StoneWolf18
Within the Depths of a Dream
Please keep this clear until we begin, thank you!
Our Story (In-Character)
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StoneWolf18
Within the Depths of a Dream
32st of Vol, 1308 A.B
[SIZE= 11px]---[/SIZE]
[SIZE= 40px]Wyrcolm Castle Dungeons[/SIZE]
It was safe to save that it had been a while. A long while. The cramped, dark, and piss scented dungeon was eerily quiet as the only sounds were the faint muttering or the shifting of one’s position along the floor. The guards hadn’t bothered making their daily rounds seeing as they were either asleep, drunk off their arse, or a cooling corpse in a ditch due some unfortunate circumstances. This also included a lack of food, and it had been for the last few days which was yet another upset to those undead or living within the cells. Most assumed it was because of winter nearing seeing as a chill had crept into the air and being unable to farm, other more faithful children claimed it to be Siris’ work. Whatever the case, not many were all too eager to talk about such things. Saving their energy for the basic will to live, although for some that wasn’t a choice.
Kiraan had been asleep, if it could even be called such as it was more closely akin to a forced state of unconsciousness to wait out eternity although that wasn't entirely possible. But she was roused via a light shake upon her shoulder and after a few moments the woman begrudgingly opened her eyes into a glare and gave the man a frown. “I understand you have some odd desire to sit there and wait-” she rasped unamused. “But I do not.” The younger undead shook his head but not without a chuckle. “Never know what you might miss while asleep, yet that wasn’t what I was going on about.” He gestured down the long dimly lit hall towards where the exit lay. “Scholars. Don’t think you’ve had the pleasure of meeting them, hm?” Boldwin gave a lopsided grin with various teeth missing and others chipped. With a sigh she forced herself into a sitting position while gazing off in that direction. “I’m assuming this isn’t going to be a pleasant experience…” The necromancer muttered, no response necessary for it was quite obvious. And there hadn’t been time for one either as the footsteps of boot heels clicking on the damp stone was next to deafening considering how long the had spent without any constant noise aside from faint whispers from each other. They stopped at various other cells before there, writing in a leather bound journal with a quill before moving onto the next in a silent and monotonous fashion.
It wasn’t long before they arrived before Boldwin and Kirran. Two humans, one relatively aged while the other possibly no older than twelve. “Describe.” The man gave the gruff order, face buried in the page of the book he carried while the boy nodded before gazing at the both and beginning to speak. “Two specimens, one appearing female and the other male, both undead-” She couldn’t resisting cutting him off rather sarcastically. “My, what an observation.” Her cell mate couldn’t resist holding back a chuckle while the child stood there dumbfounded. “M-master…. It spoke! It spoke!” This response only sent the transmutater into an even deeper pit of hilarity as the older man huffed. “Peter, don’t be daft. These things are mere animals. Now continue.” But Kirran couldn’t help but beat him to it, asking “Dear, is your master deaf?” He now visibly paled and shook his head, tugging on the sleeve of the scholar. “Master! I-it did it again!” Clearly annoyed he lowered his journal and frowned deeply. “Peter, do you want me to throw you in that bloody cell!? They are unable to comprehend sapient spee-” “Hehehe… I’d beg to differ.” Boldwin finally added, still fighting off remains of his laughing fit. Now the man’s expressions switched to one more confused. Adjusting the spectacles that sat upon his beak-esc nose before slowly saying in a rather stupid manner “Cccccaaaa-” Rolling her eyes, she dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “By the gods don’t strain yourself.” Her comment assisting the situation in any way, he soon grew increasingly curious, nearing the bars further while scribbling hastily in his book. “You can speak! This is a marvelous development...simply extraordinary!” “I do pity your lack of knowledge on the undead.” Kiraan continued, the man pausing while staring at her eagerly. “Such a hideous creature is-” The vampire cleared her throat, sending him a glare. “Thank you so very much for the reminder.” It took the man a moment to process the retort before adding it to his notes and turning to the boy. “Peter, stay here and keep it talking. I’ll go inform the commander to have all those that show sapient qualities removed from their cell and contained elsewhere for further study.” With that he soon raced off the boy remaining, clearly overwhelmed and uncertain with the current events. Cursing under her breath at the situation she now had put herself in, the woman sighed before asking the child “Why are you working with him? You look awfully young.” As he heard this, Peter frowned and tried to hold himself taller rather comically before replying “I lost my ma and pa in a house fire, and because Mr. Warthrop was a colleague of his, I was sent to study as his apprentice.” Boldwin’s gazed softened, although only Kiraan really noticed it considering he, like herself, lacked actual eyes at the moment. “But, how can you see me?” The orphan asked, a frown tugging on his small lips. “We can.” The other undead replied. “But we aren’t sure how. Yet I’m surprised at how fast you opened up, lad.” He offered a slight shrug. “I-it's been a few years…” Silence descended upon them for a moment before he bluntly asked “Do you eat human flesh like my master says?” “I guess we could, anyone could. I don’t but she might.” The man teased Kiraan, the boy’s gaze now set directly onto her. “He’s jesting. I don’t, at least not their flesh.” A faint smile touched her lips as Peter’s expression grew increasingly confused. “Peter was it? Everyone can become undead. Humans, elves, orcs…” “Then what are you?” “A vampire.” “Of the more undead variety.” Boldwin tossed in as the child was clearly conflicted on how to respond. He was most likely drilled into respecting the nobles that frequented the area, and having one before him that was not only near the top of the social order and bottom as well was more than confusing. But before he could form a reply, the heavy sound of steel-plated boots rang out as Dr. Warthrop walked back with guards in tow. “Take the female.” He instructed, the two heavily armored soldiers complying as the door was unlocked, one walking in and roughly pulling the mage to her feet wincing as she thought her arm was going to detach itself. “My study is open, there should be a cage or something of the sort you can put it in.” Turning to the other guard, he gestured for him and his apprentice to follow. “I’m sure there are others that are capable of speech, come! We must find them!”
OOC - MUST READ
Undead: If it wasn't obvious enough, I would like those accepted to make a post about their character's current status before they are interacted with by Peter, Mr. Warthrop (I really hope someone catches my reference), and the guards to be hauled off. End with the exiting the cell please.
Mortals: Your situation is a bit different considering they have no real reason to take you. Therefore I want you to explain your character's current status, have them react to the undead being taken out, and say that the scholar notices you taking interest and demands that they be taken as well to study how humans interact with "such creatures."
Lemme know if they're any question. The info about the date will be going up shortly as its different than our own.
[SIZE= 11px]---[/SIZE]
[SIZE= 40px]Wyrcolm Castle Dungeons[/SIZE]
It was safe to save that it had been a while. A long while. The cramped, dark, and piss scented dungeon was eerily quiet as the only sounds were the faint muttering or the shifting of one’s position along the floor. The guards hadn’t bothered making their daily rounds seeing as they were either asleep, drunk off their arse, or a cooling corpse in a ditch due some unfortunate circumstances. This also included a lack of food, and it had been for the last few days which was yet another upset to those undead or living within the cells. Most assumed it was because of winter nearing seeing as a chill had crept into the air and being unable to farm, other more faithful children claimed it to be Siris’ work. Whatever the case, not many were all too eager to talk about such things. Saving their energy for the basic will to live, although for some that wasn’t a choice.
Kiraan had been asleep, if it could even be called such as it was more closely akin to a forced state of unconsciousness to wait out eternity although that wasn't entirely possible. But she was roused via a light shake upon her shoulder and after a few moments the woman begrudgingly opened her eyes into a glare and gave the man a frown. “I understand you have some odd desire to sit there and wait-” she rasped unamused. “But I do not.” The younger undead shook his head but not without a chuckle. “Never know what you might miss while asleep, yet that wasn’t what I was going on about.” He gestured down the long dimly lit hall towards where the exit lay. “Scholars. Don’t think you’ve had the pleasure of meeting them, hm?” Boldwin gave a lopsided grin with various teeth missing and others chipped. With a sigh she forced herself into a sitting position while gazing off in that direction. “I’m assuming this isn’t going to be a pleasant experience…” The necromancer muttered, no response necessary for it was quite obvious. And there hadn’t been time for one either as the footsteps of boot heels clicking on the damp stone was next to deafening considering how long the had spent without any constant noise aside from faint whispers from each other. They stopped at various other cells before there, writing in a leather bound journal with a quill before moving onto the next in a silent and monotonous fashion.
It wasn’t long before they arrived before Boldwin and Kirran. Two humans, one relatively aged while the other possibly no older than twelve. “Describe.” The man gave the gruff order, face buried in the page of the book he carried while the boy nodded before gazing at the both and beginning to speak. “Two specimens, one appearing female and the other male, both undead-” She couldn’t resisting cutting him off rather sarcastically. “My, what an observation.” Her cell mate couldn’t resist holding back a chuckle while the child stood there dumbfounded. “M-master…. It spoke! It spoke!” This response only sent the transmutater into an even deeper pit of hilarity as the older man huffed. “Peter, don’t be daft. These things are mere animals. Now continue.” But Kirran couldn’t help but beat him to it, asking “Dear, is your master deaf?” He now visibly paled and shook his head, tugging on the sleeve of the scholar. “Master! I-it did it again!” Clearly annoyed he lowered his journal and frowned deeply. “Peter, do you want me to throw you in that bloody cell!? They are unable to comprehend sapient spee-” “Hehehe… I’d beg to differ.” Boldwin finally added, still fighting off remains of his laughing fit. Now the man’s expressions switched to one more confused. Adjusting the spectacles that sat upon his beak-esc nose before slowly saying in a rather stupid manner “Cccccaaaa-” Rolling her eyes, she dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “By the gods don’t strain yourself.” Her comment assisting the situation in any way, he soon grew increasingly curious, nearing the bars further while scribbling hastily in his book. “You can speak! This is a marvelous development...simply extraordinary!” “I do pity your lack of knowledge on the undead.” Kiraan continued, the man pausing while staring at her eagerly. “Such a hideous creature is-” The vampire cleared her throat, sending him a glare. “Thank you so very much for the reminder.” It took the man a moment to process the retort before adding it to his notes and turning to the boy. “Peter, stay here and keep it talking. I’ll go inform the commander to have all those that show sapient qualities removed from their cell and contained elsewhere for further study.” With that he soon raced off the boy remaining, clearly overwhelmed and uncertain with the current events. Cursing under her breath at the situation she now had put herself in, the woman sighed before asking the child “Why are you working with him? You look awfully young.” As he heard this, Peter frowned and tried to hold himself taller rather comically before replying “I lost my ma and pa in a house fire, and because Mr. Warthrop was a colleague of his, I was sent to study as his apprentice.” Boldwin’s gazed softened, although only Kiraan really noticed it considering he, like herself, lacked actual eyes at the moment. “But, how can you see me?” The orphan asked, a frown tugging on his small lips. “We can.” The other undead replied. “But we aren’t sure how. Yet I’m surprised at how fast you opened up, lad.” He offered a slight shrug. “I-it's been a few years…” Silence descended upon them for a moment before he bluntly asked “Do you eat human flesh like my master says?” “I guess we could, anyone could. I don’t but she might.” The man teased Kiraan, the boy’s gaze now set directly onto her. “He’s jesting. I don’t, at least not their flesh.” A faint smile touched her lips as Peter’s expression grew increasingly confused. “Peter was it? Everyone can become undead. Humans, elves, orcs…” “Then what are you?” “A vampire.” “Of the more undead variety.” Boldwin tossed in as the child was clearly conflicted on how to respond. He was most likely drilled into respecting the nobles that frequented the area, and having one before him that was not only near the top of the social order and bottom as well was more than confusing. But before he could form a reply, the heavy sound of steel-plated boots rang out as Dr. Warthrop walked back with guards in tow. “Take the female.” He instructed, the two heavily armored soldiers complying as the door was unlocked, one walking in and roughly pulling the mage to her feet wincing as she thought her arm was going to detach itself. “My study is open, there should be a cage or something of the sort you can put it in.” Turning to the other guard, he gestured for him and his apprentice to follow. “I’m sure there are others that are capable of speech, come! We must find them!”
OOC - MUST READ
Undead: If it wasn't obvious enough, I would like those accepted to make a post about their character's current status before they are interacted with by Peter, Mr. Warthrop (I really hope someone catches my reference), and the guards to be hauled off. End with the exiting the cell please.
Mortals: Your situation is a bit different considering they have no real reason to take you. Therefore I want you to explain your character's current status, have them react to the undead being taken out, and say that the scholar notices you taking interest and demands that they be taken as well to study how humans interact with "such creatures."
Lemme know if they're any question. The info about the date will be going up shortly as its different than our own.
Last edited by a moderator:
Dark Souls
Prepare to Die Edition
Takuoto's cell wasn't the most prestigious or well-kept of the bunch. Much of the masonry was poorly set, the stones that stayed in place chipped rather easily, and one of the window bars had fallen out of place a long time before he had been placed there. Starting when he discovered it, he'd taken to cradling it between his lap and his arm as he sat against a wall, as the feel of it reminded him of his greatsword. He'd chosen not to wear the ring at some point. As much as the reversion of his appearance was tempting, there was a sort of discomfort in altering his form like that. Though it was an unpleasant image to uphold, the sort of half-dead form he took without it was more natural, and felt as such. It wasn't something he was overjoyed to realize, and it was among the many thoughts that got him to wondering if perhaps the entire fiasco was simply a figment of his imagination, and that he was losing his mind in a much more normal sense. As time went on and nothing changed, that hope began to seem much less likely.
The only real commotion was when loud footfalls started making their way through the halls, and cell doors were being opened everywhere around him. He looked up to see that the halls were now being frequented by armored men, knights who he'd probably served with on one shift or another. They would have seen him as equals before, but now they were so painfully different. One entered his cell at one point and prompted Takuoto to speak. It was an unusual command to be sure, and considering how long he'd spoken not a word, it was surprisingly difficult to do so. He did manage, and opened his lips to ask, "Why?" That alone seemed to be enough, however, as the knight moved toward him and wrapped an arm about his shoulder, pulling him to an abrupt stand and practically tossing him out of the room. Takuoto was given the command to move, and he did so without much resistance. He had lost the bar which he used for comfort before, but even with it he wouldn't have been able to really accomplish anything to begin with. Practically naked, in the depths of a dungeon which he had previously sent criminals to himself, with little but the ring clutched in a fist, he had no room to resist even if he had the motivation to do so. There was still a question as to why he was being removed from his cell.
The only real commotion was when loud footfalls started making their way through the halls, and cell doors were being opened everywhere around him. He looked up to see that the halls were now being frequented by armored men, knights who he'd probably served with on one shift or another. They would have seen him as equals before, but now they were so painfully different. One entered his cell at one point and prompted Takuoto to speak. It was an unusual command to be sure, and considering how long he'd spoken not a word, it was surprisingly difficult to do so. He did manage, and opened his lips to ask, "Why?" That alone seemed to be enough, however, as the knight moved toward him and wrapped an arm about his shoulder, pulling him to an abrupt stand and practically tossing him out of the room. Takuoto was given the command to move, and he did so without much resistance. He had lost the bar which he used for comfort before, but even with it he wouldn't have been able to really accomplish anything to begin with. Practically naked, in the depths of a dungeon which he had previously sent criminals to himself, with little but the ring clutched in a fist, he had no room to resist even if he had the motivation to do so. There was still a question as to why he was being removed from his cell.
GabrielD921
A man who returned to this nation.
It's been a few days since jailers, accompanied by two peculiar scholars, began taking the prisoners behind bars. Alastair sat as he had been for a long time now, his back against the wall, his eyes darting from vagrands to the jailer whom he now knew better than those in the cells who lay on the floor as if truly dead, deprived of hope, will to live or happyness they felt before being cast down into this hole. Alastair's hole was no different from others; dirty, withered like his own body, slightly corroded bars, bits of rotten food he didn't bother to eat. His surroundings bothered him, but that mattered little against the fact that his chance of escape was very close. The scholars were his key, from what he had seen up until now he deducted that the scholars take interest in any "unordinary" undead and mortals who showed to have contact with the undead. He couldn't see the light of Inus nor the only deity he prays to from time to time, Voluna. Yet he can deduct when the lights of Gods shone above the dark stone. The shifts of the jailer gave him hints, the man's mouth jabbed frequently, giving him the pieces for the answer he sought: when the sun rises and when the moon takes it's place. It should be somewhere in the afternoon at the moment, the scholars should come for their next 'specimen' about now.
He was right, across the relatively silent hallway traveled the sound of a screeching door at the end of it, three voices, one was presumably older than the other, the third belonged to his 'favorite' jailer who is nearly at the end of his shift. They were accompanied by several armored men. No one caught their interest yet, they continued walking, Alastair waited just long enough so that they come near his cell. He reached for a small wooden plate with quite old food on it, he tucked the bits away and grasped the plate. As the men moved past, he threw the plate well enough to cause a racket. Now, to assure they had his attention, he prepared an act "Hah...ignorant mortals. I see you brimming with jealousy, the gift of immortality won't be given to you...". The jailer turned and the others with him, his hand already equipped with a wooden baton, he neared Alastair's cell "And here I thought ye' grew accustomed to them rules, pointy-ear. Lemme' show yer' place, wretch.". He was swift with his keys as he already entered his cell slowly raising his baton, he was interrupted "Halt! Take him with us! Such an excellent specimen, an undead Moon Elf. ". Goal accomplished, now the next part of waiting. The Pale Elf was grabbed rather violently, as expected, the poor man didn't get his inner sadist sated with elven blood. He was now moved out of the cell, but even so, the jailer didn't give him the dignity to walk on his own, he was merely dragged, like a freshly decapitated corpse from an execution.
He was right, across the relatively silent hallway traveled the sound of a screeching door at the end of it, three voices, one was presumably older than the other, the third belonged to his 'favorite' jailer who is nearly at the end of his shift. They were accompanied by several armored men. No one caught their interest yet, they continued walking, Alastair waited just long enough so that they come near his cell. He reached for a small wooden plate with quite old food on it, he tucked the bits away and grasped the plate. As the men moved past, he threw the plate well enough to cause a racket. Now, to assure they had his attention, he prepared an act "Hah...ignorant mortals. I see you brimming with jealousy, the gift of immortality won't be given to you...". The jailer turned and the others with him, his hand already equipped with a wooden baton, he neared Alastair's cell "And here I thought ye' grew accustomed to them rules, pointy-ear. Lemme' show yer' place, wretch.". He was swift with his keys as he already entered his cell slowly raising his baton, he was interrupted "Halt! Take him with us! Such an excellent specimen, an undead Moon Elf. ". Goal accomplished, now the next part of waiting. The Pale Elf was grabbed rather violently, as expected, the poor man didn't get his inner sadist sated with elven blood. He was now moved out of the cell, but even so, the jailer didn't give him the dignity to walk on his own, he was merely dragged, like a freshly decapitated corpse from an execution.
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Osthavula
Deliciously insightful one
Days past in the cold cell as Glenys woke up by the acute pain in her stomach. The red-haired lady blinked a few times, made sure there was no changes to this awful reality, and slowly pushed herself up while feeling upset. For days they had given them barely enough water, let alone scraps of food. She had experienced humility as she learned from Agnes ---- her neighbouring cellmate, a woman who was here long before her --- to search for things that fell in the hay or on the ground, and even attempting to chew on the straws. Glenys's boots she shared with Agnes, and as she watched her cellmate teeth sinking in the soft leather, she was shocked by the boney woman driven crazy by the pain and hunger. There were many moments Glenys felt her sanity slipping away like that, yet she held on to the thought of Lothar. Her beloved Lothar. Her love in the golden plate. She would not burn all her sanity and life in this pathetic cell, and she refused to think that when Lothar saw her she was any less of a human than before. Not that he would mind, of course. He would love her even if she turn undead or a child of the abyss like him. Glenys held on to those thoughts, in the dark room that was all that saved her.
She slowly climbed out of the straw bed, with her head nearly screeching with pain and dizzyness. But, unmistakably, there came the sound of footsteps. It wasn't the guards, as there was no metal clanging on the stone floor. The sound was softer, and more irregular. She waited, until she could see the source of the sound through Agnes's cell bars, then her own. An elder man and a child, she observed, walked through the corridor as the boy reported to the man the people in the cell. The young one frowned as he looked into Agnes cell, and saw Agnes curling up on her bed, hair covering her face. She was waking up though, as the sickly woman wiped her hair away from the face, and glanced back at the boy. Glenys was a bit relieved as Agnes seemed to feel better, after chewing her shoes, apparently.
"Human?"
"Yes master."
The old man shook his head, clicked his tongue, furrowed his brows and looked utterly disappointed. For no reason this irritated Glenys. The boy looked into her own cell and in turn saw her angry face. He was a bit taken back, but waited his master to call him again.
"Human?" The man asked again with an impatient tone.
"Y...Yes, master. "
"Hmph. What did I expect, really, looking into these boring cells." The man grumbled while his eyes never left the pages. Glenys saw the slight irony and smirk, but said nothing. "Only the discovery of talking undead....Truly remarkable...Extraordinary!"
This perked Glenys interest, as she listened more closely. Talking undead, he said, as if most undead did not learn to talk. Glenys assumed that this man was here to study people, possibly a scholar who didn't know what he was doing. She listened, expecting some input on undead around the place, and if possible, Lothar's news. But what she heard next was not what she expected. "These undead speciments, usually dumb and unable to comprehend sapient speech, was now able to develop a sense of how to pronounce syllables and speech! But what taught them to make such pro...."
He wasn't able to finish his speech. In his carelessness he stood too close to the cell, and Glenys in her fury darted towards him, her hand clawed his jaw and pulled his face back towards her, hitting the metal bars. What was in his hands fell and shattered on the ground, and his eyes widen in fear as Glenys clentched his face so much that his mouth gaped in a weird shape.
She moved in closer, her teeth grinding against each other she spoke, "Watch your mouth, old man."
Sadly, that was all her strength used in the moment of anger, as the man easily knock her hand away. He angrily stared at her with marks of her finger nails remained on his cheek. Still, fearlessly she stood right there where they could reach, she watched as the child helped the man picking up the fallen book and the quill. At first the man was going to say something, and then his gaze passed by her robe, and everything he was going to do abruptly stopped.
"Recreona....But..." The old man talked, sounding a lot weaker than before.
"Not anymore." Glenys glared at him."If you must know, I quited."
"But..But it was just rumours! The group that... study undead and reverse dead..."
"You should go out more. " Glenys said sharply.
"But you must tell!" He had forgotten the violence that befell him before, and raised his voice in protest. " We just met a breakthrough and as a member of Recreona you could provide much more information! "
"No."
He tried to convince her, but Glenys refused to help the man who dare badmouth undead, indirectly insulting Lothar. She crossed her arms and remained unmove, until the man threatened her. He yelled furiously, that he shall put her with the undead, see how she would cope then. He went off calling the guards, and left the child with her, and Agnes who moved closer, peering through the metal bar.
The child looked at her cautiously, obviously still hasn't forgotten her sudden outburst.
"If you still have conscience, see to it that the lady there is fed, will you? " She told the kid, who was surprised. He waited for a while, nodded, then neither of them spoke. Soon after, the scholar came with men who unlock the door, and took her away. Glenys looked at Agnes one final time, and Agnes worriedly watch her being pull away as quickly as she was sent here.
She slowly climbed out of the straw bed, with her head nearly screeching with pain and dizzyness. But, unmistakably, there came the sound of footsteps. It wasn't the guards, as there was no metal clanging on the stone floor. The sound was softer, and more irregular. She waited, until she could see the source of the sound through Agnes's cell bars, then her own. An elder man and a child, she observed, walked through the corridor as the boy reported to the man the people in the cell. The young one frowned as he looked into Agnes cell, and saw Agnes curling up on her bed, hair covering her face. She was waking up though, as the sickly woman wiped her hair away from the face, and glanced back at the boy. Glenys was a bit relieved as Agnes seemed to feel better, after chewing her shoes, apparently.
"Human?"
"Yes master."
The old man shook his head, clicked his tongue, furrowed his brows and looked utterly disappointed. For no reason this irritated Glenys. The boy looked into her own cell and in turn saw her angry face. He was a bit taken back, but waited his master to call him again.
"Human?" The man asked again with an impatient tone.
"Y...Yes, master. "
"Hmph. What did I expect, really, looking into these boring cells." The man grumbled while his eyes never left the pages. Glenys saw the slight irony and smirk, but said nothing. "Only the discovery of talking undead....Truly remarkable...Extraordinary!"
This perked Glenys interest, as she listened more closely. Talking undead, he said, as if most undead did not learn to talk. Glenys assumed that this man was here to study people, possibly a scholar who didn't know what he was doing. She listened, expecting some input on undead around the place, and if possible, Lothar's news. But what she heard next was not what she expected. "These undead speciments, usually dumb and unable to comprehend sapient speech, was now able to develop a sense of how to pronounce syllables and speech! But what taught them to make such pro...."
He wasn't able to finish his speech. In his carelessness he stood too close to the cell, and Glenys in her fury darted towards him, her hand clawed his jaw and pulled his face back towards her, hitting the metal bars. What was in his hands fell and shattered on the ground, and his eyes widen in fear as Glenys clentched his face so much that his mouth gaped in a weird shape.
She moved in closer, her teeth grinding against each other she spoke, "Watch your mouth, old man."
Sadly, that was all her strength used in the moment of anger, as the man easily knock her hand away. He angrily stared at her with marks of her finger nails remained on his cheek. Still, fearlessly she stood right there where they could reach, she watched as the child helped the man picking up the fallen book and the quill. At first the man was going to say something, and then his gaze passed by her robe, and everything he was going to do abruptly stopped.
"Recreona....But..." The old man talked, sounding a lot weaker than before.
"Not anymore." Glenys glared at him."If you must know, I quited."
"But..But it was just rumours! The group that... study undead and reverse dead..."
"You should go out more. " Glenys said sharply.
"But you must tell!" He had forgotten the violence that befell him before, and raised his voice in protest. " We just met a breakthrough and as a member of Recreona you could provide much more information! "
"No."
He tried to convince her, but Glenys refused to help the man who dare badmouth undead, indirectly insulting Lothar. She crossed her arms and remained unmove, until the man threatened her. He yelled furiously, that he shall put her with the undead, see how she would cope then. He went off calling the guards, and left the child with her, and Agnes who moved closer, peering through the metal bar.
The child looked at her cautiously, obviously still hasn't forgotten her sudden outburst.
"If you still have conscience, see to it that the lady there is fed, will you? " She told the kid, who was surprised. He waited for a while, nodded, then neither of them spoke. Soon after, the scholar came with men who unlock the door, and took her away. Glenys looked at Agnes one final time, and Agnes worriedly watch her being pull away as quickly as she was sent here.
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augmentedspartan
Surviving in the Metro
Wilhye didn't know how much time had passed since he was thrown into his cell. He assumed a few days, judging by the meals that had come his way, but he had the suspicion that guards didn't bother to feed them more than once a day, the growling of his stomach backed up this hypothesis, so it could have been more than that. Ernest's questions had finally stopped and he was still adamant about not talking about his own life, so the cell had fallen into silence, save for the chatter that came from outside. Wilhye, in order to avoid boredom, sat close to the door, trying to listen to any conversation that went around. Generally the only thing he would hear were the quiet conversations of the undead in the next cell talking to himself, which he soon realized wasn't the ramblings of a madman but him praying to Sirris. He didn't know how long it would take for Sirris promise of freedom to happen, but it sure was taking it's time. Something Ernest reminded him every once in a while. Thankfully, patient was one of his virtues, so he didn't mind waiting for Sirris to do her thing. He wasn't going to start praying to her on a daily basis like the man next door, though, that was a bit too much for him.
Eventually her promise came, but not in the way he expected. The scholars, accompanied by several guards, stopped in front of his cell. The older of the two gave him a quick look, looked towards Ernest, and then looked back in surprise. "What is this? An undead satyr? Never seen such a specimen," he said, inspecting him closely. "General aspect seems consistent with other undeads, although its fur seems for the most part intact." He stopped his observations to look at the young boy. "Don't just stand there, write this down!" The boy, spooked by the sudden outburst, fumbled with his book and started to write. The man went back to his inspection. "Hmmm, his left arm seems to be completely devoid of flesh. Most likely due to some incident before its jailing."
"If you're that curious, you could just ask." Responded Wilhye, who was looking at the scholar with interest of his own.
"Interesting. It seem the satyr is also capable of speech." His surprise at talking undead had decreased since he first entered the dungeon. "Guard, grab this one. We'll be taking it with us as well." The guards opened the cell and him harshly.
"What do you thi-" before he could finish his protests, he was hit on the back of the head with a wooden baton.
Eventually her promise came, but not in the way he expected. The scholars, accompanied by several guards, stopped in front of his cell. The older of the two gave him a quick look, looked towards Ernest, and then looked back in surprise. "What is this? An undead satyr? Never seen such a specimen," he said, inspecting him closely. "General aspect seems consistent with other undeads, although its fur seems for the most part intact." He stopped his observations to look at the young boy. "Don't just stand there, write this down!" The boy, spooked by the sudden outburst, fumbled with his book and started to write. The man went back to his inspection. "Hmmm, his left arm seems to be completely devoid of flesh. Most likely due to some incident before its jailing."
"If you're that curious, you could just ask." Responded Wilhye, who was looking at the scholar with interest of his own.
"Interesting. It seem the satyr is also capable of speech." His surprise at talking undead had decreased since he first entered the dungeon. "Guard, grab this one. We'll be taking it with us as well." The guards opened the cell and him harshly.
"What do you thi-" before he could finish his protests, he was hit on the back of the head with a wooden baton.
StoneWolf18
Within the Depths of a Dream
32st of Vol, 1308 A.B
---
Mr. Warthop's Laboratory
There wasn't much choice in the matter, although Kiraan didn't expect there to be any. Remaining limp, the undead woman was unwillingly dragged out of her cell by one guard, her frail and malnourished form not taking to the treatment well. She swore bruises would be aplenty based on how tight the guard was holding her, bringing her towards the bright torchlight. After having not seen such illumination for over thirty days, she squinted and kept her gazed focused on the stone floor, away from the many flames that lined the corridor. Yet that was the only the beginning as she was soon force up the very steps she had been pushed down, soon emerging through the heavy steel door and out into one of Wyrcolm castle's hallways. It had to have been nearly midday based on the amount of sunlight that was filtering through the grand windows on either side of her, the sudden slight not being pleasant in the slightest. Groaning somewhat, the guard that held her didn't tally as he continued to bring her down the brightly lit hallway.
It took quite a bit of time to reach the scholar's laboratory, the necromancer having closed her eyes on the way, nearly falling unconscious as she had trained herself to do. Yet that process was abruptly halted when the creaking of a wooden door was heard. Opening her eyes and squinting heavily, with the amount of equipment, a metal table most likely for dissection, and a multitude of cages, it was more than obvious that the man had been in the profession for quite some time. Searching about, the soldier that held her couldn't find a cage that was big enough to hold a large dog let alone herself, but was more than eager to be done with his task. Deciding that she wasn't going to cause any trouble, he let go of her, turning on a hobnail heel as she crumpled to the floor.
Slowly his footsteps fading....
Going...
Going...
Gone.
With this new found freedom, it filled her with a new vigor, although there wasn't much she could accomplish in a hollowed state. Standing with the assistance of the rather unsanitary steel table, Kiraan paused. A faint, almost indescribable tug was felt in the direction of a small chest on what appeared to be the scientist's desk. It was more than familiar and filled her with even more glee.
Her soulstone was near.
Rushing over to the desk as fast as her decrepit form would allow, she threw open the lid and began to search through the various pieces of jewelry until finally happening upon her own ring. Taking it firmly as if it were to disappear once more, she stopped suddenly. More footsteps, bringing more subject. Closing the lid softly, she made her way back to the portion of the room where she had been left, keeping the accessory hidden for there would't be enough time for the transformation to complete itself.
She watched as other undead and mortals were brought in one by one, it reminding her of how awful she appeared. Glancing towards the sole window in the room and having adjusted to the shear levels of light, Kiraan nearly cursed as she saw her faint reflection. A skeletal frame shroud in skin, grey and thinning hair atop her head, hollow pits instead of eyes... it was terrifying even for herself to witness. Sighing bitterly, she then returned to focus on the small group that had entered the room, knowing it wouldn't be long before the scholar arrived with his apprentice.
OOC - MUST READ
This is the time for characters to interact and introduce themselves! Get their possessions back and maybe share their thoughts on mortals, undead, other races, who knows?! Be creative but please don't do anything stupid and or rash as i I trust you all are mature and intelligent writers.
I'll advance the plot once everyone as posted a few times.
@Osthavula @GabrielD921 @augmentedspartan @Dark Souls
---
Mr. Warthop's Laboratory
There wasn't much choice in the matter, although Kiraan didn't expect there to be any. Remaining limp, the undead woman was unwillingly dragged out of her cell by one guard, her frail and malnourished form not taking to the treatment well. She swore bruises would be aplenty based on how tight the guard was holding her, bringing her towards the bright torchlight. After having not seen such illumination for over thirty days, she squinted and kept her gazed focused on the stone floor, away from the many flames that lined the corridor. Yet that was the only the beginning as she was soon force up the very steps she had been pushed down, soon emerging through the heavy steel door and out into one of Wyrcolm castle's hallways. It had to have been nearly midday based on the amount of sunlight that was filtering through the grand windows on either side of her, the sudden slight not being pleasant in the slightest. Groaning somewhat, the guard that held her didn't tally as he continued to bring her down the brightly lit hallway.
It took quite a bit of time to reach the scholar's laboratory, the necromancer having closed her eyes on the way, nearly falling unconscious as she had trained herself to do. Yet that process was abruptly halted when the creaking of a wooden door was heard. Opening her eyes and squinting heavily, with the amount of equipment, a metal table most likely for dissection, and a multitude of cages, it was more than obvious that the man had been in the profession for quite some time. Searching about, the soldier that held her couldn't find a cage that was big enough to hold a large dog let alone herself, but was more than eager to be done with his task. Deciding that she wasn't going to cause any trouble, he let go of her, turning on a hobnail heel as she crumpled to the floor.
Slowly his footsteps fading....
Going...
Going...
Gone.
With this new found freedom, it filled her with a new vigor, although there wasn't much she could accomplish in a hollowed state. Standing with the assistance of the rather unsanitary steel table, Kiraan paused. A faint, almost indescribable tug was felt in the direction of a small chest on what appeared to be the scientist's desk. It was more than familiar and filled her with even more glee.
Her soulstone was near.
Rushing over to the desk as fast as her decrepit form would allow, she threw open the lid and began to search through the various pieces of jewelry until finally happening upon her own ring. Taking it firmly as if it were to disappear once more, she stopped suddenly. More footsteps, bringing more subject. Closing the lid softly, she made her way back to the portion of the room where she had been left, keeping the accessory hidden for there would't be enough time for the transformation to complete itself.
She watched as other undead and mortals were brought in one by one, it reminding her of how awful she appeared. Glancing towards the sole window in the room and having adjusted to the shear levels of light, Kiraan nearly cursed as she saw her faint reflection. A skeletal frame shroud in skin, grey and thinning hair atop her head, hollow pits instead of eyes... it was terrifying even for herself to witness. Sighing bitterly, she then returned to focus on the small group that had entered the room, knowing it wouldn't be long before the scholar arrived with his apprentice.
OOC - MUST READ
This is the time for characters to interact and introduce themselves! Get their possessions back and maybe share their thoughts on mortals, undead, other races, who knows?! Be creative but please don't do anything stupid and or rash as i I trust you all are mature and intelligent writers.
I'll advance the plot once everyone as posted a few times.
@Osthavula @GabrielD921 @augmentedspartan @Dark Souls
Archon
Friendly Neighborhood Gem-Collector
Evrat had long since escaped his overwhelming plight of self-pity, his loathing for who he was persisted for a few days, indeed. Yet after that? It was replaced with anger and rage, anger at being stranded in a cell - the guards thought he was crazy - but he knew the truth, Sirris, the Dark Queen of the Abyss, she spoke to him, she entered his dreams and spoke to him. There had to be a reason, but it wasn't to be found behind steel bars, he screamed at the ceiling, pulled at the door, tried to use hay as a lockpick; he even bashed the walls with loose rocks for hours without end. Every day, maybe twice if he was too noisy, the guards would pay him a visit for the sole purpose of shutting him up. Needless to say, he now sat irritably in the corner bearing many broken bones, cuts and vicious bruises. Yet when a man is stripped of his life, such trivial facts become irrelevant; the pain had stopped a long time ago. In fact, everything had, the rotten smell of miserable lives draining away; decomposed flesh and bodily fluids of all manner, the cries of pain and torture that he had let loose in his first days, all that was left was his world - this tiny space that would be his home, his cell - even if the wounds he bore were still a burden to any activity, the silence they impeded on him was only temporary.
Echoing footsteps sounded down the spiral staircase, the Guards were coming. But no struggle nor screams followed their looming footfalls. It wasn't feeding time, nor were any prisoners "acting out". Execution perhaps? Maybe that would be a more generous fate, but the undead were soon to be led off, maybe minutes after the guards arrival. Or had it been an hour? Tracking time was difficult when all you had for occupation were your own thoughts. The former bandit pulled himself to the bars, his beard was long and scraggly, the former bulk he had possessed was largely shrivelled by malnourishment and dehydration, filth of every variety hugged his dry, damaged skin. Yet his resolve had not shaken. Ignoring the pain of his wounds, he pulled himself up to the bars, flashing as much a smile as he could muster to the guards. "Letting undead go now, are we? How about you let me go too? I'll... I'll reform, be good to society!" Evrat pleaded meekly. His words weren't his own, they were crafted by the despair of someone who was desperate, someone who had no hope. The guards merely laughed, whilst their leader just scoffed unamused. The notion that they could simply laugh it off, was sickening; an unbridled rage seemed to hook to Evrat's heart, he found his voice; and with it an inner-fury.
"DON'T YOU DARE WALK AWAY FROM ME, I'LL HAVE YOUR HEADS!" His deafening scream drowned out the dungeons, his now hungry-animal eyes pierced into the only person paying him any mind, the only one foolish enough to stare back. A boy, no... A free man... With an lack-of-self care, mixed with the aggression of a man with nothing left to live for, his hand shot out enough to grab the boys wrist, yanking him to the bars. "Please... Free me, free me... Or I'll gut you like a fish!" His voice started soft, but transitioned brutality into a crazy if not maniacal glee. Truth be told, Evrat's sanity had come under pressure long before this particularly day, whilst Knights might have the strength of will to outlast their days in silent misfortune. A former bandit has little to soothe his mind, no oaths, no good-deeds... No Gods.
"Peter you bloody fool! Don't stray so near the cells!" What ever words followed after that were nothing more than ringing, as a steeled fist connected itself with Evrat's jaw, sending him spiralling down to the cold-hard floor. It seems it was time for another beating. A familiar click was the only distinction from the ringing now caught in his head, swirling around his mind like a ravenous tornado.
"Wait... Yes, yes! This man will do quite nicely, pick him up. We need the creatures to interact with some of our own kind." Though the words were lost on the now-dazed rogue, he was aware enough to know his feet had left the ground. His body screamed out to resist, to battle for his freedom, or go down fighting at the very least... Yet alas, there was no resistance left his broken body could muster... This is it, this is the end. Alas, so ended the Bandit's Tale. Resigned to his pitiful fate, Evrat's eyes folded... And then blackness.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
What was once blackness, was soon keen awareness. Consciousness crept back in a most unpleasant way, Evrat let out a horribly pained groan as he was unceremoniously tossed to the ground. It was only when his eyes opened, that he realized he was alive, struggling to move, he was able to battle through the pain in order to rotate his head, all adrenaline he previously had was drained away as he realized there were no guards here, nor was this room a cell. He was free?! Or at least, in a manner of speaking, he was. Despite his vision still being clouded from his earlier ordeal, his awareness was enough so that he could make out a figure, or... figures. People, they weren't silver enough to be guards, were they undead? As Evrat strained his vision more, the appearance of the room began to take shape; it's true nature revealed, this was akin to a lab. But darker, much darker. It was a torture chamber for experimental purposes, did they mean to punish him for his earlier actions in a more... severe way? The thought sent a shuddering sense of fear down Evrat's spine.
Despite his current fitness, the rogue ignored the searing pain that swallowed the entirety of him in favour of pushing himself helplessly across the floor, he could not stand. Instead, he simply sat against the wall. By this point, his senses had returned to him, but more importantly his sanity, or most of it at least. Freedom from that accursed dungeon was what he screamed so adamantly for since his imprisonment here. Now he had to do something with that, his wish had come true; this bandit would be damned if he traded the dungeon for something worse... Yet alas, he could not move. How would he escape when he wasn't even able to stand up, let alone fight? This situation seemed hopeless, yet for some odd reason, that fact only drove his desire to act on this brief respite ever-more.
"Please... I need healing..." It was a long shot, but seeing as nobody in this room was a guard; there was little harm in trying, as of now Evrat was out of options in terms of an escape plan. Preserving his dignity meant little in exchange for his life.
Echoing footsteps sounded down the spiral staircase, the Guards were coming. But no struggle nor screams followed their looming footfalls. It wasn't feeding time, nor were any prisoners "acting out". Execution perhaps? Maybe that would be a more generous fate, but the undead were soon to be led off, maybe minutes after the guards arrival. Or had it been an hour? Tracking time was difficult when all you had for occupation were your own thoughts. The former bandit pulled himself to the bars, his beard was long and scraggly, the former bulk he had possessed was largely shrivelled by malnourishment and dehydration, filth of every variety hugged his dry, damaged skin. Yet his resolve had not shaken. Ignoring the pain of his wounds, he pulled himself up to the bars, flashing as much a smile as he could muster to the guards. "Letting undead go now, are we? How about you let me go too? I'll... I'll reform, be good to society!" Evrat pleaded meekly. His words weren't his own, they were crafted by the despair of someone who was desperate, someone who had no hope. The guards merely laughed, whilst their leader just scoffed unamused. The notion that they could simply laugh it off, was sickening; an unbridled rage seemed to hook to Evrat's heart, he found his voice; and with it an inner-fury.
"DON'T YOU DARE WALK AWAY FROM ME, I'LL HAVE YOUR HEADS!" His deafening scream drowned out the dungeons, his now hungry-animal eyes pierced into the only person paying him any mind, the only one foolish enough to stare back. A boy, no... A free man... With an lack-of-self care, mixed with the aggression of a man with nothing left to live for, his hand shot out enough to grab the boys wrist, yanking him to the bars. "Please... Free me, free me... Or I'll gut you like a fish!" His voice started soft, but transitioned brutality into a crazy if not maniacal glee. Truth be told, Evrat's sanity had come under pressure long before this particularly day, whilst Knights might have the strength of will to outlast their days in silent misfortune. A former bandit has little to soothe his mind, no oaths, no good-deeds... No Gods.
"Peter you bloody fool! Don't stray so near the cells!" What ever words followed after that were nothing more than ringing, as a steeled fist connected itself with Evrat's jaw, sending him spiralling down to the cold-hard floor. It seems it was time for another beating. A familiar click was the only distinction from the ringing now caught in his head, swirling around his mind like a ravenous tornado.
"Wait... Yes, yes! This man will do quite nicely, pick him up. We need the creatures to interact with some of our own kind." Though the words were lost on the now-dazed rogue, he was aware enough to know his feet had left the ground. His body screamed out to resist, to battle for his freedom, or go down fighting at the very least... Yet alas, there was no resistance left his broken body could muster... This is it, this is the end. Alas, so ended the Bandit's Tale. Resigned to his pitiful fate, Evrat's eyes folded... And then blackness.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
What was once blackness, was soon keen awareness. Consciousness crept back in a most unpleasant way, Evrat let out a horribly pained groan as he was unceremoniously tossed to the ground. It was only when his eyes opened, that he realized he was alive, struggling to move, he was able to battle through the pain in order to rotate his head, all adrenaline he previously had was drained away as he realized there were no guards here, nor was this room a cell. He was free?! Or at least, in a manner of speaking, he was. Despite his vision still being clouded from his earlier ordeal, his awareness was enough so that he could make out a figure, or... figures. People, they weren't silver enough to be guards, were they undead? As Evrat strained his vision more, the appearance of the room began to take shape; it's true nature revealed, this was akin to a lab. But darker, much darker. It was a torture chamber for experimental purposes, did they mean to punish him for his earlier actions in a more... severe way? The thought sent a shuddering sense of fear down Evrat's spine.
Despite his current fitness, the rogue ignored the searing pain that swallowed the entirety of him in favour of pushing himself helplessly across the floor, he could not stand. Instead, he simply sat against the wall. By this point, his senses had returned to him, but more importantly his sanity, or most of it at least. Freedom from that accursed dungeon was what he screamed so adamantly for since his imprisonment here. Now he had to do something with that, his wish had come true; this bandit would be damned if he traded the dungeon for something worse... Yet alas, he could not move. How would he escape when he wasn't even able to stand up, let alone fight? This situation seemed hopeless, yet for some odd reason, that fact only drove his desire to act on this brief respite ever-more.
"Please... I need healing..." It was a long shot, but seeing as nobody in this room was a guard; there was little harm in trying, as of now Evrat was out of options in terms of an escape plan. Preserving his dignity meant little in exchange for his life.
augmentedspartan
Surviving in the Metro
"Grrrn! Will you stop being being so useless and help carry this thing!" one of the guards asked, trying different positions in which to carry Wilhye's unconscious body. It wasn't that he was heavy, quite the opposite seeing as he was mostly bones and loose skin, but his immense size was making it difficult for the two guards to carry him. They tried several ways, including dragging him along the ground like a sac of potatoes, but whatever they tried ended with both Wilhye and one of the guards tripping and falling onto the ground.
"Shut yer trap! I'm doin' my part. Yer the wimpy one who can't keep it 'em still." The second guard tried to get a better grip, holding the satyr's arm around his neck. That still left them dragging his feet behind, making it a slow and arduous process. "How is it so heavy? I've seen more meat on a roasted chicken after yer wife had her way with it."
"It's too tall and too skinny." The guard took a second to process what the other one said. "Screw you." They continued to drag the body until eventually they reached the laboratory. Once there, they opened the door and unceremoniously let Wilhye fall in face first. His only response was to give a tired and pained grunt, still not fully awake. "There. That ought to do it. Next time we'll get a mule to drag it. Ask your sister if she's available." With a sarcastic laugh from the other, they closed the door and went to get the next undead.
With another grunt, this one a bit more pained, Wilhye slowly turned around until he was facing the ceiling. Sitting up, he looked around trying to get his bearings. Last thing he remembered was one of the guards getting grabby, and him fighting back. At least he thought he fought back, since almost everything hurt. Felt like he had been dragged down a mountain. 'Tossers,' he mumbled to himself. Next time he'll burn their eyebrows off, see how they liked that. Stumbling and almost falling, he stood up to get a better look. The first thing he noticed was that the ceiling was quite high. Neat, no worries about standing too fast and hitting his head. In fact, the entire room was massive, decorated with several tools he recognized, plenty he didn't, and a lot more that he wasn't even sure were tools or just jagged bits of junk. Walking around, he picked and tinkered with random objects. Knives, measuring items, vials of filled with liquids; there were plenty of things scattered around. Eventually, carelessness poked its head and he dropped one of the vials on the ground, where it shattered and its content slowly dripped out. Wilhye looked at it for a moment, before turning around and leaving it be. Not his problem.
Taking a second look, he noticed that he wasn't the only one in the room. There were two others with him, each one looking miserable in their own way. One of the two was undead, and looked worse than he did, or maybe better; hard to tell two corpses appart, really. Before he could say anything he heard the human ask for help. He also looked pretty bad, although for different, non-undead reasons. Wilhye was sure human bones weren't supposed to bend that way. "Well, lad," he said, crouching next to him to get to eye level, or as close as he could, his height still making tower over the human. "Seems like I wasn't the only one kicked by a mule on the way here."
"Shut yer trap! I'm doin' my part. Yer the wimpy one who can't keep it 'em still." The second guard tried to get a better grip, holding the satyr's arm around his neck. That still left them dragging his feet behind, making it a slow and arduous process. "How is it so heavy? I've seen more meat on a roasted chicken after yer wife had her way with it."
"It's too tall and too skinny." The guard took a second to process what the other one said. "Screw you." They continued to drag the body until eventually they reached the laboratory. Once there, they opened the door and unceremoniously let Wilhye fall in face first. His only response was to give a tired and pained grunt, still not fully awake. "There. That ought to do it. Next time we'll get a mule to drag it. Ask your sister if she's available." With a sarcastic laugh from the other, they closed the door and went to get the next undead.
With another grunt, this one a bit more pained, Wilhye slowly turned around until he was facing the ceiling. Sitting up, he looked around trying to get his bearings. Last thing he remembered was one of the guards getting grabby, and him fighting back. At least he thought he fought back, since almost everything hurt. Felt like he had been dragged down a mountain. 'Tossers,' he mumbled to himself. Next time he'll burn their eyebrows off, see how they liked that. Stumbling and almost falling, he stood up to get a better look. The first thing he noticed was that the ceiling was quite high. Neat, no worries about standing too fast and hitting his head. In fact, the entire room was massive, decorated with several tools he recognized, plenty he didn't, and a lot more that he wasn't even sure were tools or just jagged bits of junk. Walking around, he picked and tinkered with random objects. Knives, measuring items, vials of filled with liquids; there were plenty of things scattered around. Eventually, carelessness poked its head and he dropped one of the vials on the ground, where it shattered and its content slowly dripped out. Wilhye looked at it for a moment, before turning around and leaving it be. Not his problem.
Taking a second look, he noticed that he wasn't the only one in the room. There were two others with him, each one looking miserable in their own way. One of the two was undead, and looked worse than he did, or maybe better; hard to tell two corpses appart, really. Before he could say anything he heard the human ask for help. He also looked pretty bad, although for different, non-undead reasons. Wilhye was sure human bones weren't supposed to bend that way. "Well, lad," he said, crouching next to him to get to eye level, or as close as he could, his height still making tower over the human. "Seems like I wasn't the only one kicked by a mule on the way here."
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Dark Souls
Prepare to Die Edition
As his feet slid across the ground, striking the many unevenly-paved stones along the way as he lacked the strength to consistently avoid them, Takuoto began to recognize how crowded the halls had become. He paid more attention to his surroundings and confirmed that there were several other groups like him. Pairs of knights and guards alike cooperated to lug along a number of other Undead, all of whom were shriveled to near-identical corpselike figures that should not have been able to live. In a sense, they had all died before, so perhaps 'living' wasn't the correct word, and none of them were moving much either. It was another reminder of how powerless they had all become. His only real solace was in two facts: The first was that he still held that strange ring, which seemed to return his strength to some extent if he could wear it in the future. The second was that, whether he was heading to an execution or he lived to see what Sirris had warned him of, this would end soon. He already had ideas of what he might do if given the chance to leave. He did make an effort not to think too much of them, though, as there were still doubts that he'd be able to do so. Even with the ring, he was uncertain of just how much strength would be returned. Would he ever be able to lift a greatsword again? The question troubled him, and he pushed it from his mind as best he could.
Differing halls of gray stone and, eventually, pearlescent tile blurred together, and Takuoto lost track of time and distance. At some point, a door was opened, and he was pushed through it. Down he went onto a floor that, as hard as it remained, was still significantly more comfortable than that of the cell he'd been in not too long ago. With his dull senses, he couldn't quite tell whether it was paved or wooden, but in the meantime he was just thankful enough that he still had the strength to cushion his fall with a forearm rather than his face alone. It was immediately obvious that he was not alone in the room, what with all the shuffling about and the talking, and so he decided to stand on two feet instead of letting himself lay. It still took some effort, but simply having the choice to stand, let alone the ability, seemed to set him apart from some of the less-fit Undead. He felt genuine pity for them. His current state wasn't something pleasant in any sense of the word, and it was one he would never wish upon another man. Being so sapped of strength as to beg other Undead for miraculous healing, as one did, was far beyond even his own suffering, and it inspired him not to consider himself so unfortunate when he began seeing things in a relative sense.
He turned his head, focusing his purely ethereal eyes on the details of the room around him. It seemed to be some kind of study, with desks and workstations littering the space. A great many lockboxes and other containers were strewn about the surfaces present, and a few seemed to have been ransacked recently- Likely the work of a certain Undead, who clutched at ring eerily similar to his. He felt the urge to take it, and was surprised, as never before had he been so tempted to steal from a stranger, much less to take something so clearly important. If these rings were tied to their souls, then would all Undead seek them, regardless of their owner? It was a sudden conclusion, and perhaps a bit paranoid, but it felt like one worth considering. His ring represented what strength he possessed before Sirris claimed him, and if he felt such a natural craving for them, he was afraid of what others might feel for his. He would have to hold it close, and watch others carefully. Being so on-guard was something he was used to, but lacking any real strength or protection kept him from being comfortable with the familiar feelings.
He wasn't really sure what drew his gaze there, and probably never would be, but at some point he looked to a particular corner of the room, where a mannequin had been placed. Like a true Wyrcolm Knight, it stood tall there at the opposite end of the room, proudly bearing a set of armor Takuoto couldn't forget if he wanted to. It was almost painfully familiar, being the same model of plate that he'd worn on a regular basis until his imprisonment. It had a great many edges and flat, sharply-defined planes, with sabatons which flared near the foot to give the distinctive sound that only a knight of Wyrcolm made in their tread, each step having sounded halfway between a stomp and the most beautiful bell. It was a sound which still played in his head, as it had rung through his helmet far too many times during his regular marches. The left arm possessed a massive, rounded pauldron which almost looked out of place in the otherwise heavily angular armor set. Behind that pauldron was a half-collar which rose above the shoulder to curve about and cover the left side of the helmet, rising roughly halfway up before ceasing. With the helmet, the necessity of such a collar was debatable, as the triangular faceplate that wrapped around the front of the helmet would be unlikely to allow much more than air and light through, as only the collection of holes dotting it could ever hope to connect the in and outside space. From the back, Takuoto knew there would be a port for the owner's decoration of choice, usually a plume or small flag. His own was adorned with a great red plume that had arced far past his neck and down his back, flowing easily with the turn of his head and even remaining in the air in front of him should he turn fast enough.
Takuoto approached the stand, allowing himself a closer look at the familiar armor model. Even with his poor senses, he could easily pick out any details he recalled from his own experience- A rivet here, an unusual curve there, that one particular point where it would chafe incessantly if the wearer didn't bind a cloth underneath... It forced him to remember many things about his great service with his similar armor, and the thoughts came uncomfortably close to drawing tears from his eyes. Of course, the tears would never come, as he now lacked the functioning biology to produce them, but it did not dissuade his emotions as he lamented his misfortune anew.
Differing halls of gray stone and, eventually, pearlescent tile blurred together, and Takuoto lost track of time and distance. At some point, a door was opened, and he was pushed through it. Down he went onto a floor that, as hard as it remained, was still significantly more comfortable than that of the cell he'd been in not too long ago. With his dull senses, he couldn't quite tell whether it was paved or wooden, but in the meantime he was just thankful enough that he still had the strength to cushion his fall with a forearm rather than his face alone. It was immediately obvious that he was not alone in the room, what with all the shuffling about and the talking, and so he decided to stand on two feet instead of letting himself lay. It still took some effort, but simply having the choice to stand, let alone the ability, seemed to set him apart from some of the less-fit Undead. He felt genuine pity for them. His current state wasn't something pleasant in any sense of the word, and it was one he would never wish upon another man. Being so sapped of strength as to beg other Undead for miraculous healing, as one did, was far beyond even his own suffering, and it inspired him not to consider himself so unfortunate when he began seeing things in a relative sense.
He turned his head, focusing his purely ethereal eyes on the details of the room around him. It seemed to be some kind of study, with desks and workstations littering the space. A great many lockboxes and other containers were strewn about the surfaces present, and a few seemed to have been ransacked recently- Likely the work of a certain Undead, who clutched at ring eerily similar to his. He felt the urge to take it, and was surprised, as never before had he been so tempted to steal from a stranger, much less to take something so clearly important. If these rings were tied to their souls, then would all Undead seek them, regardless of their owner? It was a sudden conclusion, and perhaps a bit paranoid, but it felt like one worth considering. His ring represented what strength he possessed before Sirris claimed him, and if he felt such a natural craving for them, he was afraid of what others might feel for his. He would have to hold it close, and watch others carefully. Being so on-guard was something he was used to, but lacking any real strength or protection kept him from being comfortable with the familiar feelings.
He wasn't really sure what drew his gaze there, and probably never would be, but at some point he looked to a particular corner of the room, where a mannequin had been placed. Like a true Wyrcolm Knight, it stood tall there at the opposite end of the room, proudly bearing a set of armor Takuoto couldn't forget if he wanted to. It was almost painfully familiar, being the same model of plate that he'd worn on a regular basis until his imprisonment. It had a great many edges and flat, sharply-defined planes, with sabatons which flared near the foot to give the distinctive sound that only a knight of Wyrcolm made in their tread, each step having sounded halfway between a stomp and the most beautiful bell. It was a sound which still played in his head, as it had rung through his helmet far too many times during his regular marches. The left arm possessed a massive, rounded pauldron which almost looked out of place in the otherwise heavily angular armor set. Behind that pauldron was a half-collar which rose above the shoulder to curve about and cover the left side of the helmet, rising roughly halfway up before ceasing. With the helmet, the necessity of such a collar was debatable, as the triangular faceplate that wrapped around the front of the helmet would be unlikely to allow much more than air and light through, as only the collection of holes dotting it could ever hope to connect the in and outside space. From the back, Takuoto knew there would be a port for the owner's decoration of choice, usually a plume or small flag. His own was adorned with a great red plume that had arced far past his neck and down his back, flowing easily with the turn of his head and even remaining in the air in front of him should he turn fast enough.
Takuoto approached the stand, allowing himself a closer look at the familiar armor model. Even with his poor senses, he could easily pick out any details he recalled from his own experience- A rivet here, an unusual curve there, that one particular point where it would chafe incessantly if the wearer didn't bind a cloth underneath... It forced him to remember many things about his great service with his similar armor, and the thoughts came uncomfortably close to drawing tears from his eyes. Of course, the tears would never come, as he now lacked the functioning biology to produce them, but it did not dissuade his emotions as he lamented his misfortune anew.
GabrielD921
A man who returned to this nation.
Perhaps this wasn't the chance he thought it would be? The pale elf felt pain fill his feet which were dragged across stone for quite some time now. He didn't pay much attention to what area they had gone through, except if they went up towards the light and freedom he craved, but he that wasn't what he truly yearned for. He almost forgot his one and only goal in this miserable existence, the life of undead is truly a curse. Time was his gift and curse. Yet that is what drove his resolve, thanks to that he kept his own mind from withering away as his body did. Many have failed in that regard, to keep their soul, their true heart. A great amount of them lost resolve, faith and turned to despair. Some even dared to turn to the gods of old, prayers spoken for the first time in their lives. Alastair wasn't faithless, he still followed some of the traditions of the Moon Elves and kept the goddess in his thoughts most of the time. Yet he stopped praying in the recent years, why? He doesn't know, maybe this is the punshiment, either way, his faith in gods weakened considerable, they couldn't bring solace to his pain so he began to think only through his own action he can.
Whether this was a chance or not, he took it, he let himself be humiliated and shunned for this moment which was about to come. Yet what will it be? Death? Torture? Altough, if scholars took him, that ment experiments, pointless experiments to rid themselves of ignorance, the thirst for knowledge about the unkown, which they feared. One trait all mortal souls carried with them. The scholars seemed the type that exhausts their resources and research material easily, they will let their carefulness go the moment their asset strapped on a crude bed let out it's last breath. He was almost sure of that, but that doesn't mean there will be absence of pain, he will feel it. It will be pain that can break his treasured resolve. He will just have to endure.
_________________________________________
Stairs, up or down? Light or Darkness? Will he be thrown into the abyss again? Fate decided otherwise, they stepped toward the light and that reassured him and gave him some form of relief, the knowledge he was closer to the light warmed his cold body slightly, as if he was drinking a fine beverage. Now came another hallway, several turns to the left and a few to the right. The pale elf felt a slight decrease in the walking pace of the men holding him. It wasn't fatigue, his body was far too light for that and they weren't fully armored. But perhaps they carried him in an uncomfortable way for them? The mage wasn't comfortable either, but their reduced speed could mean they neared their destination. He still felt death around him, but it wasn't the dungeon anymore. He felt something different too, something which reminded him of his existence, of his curse but also provided comfort. He wasn't sure what it was, but it was stronger with each step the men holding him took. As he thought, it wasn't long before they stopped completely, doors screached from rust and the older scholar spoke "Put it inside, don't bother locking it up again.". The men shrugged and nodded with lack of enthusiasm, it was clear they wanted to get out of this place, have a few bottles of mead and ale, chat about whores and whatnot. As such they moved Alastair inside and without dawdling threw him on the floor, which wasn't a dirty one. Well, just not as dirty as the one he was used to in the depths of the dungeon.
The men and the scholars left without further words and shut the door behind him. He was still for a moment, his strength was below the average. He was stiff from the lack of movement and his current physical state. The pale elf mustered his strength and placed the palms of his hands on the floor, slowly but surely raising himself from the ground. He was finally able to do so without a jailer's interference, at last he could use his own strength. He concentrated his mind to examine the surroundings. It was clearly a place of the scholars. This is where they hope to gain knowlegde about the unkown, so that they loose their fear. There were many tools scattered around. He knew most of them and some of them Alastair even used, but there were still things he did not recognise, new additions, recent ones. There were also a few cages, fairly small, he certainly wouldn't fit in one piece. That was probably the reason why they didn't lock him up in one, but it was still fairly unusual that he himself wasn't in chains. He could do anything here, sabotage the equipment, commit suicide, look at any and all research acumulated, escape. The amount of freedom was suspicious, he was brought here for a different reason, there was an ulterior motive, he thought. He continued to look around and only then noticed he wasn't alone. Four figures, much to his suprise, not jailers, torturers or scholars. Three were like him, Children of the Abyss, nothing but prisoners of time and the dark. One was mortal, in a bad shape, injuries recieved not from torture or experiments, but most likely from guards or jailers.
He was about to speak to them and acquire information, for all he had were assumptions and theories. Alastair was prepared to speak, but his attention was shifted towards an odd feeling, feeling he felt earlier in the hallway while he was dragged helplessly. The thing which reminded him of his pitiful existence and what brought him comfort at the same time, he now knew what it was he felt, his own Soul stone. The pale elf uttered with dibelief "Impossible-", he abrubtly turned towards a chest, quite large but ordinary, made out of wood. If he had eyes, one could see a wild flame of new found strength and ambition. His rotted body moved forward, quickly. Alastair reached out with his hands and opened the chest without hesitation. Inside he found his own belongings which he did not lay his eyes upon for a while. The pale elf recognised the robes placed inside, colored with a pale blue and decorated with elven art native to his homeland. It reminded him of his kin, the days without troubles and for a small instant he saw the Moon itself iluminating him, which disoriented him and Alastair shook his head, a vision, perhaps his mind did take damage after all...
The lack of freedom and life seems to have made him even more faithless of gods, perhaps he should not forget Voluna and keep the Moon goddess in his thoughts more frequently, this new found wisdom formed a faint smile on his face. His eyes shifted to his his armor he fashioned above the robes when he wore his attire. The armor was crafted in the elven forges of the Moon, light and durable. And as it is widely known, elves, no matter which ones, love to place their art everywhere. His armor was decorated in a similiar fashion as the robes. The most important things of all were at this time his rings. Two of them were made from silver, with a small snowy gem placed in each, the rings lacked any other decorations. The third ring however, was very different; it was dark, decorated with white runes and a purple stone placed in it. Alastair grasped it in his frail hands and he immediately felt warm, strong and more alive. He took a few good moments to cherish these feelings before waking up back into the reality. Such is the power of the soulstone, he was tempted to put it on but he wasn't sure if his transformation would be quick enough in case the scholars returned. He was in thought and consideration, but then realised he was just wasting time, his belongings wouldn't be here if he wasn't meant to use them, as such he donned the silver rings on his left hand, one on the index finger and the other on the middle finger. The Soul stone was on his right hand, resting nicely on the index. He felt even more of his strength come back and began slowly donning some of his clothes.
Whether this was a chance or not, he took it, he let himself be humiliated and shunned for this moment which was about to come. Yet what will it be? Death? Torture? Altough, if scholars took him, that ment experiments, pointless experiments to rid themselves of ignorance, the thirst for knowledge about the unkown, which they feared. One trait all mortal souls carried with them. The scholars seemed the type that exhausts their resources and research material easily, they will let their carefulness go the moment their asset strapped on a crude bed let out it's last breath. He was almost sure of that, but that doesn't mean there will be absence of pain, he will feel it. It will be pain that can break his treasured resolve. He will just have to endure.
_________________________________________
Stairs, up or down? Light or Darkness? Will he be thrown into the abyss again? Fate decided otherwise, they stepped toward the light and that reassured him and gave him some form of relief, the knowledge he was closer to the light warmed his cold body slightly, as if he was drinking a fine beverage. Now came another hallway, several turns to the left and a few to the right. The pale elf felt a slight decrease in the walking pace of the men holding him. It wasn't fatigue, his body was far too light for that and they weren't fully armored. But perhaps they carried him in an uncomfortable way for them? The mage wasn't comfortable either, but their reduced speed could mean they neared their destination. He still felt death around him, but it wasn't the dungeon anymore. He felt something different too, something which reminded him of his existence, of his curse but also provided comfort. He wasn't sure what it was, but it was stronger with each step the men holding him took. As he thought, it wasn't long before they stopped completely, doors screached from rust and the older scholar spoke "Put it inside, don't bother locking it up again.". The men shrugged and nodded with lack of enthusiasm, it was clear they wanted to get out of this place, have a few bottles of mead and ale, chat about whores and whatnot. As such they moved Alastair inside and without dawdling threw him on the floor, which wasn't a dirty one. Well, just not as dirty as the one he was used to in the depths of the dungeon.
The men and the scholars left without further words and shut the door behind him. He was still for a moment, his strength was below the average. He was stiff from the lack of movement and his current physical state. The pale elf mustered his strength and placed the palms of his hands on the floor, slowly but surely raising himself from the ground. He was finally able to do so without a jailer's interference, at last he could use his own strength. He concentrated his mind to examine the surroundings. It was clearly a place of the scholars. This is where they hope to gain knowlegde about the unkown, so that they loose their fear. There were many tools scattered around. He knew most of them and some of them Alastair even used, but there were still things he did not recognise, new additions, recent ones. There were also a few cages, fairly small, he certainly wouldn't fit in one piece. That was probably the reason why they didn't lock him up in one, but it was still fairly unusual that he himself wasn't in chains. He could do anything here, sabotage the equipment, commit suicide, look at any and all research acumulated, escape. The amount of freedom was suspicious, he was brought here for a different reason, there was an ulterior motive, he thought. He continued to look around and only then noticed he wasn't alone. Four figures, much to his suprise, not jailers, torturers or scholars. Three were like him, Children of the Abyss, nothing but prisoners of time and the dark. One was mortal, in a bad shape, injuries recieved not from torture or experiments, but most likely from guards or jailers.
He was about to speak to them and acquire information, for all he had were assumptions and theories. Alastair was prepared to speak, but his attention was shifted towards an odd feeling, feeling he felt earlier in the hallway while he was dragged helplessly. The thing which reminded him of his pitiful existence and what brought him comfort at the same time, he now knew what it was he felt, his own Soul stone. The pale elf uttered with dibelief "Impossible-", he abrubtly turned towards a chest, quite large but ordinary, made out of wood. If he had eyes, one could see a wild flame of new found strength and ambition. His rotted body moved forward, quickly. Alastair reached out with his hands and opened the chest without hesitation. Inside he found his own belongings which he did not lay his eyes upon for a while. The pale elf recognised the robes placed inside, colored with a pale blue and decorated with elven art native to his homeland. It reminded him of his kin, the days without troubles and for a small instant he saw the Moon itself iluminating him, which disoriented him and Alastair shook his head, a vision, perhaps his mind did take damage after all...
The lack of freedom and life seems to have made him even more faithless of gods, perhaps he should not forget Voluna and keep the Moon goddess in his thoughts more frequently, this new found wisdom formed a faint smile on his face. His eyes shifted to his his armor he fashioned above the robes when he wore his attire. The armor was crafted in the elven forges of the Moon, light and durable. And as it is widely known, elves, no matter which ones, love to place their art everywhere. His armor was decorated in a similiar fashion as the robes. The most important things of all were at this time his rings. Two of them were made from silver, with a small snowy gem placed in each, the rings lacked any other decorations. The third ring however, was very different; it was dark, decorated with white runes and a purple stone placed in it. Alastair grasped it in his frail hands and he immediately felt warm, strong and more alive. He took a few good moments to cherish these feelings before waking up back into the reality. Such is the power of the soulstone, he was tempted to put it on but he wasn't sure if his transformation would be quick enough in case the scholars returned. He was in thought and consideration, but then realised he was just wasting time, his belongings wouldn't be here if he wasn't meant to use them, as such he donned the silver rings on his left hand, one on the index finger and the other on the middle finger. The Soul stone was on his right hand, resting nicely on the index. He felt even more of his strength come back and began slowly donning some of his clothes.
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Osthavula
Deliciously insightful one
Pretty sure that the ill-willed scholar gave the guards extra tip, because the two men pulled her arms behind her, twisted it so she could only walk with her back bended, and needlessly strong with their grip on a young woman who was visually thin and lack the strength to fight back. To add on to that, they were not very careful with their steps. On the third time the guard accidentally kicked behind her knee, she was getting quite annoyed at his fake sorry.
"Say, when you apologize to someone, like your mom, do they punch you in the face instead?"
The guard did not get angry, but instead chuckled and gave Glenys's twisted arm a few pat. "This girl knows the deal, eh?" The other guard laughed too, and hit her head so hard, her ears rang and she lost her balance. It caused the guards to laugh even louder, their disgusting voice echoed in the hallway and the cells. She attempted to kick, but it only made a slight clang with their plate, their laugh rousing the imprisoned lots, all could barely sit and speak up.
"Hey, grab her hair. She's looking in the cells." The man said to the other.
"Searchin' for ya lover are ya?"
"Bet he got in for another chick that's not skin and bones eh?"
Knowing she had no energy to resist, she did not try to kick them. Yet her hatred burnt her, and if pure intention could turn into spells, them two would be flaming into ash, or have their flesh gradually fall off. All she could do was trying to get a glimpse of their face, one was a brown hair brute with a square face, one had a scar on his nose, along with a swollen eye likely obtained in a bar fight. They saw what the girl was doing, with confidence of her not being able to revenge, they laughed, and laughed, and kicked, and teased her in the long walk to their destination. So when they throw her like a sack of flour onto the floor, she felt her body parts might just scatter.
Not even the door could shut out their laughter that sounded like beasts.
Thanks to the anger still fueling her, she pushed herself up, and felt her legs were bruised and swollen. They hurt at the slightest pressure. She looked for something to grab onto, and when her eyes finally adjust to the lighting, she was surprised. Firstly, she did expected undead as the scholar said so, but she didn't expect them to be free and unchained. After realizing it was because the guards underestimating them, she smirked knowing that it would bite them back somehow. Somehow. But the second thing was, she saw her book of spells on top of the table, beside a locked box. It was puzzling until she remembered that the scholar wanted information of undead and recreona, so he probably wanted to find a clue in her belongings. Everything she need, all seated in a corner of a table. Unsteadily she walked towards them, and turn her attention to thee other people again.
Three undead, all children of abyss by the look of it. One of them was a woman, looking at the light. The other was an undead Satyr, she noted, croutching beside the wounded man. The third undead was intrigued by a set of armour on a mannequin. She of course noticed the other living human too, on the floor looking for help. Did Sirris met with them all? She assumed the goddess did, and if that was true, the people in this room would be the key to get out of the place.
"I'm not a priest, but I do think there are sorceries that could make your legs... harden. If that is what you seek. You can stand and walk a few steps." Glenys placed her hand gently on her book, and her hand shivered as the finger felt the leather cover. Too long that she was trapped in that cell, and she never realized how dependent a sorceress was to her book. "I will need someone to cover me, at least stand near the door. That is if you want the sorcery." She looked at Evrat.
"Did the goddess visited you?" This she addressed to everyone in the room, with a much lower volume, after she offered to help Evrat. There was no harm in confirming, she thought.
"Say, when you apologize to someone, like your mom, do they punch you in the face instead?"
The guard did not get angry, but instead chuckled and gave Glenys's twisted arm a few pat. "This girl knows the deal, eh?" The other guard laughed too, and hit her head so hard, her ears rang and she lost her balance. It caused the guards to laugh even louder, their disgusting voice echoed in the hallway and the cells. She attempted to kick, but it only made a slight clang with their plate, their laugh rousing the imprisoned lots, all could barely sit and speak up.
"Hey, grab her hair. She's looking in the cells." The man said to the other.
"Searchin' for ya lover are ya?"
"Bet he got in for another chick that's not skin and bones eh?"
Knowing she had no energy to resist, she did not try to kick them. Yet her hatred burnt her, and if pure intention could turn into spells, them two would be flaming into ash, or have their flesh gradually fall off. All she could do was trying to get a glimpse of their face, one was a brown hair brute with a square face, one had a scar on his nose, along with a swollen eye likely obtained in a bar fight. They saw what the girl was doing, with confidence of her not being able to revenge, they laughed, and laughed, and kicked, and teased her in the long walk to their destination. So when they throw her like a sack of flour onto the floor, she felt her body parts might just scatter.
Not even the door could shut out their laughter that sounded like beasts.
Thanks to the anger still fueling her, she pushed herself up, and felt her legs were bruised and swollen. They hurt at the slightest pressure. She looked for something to grab onto, and when her eyes finally adjust to the lighting, she was surprised. Firstly, she did expected undead as the scholar said so, but she didn't expect them to be free and unchained. After realizing it was because the guards underestimating them, she smirked knowing that it would bite them back somehow. Somehow. But the second thing was, she saw her book of spells on top of the table, beside a locked box. It was puzzling until she remembered that the scholar wanted information of undead and recreona, so he probably wanted to find a clue in her belongings. Everything she need, all seated in a corner of a table. Unsteadily she walked towards them, and turn her attention to thee other people again.
Three undead, all children of abyss by the look of it. One of them was a woman, looking at the light. The other was an undead Satyr, she noted, croutching beside the wounded man. The third undead was intrigued by a set of armour on a mannequin. She of course noticed the other living human too, on the floor looking for help. Did Sirris met with them all? She assumed the goddess did, and if that was true, the people in this room would be the key to get out of the place.
"I'm not a priest, but I do think there are sorceries that could make your legs... harden. If that is what you seek. You can stand and walk a few steps." Glenys placed her hand gently on her book, and her hand shivered as the finger felt the leather cover. Too long that she was trapped in that cell, and she never realized how dependent a sorceress was to her book. "I will need someone to cover me, at least stand near the door. That is if you want the sorcery." She looked at Evrat.
"Did the goddess visited you?" This she addressed to everyone in the room, with a much lower volume, after she offered to help Evrat. There was no harm in confirming, she thought.
