Fantasy (Open) Willow Witches and The Faceless

[Foolish Ghoul]

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"The world is fire and plague, and we are a madness that roams this desolate land like sheep without a shepherd. That’s all we are when it comes down to it, just squabbling cattle, living life in a familiar home turned slaughterhouse. We; the Faceless and Willow Witches alike, wander the rotting carcasses of our once proud civilization, living only because that’s what our primal instinct tells us to do, living in spite of all that has happened…

Of course, things weren't always like this, we weren't always slaves to our own fear and broken minds. We used to have great kingdoms and powerful heroes who fought back the darkness. I was told that at a young age, of course, and I’ll admit I didn’t believe it at first – you probably wouldn’t either if you lived through the shit I have – but when my village was attacked by the Skin Dancers and I began my life as a Faceless vagabond, I saw the signs of it everywhere. Old husks of the great monolithic structures we once built still stand tall to this day, and the massive expanses of tamed wild land they accompany are a welcome sight. I oft seek these structures and rotted cities out, as they are a welcome departure from reality. It’s so easy there, to step from this world to the next. I can close my eyes, for but a moment, and picture myself in the world before the age of Stardust..."

The Cataclysm

It started with a tear in the very fabric of our planar system. When it began it was small, but was still large enough to grab the attention of the Gods. In turn, each of the Celestial Commanders examined the rift, and when none were able to explain it’s existence, they simply wrote it off as an anomaly that would close before the end of the planetary cycle. They were wrong, and they were fools…

As that cycle passed, and the proposed hypothesis proved false, one of the gods – a master of logic and law – decided to traverse the tear in search of answers and discovery as to what may lay on the other side. Sadly, before any of the other’s could testify his rash behavior, he crossed the threshold of the impossible rift, vanishing into the beyond. He did not return, and now he lay nameless and unworshipped.

Another cycle passed, and the tear still lay open, its unwavering shape taunting the Gods with malice and the promise of death. In panic, the Celestial Commanders sealed the divine bridges that connected their planes from the others, shutting the material planes out.

Cycles passed and the rift still lay open and ever impossible. Many Gods became paranoid, fearing what this rift might mean and what might happen next. However, in time it lay ignored and undisturbed. It posed no visible threat as long as it lay unmolested, and so for a time there was solace. Or so, they thought.

Twelve cycles passed, and finally the prophet of doom emerged. Cathael, mother of the Skin Dancers, first Emergent from the Plane of Stardust, devourer of Gods. She was alien and bizarre, an exotic creature of captivating beauty. She danced an astral dance that promised ruin and death, and slew two Gods with in moments of her arrival, consuming their forms. They now lay forgotten and unworshipped.

Cathael left the celestial planes and passed the divine bridges with ease, venturing towards the Prime Material Plane, home of the God’s creations. She made landing in Tu’thull, first city of Emoreale, and dug deep into the soils. From there she made her nest, and birthed the first of the Skin Dancers; abominations of unspeakable horror that lurk inside men, controlling their bodies like simple puppets.

Before the Gods could react to the sudden devastation Cathael had wrought, a slew of rifts emerged within the planar system, spewing forth the abominations that had been lurking just beyond the void for so long. Gods below were they hungry.

I would hesitate to label the ensuing battles a war, as slaughter seems to be a more appropriate title. Most of the Gods now lay forgotten and unworshiped, and the few that live went into hiding so that they may sleep off their wounds.

The Three Gifts

Truly we hang on by a thread, and things seem grim if not certain, but there is some glimmer of hope still. You see, the Gods did not forsake us entirely in their death. Upon their departure they gave us three last gifts

Willow Witches

First were the Willow Witches. Creatures much like that of the humans, but with certain talents useful in fighting the abominations from the Plane of Stardust. They protect the few remaining cities and towns of Emoreale, and when those inevitably fall, they join the Faceless and wander the world in search of purpose.

Willow Witch Characters:
Born from a willow tree, these holy warrior's first thoughts are of their purpose; protect. They slide out of their trees fully grown, and walk to the town or city they have been summoned to guard. A Willow Witch guardian will do anything they can to keep their chosen land safe, even at the expense of their own life.

Sometimes a Willow Witch is born to a town or city that has already been destroyed, or the guardian fails to protect their mark and lives on despite the destruction. In these rare cases, the Willow Witch becomes a wanderer and a hunter, traveling the world until they die fighting the beasts they were meant to destroy. In some cases, a wandering Willow Witch will find a group of traveling Faceless and join their ranks.

Holy Physicality:
As a Willow Witch you are naturally stronger and faster than the Faceless. You have been given this strength to combat the Skin Dancers and other denizens from the Plane of Stardust. Because of this, weapons that might feel cumbersome to a Faceless are simple for you to wield.

Solar Powered:
The warming touch of the sun's rays fills you with vigor and energy. When exposed to sunlight, you heal wounds faster and are imbued with holy strength beyond compare.

Rune Writers:
Willow Witches are born with the understanding of the ancient runic language known as celestial. They come with full understanding of the Wards of Eld and a few of the much more rare Attack Runes. A Willow Witch should also have a greater understanding of about three Wards of Eld, allowing them to use them as utility in combat.

Star Iron

The second gift, Star Iron, is a metal that repels the touch of Skin Dancers. Unfortunately, humanity is in short supply of Star Iron and there hasn’t been a pure Star Iron helm made in the last hundred years or so.

During the pinnacle of the calamity, Star Iron rained from the sky, alight in holy fire set by the gods. When the holy metal struck down, it bore itself deep into the earth waiting ready for those of in need of it's protective properties.

Wards of Eld

Finally, there is the third gift; the Wards of Eld. Ancient writings that only the Willow Witches understand and can write. This is the only reason any town or city goes unmolested, as these wards repel naked Skin Dancers.

For the most part, Wards of Eld are very delicate. In order to work, they need to be linked together within a delicate and specific fashion, even the slightest error can cause the magic to wither away.

Specialization:
When a Willow Witch works with Eld Wards, they eventually gain a scholarly understanding of about three wards. When this mental ability becomes thoroughly practiced, a Willow Witch will find that they can write these wards in the air, activating them on command.
Wards of Eld available for specialization:
A'Tea: Ward of displacement
Cur'Ar: Ward of disruption
Doch: Ward of healing
Gea: Ward of defense
Kel: Ward of locating
Siel: Ward of silence
Ule: Ward of binding
Teh: Ward of shielding
Attack Rune Families:
Aliel: Runes of air
Bliel: Runes of shadow
Pesin: Runes of water
Resin: Runes of earth
Teine: Runes of fire
Ter: Runes of lightning

Faceless

The Faceless are humans existing now in the age of Stardust, they wallow in filth and plague, and hide behind helms of iron, cowering from the abysmal creatures that seek their destruction. It is because humans wear these helms that they have taken on the name "Faceless". They don't show their face, they don't mark their towns or cities on maps and they quietly accept their fate.

Faceless Characters:
Playing a Faceless character means that you have a terribly tragic history. Most likely you were born in a town or city, behind the comfort of the Eld Wards until – at some point – that town/city was brought to ruin. Whether it be because of plague, a Skin Dancer infestation, other various monsters, starvation, cultists, etc., that place no longer exists, and most likely nobody even noticed.

You now live life as a wanderer, doing your best to survive the harsh world. You may have found companions along the way, traveling in groups is usually the safest way to travel, but no matter how many friends you surround yourself with, you will eventually die out here.

Mutation:
Though not all Faceless suffer from this, you might.
The material planes and the Plane of Stardust were never meant to be connected, their building blocks are just too different. Because of this connection, the Plane of Stardust has warped Emoreale and the creatures that inhabit it. Mutation isn't common, and it's effects can be disastrous, but there are some who have learned how to tame it's effects and even use the mutation to their advantage. Through the use of mutagens (substances that can be harvested from creatures of the Plane of Stardust) a Faceless can enhance their own physical abilities.

Magic Specialist:
Though Faceless may not be able to wield runes such as the Willow Witches, Faceless do posses their own magics. When it comes to wielding the arcane arts, there isn't anyone better than the Faceless.

Namers:
The power of names is only available to Faceless.

Helms

A helm – simply put – is any covering for ones face. Originally, back when the calamity was at it's zenith, helms were made entirely of Star Iron, but since most of the world's supply has been used up and lost to the piles of plague infested corpses, Blacksmith's have to make do with regular Bold Iron, or a mix of the two. In some towns, the populace has had to resort to more common materials.

Sample List of Materials Used for Helms:
- Arcanite - Rare
- Bold Iron - Common
- Cloth - Common
- Flesh - Rare
- Leather - Common
- Pure Star Iron - Legendary (impossible)
- Silver - Uncommon
- Star Iron/Bold Iron mix - Rare

Relics

Relics are strange and mysterious items that come from before the age of Stardust, either during the calamity or during the age of Gods. Relics are scattered throughout this desolate world, buried underneath the rot and decay of what once was a mighty civilization.

There is much mystery shrouding the discovery of these items, but their usefulness is without question.

In order to discover a Relic, a Relic must want you to find it. This is a strange anomaly that many wanders have come across, as it seems that certain types of Relics will tend to only be discovered by a creature they deem worthy of their discovery. For instance, if one is to lead a life of violence and war, blazing a path of destruction upon their travels, they are more likely to find a Relic that's use is befitting a life of violence. Alternatively, if one lives life in the shadows, avoiding detection and slinking past their enemies, a Relic used for stealth may appear.

Cathael

Not Much is known of Cathael. She is one of the many gods that descended upon the Prime Material realm, and seems to have the most influence. Her nest is said to be in the lost city of Tu'thull, but the information on that location is no longer available. She is a mystery and a horror one does not want to encounter.

Skin Dancers

"...I have been following the two Skin Dancers for sometime now, and it seems I have managed to go undetected, though how much longer before they take notice of me is unclear.

...Getting as close as I have, I have begun sketching these creature's terrible visages and taking thorough notes on their behavioral patterns...

...Peculiar, It seems that even after a Skin Dancer's suite dies, they continue to wear it's corpse, almost as if their collecting the rotting remains of the poor souls they have bested. It is to be assumed, of course, that this is due to the terrible solar affliction all Skin Dancers poses, but I can't help and wonder if Dancers collect suits for sentimental value, or possibly, even as symbols of status. Just morbid curiosity of course.

It also appears that my two specimens have some sort of bony projections protruding from their heads, horns or antlers of some sort it seems. I ponder the possible uses for such growths, but find I can only hypothesize...

...I continue to follow my two specimens, and find that they do not seem to require sustenance, or at least I have not bared witness to any sort of consumption. Perhaps the rotting corpses they reside in provide nourishment."

- Passage taken from 'Sir Felguard's Tome of many Beasts'

​

Skin Dancers appeared hundreds of years ago, birthed forth from the god Cathael. They are terrible creatures of deception and corruption, and were the main force behind humanity's annihilation.

The Power of Names

Names are strange and powerful things, and to have a name is wonderous.

At birth, a Faceless is given a name by their parents. While a Faceless' birth name does have some power (if a person calls your name, you turn your head to see who is calling you, they were able to make you act with the power of your name) it is miniscule in comparison to the power of a true name. A true name is that person's very being, it is what defines them. It is said that that when a Skin Dancer enters a body, they learn that person's true name, and that is why they have full control over them.

Naming is a discipline where one perceives the true name of a person, place or thing, and through that understanding gains absolute control over the subject. This power can be used by a Faceless in a variety of ways. For example, natural forces like the wind can be called upon to do the Namer's bidding, solid rock can be commanded to crumble into dust, and living beings and people can be forced to do whatever the Namer desires. That being said, learning a name, truly understanding it, is a long and difficult process.

How It Works (Sort Of)
Oh I'm sorry, does this not make any sense? Well fuck you! You try and explain literal magic.

So the True Name of things is admittedly a very hard subject to explain. To know the True Name of something means you understand that thing to its very core. This might seem impossible to you, after all how could one ever hope to understand something that is forever shifting, such as wind or light, even wood or fire? These things are always changing, and therefore their names are never the same from this moment to the next, it should be impossible to understand them absolutely, right? Surprisingly, it isn't. You see, this understanding doesn't come from your conscious mind, the thing that you normally use to comprehend or analyze the world, the thing you're using right now to try and understand this complex concept. The understanding of a thing to the point of knowing its True Name comes from a subconscious portion of the mind – we'll call it the Sleeping Mind – that awakens briefly to become aware of the True Name of something.

"How does the Sleeping Mind work?", I hear you ask. Think of it like this:

Let's say you and me were in a room. In my hand is a stone. If I showed you this rock, and told you I was going to toss it, could you tell me right now where it was going to land with absolute certainty? Go ahead tell me. Picture that room in your mind. Picture you and me, no more than ten feet apart, a smooth skipping stone in my hand. Take as much time as you need, draw it out if you would like, and then have that answer in mind.




***




Have your answer? Yes? Well are you certain you know that's exactly where it's going to land?

No. Of course not. You could never tell me for certain where that stone would land. First of all, I didn't give you the rock, so its mass is a mystery to you. For all you know I was lying and it's not a rock at all, simply papermachette painted to look like a rock. You don't even have tools to measure the wind speed or atmospheric pressure of the room. Second of all, even if you did have all that information, I never told you which direction I was going to throw the stone. In short, there's no way you could figure that problem out.

Now picture that room again. Me and you, stone in my hand. I've just asked you this seemingly impossible question, for which you can not provide a definite answer. I then call my little brother into the room. He's six years old. Without a word, I toss the stone in a high arc towards his direction, and he snatches it from the air before it impacts the ground. Holding it in his hand, he examines the stone confused. I excuse him from the room and he leaves.

I turn back to you, smug grin on my face. How could my six year old brother, in mere seconds, figure out where that stone would impact, before it impacted, when you could not do it with your more experienced and intelligent mind in however much time you needed or wanted? How could my six year old brother calculate the distance that stone would travel, and how much time it would take to get there, when you could not?

Though not a perfect analogy, that is essentially how the Sleeping Mind and Naming works. A Faceless has the ability to awaken their Sleeping Mind for brief periods of time, so they might fully understand something to the point of learning it's true name at that exact moment (most things are in a constant state of change or decay, so a True Name is never the same from what it was seconds ago).

Magic

There are eight types of magic. They are as follows:

Abjuration: Spells that protect, block, or banish. An abjuration specialist is called an abjurer.
Conjuration: Spells that bring creatures or materials to the caster. A conjuration specialist is called a conjurer.
Divination: Spells that reveal information. A divination specialist is called a diviner.
Enchantment: Spells that imbue the recipient with some property or grant the caster power over another being. An enchantment specialist is called an enchanter.
Evocation: Spells that manipulate energy or create something from nothing. An evocation specialist is called an evoker.
Illusion: Spells that alter perception or create false images. An illusion specialist is called an illusionist.
Necromancy: Spells that manipulate, create, or destroy life or life force. A necromancy specialist is called a necromancer.
Transmutation: Spells that transform the recipient physically or change its properties in a more subtle way. A transmutation specialist is called a transmuter.

Religion Now

After the gods were slain, or chased into hiding, religion had died out almost completely. However, there are some who still seek out the gods to this day. They travel Emoreale in search of answers as to where the remaining deities may have fled to, in hopes that they may provide aid.

Any remaining religions are generally cults worshiping one of the Astral deities from the Plane of Stardust. It is said that there are even some worshippers of Cathael who willingly allow Skin Dancers to wear them. These cults tend to form in areas that have lost all sight of hope and have nothing no other option but to worship. These cults can be problematic for many obvious reasons, but also have been known to destroy the Eld Wards of a town purposefully.

"Civilization lays buried under the corpses of it’s own creators, the ashes of our ruin blanket this world and we wither and squirm until death takes us. We cling to life so pitifully, our cold hands gripping the cloistered veins of vitality, and for what?"

C.DEX Berries dragonsfire Napoleone the Kiwi zenguardian @Rapbit Blank Pages Colie Cinderlily tremblelance FrazzledFox Balfnaught1 The Gunrunner DatGuyWelbz Darth Darth Tangent Moritz

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Faint sunlight glints through the tree canopy, stray beams catching the fringes of the frost covered ground, slowly thawing out the surrounding area. The earth was cold, frozen and stiff, and as he came out of his sleep, Abel would find his muscles felt par for the course. It seems the night had cast the land into the hem of winter’s maw, but like the frozen earth, Abel would find the sun's rays would eventually thaw his stiff body.

The fire – which Abel would have needed to get through the night – seems to have died out recently, though the blackened wood still radiates some warmth, leaving a small area around the extinguished fire untouched by the frost.

Despite the tree’s canopy guarding against most of the sun's light, Abel would be able to tell that dawn had only just begun, giving him plenty of time to travel before night fell once again. It also seemed a very low fog had settled in the area, though it would probably burn off along with the chill by mid day.

Surrounding Abel is a dense forest of pine trees and the usual scattered remnants of the old world – a few crumbling stone structures covered in ivy, skeletal bodies and various corpses strewn about the forest floor. Even though these things would have become a familiar sight at this point and were to be expected, there were a few stranger landmarks as well.

First of the peculiarities were the trees. While at initial glance they seemed like nothing too terribly unusual, closer inspection would reveal corpses either trampled and obscured by the tree roots or absorbed into the bark and wood. Most of the corpses in this state are entirely skeletal at this point, featureless and yellowed with rot, while some still have remnants of their flesh clinging tightly to the bone.

The second oddity amongst this clearing is a much fresher – though still considerably old – looking corpse hanging from a tree not fifty feet from where Abel had decided to set up for the night. The clothing from the body had been stripped, though the true gender of the corpse will forever remain a mystery as the flesh has been made into a mangled mess. In fact, it seems the body had been mutilated to the point that it is barely even distinguishable as a corpse. There are appendages to the side of the main mass that could have been arms at one point, and cradled in the loop of the rope suspending the corpse there seems to be a cranial structure, but outside of the those familiar features, the torn rotting mass is indistinguishable. If Abel wished to inspect the body further, he would have to get closer.

The final peculiar piece that Abel would find as he came to, is the silence. The night before, this forest had been a hive of activity. Abel would remember animals crashing through the underbrush as he passed, birds shrieking as if they were being assailed by an unseen force, and the wind that had been howling as if it were a living entity feeling a deep and terrible pain. Now there was nothing. Outside of the writhing fog coating the forest floor, nothing moved, and not a sound could be heard. There was, however, the fishy scent of the sea thick in the air, but if a beach was nearby, it too had fallen silent.
C.DEX

***​

Farther to the east, at the base of the Stormswel Mountains – one of the few landmarks that still holds its name – another group of vagabonds find themselves rousing from the grips of sleep. Bayan and Lutolf, though not the most likely of companions, had traveled these rolling plains for the past few days without attracting the attention of any harmful entity, and would find their sleep to have been comfortable and uninterrupted by any outside force.

Roughly a week ago the two ran into another traveler passing through the area, bringing news of a town cradled in the Stormswel. The woman had offered a rough description of how to get there – should they feel the need to briefly join society again – and some trade.

So, for the past week, Bayan and Lutolf have found themselves drawing closer and closer to the Stormswel. At first, they had to trek through a particularly overgrown forest, which proved to hide a few unsavory beasts, but before long, they eventually stumbled across the miles and miles of open plains they have awoken in today, and past that, the Stormswel.

When originally seeing these plains, one would think this to be a gentle and peaceful land, easily traversed and maneuvered, and while that may be mostly true, the dark history of these plains quickly revealed itself to Bayan and Lutolf.

The land, though still easier than most terrains, was rough and scarred. There were craters and deep cuts that had been carved into the earth long ago, despite the land seeming almost completely flat from a distance. These strange geographical anomalies would have remained a mystery if it weren't for the overabundance of dead knights scattering the plain. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that this had once been the home of some great and bloody battle, a scourge and a testament to the Cataclysm.

The scarred earth could probably be attributed to the powerful magics and great technology that faceless once possessed, and the corpses were clearly the work of the denizens of the Plane of Stardust. Gods bellow, there were a lot of corpses. As it turned out, of the few hills that Bayan and Lutolf had seen, almost all of them were merely large piles of Faceless corpses. It would be unsettling to most, and a terrible omen to the more superstitious folk.

Granted, that was behind Bayan and Lutolf now. Ahead of them, the Stormswel mountains stood defiant against the sky, promising them soft beds and warm meals could they make it up the treacherous trail. To the North, a dense forest could be seen, and an unfamiliar plume of grey smoke rising from the canopy. That was… odd. There hadn’t been smoke there before.
The Gunrunner Moritz

***​

The noise of something crashing through the woods, followed by an earsplitting squeal shattered the morning silence, yanking Diana from her sleep. She had found the shell of an old stone building to set up camp for the night, and though it had no roof, and only two walls thick with moss, it eliminated two possible points she had to defend. Of course, this was little comfort to someone suddenly thrust to the waking realm by the distressing sounds of an approaching beast.

Whatever it was that was screaming was getting closer, it would be out of the woods soon. Another shriek cracked like thunder. Soon it would be in the same clearing as Diana.

Luckily for the Faceless, the approaching entity – when exiting the woods – would have its vision of Diana blocked by one of the stone walls. If it had decided to come out of the woods on the right side of this clearing, chances are it would have been able to see her immediately, but from the sound of it, that would not be the case. It wasn't much, but the cover the wall provided gave Diana a small advantage.

It was closer now. Feet pounding on hard packed earth, a body tearing through the lush and dense foliage. Closer still. Another bestial shriek, louder this time. It echoes through the clearing. Suddenly the sound of snapping branches stops. It’s broken through the forest. Feet pound upon the grass, the charging creature eventually slows to a stop. Ragged breathing, the sounds of exhaustion, panting. No movement. Stillness.
FrazzledFox

 

[C.DEX]

Abel pulled himself through the trees, bones creaking and cracking as he'd found the frost and bitterness had gotten to him a fair amount more than he would have liked. He grasped at his own arms, rubbing them, but it seemed even friction had been a far away concept now, and the only thing that it had accomplished was irritating the skin underneath. He cursed under his breath, only realizing after his words escaped his lips that his voice hadn't been complimented by the usual static of the forests. Of the trees, and the leaves. The wind had stopped, leaving him feeling completely and utterly alone.

"Well, apart from the bodies." he whispered, a chuckle escaping his lips. "Shut up." he scolded himself. The trees had been quiet. So had the animals. And there had always been a reason why nature chose not to whisper. Or shout. And he had broken that pact. With his breath, with his words, he had disturbed the flow of nature. Or, the stillness of it. The silence had been as cold as the fog that hung on his mask like an indestructible oil, the dew causing an uncomfortable moisture behind his robes and his mask.

Realizing that he had to focus outwards, Abel looked up, finding himself staring directly as the destroyed, open-mouthed maw of a skeletal hanging figure. It had frozen him in place. Not because it had been scary, of course; the bones and destruction of other Faceless was a common event. It almost seemed like an omen. A chill in his gut. But maybe that was, again, just the frost. He didn't approach his guardian of the night, fearing both the stench and the implication of rotting flesh.

His eyes shifted to the sides, looking for any sign of movement.

Nothing.

"Cotton." he whispered, eyes fixated on the noose that had kept the body on the tree. It began to shift in place, affirming his suspicions on the material. It slithered backwards and out like a snake, the tension of the rope and the frost causing difficulty for the process. Still, it wasn't a time-restricted one. So he had unfastened it, allowing the rope to bide its time in unwrapping its host. He had waited silently until the task had been finished, and the body collapsed to the floor with an unceremonious thud, breaking the ice underneath.

It crawled to him, called by its Name. Whether Abel had taken an interest in the body itself or the rope had been unclear, as he had emitted a happy chuckle when the cable had found its way toward him. He had let it rest soon after, reaching down with difficulty to pluck the rope from the ground and wrap it around his arm.

It was the little things in life that had mattered.

 

[FrazzledFox]

Ʊ҉ The Nightblossom ҉Ʊ

Diana was extremely upset. Sleep was a thing she had found little of in days past, and to be awaken so rudely made her upset. The anger disappeared almost immediately as adrenaline took hold, pushing her into movement. Rolling out from under the old, stained canvas sheet she had put up to shield her meager fire from the rain she grabbed Night's Fall, coming up in a crouch against the opposite wall.

Peering around the corner she would freeze, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the monster as it broke through the forests edge into the clearing. She had dealt with a creature of similar variety a few months back, those memories jumping to the front of her memory. The last one relied heavily on sound and it took her some time before she was able to kill it. As it slowed down she unfroze, speeding into action, whispering a quick "Light" before she left the safety of her cover.

The gentle light of morning seemed to bend around her as she moved forward, her physical form seeming to disappear, small beams of sunlight touching where she had just been. The very air seemed to warp as she took careful steps forward, moving slowly to one side, drawing Night's Fall very slowly and carefully as to not make a sound. Coming with in 10 paces of the beast she would stop, holding a breath as she got in a ready position.

​

 

[Napoleone the Kiwi]

The Shimmers were a concentration of hills North of the city. The nobles and administrators could see them from some of the larger buildings in the Square. My family had had the best view from the top of The Tower. We could see it wasn't hills, but craters. Daunting with great pits in the centres. There always seemed to be something shimmering along them and throughout them, as when the earth was rent asunder, gems and crystals were brought up with it. No one had been stupid enough to come here. Or desperate enough. But then, not everyone had seen their home burnt in eldritch flames or heard the screams of thousands. Enough people have though, I supposed, in this world. Coming to the top of the nearest crater, where what was left of the "road" disappeared into a mound of dirt and stone, came a breath taking sight.

In the sense the sheer horror of what I could see, took my breath away. Breygon bucked in distress as well, his natural instincts thoroughly disturbed despite only having the brains of a horse. Is it so terrible, even the horse can understand? Breygon calmed with a bit of gentle patting. He had a spot on his neck, Uncle had shown me. A tear unbidden rolled down my cheek, I grit my teeth angrily and shook my head about, clearing the memories. "They're all dead, Varys," I muttered to myself, "Move on already." Perhaps I should have focused on the horrors of the past, it would have saved me from this.

The crater was filled with thousands upon thousands of the long dead. But it was not those clad in armour, it was no battle. The Shimmers were graves filled to the rim with small, almost fragile bones. Few teeth, misshapen heads as if the skulls had bent with the trauma as opposed to being smashed completely. On the edges, I idled, Bar always said -stop- That's where you could see the most shine. And there you could see the armours, the helms, the still bright livery that embroidered the dead. Swords through their guts, or their heads. A pit of dead children, and those who tried to guard them. Yet, you could see in the pits, some armours standing upright, three spears or more holding them up as their fellow guardsmen leaned on their weapons. One guard leaning over a child's remains, the skeleton child's arm relaxed through the hole it had punched through his chest.

The possessed, another thought, unbidden, the Lieutenant's eyes a dark pitch as he lunged at my uncle, spear in hand...

I had Breygon pass along the lid, it would have been faster to travel through the crater and over the other side, but I would not be entering that place. Evil still lurked here. Whatever had happened, it left an echo. I muttered quiet incantations to myself, stoking my inner flame, to banish the despair. I swear...one of the skulls moved...

 

[The Gunrunner]

The band finally reaches the Stormswel mountains by Bayan's request - Pushing to take this route was simple enough; Lutolf had little care which way they went after all, only focused on his pain. Still, Bayan gave the respectful courtesy of an explanation: Unexplored lands. Simple. Another addition to the canvas that is his skin - New sights to see, and knowledge reserved for those who make the trek to the area.

The journey was difficult. First of their conflicts was the overgrown forest. Bayan tells a story of this place - The 'tanglefoot' forest, comedically named by the Outriders. He explains he had never seen it personally, but the riders who have made it here commonly know it as a dangerous place. The two worked well together; Bayan used the soil and his ability with illusions to avoid, distract, and delude the threats of the land - Avoiding them entirely. On two occasions his magics weren't enough, thus Lutolf again was able to show his violent temperment and ability.

There was little of note between the forest and the mountains - The rolling plains stretched on for many miles, but the cooling winds suggested they were reaching their destination.

Finally, they came upon the battlefield. They weren't sure what it was at first - From a distance it was merely a collection of hills, but the terrible smell suggested there was more to it. As they approached, the sight gradually became more gruesome. The ground was cracked and broken by magics and unknown technologies, and hills of many hundreds or thousands of corpses accented the brutality of the scene. Though neither was a virgin to gore. Bayan could savenge some supplies from the scene from the scene, but very few; what hadn't rotted in the camp-follower's carts was often contaminated by the corpses. Lutolf just kept walking, oblivious - whether by choice, or by pain - to the horrors surrounding him. Plated boots stomping over, and occasionally into, the various corpses littering the ancient battlefield. The scene occasionally knawed at his damaged mind - a mental itch he was unable to scratch. Mayhaps he had been a religious man, long ago- It certainly wasn't out of the question. However, whatever he had been trying to tell himself was drowned deep beneath a rolling wave of fresh agony. Blood began to drip from his left vambrace, the sign of his mutation making itself known - the flesh beneath dissolving away to nothing. Lutolf trekked onwards. As Lutolf steps through, Bayan scurries about the bodies and carts like a rat - Eccentric as always, marking the spot on his skin as he tries to find worthy trinkets.


Finally, the two reach the Stormswel mountains. There was a cold to the area very different from where they came. They were lucky enough to hear about a nearby town at least a week ago, but there was a plume of smoke over the canopy in the north. It seems best to hope this isn't made from the town. Bayan looks to his partner - "To the smoke?"
"The smoke." Wheezes Lutolf, staggering forwards, breathing heavy. As he steps into the edge of the forest, he draws his Poleaxe, gripping the spearhead tight - he gives his palm a lengthy, diagonal cut. His entire body responds, shuddering for a moment before he resumes walking, closing both hands tightly around the Poleaxe's haft. "I need... distraction." Bayan hangs his pack from his horse, drawing his spear and saber - the blade of the latter rests over the shoulder, ready for a slash. "Let's hope it is just a distraction then."

(Collaborative post between me and Fritz.)

 

[Foolish Ghoul]

Abel pulled himself through the trees, bones creaking and cracking as he'd found the frost and bitterness had gotten to him a fair amount more than he would have liked. He grasped at his own arms, rubbing them, but it seemed even friction had been a far away concept now, and the only thing that it had accomplished was irritating the skin underneath. He cursed under his breath, only realizing after his words escaped his lips that his voice hadn't been complimented by the usual static of the forests. Of the trees, and the leaves. The wind had stopped, leaving him feeling completely and utterly alone.


"Well, apart from the bodies." he whispered, a chuckle escaping his lips. "Shut up." he scolded himself. The trees had been quiet. So had the animals. And there had always been a reason why nature chose not to whisper. Or shout. And he had broken that pact. With his breath, with his words, he had disturbed the flow of nature. Or, the stillness of it. The silence had been as cold as the fog that hung on his mask like an indestructible oil, the dew causing an uncomfortable moisture behind his robes and his mask.


Realizing that he had to focus outwards, Abel looked up, finding himself staring directly as the destroyed, open-mouthed maw of a skeletal hanging figure. It had frozen him in place. Not because it had been scary, of course; the bones and destruction of other Faceless was a common event. It almost seemed like an omen. A chill in his gut. But maybe that was, again, just the frost. He didn't approach his guardian of the night, fearing both the stench and the implication of rotting flesh.


His eyes shifted to the sides, looking for any sign of movement.


Nothing.


"Cotton." he whispered, eyes fixated on the noose that had kept the body on the tree. It began to shift in place, affirming his suspicions on the material. It slithered backwards and out like a snake, the tension of the rope and the frost causing difficulty for the process. Still, it wasn't a time-restricted one. So he had unfastened it, allowing the rope to bide its time in unwrapping its host. He had waited silently until the task had been finished, and the body collapsed to the floor with an unceremonious thud, breaking the ice underneath.


It crawled to him, called by its Name. Whether Abel had taken an interest in the body itself or the rope had been unclear, as he had emitted a happy chuckle when the cable had found its way toward him. He had let it rest soon after, reaching down with difficulty to pluck the rope from the ground and wrap it around his arm.


It was the little things in life that had mattered.

Tumbling to the forest floor, the mutilated corpse impacts with a sickening smack, one of the appendages twisting at an odd angle. It's contact with the forest floor causes the fog to suddenly convulse around it's shape, wispy tendrils seemingly recoiling from the body. Momentarily the fog stands its distance, before reforming around the rotted meat. Upon closer inspection, the cadaver seems to be indeed of humanoid origins, though if it were ever a Faceless or a Willow Witch is uncertain.

From the sudden disturbance to the bodies natural calm state, maggots and other such necrotic passengers begin to emerge from the folds of flesh. They writhe and wriggle on the body, before burrowing back under to escape the cold.

It is at this time that Abel would soon notice the faint and distant song of a bird. Since he first spoke aloud – as if breaking a seal of silence – the forest slowly began to follow suit. The sounds of birds and various fauna took hold of the chill air. But there was something else present too... Waves. Ill-defined, but still loud enough to make out. The sound of water lapping against pebbles. It wasn't far off either, maybe only a few minutes west of where Abel now stood.

On the ground, the fog begins to recede west...

Ʊ҉ The Nightblossom ҉Ʊ

Diana was extremely upset. Sleep was a thing she had found little of in days past, and to be awaken so rudely made her upset. The anger disappeared almost immediately as adrenaline took hold, pushing her into movement. Rolling out from under the old, stained canvas sheet she had put up to shield her meager fire from the rain she grabbed Night's Fall, coming up in a crouch against the opposite wall.

Peering around the corner she would freeze, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the monster as it broke through the forests edge into the clearing. She had dealt with a creature of similar variety a few months back, those memories jumping to the front of her memory. The last one relied heavily on sound and it took her some time before she was able to kill it. As it slowed down she unfroze, speeding into action, whispering a quick "Light" before she left the safety of her cover.

The gentle light of morning seemed to bend around her as she moved forward, her physical form seeming to disappear, small beams of sunlight touching where she had just been. The very air seemed to warp as she took careful steps forward, moving slowly to one side, drawing Night's Fall very slowly and carefully as to not make a sound. Coming with in 10 paces of the beast she would stop, holding a breath as she got in a ready position.

​

The creature heaved a few more breaths and took a shaky step forward, beady black eyes darting around the clearing. It's hunched grey body shook and shuttered, the elongated head pivoting and rotating while subtle and pointed ears twitched. It seemed to be searching for something, but it had not yet found it.

In the midst of this search, the beast let out a noise, though not the one Diana would have been expecting. This was not the bestial shriek she had awoken to. This noise was much more defined and at least an octave lower, certainly not the guttural and primal scream from before...

Its ears twitched again, pointing now at Diana. Slowly, the head turned so it could face the Faceless. The creature's black eyes settled on the woman for several tense moments, and though she knew it could not see her through her illusion, it appeared as if the beast was looking directly into her eyes. It slowly opens it's mouth.

***
​

Unseen and unheard is the Vargulf as it swoops from the sky, careful in its positioning so as not to cast a shadow over its prey. Talons extended, it dives downward in a blinding white blur. The long and glossy black nails tear into the supple grey flesh of the goblin, and before it would even have a chance to respond, the monstrosity yanked the goblin before Diana, from the ground. Flapping it's white leathery wings, the Vargulf and goblin are airborne.

In less than a second, Diana watches the monster before her suddenly disappear into the sky, now an unwilling passenger to a beast more than double her own size.

The Vargulf continues to climb in altitude – all of it's actions and movements precise and quick – before suddenly releasing the prey in its talons.

Plummeting, the hunched shape of the goblin thrashes in desperation, it's lanky arms reaching upwards as if to grab an invisible support. It barely has a moment to scream, before impacting the stone wall behind Diana. Back slamming against the ruined structure, the goblin's spine snaps, emitting a thunderous and wretched crack. It gasps for breath, coughs up an awful brackish fluid, and then falls silent...

There are a few tense moments of stillness, and then movement from above. Quickly and silently, like a massive bat shaped phantom, the Vargulf descends onto the wall with practiced efficiency. The grotesque creature takes it's perch upon the stone structure, and lowers its face to the goblin, silvery teeth quickly escaping the Vargulf's lips and burrowing into the sickly grey body of its prey.

Everything had happened in a matter of seconds, making it almost impossible for Diana to get a good look at the Vargulf, but now that it was still and feasting, she could see it for all of its monstrous glory.

Bat like in shape, the forelimbs of the Vargulf are webbed wings of leathery white flesh, while the legs are hunched and wired with muscle. The glossy black talons of the beast dig into the stone work of the wall where it perches, leaning down so as to barry it's putrid face in the goblin's carcass. Sunlight glints off the beast's pasty white skin, which is pulled tight over bone and rippling muscle. On the head of the creature are a set of large pointed ears, which twitch and move frequently. The face of the Vargulf appears smushed, with a wide nose just above its thin lips, pulled back to expose long, needle like teeth.

It continues it's meal for a moment, teeth easily piercing the goblin's flesh, when something gives it pause. It lifts its head for a moment, and then turns in the direction of Diana. She can clearly see that the Vargulf lacks any sort of optics, no eyes of any form appear on its head, though that is of little comfort as it seems to have noticed her regardless.

The Shimmers were a concentration of hills North of the city. The nobles and administrators could see them from some of the larger buildings in the Square. My family had had the best view from the top of The Tower. We could see it wasn't hills, but craters. Daunting with great pits in the centres. There always seemed to be something shimmering along them and throughout them, as when the earth was rent asunder, gems and crystals were brought up with it. No one had been stupid enough to come here. Or desperate enough. But then, not everyone had seen their home burnt in eldritch flames or heard the screams of thousands. Enough people have though, I supposed, in this world. Coming to the top of the nearest crater, where what was left of the "road" disappeared into a mound of dirt and stone, came a breath taking sight.

In the sense the sheer horror of what I could see, took my breath away. Breygon bucked in distress as well, his natural instincts thoroughly disturbed despite only having the brains of a horse. Is it so terrible, even the horse can understand? Breygon calmed with a bit of gentle patting. He had a spot on his neck, Uncle had shown me. A tear unbidden rolled down my cheek, I grit my teeth angrily and shook my head about, clearing the memories. "They're all dead, Varys," I muttered to myself, "Move on already." Perhaps I should have focused on the horrors of the past, it would have saved me from this.

The crater was filled with thousands upon thousands of the long dead. But it was not those clad in armour, it was no battle. The Shimmers were graves filled to the rim with small, almost fragile bones. Few teeth, misshapen heads as if the skulls had bent with the trauma as opposed to being smashed completely. On the edges, I idled, Bar always said -stop- That's where you could see the most shine. And there you could see the armours, the helms, the still bright livery that embroidered the dead. Swords through their guts, or their heads. A pit of dead children, and those who tried to guard them. Yet, you could see in the pits, some armours standing upright, three spears or more holding them up as their fellow guardsmen leaned on their weapons. One guard leaning over a child's remains, the skeleton child's arm relaxed through the hole it had punched through his chest.

The possessed, another thought, unbidden, the Lieutenant's eyes a dark pitch as he lunged at my uncle, spear in hand...

I had Breygon pass along the lid, it would have been faster to travel through the crater and over the other side, but I would not be entering that place. Evil still lurked here. Whatever had happened, it left an echo. I muttered quiet incantations to myself, stoking my inner flame, to banish the despair. I swear...one of the skulls moved...

"Not a pretty sight, is it?" A feminine voice – thin and weathered – emits from behind Varys.

Previously unnoticed is a heavily armored form, sitting still in the shade of an old oak tree, arms wrapped around an old halberd, head leaning on the shaft. The armor is completely rusted over, dented and scarred, though it was probably once a fine suit of iron. The stillness paired with the rust color of her armor would have made it somewhat difficult for Varys to spot her.

"It's best not to stare long. The dead begin to feel embarrassed, and the anxiousness makes them stir."

She shifts slightly, making herself more comfortable under the tree, before falling into a fit of raspy coughs. When finished, she takes a few deep and uneasy breathes.

The band finally reaches the Stormswel mountains by Bayan's request - Pushing to take this route was simple enough; Lutolf had little care which way they went after all, only focused on his pain. Still, Bayan gave the respectful courtesy of an explanation: Unexplored lands. Simple. Another addition to the canvas that is his skin - New sights to see, and knowledge reserved for those who make the trek to the area.

The journey was difficult. First of their conflicts was the overgrown forest. Bayan tells a story of this place - The 'tanglefoot' forest, comedically named by the Outriders. He explains he had never seen it personally, but the riders who have made it here commonly know it as a dangerous place. The two worked well together; Bayan used the soil and his ability with illusions to avoid, distract, and delude the threats of the land - Avoiding them entirely. On two occasions his magics weren't enough, thus Lutolf again was able to show his violent temperment and ability.

There was little of note between the forest and the mountains - The rolling plains stretched on for many miles, but the cooling winds suggested they were reaching their destination.

Finally, they came upon the battlefield. They weren't sure what it was at first - From a distance it was merely a collection of hills, but the terrible smell suggested there was more to it. As they approached, the sight gradually became more gruesome. The ground was cracked and broken by magics and unknown technologies, and hills of many hundreds or thousands of corpses accented the brutality of the scene. Though neither was a virgin to gore. Bayan could savenge some supplies from the scene from the scene, but very few; what hadn't rotted in the camp-follower's carts was often contaminated by the corpses. Lutolf just kept walking, oblivious - whether by choice, or by pain - to the horrors surrounding him. Plated boots stomping over, and occasionally into, the various corpses littering the ancient battlefield. The scene occasionally knawed at his damaged mind - a mental itch he was unable to scratch. Mayhaps he had been a religious man, long ago- It certainly wasn't out of the question. However, whatever he had been trying to tell himself was drowned deep beneath a rolling wave of fresh agony. Blood began to drip from his left vambrace, the sign of his mutation making itself known - the flesh beneath dissolving away to nothing. Lutolf trekked onwards. As Lutolf steps through, Bayan scurries about the bodies and carts like a rat - Eccentric as always, marking the spot on his skin as he tries to find worthy trinkets.


Finally, the two reach the Stormswel mountains. There was a cold to the area very different from where they came. They were lucky enough to hear about a nearby town at least a week ago, but there was a plume of smoke over the canopy in the north. It seems best to hope this isn't made from the town. Bayan looks to his partner - "To the smoke?"
"The smoke." Wheezes Lutolf, staggering forwards, breathing heavy. As he steps into the edge of the forest, he draws his Poleaxe, gripping the spearhead tight - he gives his palm a lengthy, diagonal cut. His entire body responds, shuddering for a moment before he resumes walking, closing both hands tightly around the Poleaxe's haft. "I need... distraction." Bayan hangs his pack from his horse, drawing his spear and saber - the blade of the latter rests over the shoulder, ready for a slash. "Let's hope it is just a distraction then."

(Collaborative post between me and Fritz.)

As the duo began to make their way north, temporarily leaving the plains of a war long past, they enter a forest of sparse trees and tall grass. It takes but an hour of travel before the two eventually begin to hear the faint chatter of men and the crackling of a camp fire. The smell of smoke wafts through the trees, followed by the smell of an unpleasant meat being roasted.

In the distance, a group of four men sit, huddled around a campfire, sharing some sort of meal. They are mostly quiet, though a few speak in hushed voices.

***
​

Ser Deacon of Elderwick, proud as ever, emerges from a forest of pine trees, onto a beach of small black pebbles. The water in front of him, though calm, is dark and imposing, small waves lapping gently upon the rocky shore. The sun above shines brightly, glinting off of the knight's armor, however clouds on the horizon seem to promise grim weather soon enough.

Taking in his surroundings, the knight would be able to see a fallen tree lying upon the beach, and several other large pieces of driftwood. In the distance – about a day's travel north – is a large and ominous wall of fog that extends out into the water and forest for as far as Ser Deacon can see. The size is so tremendous, in fact, that it appears as if the earth simply stops at that wall.

To the south, is nothing but beach, the coastline extending for miles, before winding around a peninsula and disappearing from view. Out in the water are a series of small islands with abrupt cliff faces and varying amounts of vegetation.

ThaDruid

 

[C.DEX]

It was never good to ignore an omen.

Though what kind was it? As Abel regarded the rolling fog he wondered if it was the sort of thing that people saw just before an eerie monster stepped out of the clearing, or if it had something people had seen before coming to an abundant water source or fruit tree. Then again, it could have quite literally been the window. The most possible conclusion. Again, he was looking too far into things - it had been morning and fog was not unusual. Perhaps he was just more on the romantic side.

Still, something felt off. It wasn't the ache in his bones, the wetness of his robes, or the frost clinging to his mask. Last time he had entertained such a whimsical idea, though, he ended up disappointed, to say the least. His eyes settled on the body again, from behind his mask, dull orbs peering through the angular headpiece that had kept him safe for so long.

Gross. He looked down to the rope that had wrapped around his arm. It would come in use for later, and of course maggots and their ilk were a familiar sort inside of the wilderness, but ... He picked one of the wrigglers off of his rope, dropping it to the floor and dusting off the rest. Then his mind shifted back to his situation.

There was always a decision to make. This one had seemed rather anticlimactic. The sound of soft waves had caught his ear, and the prospect of water - even inedible - was an attractive one indeed. Despite the humidity, which actually seemed to taunt the poor wanderer, he felt a thirst in his throat, and a pang in his stomach. If it didn't mean something to quench one's thirst it could mean food, as those who sat in eternal wait around him didn't seem to want to help him with that any.

Deciding that there was no use following the birds, Abel quietly made his way through the treeline, following the sounds of lapping water. A small, high-pitched whistle came from behind his mask, singing along with the birds that had complimented his walk. They were still happy. Maybe it was because they could fly.

West it was.

 

[The Gunrunner]

Lutolf ground to a slow and steady halt, head tilted slightly, offering the face beneath his helm a slightly more complete view of the group in the distance. Blood still dripping from his left vambrace, he gave the hand another cut - the other slice had long since ceased being effective, having become nothing more than a dull ache. The fresh wave of pain brought his senses to bear for the time being - and so he chose to keep his distance, gaze drifting towards Bayan. "Plan, Outrider?" He croaked, voice low, strained. - As he began to speak, he ducked low beside a nearby shrub, right hand still wrapped tight around the haft of his poleaxe. An odd situation, but there's no such thing as 'too paranoid' out in the wilds.

Bayan stretches his shoulders back, a hollow *pop* sounding in the stretch. He groans, relaxing his body - The fingers on the spear and sword stretch out, then recoil. He focuses his mind quietly, but emits a chuckle once he's confident in the result - "I do..." He slides one foot back, fluidly retracting from the spot. A copy of himself reveals itself in his place, and both look over to their comrade. The voice that comes next seems to be from both of them: "Or rather, we do. Want to see if they're friendly?"

Lutolf's head shifts a tad, and his tone slips to that of the amused, he nods. "Why not?" He answers, "No point it wasting a good plan, eh?" His head slid back towards the group, and their campfire. He kept himself as low as he could - a rather difficult feat, given the armour - and simply settled in to observe.


Bayan nods, crouching to the earth. The spear is layed in the dirt, and he reaches out with bare fingers to dig into the earth. He pools a portion into his palm, bringing it closer to his helm - "Soil, speak to me - Tell me what the four by the fire ahead say." The soil is poured back to its spot, and he pats it back in place. Standing, he nods to his copy - the motion is returned - before sending it forward. For some, Illusion magic has many aspects which need learning; to split the mind appropriately and multi-task on the image and yourself, then to truly memorize and recreate natural movements and actions. Bayan, however, has been doing this for years. The illusion steps up to those at the campfire, sword sheathed but spear kept idly over the shoulder. It makes its presence known before approaching the group: "More faceless are there?"

Lutolf continues to sit and observe, waiting for any inkling of violent hostility from the group ahead. He could feel the true pain of his mutation sliding up his arm, towards his back. He wouldn't have long. He needed the distraction of combat, otherwise the fog would return.

Bayan watches from afar, leaning against a tree. While concentrating on the scene, he idly shifts some dried berries under his helmet. There's some faint chuckling which reverberates inside.

 

[Napoleone the Kiwi]

"Not a pretty sight, is it?" A feminine voice – thin and weathered – emits from behind Varys.

Previously unnoticed is a heavily armored form, sitting still in the shade of an old oak tree, arms wrapped around an old halberd, head leaning on the shaft. The armor is completely rusted over, dented and scarred, though it was probably once a fine suit of iron. The stillness paired with the rust color of her armor would have made it somewhat difficult for Varys to spot her.

"It's best not to stare long. The dead begin to feel embarrassed, and the anxiousness makes them stir."

She shifts slightly, making herself more comfortable under the tree, before falling into a fit of raspy coughs. When finished, she takes a few deep and uneasy breathes.

ThaDruid​

​

I started at the voice, my grip on Breygon's reins grew tight. Though I felt an instinct to reach for my blade, I ignored it. I can't afford a fight out here. I determined quickly. Turning my head to the sound of the voice, I initially couldn't see where it had come from. Dust cloying over everything, a film of dirt covering everything. Even the oak tree he'd past coming down from the Shimmers. His eyes noted the contours of armour soon after, in the shade of the tree. I faced Breygon away from the tree, but brought him around, his flank to the stranger. Have to keep a way out after all.

"Indeed. Well met, My Lady" Where I would have smirked at the ladies in the city, I felt a more cautious, guarded look crossed my face instead. I dared not glare, but I didn't deign to offer any sympathies or genial courtesies. "Do you require any assistance, my lady? I have some food to spare should you wish, but as you say, leaving this place is a priority."

I was tempted to reach for my bag, but I knew I couldn't afford to be naive. I concentrated kept on her? form. I focused on the make of the armour, it was unlike anything in the city and clearly well made. Despite the rust, it lasted remarkably well. Is she a traveller? If so how long has she been travelling?

 

[Foolish Ghoul]

It was never good to ignore an omen.


Though what kind was it? As Abel regarded the rolling fog he wondered if it was the sort of thing that people saw just before an eerie monster stepped out of the clearing, or if it had something people had seen before coming to an abundant water source or fruit tree. Then again, it could have quite literally been the window. The most possible conclusion. Again, he was looking too far into things - it had been morning and fog was not unusual. Perhaps he was just more on the romantic side.


Still, something felt off. It wasn't the ache in his bones, the wetness of his robes, or the frost clinging to his mask. Last time he had entertained such a whimsical idea, though, he ended up disappointed, to say the least. His eyes settled on the body again, from behind his mask, dull orbs peering through the angular headpiece that had kept him safe for so long.


Gross. He looked down to the rope that had wrapped around his arm. It would come in use for later, and of course maggots and their ilk were a familiar sort inside of the wilderness, but ... He picked one of the wrigglers off of his rope, dropping it to the floor and dusting off the rest. Then his mind shifted back to his situation.


There was always a decision to make. This one had seemed rather anticlimactic. The sound of soft waves had caught his ear, and the prospect of water - even inedible - was an attractive one indeed. Despite the humidity, which actually seemed to taunt the poor wanderer, he felt a thirst in his throat, and a pang in his stomach. If it didn't mean something to quench one's thirst it could mean food, as those who sat in eternal wait around him didn't seem to want to help him with that any.


Deciding that there was no use following the birds, Abel quietly made his way through the treeline, following the sounds of lapping water. A small, high-pitched whistle came from behind his mask, singing along with the birds that had complimented his walk. They were still happy. Maybe it was because they could fly.


West it was.

Traveling west with the mist, Abel would notice the local haze growing denser, causing his vision to be radically cut. Yet, despite this hindrance, there was something comforting about the fog he now found himself in, something about it's coalescing shapes wrapping him in genteel obscurity that seemed to remove all thoughts of distress from the mind. There was an aire of protection about it, as if all things sinister would have no way to reach Abel here.

The birds continued their songs and drew closer to the drifter, eyeing him curiously from the branches of pine trees. They too seemed to find comfort in this haze, and grew braver the denser it became. However, when Abel breached the tree line – finding himself amongst the small black pebbles of a rocky beach – the birds grew silent, refusing to follow the Faceless any farther.

Once Abel was on the beach, the lapping waves slowly ceased their movement. The wind had suddenly stopped and with it, the surrounding fog grows still. Once again, silence seizes the land, and though similar to the silence that Abel felt this morning, there was something more potent about this absence of noise. It's presence was choking and uncomfortable, almost claustrophobic. Not even the pebbles shifting underneath Abel's sandaled feet could penetrate this miasma of silence, and it stayed like this for several tense moments. Then there was noise. Well, not a noise really, a feeling. A thrumming, something pulsing, like a heartbeat. It was in the fog, this haze that had surrounded Abel. Silence, then it happened again, another pulse.

Out in the water, obscured by the mist, a shape rises from the dark. Shrouded in haze, only a faint silhouette is seen. Motionless as the sea it came from, the form's ominous presence sends an inadvertent shiver down Abel's spine.

A second passes. There is only the shape and silence. Another second, and the fog's heart beats once again. Time starts to slip away, and everything is motionless, everything is quiet. It seems this could go on forever, and it just might have...

"Hail and well met, traveler!" Suddenly the silence crumbles away, shattering finally, to let the sounds of the world – which had been kept so idle – rush back in. It is disorientating at first – everything suddenly reanimating – but it is just a moment before the noises and sounds of the wild feel normal and right once again.

"I come bearing news, and with my weapons undrawn, may I aproach?" Farther up the beach, a figure in splinted armor apparates out of the fog. Strips of iron affixed to leather and light blue cloth, and an iron sallet helm make up his garb. On his back he carries a large crossbow and a quiver of bolts. He stands just up the beach, arms raised.

Lutolf ground to a slow and steady halt, head tilted slightly, offering the face beneath his helm a slightly more complete view of the group in the distance. Blood still dripping from his left vambrace, he gave the hand another cut - the other slice had long since ceased being effective, having become nothing more than a dull ache. The fresh wave of pain brought his senses to bear for the time being - and so he chose to keep his distance, gaze drifting towards Bayan. "Plan, Outrider?" He croaked, voice low, strained. - As he began to speak, he ducked low beside a nearby shrub, right hand still wrapped tight around the haft of his poleaxe. An odd situation, but there's no such thing as 'too paranoid' out in the wilds.

Bayan stretches his shoulders back, a hollow *pop* sounding in the stretch. He groans, relaxing his body - The fingers on the spear and sword stretch out, then recoil. He focuses his mind quietly, but emits a chuckle once he's confident in the result - "I do..." He slides one foot back, fluidly retracting from the spot. A copy of himself reveals itself in his place, and both look over to their comrade. The voice that comes next seems to be from both of them: "Or rather, we do. Want to see if they're friendly?"

Lutolf's head shifts a tad, and his tone slips to that of the amused, he nods. "Why not?" He answers, "No point it wasting a good plan, eh?" His head slid back towards the group, and their campfire. He kept himself as low as he could - a rather difficult feat, given the armour - and simply settled in to observe.


Bayan nods, crouching to the earth. The spear is layed in the dirt, and he reaches out with bare fingers to dig into the earth. He pools a portion into his palm, bringing it closer to his helm - "Soil, speak to me - Tell me what the four by the fire ahead say." The soil is poured back to its spot, and he pats it back in place. Standing, he nods to his copy - the motion is returned - before sending it forward. For some, Illusion magic has many aspects which need learning; to split the mind appropriately and multi-task on the image and yourself, then to truly memorize and recreate natural movements and actions. Bayan, however, has been doing this for years. The illusion steps up to those at the campfire, sword sheathed but spear kept idly over the shoulder. It makes its presence known before approaching the group: "More faceless are there?"

Lutolf continues to sit and observe, waiting for any inkling of violent hostility from the group ahead. He could feel the true pain of his mutation sliding up his arm, towards his back. He wouldn't have long. He needed the distraction of combat, otherwise the fog would return.

Bayan watches from afar, leaning against a tree. While concentrating on the scene, he idly shifts some dried berries under his helmet. There's some faint chuckling which reverberates inside.

As the illusion steps forward, it seems to go wholly unnoticed by the group of figures who silently (save for the occasional exchanged grumble) stare into their campfire. Of course, the moment sound is emitted by Bayan's doppelganger, most of the group jump into action.

The nearest camp member grabs a stick from the fire and leaps to their feet, whipping around with the crude torch held out to ward off any attackers. The figure to their right; a thuggish looking individual wearing light leather armor and a helm of cloth, raises two short swords and drops into a low and wide combat stance. To the point man's left is a fellow in full plate armor, a heavy and unwieldy looking claymore clasped in his hands. On the opposite side of the camp fire, however, is a figure wearing entirely leather armor. They do not get to their feet, they stay seated, and with a bemused look twinkling in their eyes, take another bite of a piece of cooked meat.

"Who goes there!?" The point man shouts at Bayan's illusion, his voice hoarse and gruff. "Be you friend or foe?"

I started at the voice, my grip on Breygon's reins grew tight. Though I felt an instinct to reach for my blade, I ignored it. I can't afford a fight out here. I determined quickly. Turning my head to the sound of the voice, I initially couldn't see where it had come from. Dust cloying over everything, a film of dirt covering everything. Even the oak tree he'd past coming down from the Shimmers. His eyes noted the contours of armour soon after, in the shade of the tree. I faced Breygon away from the tree, but brought him around, his flank to the stranger. Have to keep a way out after all.

"Indeed. Well met, My Lady" Where I would have smirked at the ladies in the city, I felt a more cautious, guarded look crossed my face instead. I dared not glare, but I didn't deign to offer any sympathies or genial courtesies. "Do you require any assistance, my lady? I have some food to spare should you wish, but as you say, leaving this place is a priority."

I was tempted to reach for my bag, but I knew I couldn't afford to be naive. I concentrated kept on her? form. I focused on the make of the armour, it was unlike anything in the city and clearly well made. Despite the rust, it lasted remarkably well. Is she a traveller? If so how long has she been travelling?

Waving a gauntleted hand – a loud creak from her rusted armor following the movement – as if to wave away Varys' offer, the woman shakes her head sadly. "Do not waste what is for the living on something that is already dead, boy. It would do you some good to remember that." She gives an uneasy chuckle, followed by a series dry coughs.

"Food may be a dead thing, but that is for the living, and assistance is time, something the dead have plenty of, I need not take yours." The woman shifts in her spot once again, before giving a shaky sigh. "Though, I must admit I'm curious, boy. What brings you to this grave. Most don't come here unless they seek something. What is it you search for?"

***
​

Ringing out like thunder is the bestial shriek of a nearby monster. Eva, Raven and Shadow – a group of travellers finding themselves in an old oaken forest – would be alerted to the monstrosities presence just south of their current position. If they were to look upward, they would surely catch glimpses of it's grotesque white form gliding through the skies above, and anyone familiar with hunting would surely see the obvious patterns of a beast on the hunt, though whatever its prey could be is a mystery.

Berries @Rapbit

 

[C.DEX]

Abel hesitated, eyes fixated on the shape in the fog. It had loomed in the water, and despite the silence having been broken by the traveler, it had created a separation between Abel and the situation at hand. His hand subconsciously moved toward the hilt of his blade, tucked into his waistband by an intricate knot, hidden on the inside. His body and his mind had been polarized by the figure itself, his mind whispering to him that he had to turn his attention elsewhere. It was almost as if his conscious mind hadn't even regarded the traveler, until ...

He turned his head toward the other man, his eyes fixated on the silhouette until the orientation of his head forced him to look toward the traveler. A panic had set in as soon as he had let the figure out of his vision, and he snapped his head back toward it.

It was gone.

With a heavy breath, Abel tried to focus in on the man. Meeting another in their decrepit world had surely came with a danger, though it was more likely that he had set off a particularly bad impression in the man's mind than he in Abel's own. Especially as he realized his own hand had been on his weapon; a threatening gesture, especially after the traveler had offered to stow his own. Still, there had been a distinct paranoia in the red-smocked Faceless man. His polite mind had taken hold, though, and he dropped his gnarled hand to his side, raising his other to wave at the man with splinted armor.

"Hello." Abel said, voice surprisingly sore. He coughed. "You may approach! I've also stowed my weapons. I apologize, you can never be too careful."

He glanced back toward the water, the long gone image of the figure almost suffocating. Then, back to the traveler.

"I would not go too further east of here, friend. It's a place of bad omens." Abel said, quizzically. He approached the man slowly, mostly allowing him to approach Abel on his own. "I'm ... not sure I've entirely escaped them, to be honest. What news do you bear?"

 

[ThaDruid]

Ser Deacon stood tall from his position at the edge the forest, taking a moment to straighten his spine and crane his neck. The weary bones of his body emitted satisfying pops, as he realized just how taxing these last hours of marching had been on his body. The knight's helm swayed from one side to another along with his observing eyes. If all of the driftwood meant anything, then the sea usually wasn't as calm as it was in this moment. This was an opportunity, a peaceful haven, suitable for rest. He thanked the Saints, and trudged forward.

Arriving a few moments later near the fallen tree, Ser Deacon began unclasping the leather straps of his gauntlets slowly, with practiced attention. They slid off easily revealing the flesh of his hands, obscured by a layer of unblemished bandages. He began fidgeting with the sides of his helmet, tapping at the durable hooks that held his mask in place. This light breeze would feel so good on his creased skin... But the knight decided against removing the most important heirloom of Elderwick. His mask was sacred. To slightly loosen it though, that could be done. The sudden smell of salt in the air awakened his senses. It felt invigorating.

Setting his two gauntlets down on the pale wood, Ser Deacon continued, removing the still sheathed sword set at his side and the bronze shield from his back. Gently, he leaned his equipment on the tree's wooden carcass. Soon after, his travelling pack would be dropped on the black pebbles of the beach.

Now partially relieved of his weight, the knight walked off. He began looking between the many different pieces of driftwood for two things in particular: something small enough for him to spend the time carving, and something big and straight enough to work as a walking stick. Travelling would be much easier with a cane that supported his weight.
The former item was simple to find, and Ser Deacon quickly walked off, content with the success of his search. Sitting down on the fallen tree, just right by equipment, the man pulled out a small blade from his travelling pack and set to work. This one would be shaped as the horned skull of a Skin Dancer. It was his own way of wishing death to their kind. Cursed creatures.

These were the knight's only thoughts, even as he looked up at the bright sun and enjoyed the sea's breeze. He hated.

 

[Napoleone the Kiwi]

Waving a gauntleted hand – a loud creak from her rusted armor following the movement – as if to wave away Varys' offer, the woman shakes her head sadly. "Do not waste what is for the living on something that is already dead, boy. It would do you some good to remember that." She gives an uneasy chuckle, followed by a series dry coughs.

"Food may be a dead thing, but that is for the living, and assistance is time, something the dead have plenty of, I need not take yours." The woman shifts in her spot once again, before giving a shaky sigh. "Though, I must admit I'm curious, boy. What brings you to this grave. Most don't come here unless they seek something. What is it you search for?"

​

I felt some heat on my face she called me boy, as if I were no longer a man grown. Only uncle had called me -stop- I clenched my teeth, treating them as a grindstone which could almost be heard. I am no boy, not after... I shook my head again, head listing to one side as I quietly muttered "It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter..." A sharp series of coughs broke my dour mood, though it was but a short thing, it was likely still strange to see.

​

My expression softened at another wave of coughs. Diseases are a serious thing. Cities and townships could survive years, even decades without suffering anything from the Enemy, but disease and pestilence could lay the most prosperous cities low. Grandfather's books often recorded the destruction of many a city, not by madness, banditry or infiltration from the Enemy, but by a even the simplest of illnesses that a Willow Witch or Healer couldn't get to in time. Was she...forced from her home? For the sake of her people?

Though I did deign to remain cautious, glancing at my peripherals and the surrounding terrain, I brought Breygon around. He didn't seemed as frightened as on the Shimmer's lid. Though perhaps that doesn't mean much. I considered her question, it was a fair one. Truthfully, I was running on faith in the last words of my uncle, I have no idea what I'm looking for. "I'm sorry, my lady. I do not know what I'm searching for." I paused, glancing to the peripheries again, and up the Shimmer's Lid. "A calamity befell my home, and so I was forced to flee." I glanced down at one of my water pouches, hiding my bitterness with the action "As you say, assistance is time, but perhaps I can help you where I could not..."

My voice fell away before I could finish, I breathed deep. I hadn't given myself time to mourn properly. Couldn't afford out here. It was too dangerous after all. "Whether living or dead, my mother told me to help all I could. Would you be willing to take some water? It is but a small discomfort for myself," I allowed the smallest of smiles to cross my face, hopefully an encouraging one And you look like you need it, crossed my mind, thought unbidden.

 

[The Gunrunner]

There was very little Lutolf could do other than wait, body tense, weapon clenched tightly in the hand of his uninjured arm. He sits, watching the group to his front. His eyes roll as one of the figures chooses to remain seated. He twists his head to the rear, gaze drifting towards Bayan for guidance, and information.


Bayan continues to fish berries into his mouth, merely shrugging to his comrade. Dry cackles sound out inside; the four seemed intimidating, though not all of them. Illusions always gave him a comedic amount of control over others... He often enjoyed making the display overly dramatic, whether for himself or the duo. The illusion steps into the light of the torch, pushing his cloak out of the way to present the empty hand - A gesture to show he means no harm. The tattoo on the back of his hands catches in the light. "That's hard to answer - I would say friend, but friends don't point weapons at each other. What are you faceless doing here?"

 

[Foolish Ghoul]

Abel hesitated, eyes fixated on the shape in the fog. It had loomed in the water, and despite the silence having been broken by the traveler, it had created a separation between Abel and the situation at hand. His hand subconsciously moved toward the hilt of his blade, tucked into his waistband by an intricate knot, hidden on the inside. His body and his mind had been polarized by the figure itself, his mind whispering to him that he had to turn his attention elsewhere. It was almost as if his conscious mind hadn't even regarded the traveler, until ...


He turned his head toward the other man, his eyes fixated on the silhouette until the orientation of his head forced him to look toward the traveler. A panic had set in as soon as he had let the figure out of his vision, and he snapped his head back toward it.


It was gone.


With a heavy breath, Abel tried to focus in on the man. Meeting another in their decrepit world had surely came with a danger, though it was more likely that he had set off a particularly bad impression in the man's mind than he in Abel's own. Especially as he realized his own hand had been on his weapon; a threatening gesture, especially after the traveler had offered to stow his own. Still, there had been a distinct paranoia in the red-smocked Faceless man. His polite mind had taken hold, though, and he dropped his gnarled hand to his side, raising his other to wave at the man with splinted armor.


"Hello." Abel said, voice surprisingly sore. He coughed. "You may approach! I've also stowed my weapons. I apologize, you can never be too careful."

There is a relieved sigh that emits from behind the strangers helm. Carefully, he takes a step forward, though not careful enough as he almost immediately slips on the slick beach stones – quickly catching himself with a few more stumbling steps. A quiet and embarrassed laugh escapes him as he recovers, shrugging off the misstep by making the remaining few with no problem. The man stands at a comfortable distance, hands on his hips and head held high.

"I would not go too further east of here, friend. It's a place of bad omens." Abel said, quizzically. He approached the man slowly, mostly allowing him to approach Abel on his own. "I'm ... not sure I've entirely escaped them, to be honest. What news do you bear?"

Nodding his head in agreement, the man turns his head to look eastward, back into the forest from which Abel emerged. "Yes, bad omens indeed..." There is a moment of silence as he seems to contemplate something. "However, foolish as it may be, that is where the hunt calls me, and so that is where I must head." A gloved hand strokes the chin of his helm, as if in thought.

"Still, it is of ill manner to dwell on omens, especially when you are so close to Haven, my friend!" The man brings his hands to his hips once again, and puffs out his chest in a proud manner. "I come with news of a town, only a few miles yonder." He gestures up the beach with excitement. "I've actually spent the past few days there myself, recouping, as it were. I would gladly take time out of my hunt to show you the way should you be in the market for a few hours of companionship?" The man sticks a hand out in Abel's direction, waiting expectantly for his answer.

Ser Deacon stood tall from his position at the edge the forest, taking a moment to straighten his spine and crane his neck. The weary bones of his body emitted satisfying pops, as he realized just how taxing these last hours of marching had been on his body. The knight's helm swayed from one side to another along with his observing eyes. If all of the driftwood meant anything, then the sea usually wasn't as calm as it was in this moment. This was an opportunity, a peaceful haven, suitable for rest. He thanked the Saints, and trudged forward.

Arriving a few moments later near the fallen tree, Ser Deacon began unclasping the leather straps of his gauntlets slowly, with practiced attention. They slid off easily revealing the flesh of his hands, obscured by a layer of unblemished bandages. He began fidgeting with the sides of his helmet, tapping at the durable hooks that held his mask in place. This light breeze would feel so good on his creased skin... But the knight decided against removing the most important heirloom of Elderwick. His mask was sacred. To slightly loosen it though, that could be done. The sudden smell of salt in the air awakened his senses. It felt invigorating.

Setting his two gauntlets down on the pale wood, Ser Deacon continued, removing the still sheathed sword set at his side and the bronze shield from his back. Gently, he leaned his equipment on the tree's wooden carcass. Soon after, his travelling pack would be dropped on the black pebbles of the beach.

Now partially relieved of his weight, the knight walked off. He began looking between the many different pieces of driftwood for two things in particular: something small enough for him to spend the time carving, and something big and straight enough to work as a walking stick. Travelling would be much easier with a cane that supported his weight.
The former item was simple to find, and Ser Deacon quickly walked off, content with the success of his search. Sitting down on the fallen tree, just right by equipment, the man pulled out a small blade from his travelling pack and set to work. This one would be shaped as the horned skull of a Skin Dancer. It was his own way of wishing death to their kind. Cursed creatures.

These were the knight's only thoughts, even as he looked up at the bright sun and enjoyed the sea's breeze. He hated.

By the waterside, an otter approaches the shore, rolling in calmly with the tide. Trapped between its jaws is a small crab, either dead or depleted of any energy to fight it's captor.

The otter tromps up onto shore and begins to tear into the crab, stopping only upon noticing Ser Deacon's presence on the beach. Deciding it does not trust the man, it takes it's breakfast and leaves. Quickly, the creature scampers of farther down the shore, finding sanctuary behind a large group of driftwood. However, for reasons unknown, there is a faint squeal that sounds almost immediately from behind the grouping of logs.

I felt some heat on my face she called me boy, as if I were no longer a man grown. Only uncle had called me -stop- I clenched my teeth, treating them as a grindstone which could almost be heard. I am no boy, not after... I shook my head again, head listing to one side as I quietly muttered "It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter..." A sharp series of coughs broke my dour mood, though it was but a short thing, it was likely still strange to see.

​

My expression softened at another wave of coughs. Diseases are a serious thing. Cities and townships could survive years, even decades without suffering anything from the Enemy, but disease and pestilence could lay the most prosperous cities low. Grandfather's books often recorded the destruction of many a city, not by madness, banditry or infiltration from the Enemy, but by a even the simplest of illnesses that a Willow Witch or Healer couldn't get to in time. Was she...forced from her home? For the sake of her people?

Though I did deign to remain cautious, glancing at my peripherals and the surrounding terrain, I brought Breygon around. He didn't seemed as frightened as on the Shimmer's lid. Though perhaps that doesn't mean much. I considered her question, it was a fair one. Truthfully, I was running on faith in the last words of my uncle, I have no idea what I'm looking for. "I'm sorry, my lady. I do not know what I'm searching for." I paused, glancing to the peripheries again, and up the Shimmer's Lid. "A calamity befell my home, and so I was forced to flee."

The woman in rusted armor grunts gruffly, nodding her head slightly. "Aye, a calamity has befallen this world, dear. We are all fleeing, in one way or another. Fleeing to what exactly? Well, I never found that out myself," she gives a gentle cough, causing her to take in a ragged breath, "but you are still young, boy. You have time."

I glanced down at one of my water pouches, hiding my bitterness with the action "As you say, assistance is time, but perhaps I can help you where I could not..."

My voice fell away before I could finish, I breathed deep. I hadn't given myself time to mourn properly. Couldn't afford out here. It was too dangerous after all. "Whether living or dead, my mother told me to help all I could. Would you be willing to take some water? It is but a small discomfort for myself," I allowed the smallest of smiles to cross my face, hopefully an encouraging one And you look like you need it, crossed my mind, thought unbidden.

This seems to give pause to the woman. Contemplating the offer for a few moments, she eventually gives in. Using her polearm as a support, she shakily gets to her feet and reaches out a rusted gauntlet to take the water skin. Once the water skin is in her hand, she takes a seat, leaning up against the old oak's base.

She looks at the water skin quizzically, stealing herself for a moment, before uncorking it. She turns away from Varys so as to hide her face from him, lifting her helm slightly, she pauses. There is a moment of silence from the woman, before she exhales a ragged breath, and brings the water skin up. However, the expected sound of sipping or gulping is absent from the woman, instead, replaced with the sound of water splashing against hollow metal.

"Charred body of the gods," she mutters under her breath, "that's good. God's bellow, that's really good. How long has it been since I've drunk water? It's sweeter than I remember." The woman's body shutters for a moment, before she tilts the water skin again, draining it of its contents. The sound of water slapping against iron reverberates from the inside of her armor.

After a moment, the woman fastens her helm back into place and turns to face Varys once again. "I assume you won't be wanting this back," she gestures with the water skin "considering the spread of disease, aye?" She shakes her head sadly, before falling into a series of horrendous coughs. "It wouldn't be fair of me to take something of yours without offering something of my own in return." Shakily, the woman extends an empty gauntleted hand towards Varys. "You have something on your person, it mumbles in it's sleep, let me see it so I may awaken it for you."

There was very little Lutolf could do other than wait, body tense, weapon clenched tightly in the hand of his uninjured arm. He sits, watching the group to his front. His eyes roll as one of the figures chooses to remain seated. He twists his head to the rear, gaze drifting towards Bayan for guidance, and information.


Bayan continues to fish berries into his mouth, merely shrugging to his comrade. Dry cackles sound out inside; the four seemed intimidating, though not all of them. Illusions always gave him a comedic amount of control over others... He often enjoyed making the display overly dramatic, whether for himself or the duo. The illusion steps into the light of the torch, pushing his cloak out of the way to present the empty hand - A gesture to show he means no harm. The tattoo on the back of his hands catches in the light. "That's hard to answer - I would say friend, but friends don't point weapons at each other. What are you faceless doing here?"

The man holding the makeshift torch gives an unamused grunt. "Tch, a bit of a smart ass ain't we? 'Specially considering we outnumber you, four to one." He takes an uneasy step backward. "'Ow 'bout I answer your question wit one ov my own, eh? What in the hells are you doin' 'ere, disturbin' our meal?"

A harsh laugh sounds from the other side of the campfire, causing the point man to whip his head around. He watches, clearly confused, as the man still seated finally takes a stand, strapping his leather mask firmly over his face. As if an afterthought he brushes invisible dust from his lap, before speaking. "Well I'd imagine he's looking to take part in our meal, eh Boargof?" The fire light catches in the glass lenses of his helm, filling them with the fire's reflection. "I swear, it's a miracle you can keep the drool in your mouth." The man laughs again, before picking up a ragged cloak from the ground. In one fluid motion, he flings it over his shoulders and jumps over the fire, landing easily and extravagantly. He pushes the one called Boargof aside and walks up to Bayan's illusory self.

The man gives a curt bow, before introducing himself. "I am Loriel Melfrock, leader of this band of idiots." With a flourish of his cloak, he turns so he may have a better view of the group behind him. "The daft fool waving around the fire is Boargof. Please pay him no mind, he's mourning the loss of his manners and intelligence it seems. Really sad stuff." Loriel fakes a sympathetic tone, before continuing on with the introductions. "The fellow there with the cloth helm is Mephit. Or, at least we assume that's what his name is. He hasn't objected to it thus far so, that's what we call him." The roguish looking individual that Loriel referred to as Mephit sheaths his two blades before taking a seat. He gives a small nod, but says nothing. "And finally, that fellow with the heavy armor and big sword is Jakis. Say hello to our guests, Jakis." The man in the plate armor sheaths his claymore, and takes a seat in the grass. He raises a gauntleted hand and waves sheepishly at Bayan's illusion. "'Ello."

Loriel turns once again, now facing Bayan's illusion. "So tell me," the man says, a bit of smugness in his voice, "would you and your companion like to join us at the fire for a bit of food and conversation?" Without a moment's pause, Lorile continues, flourishing his cloak dramatically. "Aha! You heard right, I know of your illusion." Taking an exaggerated step, Loriel passes through Bayan's doppelganger. "And I know your companion is there," he points into the trees, right in Lutolf's direction, "however, I haven't been able to locate you, my illusionist, which I must say, is quite peculiar. So I inquire, illusionist, why so shy? Please, enough with these games. I wish for new company."

As Loriel goes about his flouncing, the three around the campfire have taken up their meals once again, paying the eccentric masked man no mind. It would appear they've grown used to his dramatic behavior, and are doing their best to ignore it.

 

[The Gunrunner]

Lutolf let out a frustrated groan as his hopes for the distracting embrace of combat were thoroughly dashed, and as a result his mood begins to sour. He trades off the poleaxe to the bloodied palm of his left hand, quickly dragging his right down the weapon's spearhead - another harsh cut, dealt in an effort to shift his mind's focus. It works as well as the other two cuts lining his left palm, but the agony currently rolling over his back would, eventually, return as the focal point of the man's miserable mind. As a secondary measure, Lutolf quite literally slams the face of his helmet into the base of the nearest tree, and a rather stupid grin forms beneath the confines of his helm.

He simply rises to his feet, blood dripping from palms, helm, and his back, soaking into the cloth beneath his armor. He hefts the poleaxe onto his left pauldron, the piercing point facing upwards - He steadies himself for a moment before wandering into view of those around the campfire. He offers the group a simple "Afternoon," before falling silent, waiting for Bayan to make his move

Bayan sighs deeply behind him, pressing a palm against the face of his helm. "Damn it, Lutolf," he mumbles. He hops in place a few times, loosening his muscles and doing away with some of the adrenaline from the initial surprise. Closing his cloak, he steps through the brush and into plain view of those enjoying the campsite. He nods his head to those present, but keeps his sight on the oddest of the group. Immediately after the silent introduction, he waves his finger at him "You'd best not think of me as some cheap puppet-maker. I've pride in my magic." He swallows, grunting to clear his throat. A hand comes from the center of the cloak, idly feeling against the rim of the cloth.

"I do wonder how you figured it out though..." his eyes travel away from the man, over to the shadowed rim of the camp's light. The moment the thought is considered, he moves abruptly - Another illusion is used, but attached to him; the cloak seems to open itself, just for a hand to flick a berry to the man's covered head. "Catch."

 

[Napoleone the Kiwi]

The woman in rusted armor grunts gruffly, nodding her head slightly. "Aye, a calamity has befallen this world, dear. We are all fleeing, in one way or another. Fleeing to what exactly? Well, I never found that out myself," she gives a gentle cough, causing her to take in a ragged breath, "but you are still young, boy. You have time."

My reaction to the "boy" comment was far more subdued than before, as her predicament became clear. She was far older and he'd seen much more. I was far younger and less worldly in comparison. Still... the offered water skin was still held out, though I had to relax my grip a bit, I'm twenty two. I thought to myself, petulantly.

This seems to give pause to the woman. Contemplating the offer for a few moments, she eventually gives in. Using her polearm as a support, she shakily gets to her feet and reaches out a rusted gauntlet to take the water skin. Once the water skin is in her hand, she takes a seat, leaning up against the old oak's base.

She looks at the water skin quizzically, stealing herself for a moment, before uncorking it. She turns away from Varys so as to hide her face from him, lifting her helm slightly, she pauses. There is a moment of silence from the woman, before she exhales a ragged breath, and brings the water skin up. However, the expected sound of sipping or gulping is absent from the woman, instead, replaced with the sound of water splashing against hollow metal.

"Charred body of the gods," she mutters under her breath, "that's good. God's bellow, that's really good. How long has it been since I've drunk water? It's sweeter than I remember." The woman's body shutters for a moment, before she tilts the water skin again, draining it of its contents. The sound of water slapping against iron reverberates from the inside of her armor.

After a moment, the woman fastens her helm back into place and turns to face Varys once again. "I assume you won't be wanting this back," she gestures with the water skin "considering the spread of disease, aye?" She shakes her head sadly, before falling into a series of horrendous coughs. "It wouldn't be fair of me to take something of yours without offering something of my own in return." Shakily, the woman extends an empty gauntleted hand towards Varys. "You have something on your person, it mumbles in it's sleep, let me see it so I may awaken it for you."

Well, that's only little disturbing, I thought, the sound of rain water running on metal, It was a dull thrum and drip. The only sound I could compare it to was the day it rained at the tourney's. The knight who boasted of having an entire Star Iron suit quickly found his joints rusted, he was trapped in it for hours, a chuckle would have escaped had the woman not been making such a noise, from inside her armour. I blinked as she spoke, shaking my head, the armour clanging and scraping with the motion.
"I'm sorry? My, lady, I know not what you speak of. My uncle had a trinket, a small...box of sorts? Yet it has no lid, a square of wood heavier than stone," I swallowed nervously, feeling very nervous as I reached into my bag for the...object "I know not what it is, My lady, or what it is you mean by it...sleeping"

I was a learned mage, a young and ...relatively... experienced man. My mother, May The Father watch over her, may have had more experience, but I didn't study magical enchantment or the analysis of wards and spells on objects.

 

[C.DEX]

"Careful, there." Abel replied, watching as the man stumbled on the stone and sand. He watched him jovially, though his eyes still flitted occasionally to the side, toward the waters. The threat had passed, but the toll that it had taken on his psyche was enough. Now, the stranger that he had talked to - despite the friendliness of his demeanor - had given Abel a certain paranoia that he didn't exactly express. Perhaps if the man could see behind his mask, but that was a thing that they had long since removed.

He looked eastward with the man, not particularly broken up about his decision to travel east. That was his business, of course, but it was also a prospect that the wise wanderer had been happy to leave behind. His hands idly thumbed at the rope he had taken, winding it in a loop within gnarled fingers as he listened to the man, numbing the idle thoughts that danced around in his mind. He had been ripped from them when he had mentioned a town.

A town. That would be nice. There usually weren't bodies hanging from the limbs of trees and maggots in town. There usually weren't bad omens, and his arrival had usually been celebrated. There was food and drink, given he could make himself useful enough to trade for it. And it's name was Haven.

"Haven. With a name like that, I hope it lives up to my expectations." Abel said, with a chuckle. He unfastened the rope from his fingers and pulled it up his arm in order to free his hand. He laced his fingers in the man's, his handshake quick and unsatisfactory. There was no need to subject the wanderer to his gnarled grip for too long, after all. "Speaking of names ... mine is Abel. It's a pleasure." he said.

"So ... you said you were a hunter? Have I caught you early in your hunt, or late? I hope it's the latter. I would trade with you clothing or craft in order to be blessed with a hunter's meal. On the way to haven, that is. I certainly don't mind the companionship. Will you show the way, as well?" he asked, hoping he hadn't been overwhelming him with one too many questions.

 

[ThaDruid]

Ser Deacon had been at his task for only some minutes, but already he was seeing some fruits to his work. A vicious horn, and part of a Skin Dancer's putrid features were shaped into the wood. He was ready to continue, when he heard the light patter of small paws on pebbles and quick crunching. Looking up, the knight saw an otter. Almost as if it felt the man's inquisitive gaze, the small beast looked up, meeting Ser Deacon's eyes. He could not help but smile at the small animal. Proof that life still could flourish in this wretched world.

The Leper looked down, back at his work. A couple more nicks with his knife, before another sound took his attention away. A squeal, just behind a pile of driftwood. The Otter was nowhere in sight. Would it be the reason for this foreign sound? Perhaps...

Pushed by curiosity, the knight rised from his resting spot. Setting down the piece of wood he had been working on, Ser Deacon armed himself with shortsword and shield, keeping both close to his body. Slowly, the man inched closer to the pile of wood. One step at a time. Bringing up his right arm, he held the gladius at an angle, ready to thrust if something unexpected reared its ugly head. The shield covered his striking arm.

Ser Deacon stood over the pile and slowly leaned forwards, going over and glancing behind it. The skin of his hands itched. The right one twitched.

 

[Foolish Ghoul]

Lutolf let out a frustrated groan as his hopes for the distracting embrace of combat were thoroughly dashed, and as a result his mood begins to sour. He trades off the poleaxe to the bloodied palm of his left hand, quickly dragging his right down the weapon's spearhead - another harsh cut, dealt in an effort to shift his mind's focus. It works as well as the other two cuts lining his left palm, but the agony currently rolling over his back would, eventually, return as the focal point of the man's miserable mind. As a secondary measure, Lutolf quite literally slams the face of his helmet into the base of the nearest tree, and a rather stupid grin forms beneath the confines of his helm.

He simply rises to his feet, blood dripping from palms, helm, and his back, soaking into the cloth beneath his armor. He hefts the poleaxe onto his left pauldron, the piercing point facing upwards - He steadies himself for a moment before wandering into view of those around the campfire. He offers the group a simple "Afternoon," before falling silent, waiting for Bayan to make his move

Bayan sighs deeply behind him, pressing a palm against the face of his helm. "Damn it, Lutolf," he mumbles. He hops in place a few times, loosening his muscles and doing away with some of the adrenaline from the initial surprise. Closing his cloak, he steps through the brush and into plain view of those enjoying the campsite. He nods his head to those present, but keeps his sight on the oddest of the group. Immediately after the silent introduction, he waves his finger at him "You'd best not think of me as some cheap puppet-maker. I've pride in my magic." He swallows, grunting to clear his throat. A hand comes from the center of the cloak, idly feeling against the rim of the cloth.

"I do wonder how you figured it out though..." his eyes travel away from the man, over to the shadowed rim of the camp's light. The moment the thought is considered, he moves abruptly - Another illusion is used, but attached to him; the cloak seems to open itself, just for a hand to flick a berry to the man's covered head. "Catch."

Letting the illusory berry pass through his head, Loriel responds with an encouraging clap and cachinnation, the laughter lasting maybe just a little too long. "YOU! I like you! You're a funny man. Please join us, funny man. Your smelly friend drinks too!" Like a child gallivanting through the forest, Loriel half walks half skips back around the fire, and retrieves from his travel pack a glass bottle of some sort from, a rusted tankard and an extravagant looking chalice. He then quickly walks back around the fire and forces the chalice in Bayan's hand, and the tankard in Lutolf's. He then uncorks the bottle and begins to pour a deep red liquid in their respective containers. "Go on, have drink with us!"

Around the campfire, the other members of Loriel's party stop whatever it is they were doing to watch Bayan and Lutolf. Jakis' hand goes to his sword's hilt in a quick and subtle motion. To the west, fog begins to inch along the ground, tendrils of haze slithering along the ground.

My reaction to the "boy" comment was far more subdued than before, as her predicament became clear. She was far older and he'd seen much more. I was far younger and less worldly in comparison. Still... the offered water skin was still held out, though I had to relax my grip a bit, I'm twenty two. I thought to myself, petulantly.



Well, that's only little disturbing, I thought, the sound of rain water running on metal, It was a dull thrum and drip. The only sound I could compare it to was the day it rained at the tourney's. The knight who boasted of having an entire Star Iron suit quickly found his joints rusted, he was trapped in it for hours, a chuckle would have escaped had the woman not been making such a noise, from inside her armour. I blinked as she spoke, shaking my head, the armour clanging and scraping with the motion.
"I'm sorry? My, lady, I know not what you speak of. My uncle had a trinket, a small...box of sorts? Yet it has no lid, a square of wood heavier than stone," I swallowed nervously, feeling very nervous as I reached into my bag for the...object "I know not what it is, My lady, or what it is you mean by it...sleeping"

I was a learned mage, a young and ...relatively... experienced man. My mother, May The Father watch over her, may have had more experience, but I didn't study magical enchantment or the analysis of wards and spells on objects.

Reaching up, the suited figure snatches the block of wood from Varys. She cups it in her hands, and brings it up to her helm, spending a few moments quietly whispering into it. Varys would only be able to pick up a few of the spoken words, though the language used was clearly not of this earthly realm, something no Faceless or Willow Witch should be capable of speaking.

Suddenly, the woman behind the rusted armor takes a deep and uneasy breath. Tendrils of ethereal smoke slither through the grill of her helm, surrounding the wooden cube, before somehow being absorbed into the symbol carved on one of the faces. Immediately, from the symbol, silvery strands sputter forth, grasping at the edges of the box. These metallic strands ooze down the sides of the box, following some unseen path on the grain of the wood. Then it stops, as quickly as it began the strange machinations of this box finish.

The woman offers Varys the box.

"Careful, there." Abel replied, watching as the man stumbled on the stone and sand. He watched him jovially, though his eyes still flitted occasionally to the side, toward the waters. The threat had passed, but the toll that it had taken on his psyche was enough. Now, the stranger that he had talked to - despite the friendliness of his demeanor - had given Abel a certain paranoia that he didn't exactly express. Perhaps if the man could see behind his mask, but that was a thing that they had long since removed.

He looked eastward with the man, not particularly broken up about his decision to travel east. That was his business, of course, but it was also a prospect that the wise wanderer had been happy to leave behind. His hands idly thumbed at the rope he had taken, winding it in a loop within gnarled fingers as he listened to the man, numbing the idle thoughts that danced around in his mind. He had been ripped from them when he had mentioned a town.

A town. That would be nice. There usually weren't bodies hanging from the limbs of trees and maggots in town. There usually weren't bad omens, and his arrival had usually been celebrated. There was food and drink, given he could make himself useful enough to trade for it. And it's name was Haven.

"Haven. With a name like that, I hope it lives up to my expectations." Abel said, with a chuckle. He unfastened the rope from his fingers and pulled it up his arm in order to free his hand. He laced his fingers in the man's, his handshake quick and unsatisfactory. There was no need to subject the wanderer to his gnarled grip for too long, after all. "Speaking of names ... mine is Abel. It's a pleasure." he said.

"So ... you said you were a hunter? Have I caught you early in your hunt, or late? I hope it's the latter. I would trade with you clothing or craft in order to be blessed with a hunter's meal. On the way to haven, that is. I certainly don't mind the companionship. Will you show the way, as well?" he asked, hoping he hadn't been overwhelming him with one too many questions.

The man shakes Abel's hand estatically, seemingly not minding his deformity or simply not noticing it. "Thamos is the name, and believe me the pleasure is all mine. You have caught me at the end of my hunt, but it's not quite finished yet. I've got four bucks I've been chasing after, elusive game they are. The prey can wait a few hours though." Thamos spoke in a very serious tone when speaking of his game. It was clear there wasn't just a need to hunt for survival, but for passion.

"I need not take your supplies should you want a meal, your company and name are payment enough. Come lets us walk, talk, eat and be merry as I show you the way to Haven. Lovely little town that is." Thamos pauses as he reaches into a satchel hung at his hip. He rummages through before pulling out a small parcel. Unwrapping it reveals strips of dried and salted meats resting on a bed of toasted nuts. It smells delightful.

"I do feel obligated to tell you that Haven won't be like most towns you have been in." Thamos lifts his helm slightly, revealing fair skin and a grinning face, pocked by a few scars on his chin and jawline. He takes a bite from the dried meat, chasing it with a handful of nuts, and offers the parcel to Abel. " As I'm sure you've picked up already, it has a name, which is because the folk don't fear the Skindancers or their Mother. They be god fearin folk, but their god ain't from the pits of hell like Cathael, least not that I'm aware of. These folk worship the fog. Strange stuff really. They say it conceals them from the ilk of Cathael, they don't even use wards 'round these parts. I didn't believe it but..." Thamos stares out into the distance for a bit, chewing on a piece of meat. "Yeah... real strange stuff. I recommend you don't go in the water. As I said, god fearin' folk, just try not to upset them or talk bad about the mist. You'll be fine." He gives a jovial pat on Abel's back.

"So tell me, wanderer Abel, what's brings you all the way out to the western shoreline of this hell hole?"

Ser Deacon had been at his task for only some minutes, but already he was seeing some fruits to his work. A vicious horn, and part of a Skin Dancer's putrid features were shaped into the wood. He was ready to continue, when he heard the light patter of small paws on pebbles and quick crunching. Looking up, the knight saw an otter. Almost as if it felt the man's inquisitive gaze, the small beast looked up, meeting Ser Deacon's eyes. He could not help but smile at the small animal. Proof that life still could flourish in this wretched world.

The Leper looked down, back at his work. A couple more nicks with his knife, before another sound took his attention away. A squeal, just behind a pile of driftwood. The Otter was nowhere in sight. Would it be the reason for this foreign sound? Perhaps...

Pushed by curiosity, the knight rised from his resting spot. Setting down the piece of wood he had been working on, Ser Deacon armed himself with shortsword and shield, keeping both close to his body. Slowly, the man inched closer to the pile of wood. One step at a time. Bringing up his right arm, he held the gladius at an angle, ready to thrust if something unexpected reared its ugly head. The shield covered his striking arm.

Ser Deacon stood over the pile and slowly leaned forwards, going over and glancing behind it. The skin of his hands itched. The right one twitched.

Taking an initial glance behind the pile of driftwood revealed – to Deacon's surprise – nothing. Curious. Just more black rock beach. However closer inspection revealed a few tufts of fur, and... was that blood? Yes, a few droplets of blood, almost as dark as the rocks they coated. Curiouser. What could have become of that otter? What secrets did this beach hold?

 

[Napoleone the Kiwi]

Reaching up, the suited figure snatches the block of wood from Varys. She cups it in her hands, and brings it up to her helm, spending a few moments quietly whispering into it. Varys would only be able to pick up a few of the spoken words, though the language used was clearly not of this earthly realm, something no Faceless or Willow Witch should be capable of speaking.

Suddenly, the woman behind the rusted armor takes a deep and uneasy breath. Tendrils of ethereal smoke slither through the grill of her helm, surrounding the wooden cube, before somehow being absorbed into the symbol carved on one of the faces. Immediately, from the symbol, silvery strands sputter forth, grasping at the edges of the box. These metallic strands ooze down the sides of the box, following some unseen path on the grain of the wood. Then it stops, as quickly as it began the strange machinations of this box finish.

The woman offers Varys the box.

I gave a start at the speed with which the lady moved. I clenched and my hand into a fist where the box had been as my eyes widened at the lilting tongue that lingered briefly in the silence. Quiet and difficult to hear, the few words he could were not of the Common Tongue or of the Whispered Words of the other warlocks. Breathing deeply I watched cautiously as the woman worked her magics into the cube. The wood gave way to tears of metallic silver, pulsing and coursing their way through the surface. I swallowed harshly. Magic always has a price. The story of his father and grandfather all ways bid him to be mindful of its use, and after the Burning Tower...

"Forget it, just forget it" Angrily I clenched my teeth, and audible grind. The heavy sense in the air dissipated soon after though, unbidden, she moved again. She held out the box, definitely magicked now. Gingerly, I took the potentially cursed object and glanced to the crater lid in caution. I held it up, admiring the sorcery that now graced the wood. Swallowing nervously, I thanked the woman. "It is truly beautiful. The silver work is fantastical how...no... I understand. Thank you, my lady." My compliments died in my throat as she seemed to sag and recline back onto the tree. A mad urge to tear off her helm gripped me as I clenched the artefact, a dull pounding in my skull like a hundred drums grew. I drew breath and teared my gaze away. Breathing heavily, I bid her one more glance. "I understand. Thank you, my lady."

Pulling at Breygon's reins, I spared a couple seconds to check the perimeter, before setting him off in a trot, the sun coming to nearly blind me, I turned Northwards again, heeding my late Uncle's advice. Uncle... the cube's presence in my nap sack was ever present, what is this?

 

[C.DEX]

"Is that so?" Abel replied, brow undoubtedly furrowing underneath his mask as he took in Thamos' words. A town without words, that worships the fog, that stands unafraid of Skindancers and Cathael? It seemed to be too good to be true, especially as his travelling partner looked out to the waters and the fog with the same mystification as he had. As he ruminated on the prospect of such a town, he thought back to the man's question. To bide his time, he too lifted his helm slightly, though the cloth around his neck had concealed his mouth fairly enough. Having a sizeable portion of dried meat was delightful, especially as most prey in the last weeks had eluded him completely. Maybe it would stow the chill.


"Perhaps I'm here to find Haven. Perhaps I'm just here in search of a place to rest, but ... for the most part, I have been unable to find it. I've been 'lucky' enough to stumble upon the rotten carcasses of many'an'animal, but I haven't had quite as much luck finding living ones. But I'm not a particularly skilled hunter. So I'm grateful for this." he said. "Berries and fruits don't make quite as fine a feast, however." he clarified, his description of the small parcel as a 'feast' being quite indicative of just how rough it had been within the past weeks.


"I haven't been able to properly rest for quite a while." the man relented, and then recoiled at his own pessimism. "The fog aches at my bones, but ... don't tell those from Haven." he said, grinning under his mask. "The prospect of a town - no matter how ... strange they are, is an exciting one. Tell me more about this Haven. They don't use wards? The fog protects them somehow? Is it perhaps just luck or obfuscation that keeps them thriving?" he questioned, genuinely curious. "Surely, the weakness of these Dancers after all these years cannot simply be fog."


With a chuckle, Abel reached into his pouch. His hand wrapped around something inside of it, and then pulled it out. Idly, he thumbed at it, before proffering it to his traveling partner. "It isn't much, but I have to offer something to someone who is willing to take my name in exchange for a town and meat." he said. Inside of his hand had been an intricate, fire-hardened leather and rope medallion. It was a thing of a time gone past, where people had the time not to simply live in fear and hard work to maintain themselves and could create things that honed in on aesthetics. It was amazing that the wanderer's gnarled hands could even create such a thing, but there it had been.


"If you intend on staying, I could craft something a bit more useful, such as a snare, but this is what I have on me. There is a lot of time where I simply don't feel like moving from place in the mornings and forego hunting to craft. This is a result."

 

[The Gunrunner]

Letting the illusory berry pass through his head, Loriel responds with an encouraging clap and cachinnation, the laughter lasting maybe just a little too long. "YOU! I like you! You're a funny man. Please join us, funny man. Your smelly friend drinks too!" Like a child gallivanting through the forest, Loriel half walks half skips back around the fire, and retrieves from his travel pack a glass bottle of some sort from, a rusted tankard and an extravagant looking chalice. He then quickly walks back around the fire and forces the chalice in Bayan's hand, and the tankard in Lutolf's. He then uncorks the bottle and begins to pour a deep red liquid in their respective containers. "Go on, have drink with us!"

Around the campfire, the other members of Loriel's party stop whatever it is they were doing to watch Bayan and Lutolf. Jakis' hand goes to his sword's hilt in a quick and subtle motion. To the west, fog begins to inch along the ground, tendrils of haze slithering along the ground.

"Funny man..." Bayan repeats to himself, a feeling of defeat remaining over him in his second failed trick. He keeps back from the fire, cautiously watching the group of strangers. His eyes frequently flick back to the eccentric, the man he was most worried about; he couldn't tell if the man was friendly or manipulative, and his inability to pin down the man's power only made the feeling that much worse. Bayan had his reserves to accepting things offered to him, preferring to take from another plate; a matter of safety, really. However, the chalice is forced into his hands before he can open his mouth to speak. A bottle is uncorked and poured to fill the cup, and Bayan looks down into the red liquid suspiciously.
"Go on, have drink with us!"

He looks up from the chalice, watching those around the campfire. Now, to say an outrider is a talented cartographer goes without saying, but there's more to it than that; dedication, interest, but most of all: observation. Bayan was indeed an observant one, which is why his eyes focus on Jakis' hand moving to the sword's hilt. They switch to he who offered the drink, constantly on the brink of bouncing in place. They finally rest back on the... wine, though he wasn't sure. As he looks up from the cup to the observances of the strangers, he feels hot in his uncertainty under the metal helmet. For a moment, his eyes snap past them to the dark of the forest - He relaxes himself just enough for the mark, a small wrinkle in the bark blinking open to reveal a small blue eye...

Lutolf's head cocked to the side, right eye gazing past the odd little band as he adhered to the protocol he and Bayan had created for situations such as the one they now found themselves in. It took him barely a moment's time to locate the eye, and suddenly his gaze was back on the tankard that had been so rudely forced into the bloodied glove of his free hand. He stared at it for a moment, as if somehow offended by its very presence before unceremoniously upending the thing, pouring the contents onto the dirt below. "I don't drink." He wheezes, "Bad for the... bones." He offers, pauldrons rolling as he offers the strange man a half-assed shrug - The line had been thrown, and Lutolf hoped it would catch. Already he could feel the fatigue of the name's invocation - sleep and pain would come easy tonight, in equal measures; but a price well worth paying. It took a few moments, but Lutolf - awkward as he is - eventually offered to return the man's property - That is to say; He shoved his arm forward, towards the man, in an attempt to get the man to reclaim the blighted thing.



Bayan quickly glances to his partner before handing his chalice back to the eccentric man. Under his breath, he whispers a request to the soil: "Soil: What do you taste from the liquid?" It was a question he hoped the others wouldn't hear, but at the same time guessed his doubts would be answered if they did. The chalice is bounced in his palm, and he gestures to it with his head - "You first. We would like to have friends, but I've..." he slows for a minute, the message from the soil sinking into his realization - Under his helmet, it causes his expression to warp into a mix of a smile and a sneer. The truth of the beverage lingers as a whisper in his mind, drowning his own hearing - His tone copies the sound in a mild hiss: "... I have enough already." The blue eye on the tree blinks in and out in a rapid succession of movement, drawing Lutolf's attention along until the eccentric is in his sight. The moment his eyes rest on the dramatic manipulator, the target's eyes appear to blink themselves into a deep, bright red. It was the signal for a kill.
Action was dictated in that moment

Bayan's arm and wrist flick, flinging the chalice to he who offered it. Lutolf reacts swiftly, uttering a simple command, "Bones. Shatter." He demands, calling his earlier hook into play - He gestures towards the Eccentric fellow with a lazy wave directed towards the man's chest; his ribs, specifically - the target of both name, and Poleaxe - He swings the weapon down with a simple heave of his arm, for the fool had entered his pre-determined kill zone. The sharp, armor-piercing spike of the Poleaxe would come flying down towards the man's head - angled slightly to the right it an attempt to slam the spike into the man's shoulder, should he miss the man's skull. - As Lutolf played his cards, he began to channel a good portion of his energy, pain, and fatigue into a single, violent evocation spell.

Bayan made his own move as Lutolf worked to hack down the leader; An arm beneath his cloak grips a throwing axe in a spinning motion, which continues to gather the momentum for his throw. The crimson cloth of his cloak splays outwards, out of the way of the arm, with Mephit centered in his sight - The axe twirls from his fingers, on a dead-set path for the thug. It was not the end; the movement used for the throw continues, bringing his hand to the curved sword at his side. His lips flutter as he draws his sword, urging the metal to sing, whispering the condemnation of his targets: "Soil," he begins, his attention on the group members excepting the now red-eyed joker with an accusational pointed finger, "Bury them."

 

[Foolish Ghoul]

"Funny man..." Bayan repeats to himself, a feeling of defeat remaining over him in his second failed trick. He keeps back from the fire, cautiously watching the group of strangers. His eyes frequently flick back to the eccentric, the man he was most worried about; he couldn't tell if the man was friendly or manipulative, and his inability to pin down the man's power only made the feeling that much worse. Bayan had his reserves to accepting things offered to him, preferring to take from another plate; a matter of safety, really. However, the chalice is forced into his hands before he can open his mouth to speak. A bottle is uncorked and poured to fill the cup, and Bayan looks down into the red liquid suspiciously.
"Go on, have drink with us!"

He looks up from the chalice, watching those around the campfire. Now, to say an outrider is a talented cartographer goes without saying, but there's more to it than that; dedication, interest, but most of all: observation. Bayan was indeed an observant one, which is why his eyes focus on Jakis' hand moving to the sword's hilt. They switch to he who offered the drink, constantly on the brink of bouncing in place. They finally rest back on the... wine, though he wasn't sure. As he looks up from the cup to the observances of the strangers, he feels hot in his uncertainty under the metal helmet. For a moment, his eyes snap past them to the dark of the forest - He relaxes himself just enough for the mark, a small wrinkle in the bark blinking open to reveal a small blue eye...

Lutolf's head cocked to the side, right eye gazing past the odd little band as he adhered to the protocol he and Bayan had created for situations such as the one they now found themselves in. It took him barely a moment's time to locate the eye, and suddenly his gaze was back on the tankard that had been so rudely forced into the bloodied glove of his free hand. He stared at it for a moment, as if somehow offended by its very presence before unceremoniously upending the thing, pouring the contents onto the dirt below. "I don't drink." He wheezes, "Bad for the... bones." He offers, pauldrons rolling as he offers the strange man a half-assed shrug - The line had been thrown, and Lutolf hoped it would catch. Already he could feel the fatigue of the name's invocation - sleep and pain would come easy tonight, in equal measures; but a price well worth paying. It took a few moments, but Lutolf - awkward as he is - eventually offered to return the man's property - That is to say; He shoved his arm forward, towards the man, in an attempt to get the man to reclaim the blighted thing.



Bayan quickly glances to his partner before handing his chalice back to the eccentric man. Under his breath, he whispers a request to the soil: "Soil: What do you taste from the liquid?" It was a question he hoped the others wouldn't hear, but at the same time guessed his doubts would be answered if they did. The chalice is bounced in his palm, and he gestures to it with his head - "You first. We would like to have friends, but I've..." he slows for a minute, the message from the soil sinking into his realization - Under his helmet, it causes his expression to warp into a mix of a smile and a sneer. The truth of the beverage lingers as a whisper in his mind, drowning his own hearing - His tone copies the sound in a mild hiss: "... I have enough already." The blue eye on the tree blinks in and out in a rapid succession of movement, drawing Lutolf's attention along until the eccentric is in his sight. The moment his eyes rest on the dramatic manipulator, the target's eyes appear to blink themselves into a deep, bright red. It was the signal for a kill.
Action was dictated in that moment

Bayan's arm and wrist flick, flinging the chalice to he who offered it. Lutolf reacts swiftly, uttering a simple command, "Bones. Shatter." He demands, calling his earlier hook into play - He gestures towards the Eccentric fellow with a lazy wave directed towards the man's chest; his ribs, specifically - the target of both name, and Poleaxe - He swings the weapon down with a simple heave of his arm, for the fool had entered his pre-determined kill zone. The sharp, armor-piercing spike of the Poleaxe would come flying down towards the man's head - angled slightly to the right it an attempt to slam the spike into the man's shoulder, should he miss the man's skull. - As Lutolf played his cards, he began to channel a good portion of his energy, pain, and fatigue into a single, violent evocation spell.

Bayan made his own move as Lutolf worked to hack down the leader; An arm beneath his cloak grips a throwing axe in a spinning motion, which continues to gather the momentum for his throw. The crimson cloth of his cloak splays outwards, out of the way of the arm, with Mephit centered in his sight - The axe twirls from his fingers, on a dead-set path for the thug. It was not the end; the movement used for the throw continues, bringing his hand to the curved sword at his side. His lips flutter as he draws his sword, urging the metal to sing, whispering the condemnation of his targets: "Soil," he begins, his attention on the group members excepting the now red-eyed joker with an accusational pointed finger, "Bury them."

The chalices flies through the air, spilling the vibrant red contents upon the earth, like an omen of the blood to be spilled in the ensuing fight.

Quick as lightning, Loriel's hand snatchs the golden chalice from the air, holding it out in front of him confused. A small laugh escapes his lips before a jarring pain grips at his chest. Neath his flesh and muscle, cracks begin to spiderweb across the man's rib cage, sending his nerves into panic. He let's out a pained laugh, and shrieks a word, "Wood!"

In that same instant, Mephit begins to leap to his feet, resuming his wide combat stance from earlier. A hand slides into his cloak, fingers clasping one of the many daggers stowed there. With disturbing speed, it is sent rocketing towards Bayan. Meanwhile, his left hand goes to one of his short swords, though the action is stopped short as Bayan's throwing ax sinks into Mephit's shoulder, cutting through leather armor and flesh easily. Mephit stumbles backwards, though soundless in his agony. Pain flashes in his eyes, and he takes a half hearted step forward, clearly dazed by the wound. Mephit takes his eyes away from Bayan, instinctively looking for the source of pain, looking at he ax protruding from his shoulder and watching the blood accumulate around the wound.

Lutolf's perfectly aimed swing is curtailed, though only slightly, as several roots explode from the ground to block the attack. Regardless, the poleax cuts through the wood and into Loriel's helm, cleaving through the leather, shattering the glass lense and cutting into soft flesh. The blade comes to a stop at Loriel's shoulder pad, as warm blood sprays forth from the face wound. A gurgling shriek sounds from deep within the man's throat, the pain momentarily overwhelming his senses. Looking at the damage done, Lutolf would see the left side (Lutolf's right) of the man's leather helm be removed, causing the rest to hang on loosely. This exposed a face now partially rid of it's skin and facial tissues, causing part of the cheekbone to protrude from glistening muscle. Yellowed teeth – each molar sharpened to a point – give Loriel a permanent grin that should be reserved for demons of the deepest layer of hell. It suits him in a strange way, having that horrifying grin, part of his lip hanging on by a thread, almost as if he was always meant to have it.

From his socket, Loriel's eye lazily dangles, connected only by a pinkish tendon. Ocular fluid, blood and pus intermingle on the man's ruined face, slowly running down into his screaming mouth.

Behind the unruined lense of his mask, Loriel's eye begins to roll backward into his skull. Darkness threatens to take over his vision, but through pure hate alone he manages to stay conscious. An animalistic half-roar-half-laugh bubbles up from his chest as he jumps back, tattered cloak fluttering around his form. He throws out a single hand, pointed at Lutolf, and shrieks. "You'll pay for that you mother fucker! Wood, strangle him!" Once again, roots burst forth from the ground, this time lashing out towards Lutolf. Barbs begin to form as they bat at the man, looking for an opening to grip his neck and drain him of life. "First man to kill these fuckers gets their choice of cut. I imagine the funny one tastes delicious!" Loriel bursts into insane laughter, his permanent grin growing wider.

Behind Loriel, Boargof jumps from his seated position and runs towards Bayan. As he does so, it seems the campfire follows him, the crackling blaze taking shape around his feet and fists. Boargof stops suddenly (just as Bayan spoke the name of soil) putting his momentum into a roundhouse kick, sending his leg into an upward strike. Around Boargof's feet, the dirt begins to shift and crack.

Jakis is slow to the take, though his claymore glints threateningly as it is raised. The heavily armored individual takes off in a run towards Lutolf, only to find his movement slowed by the earth attempting to swallow him. He punches back at the dirt in frustration, inhuman strength scattering just enough soil to keep him from sinking in too deep. In frustration, he points the palm of his hand towards Lutolf. On the gauntlet, a rune flashes a bright white before exploding into an electrical arc.

As magic is expelled left and right, the smell of burnt ozone fills the air. The fog rolling on the floor thrums with excitement, it's presence growing stronger.

I gave a start at the speed with which the lady moved. I clenched and my hand into a fist where the box had been as my eyes widened at the lilting tongue that lingered briefly in the silence. Quiet and difficult to hear, the few words he could were not of the Common Tongue or of the Whispered Words of the other warlocks. Breathing deeply I watched cautiously as the woman worked her magics into the cube. The wood gave way to tears of metallic silver, pulsing and coursing their way through the surface. I swallowed harshly. Magic always has a price. The story of his father and grandfather all ways bid him to be mindful of its use, and after the Burning Tower...

"Forget it, just forget it" Angrily I clenched my teeth, and audible grind. The heavy sense in the air dissipated soon after though, unbidden, she moved again. She held out the box, definitely magicked now. Gingerly, I took the potentially cursed object and glanced to the crater lid in caution. I held it up, admiring the sorcery that now graced the wood. Swallowing nervously, I thanked the woman. "It is truly beautiful. The silver work is fantastical how...no... I understand. Thank you, my lady." My compliments died in my throat as she seemed to sag and recline back onto the tree. A mad urge to tear off her helm gripped me as I clenched the artefact, a dull pounding in my skull like a hundred drums grew. I drew breath and teared my gaze away. Breathing heavily, I bid her one more glance. "I understand. Thank you, my lady."

Pulling at Breygon's reins, I spared a couple seconds to check the perimeter, before setting him off in a trot, the sun coming to nearly blind me, I turned Northwards again, heeding my late Uncle's advice. Uncle... the cube's presence in my nap sack was ever present, what is this?

The air as Varys travels is crisp and chilled, though the box he carries seems to radiate a pleasant warmth, present even through the knapsack. This would help to ease the burden of the discomfort of travel, especially considering the terrain Varys was now traveling through was only growing more gruesome. Pockmarks and craters dotted the landscape, while mounds of corpses arose from the earth like a vile testament to the fall of the Faceless. However, something wasn't right, outside of the usual scenery's decrepit state. No, this was different. This was an itch, not a chill. There was an itch, slowly starting to creep up in the back of Varys' mind. No, not an itch in fact, rather a voice, cold and passionless, though young and masculine. A single phrase repeated itself. "Hierophant, reanimator, bringer of pain and pleasure, awakened."

The voice continued, keeping at a soft whisper, just loud enough to tickle the back of Varys' skull. And then it stopped. As soon as it had come, gone, leaving a void where it should have been. Certainly a strange phenomena, almost as strange as the corpses, now all watching Varys. Curious, had they always been starring in his direction? Though, not much time to ruminate on that prospect for Varys, as the sudden sounds of battle seem to be coming from the woods nearby. Campfire smoke rises from the trees in an imperfect column, and the sounds of clashing steel ring through the air. Crackling energy, burning ozone and fried hair, mingling with the putrid smell of these wastes. What could possibly be causing that?

[Mentioned: The Gunrunner Moritz ]

"Is that so?" Abel replied, brow undoubtedly furrowing underneath his mask as he took in Thamos' words. A town without words, that worships the fog, that stands unafraid of Skindancers and Cathael? It seemed to be too good to be true, especially as his travelling partner looked out to the waters and the fog with the same mystification as he had. As he ruminated on the prospect of such a town, he thought back to the man's question. To bide his time, he too lifted his helm slightly, though the cloth around his neck had concealed his mouth fairly enough. Having a sizeable portion of dried meat was delightful, especially as most prey in the last weeks had eluded him completely. Maybe it would stow the chill.


"Perhaps I'm here to find Haven. Perhaps I'm just here in search of a place to rest, but ... for the most part, I have been unable to find it. I've been 'lucky' enough to stumble upon the rotten carcasses of many'an'animal, but I haven't had quite as much luck finding living ones. But I'm not a particularly skilled hunter. So I'm grateful for this." he said. "Berries and fruits don't make quite as fine a feast, however." he clarified, his description of the small parcel as a 'feast' being quite indicative of just how rough it had been within the past weeks.


"I haven't been able to properly rest for quite a while." the man relented, and then recoiled at his own pessimism. "The fog aches at my bones, but ... don't tell those from Haven." he said, grinning under his mask. "The prospect of a town - no matter how ... strange they are, is an exciting one. Tell me more about this Haven. They don't use wards? The fog protects them somehow? Is it perhaps just luck or obfuscation that keeps them thriving?" he questioned, genuinely curious. "Surely, the weakness of these Dancers after all these years cannot simply be fog."

Thamos gives a hardy laugh at the prospect, bobbing his head in amusement. "I assure you, this is no ordinary fog. I've thought long and hard about it, and the best guess I can come up with is that it's living. I'm not sure how that could be, but once you spend a few days in this town, you'll be a believer too, trust me." Taking another bite, he pauses and thinks for a moment. He casually waves a cupped hand through the thick mist surrounding the duo, as if he were trying to trap some in his palm. "The Father runs the town, and he's the one who preaches the fog's gospel. He's quite possibly nicest gentlemen I've ever had the pleasure of meeting, and he speaks good wisdoms."

"Oh yeah, and that reminds me, apparently they have a ceremony going on tonight. Looks like you'll be just in time to witness that too." He chuckles absentmindedly. "If we ever see eachother again, you'll have to tell me how that goes."

With a chuckle, Abel reached into his pouch. His hand wrapped around something inside of it, and then pulled it out. Idly, he thumbed at it, before proffering it to his traveling partner. "It isn't much, but I have to offer something to someone who is willing to take my name in exchange for a town and meat." he said. Inside of his hand had been an intricate, fire-hardened leather and rope medallion. It was a thing of a time gone past, where people had the time not to simply live in fear and hard work to maintain themselves and could create things that honed in on aesthetics. It was amazing that the wanderer's gnarled hands could even create such a thing, but there it had been.


"If you intend on staying, I could craft something a bit more useful, such as a snare, but this is what I have on me. There is a lot of time where I simply don't feel like moving from place in the mornings and forego hunting to craft. This is a result."

Hand extended, Thamos takes the medallion, handling it carefully and meticulously. He brings it up into the light, and just then Abel is able to catch a glimpse of the man's sea green eyes through his helm, as they twinkle with excitement. "It's beautiful! Th-this is expert craftsmanship, truly one of a kind. A thousand thanks be upon you!" Immediately, Thamos adorns the medallion, gazing at it pridefully.

There is a moment, however, following the receiving of the medallion where regret flashes across Thamos' eyes, only to be concealed in the same second by a stern gaze. He looks back to Abel, and it seems Thamos wants to say something to him, only to stop before even opening his mouth. It is clear he defeatedly picks something else to say in response. "I appreciate the offer, but this hunt demands my immediate attention. I will deliver you to Haven, but after that, I'm afraid we must part ways. Mayhaps we will see each other again. Should my hunt end soon, I will return, and see if you are still in Haven." Thamos speaks sternly, almost like he had rehearsed the line. The man falls silent.

***
​

Dense fog. Fog thicker than a stone wall, thicker than ten stone walls. Fog so vicious it appears inescapable, fog so voracious and simultaneously belligerent it seemed dangerous. That was where John was. In the fog, tendrils seeping into the cracks of his armor plating, filling the crevasis and wrapping around his flesh. It was strange, how this fog moved, how this haze thickened with excitement one minute, only to grow still in the next, before going back to it's usual thrum. Curious fog this was, very curious. Though there was no possible way it could harm him, it seemed to want to do nothing more than swallow him up and leaves his body forgotten on this forest floor. Speaking of which, this forest was quite dense. Of course, not as dense as the fog, but the combination of the two were certainly not acting favorably for John.

The morning continued, as John wandered, and the haze began to clear if only slightly. Up ahead, the sound of water lapping against pebbles greeted John's ears. Eventually, the fog's thickness subsided enough that John was able to find the edge of the woods, where he would then find himself on a beach of small black stones. There was nothing but silence, and the lapping of waves. It was peaceful, beautiful even. The water was dark and mysterious, juxtaposing the cheerful songs of the birds quite nicely. A lovely day. The fog thought so too.

However, like all beauty, the silence soon faded, as laughter and the sounds of conversation began to emerge from the fog, followed by two shapes.

Mephistophelian
[Mentioned: C.DEX ]​

 

[Mephistophelian]

Dense fog. Fog thicker than a stone wall, thicker than ten stone walls. Fog so vicious it appears inescapable, fog so voracious and simultaneously belligerent it seemed dangerous. That was where John was. In the fog, tendrils seeping into the cracks of his armor plating, filling the crevasis and wrapping around his flesh. It was strange, how this fog moved, how this haze thickened with excitement one minute, only to grow still in the next, before going back to it's usual thrum. Curious fog this was, very curious. Though there was no possible way it could harm him, it seemed to want to do nothing more than swallow him up and leaves his body forgotten on this forest floor. Speaking of which, this forest was quite dense. Of course, not as dense as the fog, but the combination of the two were certainly not acting favorably for John.

The morning continued, as John wandered, and the haze began to clear if only slightly. Up ahead, the sound of water lapping against pebbles greeted John's ears. Eventually, the fog's thickness subsided enough that John was able to find the edge of the woods, where he would then find himself on a beach of small black stones. There was nothing but silence, and the lapping of waves. It was peaceful, beautiful even. The water was dark and mysterious, juxtaposing the cheerful songs of the birds quite nicely. A lovely day. The fog thought so too.

However, like all beauty, the silence soon faded, as laughter and the sounds of conversation began to emerge from the fog, followed by two shapes.

Mephistophelian
[Mentioned: C.DEX ]​

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​

For one so fond of silence, John was nonetheless disturbed by the all-encompassing nature of this particular brand of quiet, and how easily he felt the urge to give in to the fog that had brought it. In nature, things were rarely perfect, and a perfect silence was one that this willow witch was very wary of. Years of experience screamed at John to act, but how does one act against fog? As if to answer, his right hand lifted up and across his body, subconsciously reaching for the star iron axe slung over his shoulder. It may not banish fog by itself, but the rune upon it was likely capable of such a feat. Before he could act upon his instincts, however, the silence was pierced by the welcoming - welcoming? - sound of voices. For perhaps the first time in his life - and he had lived a long life - John was relieved to have the silence broken by people speaking. The behemoth of a man turned towards the sound, hand still upon the haft of his axe; it would appear he had forgotten to release his grip. Should the pair approaching him pay any attention to the path they walked, they would see a man - nay, a giant - seemingly reaching for a concealed weapon. Any individual versed in combat, however, would note the lack of aggression in the large man's stance. The skittish, on the other hand, would see only the threat he poses. Once the pair approach near enough to be clearly heard, John's lips part to speak. The action is audible, and the thin crust that forms over silent lips can be heard breaking with the first, gravelly words.

"Ye art Faceless, art ye not?"

John's words are painfully archaic - almost as painful as the toll they seem to take on him - reflecting an education and culture that differs from the norm. It is now that his axe-bound grip relaxes, and the willow witch returns both hands to their respective positions. He remains, nonetheless, an imposing figure, made ever more imposing by the cloak of skins and furs slung over his armour; a covering made from the hides of beasts that take more than mere skill to kill; skin dancers, dire wolves, goblins, bears and the such. His armour, whilst not as well-kept as his helm, is similarly decorated with what appears to be ceremonial inscriptions, though it appears that many pieces have been replaced or repaired. Finally, in stark contrast to the rough and rugged appearance of the rest of his equipment, John would carry a pristine heater shield, mirror-like in appearance, slung loosely on his left thigh. In all, the willow witch seems to have gone through many battles to be in the state the travellers find him in.