner in a sunny, if defensive, smile, "er..." the fist yet remained. Fletcher's blond hair was swept against his features in a tornado, sand coated his frame and stuck to the remnants of black ichor, his body was battered and badly injured...but it seemed the person he was yet growing steadily endeared to was also injured.

The blond fettered back, a skitter as it were.

He winced. Preparing for whatever retaliation she would muster. A sweet retaliation, but one his addled body was not quite prepared for. The little bird was indeed a fragile thing. A blade dancer of war, that quality attractive to the demon in his flesh, but so easily breakable in the wrong circumstance. The wrong circumstance being flooding into battle like a fool, getting torn to shreds, and then falling like a lump into the sand below.

"Uh...before...you decide to punish me, darling, consider that I am...not quite up to the task of being disciplined. In any other circumstance I'd enjoy it. Currently, I'm possibly feeling enough pain to render me unconscious, yet I am miraculously alert."

"Apologies for the tit," with this, he patted said tit and offered a well-meaning half-grin. Not thinking, as Fletcher thought perhaps often, but at the moment his senses were a muddled mess of bad decisions toppled together. He had meant a gentleness, it would come off as ridiculous.

"...er, yes. Well," the tit was left behind, his physical and verbal apology spent. He stared at his own hand stupidly. Fletcher was a moron.

The blond then held his head in his hand, but not quite preparing to be slapped upside the head. Moreso, a throbbing ink trailed from the veins of his eyes and set his temples on molten fire. The beast writhed. It sought something he couldn't quite place. It sought it ferociously.

"We should see to your arm. Alas, I am no healer, my dear..." with his hand yet displaced from his head, Fletcher ungracefully unraveled the mismatched scarf from his neck with shaking hands. Popping said arm back into place might have been something Gwyn would have to do for herself, but he could offer a sling if needed.

He did just this, sheepish in her possible anger. Far less confident and genial, funny and flirtatious. A bird with broken wings offering a gift to a powerful woman who was no doubt staring at him in broiling rage. Fletch hoped she would see his amending efforts and take what he offered.

This was all he could do.

Should she strike him, he would perhaps make a sly comment, hand to face, a smile as his defense, but a curious one. Perhaps the pain would displace itself and he'd forget how his body wracked in starts and stops just below the muscles, unseen. Perhaps the strike would rouse his cognition, and he'd admit to deserving such a slap. Genially, warmly, coquettish yet again. He couldn't say, but the beast very much did say a thing to his mind's eye.​

You are a curious thing. Hopeful of pain, and yet We are agonized for this one to do neither and both concurrently. Do you pray for resolution, or do you yet pray to feel something even more in physicality? For this, you seek end recklessly, evading me. I shall not have it. Rise.

You are not my lord, Beast. I consent to no such mental prodding; take leave of your inane, feckless, witless sodding questions.

Ah, you seem mistaken. It is facetiousness, little bird. I see every thought that you fail to acknowledge and wish only for you to admit that you cut your teeth on the sharp edge, always. Acceptance leads to Our ends.

Yet still, I have no need for your consent.

With this, the beast bade his limbs move. He stood, powered by this creature who had once been a mere slug in his maggot-filled guts so very long ago. It puppeted him to keen his head around, to look on as the sand shifted around them. Large dunes fell and jutted up like waves of sea but so much taller. They dwarfed the three of them, two tiny dots in an ocean, with black obelisks as landmarks.

"YOU THERE!!! SQUAWK IF YOU'RE AN UGLY BIRD MAN!!!"

"SQUAWK!"

Fletcher should have stopped this creature from walking him forwards, yet it did hear the sounds of other voices, and was determined to gaze upon the forms of those it sought to manipulate as time went on. Veldspar needed all of them as pieces to fit the puzzle he yearned to solve.

Fletch could have stopped it despite being as fragile as he seemed. He had the uncanny knack for rebellion, naturally.

"Nadir? Is that truly you, or has my mind finally been broken?"

But somewhere, deep down, he did take keenly to giving up control. This was another reason he was chosen. He was more than willing to be wielded, for war, for darkness, and for delicious chaos.

"Ah, they yet live," said the beast, using Fletcher's mouth as second nature, the dual tones sneaking between syllables warbling it unnaturally. The blond let It. He let It cast a lazy gaze to the perhaps still yet fuming Gwyn, raking the bright blue eyes over her form like sinful daggers.

Upon finding the others, not so careless as to not turn a cheek over Its meat's shoulder to make sure the woman Fletcher was so endeared to yet followed (or forwards, if she lead), They stood as if in newness. A thing displaced. A foreign thing, body language wholly different and yet seemingly the same. It was like staring at a bird that was not a bird, and shifting one's gaze might make it become a trick of the eye off the side of a reflection.

Yet it was him.

Yet it was not.

The beast was amused. The beast calculated. The beast surmised the events transpiring and perhaps caught a woman It didn't know joining the fray. A new piece to consider, something to add to the pot, so to speak. Yet not the shared stew of Their existence as was impossible, but something more.

It hungered for it, as it hungered to guide. To guide and to take, and to take more than given. And to give just enough to chart a path to something even Fletcher's reluctant rebellion could not currently touch. The one thing he would be unable to pierce, if he desired. Its true intentions.

All efforts were to stop him from this...until he was ready to cut his teeth on the sharp edge. And he would be ready, because he was and would always be very willing to be wielded.

They were not that different, the souls that shared one skin.

"It seems the mortals have landed in a befuddling trap. I did attempt to warn you, yet the little bird makes all things...difficult." this, the creature said knowingly, its poised gaze looking beyond the dunes. Beyond the walls of a maze, beyond that, beyond. It knew where they were. It knew what they must do to survive, as their ghostly party member did not fully realize. All they had to do was ask.

And then, they'd have to give, so that he may take. Take, and grow stronger still. Grow stronger still, and let Fletcher blossom like a blood flower intertwined with poison. Its poison, Their chaos.

A letter descended on high from said ghostly party member as if on cue, flecking irritatingly to slap and stick itself onto the nearest person's face. Tybalt made an attempt to say in writing what he hoped to save them from on two accords; this beast and the blind one that writhed beyond.

Fletcher said nothing.

The creature's poise to the events occurring, the letter, their predicament said...everything.

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Shia Foxcourt

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What is the matter with me?

Groggily, he pushed his fingers to rub his eyes before finally pulling out a fine silk shirt from the bottom of his own pack. Exquisitely ornate, the quartered fox of Foxcourt winked back at him up until the moment he drew his dirk and slashed it right through the eyes.

“And here I’d been told to save it for bloody parties or something,” Shia muttered to himself. “Drinks galore, all the wenches you’d like. Fat lotta good all that lot is now.”

It seemed more and more likely that the only party he’d be attending at this rate was his own funeral. Or maybe someone else’s.

When he’d finally got some good size strips cut, from out of the sleeves, he tossed the dirk aside and started back in the direction of the trees where he had left them. By this point, a good-sized crowd had seemingly gathered around Fletcher’s body. At first he thought it might have been for the stitching, but as he got closer, and someone slightly moved, he could see Alrick kneeling with his hammer pressed threateningly against his chest. Eyes narrowing, Shia stopped moving and hung back at the edge to listen.

“ . . . explain just what you are and why you are in our compatriots’ body. Quickly, if you would."

“Such a big, strong man to threaten two weakened creatures out of fear," Fletcher’s voice answered. Or WAS it Fletcher’s voice? It sounded wrong somehow to Shia’s ears – an uncanny echo at best.

“Fine. To put it into words even you can understand: My name is Veldspar. I'm something of a spirit. Your compatriot is my very willing host.”

Shia stirred, and his free hand darted to his back to reach for a blade that was no longer there. Aside from that, he didn’t move. He could not. He was transfixed on what his sharp ears could hear.

“Does this answer suffice, or should I go into agonizing detail, while I doubly agonize to mend what I can from what could not be mended by—”

The voice stopped, and Shia’s necked prickled uneasily. Had he been sighted? Was that why? Deciding to best play it off – for after all, he wasn’t truly uninvited from the scene – jogged up and waved.

“Sorry, lads. I had to make do. Really, this was the best I could find. What’d I mi –”

"—you let one escape? Wonderful,” the not-Fletcher hissed suddenly.

“Beg your pardon?” Shia returned, his eyebrows shooting up to nearly his hairline.

Let what escape? The crows?

"Brace yourselves, and hope We don't impale on an obelisk lest you never find your way out."

Shia was still trying to work out exactly what the not-Fletcher meant when suddenly the ground beneath his feet gave a sudden, terrifying lurch.

“What fresh hell is THIS?” Shia demanded, but if anyone answered, he certainly didn’t hear them as the world had turned to a roar. Trees were buckling violently, snapping at their bases. Bushes, including the thorny undergrowth he had fallen in early, burst apart into splinters and suddenly sank into a bubbling pit, followed by a few of the trees, the packs he’d been standing at just a minute or two before, and then finally . . .

“Oh, fucking –”

He tried to run, but didn’t get more than a few steps before the grass gave way and the sand rushed up over his ankles. Pulled down immediately almost to his knees, Shia thrashed and clawed, desperately trying to keep his head above the liquid mire. But it was, in the end, a useless effort. The sand rushed over up his head, burying him, and nearly crushing what little air he had out from his lungs.

Dust filled his mouth, his nose, his lungs. He was choking. Try as he might to writhe and kick, it was no good. His heartbeat was pounding in his ears, and butterflies erupted in his chest as though he were dropping from a great height.

Was this really how it was going to end?

Just as that thought really did emerge in the rational consciousness of his mind, the liquid gravel gave way beneath him much as the ground had above. Only this time there was nothing waiting below.

Just a blackness as dark as pitch.

He couldn’t even scream. His mouth was full of sand and what tasted like his own blood. Coughing and sputtering, he toppled end over end, which really did help in a manner of speaking to clear the sand from his vision because the next thing he knew the ground was rising up to meet him at a dizzying rate. Terror pulsed through his veins like ice water and, driven by some instinct he could not name, Shia flailed again.

Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods. OH FUCK!

By some stroke of miracle, his desperately clawing hands found purchase on something that felt like cloth. A jolt went through his entire arm, a brief sharp sensation, and then a loud riiiiiiiiiiiiiiip as whatever he’d grabbed to break his fall ripped free. In a tangled heap, he fell for a second or two more before finally slamming down right onto a pile of dusty old tomes someone had fortunately piled into a reasonably high stack.

“I can’t feel my fucking a--- fuck,” Shia groaned when he finally came to. Stars were exploding like fireworks in the back of his skull. His legs, half-buried behind a mound of moth-eaten old books, throbbed as if he had just run a marathon. But perhaps worse than all of these aches combined was the taste in his mouth; it was as though he had swallowed an entire sand trap whole.

Oh . . .

He rolled, slowly but surely, over onto his stomach and started to hack and spit up the contents of his mouth. Long lines of drool frothed from the corners as he lingered there on all fours for nearly a minute, hacking and sputtering atop the tomes, before finally melting back down again to pick up a spare parchment that had floated down in the aftermath of his landing.

“I am never doing this again,” he vowed as he used the page to wipe off the drool. “Never, never, never. ”
 
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GWYNDILIN ABERNATHY
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"Fuuuuuuckkkkk!" cried Fletcher, melded with the creature inside him. Despite the harrowing drop into what she could only assume was hell itself, or the prospect of dying every five minutes, Gwyn was glad to hear his voice; It meant he was alive. The disgraced captain shuddered to think what horrors lie in the darkness, and the idea of facing them alone. What godless machinations sought to add their bones to it's ever-growing mountain of marrow. If they die here, better to die with company.

In the midst of thoughts of monsters and death, Gwyn felt a sharp pain beginning to spread throughout her chest cavity. She inhaled sharply, letting out a small fuuuccckk as she looked down to find.. Fletcher's fist, having punched her directly in the breast. Out of surprise, she guessed. And when her seething eyes locked onto his-- His sheepish, yet pained, slightly-delirious expression, and the sand that covered him, his body weak and a hairs breath away from crumbling... She withheld the urge to slap him. Circumstances as they were, it'd do neither of them any good if she accidentally sent the boy back to a premature grave. Not before it was both of their time; Which, coincidentally, was potentially just a mere moment away.

"Ah, er..." he started meekly, recoiling soon enough once a twitch of her brow registered her patience thin. Thin, but forgiving. Carefully, she cradled her limp, broken limb, clutching it close to her chest with a small grimace-- The lower half of her form rising from the sands as he spoke again, sediment spilling from pockets and crevices.

"Uh...before...you decide to punish me, darling, consider that I am...not quite up to the task of being disciplined. In any other circumstance I'd enjoy it. Currently, I'm possibly feeling enough pain to render me unconscious, yet I am miraculously alert."

Words that were meant with a dismissive shake of her head, the sand drizzling from her dark, tangled locks. She sighed; Pointedly, and sympathetically-- A mixture of frustration and pity. For the very-near-future, Fletchers sad state, and the sheer inconvenience of it all.

"Aye, you look like right shit. I'll render your balls to a sling some other day, as long as you live to see it, eh?" Gwyn smiled faintly, in the hopes of inspiring enough morale to keep the blond on this side of the curtain, as it were.

On any normal job, she'd have completed it by now, and wasted the night away with drink, pipe, and someone's daughter. She was not a woman of patience-- Never was, really. It was sport, in some way. Always chasing the bigger high, without the withdrawals. And this-- This hellscape-- Was certainly a withdrawal. It didn't help that this man, one she had only met hours prior, carried something dark. Worse still, it didn't hide. It was clear of power and short of temper. Evident by the threat it placed to her but minutes before the fall; Something she was not reticent to forget. Or forgive. But now they had to traverse the darkness together; A demon, a thief, and a queen. The first of which she was not keen on trusting just yet.

Fletcher, though, seemed harmless enough. For now, anyway.

"Apologies for the tit," He finished, patting her breast for emphasis. He seemed just as shocked by the gesture; Staring down at his own hand. Gwyn emitted a low, hollow chuckle from the back of her throat-- A sign that he was pushing his luck. For a moment, he held a hand to his face. Gwyn assumed he was shielding himself from an attack; Hiding the black tendrils that squirmed beneath his pale flesh. A twinge of guilt ran down her spine.

"We should see to your arm. Alas, I am no healer, my dear..."

Then, he fumbled with the cloth around his neck-- Offering it her with an open palm. She stood there for a moment, blinking, cradling her own bruised wing; Some words of solidarity or comfort stuck in her throat. He was on deaths door, and yet acted so concerned for a measly broken arm. Gwyn had sustained many an injury during her career, a broken arm paled in comparison to the scars that littered her body and the stories that accompanied them. From this distance, her eyes wandered over the several wounds she had haphazardly stitched together. Some in tact, some having burst on impact. What kind of pain was he in, and why was he acting more concerned for hers?

Finally, slowly, she grabbed the scarf by an end draping off his palm, and curled it into her fist. She managed, with a combination of teeth and willpower, to tie the scarf into a sling across one shoulder, her arm comfortably resting within it.

"..Thank you." She said softly, "Can you.. stand? You can use my shoulder.. the good one, if you like."

Just as she bent down to help him to his feet, he did so promptly; Rising without need of her assistance. The sudden movement startled her slightly, and she instinctively recoiled, but was glad to see he had the strength in him nonetheless. Or at least, that was how it appeared. Though that very same demon was now in control, she scarcely noticed at first. As he scanned their surroundings, Gwyn did as well-- Hoping to spot a glimmer of light in the abyss. Something that spelled freedom, or salvation for the more philosophically inclined, but no such light existed here. But then Fletcher moved, to a part of the dunes where, in the distance, she could hear.. something. Not quite words, as clear as the demon might have, but signs of life regardless.

Seemingly training his ear to the sound, he spoke in affirmation; "Ah, they yet live."

But it was not his voice. It was, and it wasn't. The two crashing into each other in an unnatural sound. Instantly, Gwyn's head snapped up, finding his eyes scaling her form in a way not dissimilar to a man does in war, when he knows a kill is won before it is taken-- But it was not his eyes. In Fletchers skull they resided, but it was not Fletcher behind them. A shiver ran down her spine; This was the gaze of a devil. Filled with hunger and destruction. All she could do was stare back. Some intrigue buried under a layer of fear.

Only at the other end of a sword had she met the likes of the waters; To be working with it chilled her.

Surely, no priest can save my soul after this.

"..Hello again," She mustered finally, her back stiffening, "I was beginning to wonder if I had conjured you. A woman can dream."

Her tone both as confident and sarcastic as she could manage, which was admittedly tempered with caution; There was no telling how dangerous he was. But Gwyn wasn't known for poise or grace, as the women of this age were trained to exhibit. She wanted to know many things about this.. arrangement, but would settle for the most pertinent to their predicament. Hell, in a way, he got them into this mess. A warning could have come sooner, surely.. Intimidating as this Veldspar was, he seemed to be bound by Fletchers limitations, if only partially. That gave her some comfort, at least. He continued on to the sound, until they had discovered the other scattered members of their party. With Gwyn in tow, she maintained a tentative distance, only coming to his side when greeting those that had been found.

"Prodigal sons returneth." She mused gratefully to their two other companions.

"It seems the mortals have landed in a befuddling trap. I did attempt to warn you, yet the little bird makes all things...difficult."

"Do tell us more of this rich tapestry of information you seem to be privy to. I'd much like to know when I'm about to run into certain death."

She might have carried on with her usual snarky quips, but paused, "..Trap?"



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ＦＬＥＴＣＨＥＲ⠀ ＮＩＬＥＳ⠀ ＣＡＭＢＲＩＡ
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WITH: Whisker Whisker mothspit mothspit Hell0NHighWater Hell0NHighWater Keidivh Keidivh The Gunrunner The Gunrunner ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ WHERE: Dunes⠀> Library cause Shia ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ MOOD MUSIC: Aurora - Teardrop ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ OOC: okey let's try ta get this movin'. moving us to the library. lets do this!⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

"Aye, you look like right shit. I'll render your balls to a sling some other day, as long as you live to see it, eh?" Fletcher had smiled at this, a dry lilt of the upturned mouth. Sadly, his words had not been dramatized; he was appetized by harm, as he was oft eager to be. The screaming of his lacerated flesh had only given him the gift of just one smile, yet in his eyes held the glimmer he'd hoped his powerful companion would see: he was in on the jest.

"..Thank you," Gwyn had offered him, "Can you.. stand? You can use my shoulder.. the good one, if you like." If only he'd taken what she'd offered, instead of allowing himself to drift to murky repose as the beast moved his limbs. It was an effortless thing; take, and I will give. Move, and I shall follow. Surely, Fletcher could've taken Gwyn's good shoulder. Instead, he cut his teeth on darkness and let it devour him. Surely, he had been chosen by this thing for just that reason.

"..Hello again, I was beginning to wonder if I had conjured you. A woman can dream."
"A curious sentiment. We are not the milk of dreams, but the Other," Veldspar replied, words like honeysuckle tinted with deep, undulating thunder. To flit from tone to tone, texture to texture, this creature was not unlike Fletcher in more ways than it knew. He may have been the dancer of the blade, in fits of violence and the rhetoric of mania, but this thing wasn't a performer of it. It was promised chaos in every motion, a tremor of earth-split, and dagger-night, and shards of obsidian.

Yet, even in all that, Fletcher managed to smile behind the mouth it now wielded. A bright thing, a bird feather, a kestrel lilt. He was still beyond the suit of skin; but dreary of the pain Veldspar was keeping him from being ensnared by.

"It seems the mortals have landed in a befuddling trap. I did attempt to warn you, yet the little bird makes all things...difficult," the beast had intimated in more unnatural hues.
"Do tell us more of this rich tapestry of information you seem to be privy to. I'd much like to know when I'm about to run into certain death." The blond beyond the veil writhed, fighting for one just fleck of a birdsong instance. The tell-tale disease swept in ley lines of trees across his temples. A warning; it was all he could do before his mind became heavy, and Veldspar wiped the smear of his soul into a lush and inviting dream.

Not the milk of dreams, but for this one, perhaps. If only to prevent him from halting the words that would come to pass.

"Certainly; but there is—" spoke the creature, turning to look at the dark haired woman with a glint of decimation in his eyes, "...hmm..." Veldspar paused, wheeling Fletcher's head to the near library. "Or, one could wait for the lost soul to prattle his misinformed scrawlings." The creature in his skin folded his arms across his chest, tilting the blond's head to the side, bird-like.

"..Trap?"
"One either wishes for the fullest answer, or for the muddled one to make himself useful. I cannot speak truth without true interest, and cannot give truth without consent," the creature said, the blue of Fletcher's eyes unnatural in the shade of an adjacent obelisk. With that, the creature trailed to the library, making time with the pace of the others should they join. He bade them so; another of his playing pieces had managed to survive the fall, despite...

“I am never doing this again. Never, never, never. ” This one would prove quite amusing.

Veldspar laughed at the sight before him. It wasn't the dulcet musicality the blond gave; it was a deep, curt, pitying thing. Not unlike a human lamenting the plight of an ant stuck in a drop of drew.

"It seems your alternative has been used to wipe the spittle from this one's face," the otherworldly being remarked, another deep chuckle hitching, this time more sinister in texture.

Twisting the blond on heel he scoured the faces of Fletcher's companions, as if calculating like a reptile. Looking for something, but not a specific glance. Then the blue gaze rested on a nothing-thing; a space beside them, as if acknowledging another, an invisible, a companion all the same.

"Shall we make a deal? Sadly, I cannot heal mortal wounds, but I am an excellent guide through this 'trap'." Veldspar glimmered over the wayward form of their red haired companion.

He was not intent on outlining his terms until he knew real need was present. It was a costly exchange, but was it worth entertaining this creature would help them? Why was he here, why was he offering, and what was he after?

More questions that required more payments; in flesh, mind, soul, spirit, or otherwise. Veldspar needed to hear the intention, and then he'd decide what he craved most, depending on who offered.

Fletcher would've merely asked for a drink.


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