Fantasy Truth at the End of Time - CLOSED.

[Malphaestus]

Truth at the End of Time

You are dead, or at least were. Your life? However successful or horrendous, has ended. All that is left is darkness, or so you thought, as you were immediately brought back from your eternal slumber by a strange entity who coins himself Truth. He informs you that the world you knew is long dead, and that you now step into the age at the edge of time's end. You must now experience this strange new world and its variety of oddities and horrors, and accomplish a yet unknown quest which Truth contractually forced your return with. Armed with nothing but that which you were burried with, and the knowledge you hold from your life, you are now going to experience this new world.

PRELUDE
Awakened at Apex of Dawn

(Do not respond to)


Time is dying.​

"What is there to say, the history you knew is gone." A voice suddenly beckoned as you opened your eyelids, gazing up at a boring sky, devoid of cloud or nuance. Trying to move, you realized quickly, that you couldn't. "Ease on the effort, you aren't alive just yet," the voice added, a slight change of pitch evident in this contrarily unaccounted-for individual- Wait, you are not yet... Alive? Wanton efforts to express your confusion was evident, but true enough, nothing...

But who is it that is so confidently interacting with you? After all, this seems rather bizarre does it not? You are dead, you remember your death well.

"Well, I've given you enough time to get in touch with yourself, so let me just tell you about time-" the voice suddenly stopped, as if struck by a realization of tremendous proportion. "You cannot see me, can you?" Oh.

Two hands quickly entered your field of vision, as they grabbed onto your shoulders, and dragged your unresisting corpse up against a boulder, and the reveal was quite outlandish: as your... caretaker came into view, all you could see was that of the body of a warrior, but lacking a head. But speaking as if there was nothing wrong. Perhaps even more strangely, on his back, was a wooden doll as large as you, embracing the man, as if not to fall off. Though you couldn't be sure if the fact that it had as many features as the sky itself was more or less disturbing.

He took a few steps back, after having brushed the many layers of dust, having migrated from covering your body's every expanse to covering every inch of his, from the arms. "Perfect," he interrupted himself, as if to stop repeatedly brushing himself forcefully.

"Time is dying, and I brought you back to life." The syllables were delivered with expansive vocal expression, carrying the artistic eloquence of an amateur bard, but one with potential. "You will now live in the world at the end of time, and I will help you to do so."

This strange individual then, as if to pause with intention, reached for his shoulder, where the doll was holding onto his upper body, pulling mightily at its arm, janking it out of balance, allowing it to fall flat onto the ground, before immediately taking a seat for himself right besides it.

"By the way, from this moment on, you are the enemy of the world."

He added nonchalantly, pulling his sword from its mount along the back of his hip, holding it as if it were a flute, the hilt and the blade, pushing it against his mouth that did not exist.

"And I am your friend, my name is Truth. Welcome."

Then, with no words with which to sing, and no mouth with which to play, he performed.

And you were brought back to life bathed in the melody of dusk.

And you first saw the land around you, around all of you:

The Land at the Dusk of Time, scorched by the sun, decorated by the myriad flora of rich colours of grey. The familiarity of grass, forest, river, and snow a far cry from what you now found yourself in the midst of. Encircling the depressed ground was an endless forest of corpseless crucifixes both thick and thin, and littering the ground were the remainless remnants of war: arrows, swords, equipment, and shields. Flowing along the northward winds were the ephemeral whispers of the depraved and despairing, carried toward the looming, bewildering, and mind-shattering presence of the sun which stood motionless upon the northern horizon.

Except it was not. The longer you gazed at its attractiveness, the more you could sense your mind warping, and your sense of reality breaking. "That is no sun," you spoke without realization, neither did you know how you knew, nor why you said it, but no matter. You recieved your response from the ever-helpful, forcing you to snap out of your percieved bewitched enchantment.

"You're not wrong," Truth spoke, nonchalantly, as he rested his flute-sword against his torso.

"So what is it?"

"Some things just are. Others aren't," he retorted, before continuing, "so what will you do, or do you want help finding out?"

You could sense a faint smile across Truth's face, save the fact that he didn't have one, as he continued.

 

[Malphaestus]

Chapter 1
To Walk at Apex of Dawn

Anyone's eyes would no doubt hurt after eons of slumber amidst the dead, especially under the tyrannical rule of this strangely unfamiliar sun glaring at them from the yonder northern distance. Be that as it may, there was one man, or rather, entity, who didn't seem to mind it much as he found himself seated upon the dull surface of this forest of crucifixes, he didn't have eyes with which to see after all. It was Truth, or so 'he' had coined himself at your revival, and the subsequent revival of your fellows; had you been the first, it had no doubt become a chore by now.

After all, Truth had finished every ritual by posing the most outlandish question of all, "so what will you do, or do you want help finding out?"

One could rightly assume something after that. But alas, with every attempt to pursue it he merely held out his hand staunchly, halting anyone's pursuit, as he stood up, placed the mannequin on his back, and moved on to the next grave. His strange theatrical demeanour which had caught you agasp with its raw surreal qualities at first was losing its luster. Now after a while, when repeated, had soon become mechanical and rehearsed in nature, as if he had trained for this day for a long while, though with the added point of lacking much creativity.

It allowed time, however, for when tired of him, one could take in the world, and a strange one it certainly was. Be it the forests or deserts or hills and mountains of the distant past, none of it was present here. Whilst there remained curiosities beyond the distant horizon, namely the jutting mounts and summits of vast mountain ranges all around, none of them were as eye-catching as the place you found yourself in now. An ironically bland landscape bleakened and downtrodden by what could only be regarded as centuries of use, all grass or greenery extinct from its soil. A barren flatland were it not for the presence of millions of crucifixes standing dormant in various states of decay for as far as the eyes could see. At their feet, the scraps and litter of passing conflicts, entire suits of plate and steel arms covering the ground as moss covers jungle. Both worn and new amongst them, all damaged nonetheless.

What manner of force could birth such a place, or such happenings? It was evident, simply through observation, that these were no relics of singular events, but a repeatedly dumped refuse of some manner of continual process, or so one would think. Swords clearly made with different ilks, philosophies, and crafts, and yet more varieties of suits of plate both rendered redundant by the conventions of remnant memories which yet linger amidst the mind, but right besides were shapes and forms impossible to carve or sculpt; all discarded, and tossed aside amidst this endless forest of torment which dwells within its eminence of depravity and forelorn travesties. A limbo for the lost, a site for endless conflict should there be such a devious hell, but yet devoid of all inhabitants. Save for their graves, and save for one 'man.' Seemingly aware of such sentiments rising amidst the collective of misplaced legends, whether royalty, noble, or misfortunate swindler, they were now standing aside eachother, as if procession before the undertaker.

He raised himself from yet another seated position, heaving the mannequin across his back with some strain, before taking a few steps, only to seat himself once again, with a thud and a sigh. "Done!" He roared at the sky, accompanied by an imagined deep exhale as he rested his flute-blade along his shoulder, planting his hands firmly against the worn earth as he held up his torso. His fingers dung into the soil, and from embedded within leaked substances of tar and liquidious oils too soft and free-flowing to be anything yet known. "Of all the places to emerge, it was here that you were...!" His voice trailing off as he realized his own aggression, his fist raised towards the tip of his nonpresent forehead, a swift flurry of hand gestures raised at their front, as if meaningful or complimentary. "Pard'n my outburst," he added, laughing twice thereafter, a strange pause after the first fueling the second thereafter. His fist, more pointedly, returned to its carved mold upon the earth which seemed more ash than dirt. The strange fluid embracing his hand, though with tedium, not fast moving nor slow, yet as he rose his arm once more, but more pointedly his right hand, it simply dripped off.

Truth waved towards the fellows' general direction as he continued, "Ah, yes... Yes. So what will you do, or do you want help finding out?" A smirk manifested in the ephemeral image which continued to be molded within the minds of the reborn. His body seemed lifeless, neither breath nor muscle moved as Truth did. Though, whilst that remained the case, he didn't act like it; the imagined heaving for breath wasn't merely imagination, but it was as real as his own voice, dancing along the winds. Abruptly, however, it stopped as he realized something, to which he added:

"Do ask if you're curious about something or other," a dramatic pause following before "Or other." He repeated. Seating himself upright along the flatland once more, in a more 'presentable' position, legs crossed and hands locked burried beneath. Clearly he was oblivious of the immensity of the situation itself, but clearly he either didn't care, or had no other option but to not care. It was still strange, everything was naturally strange but him more-so; a headless swordsman, one who seethed with the qualities of a bard and jester. Yet you could feel a faint presence within Truth, something looming. But even so, where would one even begin? Brought into a strange land beyond, supposedly, time. Was he not to be responsible for their acquiescence of, at the very least, the modicum of direction. Perhaps his theatre was a test unto itself, however. So much to doubt, so much to question, where ought they begin...

"Don't fret 'bout the 'enemy of the world' debaucle, none upon the paths to known lands retain such powers of insight where you ought trav-" Apparently that was what was looming, though he interrupted himself before continuing, "- 'Course, the path that ought be tread is for those who tread to decide! Compatriots..."

 

[Celestial Speck]

"There are certain things I'm curious about, namely, your announcement over the end of time." An armored fellow donning a forgotten and dirty armor was the first to speak up as Truth allowed himself a moment's rest. Despite the helmet worn over his face, his eyes clearly sought a head that wasn't present on the other. "I am... curious about such event, and what can even cause it."

After all, to say he had any theories on such an event would be a lie to himself and his fellow arisen, for who was he, but a man who only sought riches and to fulfill the dream of his men? Such scholarly things were lost on him, principally one of this magnitude, even if he knew the obvious: that time dying was not something to look forward to, if the deplorable state of this land, perhaps once proud and lush on another era, is anything to speak of. Yet even so, if time were to 'end', wouldn't such a place be akin to a still painting? Something frozen where one is eternal but incapable of anything else?

"Though..." The small clank of metal armor was heard as his head slowly turned to the others. Some were donned with armor nobler than he, like a flag painting them as higher than he was. To have risen with such odd people was odd. After all, who would wish to work alongside one from the woods such as him? One who was a mercenary, a step away from being a bandit? "I suppose I should ask how one figure like yourself was able to bring us back from the grave." It was difficult not to stare at Truth's head (or lack of thereof) as he spoke that. Indeed, many questions weighed upon his mind, and too little time for them.

Quietly, however, a hand was risen over to his neck, a finger pressed against it as memories slowly came back just as he did. He remembers it well, pressing metal against it and drawing blood, drowning in his own blood despite breaking the windpipe. Yet even now, he was able to speak clearly and normally, as if the wound that stood there healed.

There were two possibilities here. One was that his pulse now existed over a closed wound, the other was that no pulse came to him, and his neck...

He dares not to think about it a second longer, deciding to allow Truth a moment to speak- and perhaps the others, as well.

 

[Worthlessplebian]

An inexplicable feeling overwhelmed Leouric. Even as he rose, even as he stood alongside the newly alive. Alive... Yes, that's the word. Is this what living feels like? Leouric pondered with crossed arms. His eyes scanned the landscape; grey land and grey sky. It seems grey is the only colour in this world. Well... The only colour apart from him and the others. Then his gaze turned to himself, arms extending outward. The silvery plate underneath crimson scales gave Sprague some sense of satisfaction. At least in this brave new world, he'll be armoured with familiarity.

To say that Truth did not unnerve the Drake Skinner is an understatement. He has seen his share of headless corpses; none of them were walking around and talking. Another armoured fellow, one who wore decaying armour, prodded Truth about a declaration that he made. The End of Time. The Giant admits: such a concept is difficult or impossible to comprehend. Or maybe he lacked the intelligence to grasp it. The man shook his head the black mane followed suit. He does not know why Time is dying, but he does not wish to expend energy speculating the consequences. They could be too dire to bear, even for a big man such as himself.

His heavy steps crushed whatever grey earth was beneath him. He approached his decrepitly armoured ally. The man asked their benefactor the why and the how. Leouric suspected that the man wanted to hear the what.

Sprague's throat drew in the air, or whatever entered his lungs. It felt odd. "An excellent question, my dilapidatedly plated friend! But what I wish to know is what must be done?" His tone is certainly upbeat for a dead man. His booming voice would be heard again. "It is no secret that Sir Veracity has in mind a task for us, hmmm?" He stared at Truth with sceptical eyes. He loathed fighting, but he does not wish to die again so it must be done.

He also shot another question. This time, his voice is deprived of jolliness. "May I ask, Sir, what has happened to my family? I understand that possible centuries have passed... But did they live a good life, mostly?" There was fear in him, he regretted that he asked that question. The answer may not be palatable.

 

[Larry]

Ógan Ó Érimón
Location: Unknown.
Mood: Irritated.
Interaction/Mention(/s): Malphaestus | Celestial Speck | Worthlessplebian .​

Eoghan...if I had you within my power, your entrails would make a fitting adornment for my neck, Ógan thought to himself as he gazed across the bleak landscape. The dead king recalled his last moments, in vivid, infuriating detail. As the poison slowly meandered its way through his blood stream, with the King of Dún, his colleague in the war, monologuing the tearing apart of Ógan's realm, the latter swore everlasting hatred; if his first thought upon being awakened by Truth was anything to go by, it seemed that this acrimony was well-asserted. But, as it was no doubt the case with the rest of those who had been awoken, Ógan was frantic about to wake up at all, and for it to be such a desolate place, caused the king to be more rattled than he ever would have hoped. The king often made it a case-in-point to appear patronal in matters of religion, whilst retaining something of a cynical attitude towards the whole business in private. Discussions about the afterlife, as one would expect, often led to a lot of aspersions being cast about by the King of Nua Róimhe towards the clergymen he was conversing with. But this place, far from the triadic, workman-like afterlife he was familiar with, was something beyond what Ógan would have expected, were he in the mindset to expect anything at all. The forests of crucifixes were a ghastly sight, though it was an excitement borne out of scale, moreso than the gruesome nature of the punishment itself. The sky, the earth upon which his feet now rested, it all seemed so denuded of lushness; it was a far cry from the verdant fields of Nua Róimhe. It seemed as though the vigour of this place had been repeatedly sapped, the voluminous array of armour and weapons an indication, perhaps, of the repetitive, trampling march of armies through this place.

Questions as to the nature of this place were well-merited, in Ógan's eyes.

However, it seemed that two of the king's risen-from-the-dead colleagues were keen to get their own questions out first. And indeed, these...men, were quite the outstanding individuals. Ógan had never seen the likes of them before; their armour, light and all-encompassing for the slender man, whilst imposing and bulksome for the other one, seemed something all too fantastic for people coming from his time and era. These two, their names not being known to him as of yet, seemed like persons that were more likely to be found in the fairy tales his mother crooned to him growing up, then to wander Domhain. The questions were, in light of their shared circumstances, quite reasonable. The slender one asked their faceless reviver about the 'end of time' as he had announced so forebodingly to them upon their immediate resurrection, as well as how he so managed to lift them all from death, whilst the brutishly-large one sought to learn the fate of his family. The warrior's question caused Ógan to cast his mind back to the frail figure of his mother, and to what may have been done with her after the partition, which King Eoghan said had been so arranged with Mhí in the aftermath of his death. The king shook his head, as to though to physically dislodge such meddling thoughts, and forthrightly turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

"I would have to agree with these fantasticals," Ógan remarked sneerily, "And especially with the lithe one: do tell us Truth, if you're inclined, of these myriad crucifixes that dot this forsaken plain."

 

[Pilgrim59]

The Dragon Slayer
The Land at the Dusk of Time
Malphaestus ​

Mindful ears, and dormant sleeves marked the forlorn creature where they stood. Where sentiments should be roused by the mocking echoes of nothingness, it seemed fitting for a forlorn heart to be scattered among the rusted blades and shredded armor. A stranger among strangers in this bleak world beyond her perceived ending. Even in this world so far from the Eternal Glacier, there remained a certain frigid sensation upon their skin. What philosophy she might held to her own were anulled by the burdens of her apparatus. She did not frustrate herself with such things, simply accepting the facts as they are. It was not her place to dispute a world not of her making. What memories she has yet to forsake seemed so distant, as if the frigid yesternight had eloped with her into this void. A purgatory of unfulfilled promises and broken vows. A deserving end to a regent whose fiery eyes were bound to be extinguished as the candle in the storm. She gave heed to the strangers' voices, whose inquiries reflected their lingering attachments to a time that they called their own. Perhaps she could find her own truths as she did before. Where to begin. In the end, it will all be for naught but to be forgotten and discarded all the same, she pulled herself back. It mattered little, she contemplated, what inquiries she may have of her own circumstances that may afflict her immediate associates. Would it matter if she found the answer that she did not want to hear? Neither calumny nor protests projected forth, as the swordsmaiden kept to herself.

Upon the shore of this ever-shifting lobby that Truth had chosen to convene with them, she was without a name. She wondered if those countless faces beside her have traversed these very lands as well. The phantom crown resided upon her head, urging her to decide who she was to be in this world. Silence became her name, for she carried with her a certain reservations. Regrets absent, melancholy blended, while her anguish receded. The queen, for all her past troubles, was able to retain a part of her emotions. What was left of her humanity, alongside her armor were mostly intact. Mostly.

Truth needed this ensemble of worldly characters, whatsoever their backgrounds were. The knight eyed her counterparts, scrutinizing her posture and apparels. They were united in their profiles, as contenders of Truth's attention. Beyond that, nothing is certain but the unspoken initiative that Truth had kept to themselves. An ulterior agenda cleverly hidden beneath their peculiarly thrilling rouse. The ex-regent had her mistrust, but for the time being, Truth has yet to show any sign of direct hostilities. Even so, to be given a purpose was perhaps the coercion that Truth counted on when they brought her here. At the very least, she owed them her gratitude, as honor would have it. Uncertainty and reluctance came to pass, as the warrior-monarch finally settled aside her self-indulged thoughts. When in doubt, it was best to give into her instincts, or at least what she still managed to retain. In this new world, what was the measure of her worth? How long will she remain of use to Truth's cause before she is discarded alongside her frigid corpse upon the Glacial Garden? If any, what name would she carry in this world at the end of time?

"The matter of this self is inconsequential." she muttered to herself, swallowing her sorrows.

"Remedy my finite wisdom, o' erudite Truth, for I am but a mere hunter unworthy of your requisites. What notion must we entertain at the end of our time? " she finally announced her presence among the other contenders, veering away to brief a glance at the arms of war that littered the field, absent of their masters. She then turned towards Truth with a pair of jaded eyes, neither shaken nor enthusiastic of their earlier remarks.

 

[Malphaestus]

The plights of the past no doubt plagued their hosts as they took in the breath of a rottingly old place, time had died yet one could feel, smell, breathe, and hear, not to mention see the paradoxic monolithicism of this eve-full space. It did not remind them of anyone, nor of anything they likely remember; hints of woodish tastes flew with the stale air. A seeming texture of dirt entering as one might breathe normally, yet all of it drawing links to rotten meat. So, what was it about time that was now changed? The sun did not move, in fact, it sat perched quite vehement in it's stagnated place square 'cross the northern vastness. Or, perhaps, was it the world which no longer turned? All things to be curious to, but the howling winds seemed more like the blighted screams of misfortunate deeds than anything like summer breeze. As if alive, ghastly in essence; loud enough to catch any mind surprised.

The Mercenary of Wood, or rather truthfully, a forest bandit, thought it prudent to be the first speaking. He did not say things without meaning, in fact, suspiciously calculated; it took himself edging 'cross his own wound to finally realize the stillnesses of the fabrics which divine whatever plane they were in. A land for the dead, if one had not already guessed it based on where they were, it took very little to finally grasp the new paradigms which now reigned. There were no pulses, no blood to flow, and no life of traditional meaning to be had living. Then how were they being?

Truth snickered briefly. Wicked grin to further mask his veneer, but no answers to the Woodman's words, nor any acknowledgement of their questions.

In fact, were it not for what one could sense from Truth, he looked dead, motionless and still, like the doll on his back, seeming more like self-mummified monk than whatever it was that he was. For the mercenary, whether to acknowledge, or disregard this offense was something for them to ponder. But it was no less obvious that they had no other option than to play with Truth for what they were worth.

Options were non-present of other alternatives.

An orchestrated silence took form before Leouric spoke their own piece, as if to mediate the stillness and disregard the awkwardnesses of voiceless discourses. To this Truth shot up from his seat, if perhaps a little too early. As if already knowing what Leoric would say, as the giant placed themselves besides the forest bandit of unsuspectedly comparable origins to he. "Yes! Yes! I like you, friend! Excellent thought..." he had spoken with himself, the giant too preoccupied to have heard him no doubt, as his mind dwelled on the past. No time for him to notice as Truth had placed himself at his side; close company, a friend amidst the apocalypse.

Is what it looked like, in the least.

It seemed as if Leouric had succeeded at something, whether positive or negative, Truth had bolted back into working order, seemingly needing some form of correct impetus to interact with these 'compatriots.' Whatever progress had been made quickly fell apart once the giant grew in sentiment, Truth rolled their eyes and skipped on to the next in line: a disgraced royal with excessive narcissistic sentiment, though seemingly rather innocent to them- that would be to Truth. Even so...

A nervous groan. Turned to the Prince-King, speaking—"Mah, war is not complex, neither is evil. All answers are easy to find, but harsher to see." Truth muttered, an awkwardness more than evident in his theatric aura. But, more importantly, a slight drop of sweat, or what one might think of it as, manifested from the aether above his headless visage. It merely dropped into his throat, obscured by perspective. Not even the giant had length enough to look down into the void which perhaps resided where the swordsman's neck ought be, on toes or not. He moved, as if conscious of this fact, obscuring it with every step, and every middle-movement. If one cared for the mysteries of the universe, it certainly was something to contemplate, but Truth did not allow time for such inner monologues:

"Go east, west, north, or south; cardinal or intuitive: anywhere you travel, you'll learn, and all veiled things are painted colours we all can understand..."

Truth made a quick glance towards the first speaker, having been left without meaningful response in intentional action. He thought himself quite clever, the sword-flutist; a metaphor of painting to emphasize having listened, yet also carrying the traits of mischievousness. He looked to the woodman, as if waiting for him to grade the use by which the entity had played with his words; a game, quite evidently, to which Truth was having much joy. But before anything could progress, with equalled swiftness he carried on, allowing all who were gathered time to ruminate, but none to which they could contend.

"Wooden poles say more to those who observe than they do to those who made them," he at last responded with median relevance, Ógan's spirit seemingly obvious to the swordsman who took every turn to meddle with their patience. The man picked up a rock from the ground with his off-hand: the only one which existed beneath the featureless landscape, the soil far too plain, if a bit too literally, for stones or boulders. "I wouldn't expect you'd desire it of me to throw this pebble at your temple?"

An off-putting silence.

"It is like that."

The stone fell from betwixt his gauntleted palm, the action seeming more meaningful than one would expect from a pebble falling. Perhaps there was no meaning for which one could attach themselves, or perhaps there were. It was not something the man seemed to verbalize. It was evident that they wanted something from these mismatched 'heroes,' but so far, it seemed more that he wanted them to leave. Were anyone to entertain this notion, in momentary response to his obviously dismissive behaviour, Truth however stepped authoritatively towards their direction.

An indecisive reanimator, it would seem.

Suddenly...

As if a dancer, Truth flowed like the rivers and the flows of the waters of fertile lands, stepping behind the intrigue-stricken sovereign as he bolted to the gloomy maiden. Whilst the self-defeated monarch dwelled on her own sadness, Truth had already roped her into his own movements, locking his arm around her shoulders, the black tar having long since returned to its rightful place amidst the dirt. It weighed like mountains, his arm, but carried no oppressive force with which to push the woman down; a floating rock. One could feel that Truth gazed at the sole woman's words, as if observing the words like they were material one could hold within one's grasp. With his swordarm limp against his side, as if jointless and without structure, he responded to her message once it had been delivered. The forest bandit no doubt could sense the man's gaze turning to him as he spoke. "HOW! You must have suffered! But alas, find solace in knowing your husband tore himself apart since the felling," the words rasp, empathetic in their remarks, yet pointedly sharp and finite. An obvious finish to it which carried insular qualities, speaking more with himself than anyone else.

His arm left her shoulder, and planted itself on her chest- as if Truth had already seen her heart and understood- as the headless swordsman moved to her front in unified motion, the hand leaving her plate in dramaticized and prolonged slowness. Was he lying, or was he speaking the truth? Certainly nothing which anyone here could verify. If time had ended, was there a way to find out? Whether that were the case, he certainly had no obvious intentions to tell. Having quite obviously avoided speaking of anything meaningful, instead sowing little else than even the slightest sliver of curiosity, whether intentionally or not. He seemed flippant, unaware of his own actions, caring little for convention- or at least, any convention which may have once been.

So flippant that it reverberated in his presence of being; his feet, no doubt, well-traveled. The ease with which he stepped, and the movements which he displayed, otherwordly. But he did not answer her, nor did he answer anyone with 'requisite' for satisfaction. It was evident, in fact, that the strange one was stepping around the matter, as he stepped around them all, with engrained finesse. As Truth returned to the focus of their congregation by means of oddly-timed steps, he once more became the axis by which the world seemed to turn. A thrice-laughed bellow emerged as the entity had finally bored of tiring them by meaningless pleasantries. The body turned around, swinging the doll across his shoulder, and tossing it against the ground. Yet eerily, it seemed most obvious, that Truth had also turned his head to face the forest bandit. "Ought be patient, eh?"

Truth pointed, with exaggeration more than expectable for his own character, at the self-murderer. "Why don't I show you?" he said, expectations surged and the ever-being ominous stomped heavy, destroying whatever easy-going mood one might have been able to mistake their gathering with. The arm by which the headless one had plucked at their persons with fell limp, and the sword grew alive, as the arm attached to its hilt moved into place enough to raise the tip to where one's mouth ought be.

As the sun glowed perfectly, one could see into the blade and see the hollow space within: clearly possible to play with, though how one might do so is for none to really know. You cannot play songs with one arm, can you? Or so it used to be known, but the headless one cared little for what others might think, for a horrendous shriek played melodically, tonal shifts, and intensities mixed to produce noised symbolisms.

Whilst the song itself was impossible to begin with, a flute- no matter how resolute or astute the musician- should never be capable of bringing forth the sounds which compound the underlying essences of messanges so profound, the melody which simply spew forth from that rusted sword carried the same blessings as divine gospelling. But, even then, an instrument cannot play itself, at least not one which seemed so obviously meant to be played by someone else.

Truth had merely raised aloft that flute-sword, and as sudden as lightning it had begun to preach its world-shifting speech. It was no symbolism, that one, for as swiftly as it had begun it had ended, and the earth shifted. It rumbled, and shook, and roared as it vibrated seemingly to it's very core.

No doubt, they were all agasp, had they the self-sentience to care for it. Even someone so removed as the cold maiden must have been caught off-guard, and, seemingly, so had Truth.

As the ground shook, he excused himself. "Ah, my tunes cannot do that..." more than 'a bit' concerned, he seemed. "Truthfully, I just wanted to fool you through fine song!" The prankster knew no limits, having played so profound a song, yet it was merely melody and no magic... Perhaps it was misplaced trust, or sentiment, which allowed it to retain such impressionable presence amidst the ears of the party. It seemed, at least, that was what Truth was telling. Their gaze spewing all across the landscape as the earthquake at last simmered. Truth seemed, jittery, seemingly speaking the Truth, but knowing more things than any of them.

Wishing to progress, at least it would seem, he professed: "This eve, you are all one death old." Hushed voice paired with far-extending arms, to envelope the world, or perhaps simply to seem more dominant, or maybe nothing of the sort. A hard individual so far to grasp, if Truth could be reasoned with at all, the slightest hint of worry still remained within him, the earthquake not only having shook them all, but him especially.

He rapidly continued, "however, never state it to the others..." his swordarm having long since gone limp, replaced by the far more lively pair, capable of expressing more than merely words, as gestures flew forth like repeating crossbow. "Come up with some other number, no one would believe it were you to speak the truth, so lying is safer!" His words slurred in it's impossibility, as if the faceless reanimator actually had a mouth by which he spoke. There were, of course, none. But the illusion grew livelier and harder to dismiss by every next moment.

"Let's... Move. Yes! We'll move. Allow me a moment, just, I must do something." Truth turned, seemingly allowing the four of them to converse amongst eachother. It did not seem as if there was any partitioning of their acquaintancing looming, and who knows how long Truth, clearly tardy to begin with, will take. The four of them were presented with Truth's back, slouched and seated upon the ashen dirt once more before his featureless puppet-doll, and he went silent. Motionless once again.

Should they walk ahead of him? Though, what would happen to them?

 

[Celestial Speck]

Truth was insane.

At least, that was the easiest answer someone like him, with no education, be it philosophical or punctual, could think and rationalize of as the trickster danced and played with tunes that almost seemed to make their hearts beat again with such finesse... that it might as well be his instrument, alongside his sword-flute. At first, he was content with keeping that opinion to himself, as Truth danced around their questions with vague answers and trickery. After all, it wasn't uncommon to meet the odd or the strange in a life of plundering and adventuring much like the headless swordsman, yet where those men hid their intentions with masks and strong personalities to throw others around them off course, a part of him felt as if Truth was wearing no mask at all.

Naturally, it was there that he knew that beyond his headless features and strange arcane abilities, that he was dangerous.

In another world, he would simply have kept his calm and stood strong in the face of such mysteries, the meeting with the Witch greatly building upon that strong will of his. Yet here, in a world where the sun seemingly didn't move from its place and the moon likely didn't exist, in a world where his comparison to paintings was likely heard and understood by this figure even as he didn't open his mouth, what choice did he have, but show weakness?

Indeed, like a shield cracking upon itself as a silent arrow pierced through it, for once, he couldn't help but step back. The silence after all was done seemed to extend upon his mind too, as bits of dirt further fell from his armor, before, like that, they were left to their premises, for better or for worse, as Truth's attention moved to yet another task upon this wasteland of buried corpses carrying stories with them.

Fighting him was out of the question, a thought that disappeared as quickly as it intruded itself to his mind. There would be no chance, no sneaky tactics. To fight this creature would likely mean meeting the void's embrace yet again.

The bandit bit his lip, feeling nothing but cold doing so. There was only one course of action here, simply stand still and hope that whatever Truth's intention was, they would be pure... or, well, perhaps not something hopeful and optimistic like that, perhaps something that won't involve hearing those tunes shake upon their beings again, perhaps something that would involve finding out answers, and finding some manner of guidance. What could the dead do, after all, once they awoke after death?

"There is no rest here, is there?" He mused out loud, intentionally, as he stood by who were clearly meant to his companions. The earthquake and its effects are still clear in his mind, even if there was a certain slowness for him to acknowledge it. "Even after death... it seems we were called once again to service. Be it for the better or worse... so be it, then."

His eye turned to face the man that might have been a giant, Leouric. Then, slowly, to the armored knight and the other man alongside her. They were an odd bunch like they were people he would normally seek to stand away from. A knight would soon have his head. A noble would soon scoff than be at his presence, and a giant like the Drake Skinner would likely be either an ally or enemy. Not that the bandit knew of their pasts, but their initial appearance made him weary. Yet, it was a thought discarded quickly, for, in death, they are equals... be that a good, or terrible thing.

"One death old..." he mumbled, doubting the other meant a year. "... hmph. What an odd anniversary this ought to be, eh...?"

 

[Worthlessplebian]

Hate. Disgust. Sadness... And Fear.

These abstract things weighed heavily upon the heavy man. Indeed, washing him over him. For the first time in his life and unlife, Leouric felt belittled. It took mere minutes for Truth to do what several men failed to do. Yet, it was not words that harmed the giant. But the simple way Truth carried himself. His or Its very motions peeled back Leouric's skin and tucked itself within his psyche. Even standing beside him, an action Leouric almost could not stand. Iron knuckles tightened and whined. Were it not for common sense or survival instincts... Or call it whatever you like: Leouric would have beaten Truth with his hands. Or at least attempted to. Dispersing unwise ideas, Leouric, now hardened, stood at attention to Truth's antics.

Then ineffectualness set its' claws into Leouric's back. His gaze danced between the bandit, the royal, and the monarch. Wondering if they too had this estranged feeling. Even looking at Truth's pirouette with the monarch, the Drake Skinner mustered to add meaning to his acts. Swordarm, or mace arm in this case, and shield arm embraced Leouric's chest. A steely gaze followed Truth. At this point, fear melted away momentarily and returned zealous anger. The dance, in essence, had become metaphorical. The trickster tripped and skipped and quipped around their lives. That much even the Darke Skinner could confirm.

He unsheathed quite a peculiar blade. Perforated at set-points, harking back to the musical instruments that Leouric is accustomed to. Do you believe a man could play a flute sword? To Leouric, it did not seem incapable. He saw a man play the cello with teeth and foot once.

Though what Leouric heard, wished he never hears again. It felt divine to him but so very disquieting as well. When this fetid land shook, not even Leouric's mighty stature saved him. His arms and hips waved back and forth, trying to maintain balance. His inner ear struggled.

His knee crashed to the ground, followed suit by a gauntleted fist. Annoyed, Leouric recovered from his minor fall. The lifeless dust nestled greedily between the crevice of the gauntlet.

"One death old...." The big man mused to himself. He walked betwixt the spindly prince and the woodland raider. "I had wished that he at least told us what he wants." Thinking unconsciously aloud, the man's voice baritone.

 

[Larry]

Ógan Ó Érimón
Location: Unknown.
Mood: Perturbed.
Interaction/Mention(/s): Malphaestus .​

The king pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. It seemed that this headless figure, Truth, was not in the mood to be forthcoming as regards to how himself, and his oddly-weeded colleagues, found their way to awakening in this nightmarish place. As the figure pranced about, eager to engage in vagueries and meandering from truthful answers, veering rather close to Ógan as he went about this show; the man had to restrain himself, his right hand having moved across to grip the handle of a sheathed falchion, lest he cleave Truth's arm from his body in recompense for this mockery. And, as if to prolong their need for answers even further, Truth set out before them a sword, constructed in such a way, that if it's output was anything to go by, as to render possible the tones of a flute. If it were not for the fact that he had been lifted from the grave, the king might have been quietly fascinated with the lethal-instrument, but his insistence on answers lessened his curiosity. Then, all of a sudden, the earth quaked beneath them, which threw the man for a moment; such phenomena was an unheard of occurrence in Nua Róimhe. The rumbling, however, had apparently shook the arrogance of the one who dragged them from cold earth, which caused a wry smile to slip across Ógan's lips. It seems that even you can be discomfited, wretch, the king thought to himself, mentally noting this occasion down for later use, should an incidence arise whence it could be turned to his advantage.

Then, as the earthquake slowly waned in intensity, Truth, inclined to land them even more, declared that they were all 'one death old', after having arisen from the eart. Yet, what stuck out to Ógan was that Truth advised them to never to state it to anyone else. To the king, it seemed to confirm that there were other persons in this monstrous place, if the grim forms of an innumerable number nailed to crosses were but a slight indication. The man gave himself over to a moment of thought, pondering as who the various people were that dotted this strange landscape. Did they possess the same form as him and his fellow risen? Or were they more in the guise of Truth, their enigmatic reviver? Believing it fruitless to think more on it without any evidence to ground his thoughts, he turned to face Truth, a grave look on his face.

"So tell me, Trickster," he began, a snarlish intonation present in his voice, for lack of answers received from his earlier question, "Who are these people that you wish us not to divulge our reborn state to? Are they unto you in appearance, or bearing visages proximate to my very own? I would rather you be prompt and fain this time around to answer our inquiries, and cease whatever dithering you have done up until now."

 

[Pilgrim59]

Primula
The Land at the Dusk of Time
Malphaestus ​

Right then and there, when Truth mentioned her husband, whose name he had kept between the woman and himself, the paladin froze. Strange, how her immediate thoughts were for the king, despite all the wrongs she had suffered by his hands. What disturbed the woman the most was Truth's ability to bring out what was a part of hers. As if an open book for all to see, the Dragon Slayer finally took hold of her own identity. One that was briefly brought forth by Truth like dusting residues upon hidden gun stones. Eventually, she presumed her true identity - Primula, absent of Asher. found herself dumbfounded by Truth's eerie yet progressive persona. Rather than dealing with a person, his form brought forth her curiosity rather than contempt. She stowed away those heart-piercing feelings and chose to heed what Truth had to announce.

She had chosen not to speak. Again, she conjured up an unseen barrier for herself. Among strangers, Primula was not ready to convene with her immediate associates. Like the noble figure beside her claimed, Truth's ambivalent words truly had them on their feet but yet to be truly swayed. The Dragon Slayer was keen to keep to heart Truth's word, pondering to herself as the stranger did. While she was cautious of these hasty developments, she denied herself a foolish notion and chose patience instead. A sensation crept over her. Perhaps the keen nerves of a perceptive woman or it was simply a warrior's instinct. She felt that Truth's remarks of their death was only the beginning. Something most sinister has yet to come, an affair that even Truth was fearful of. The ensemble before him now was the key to it. There were some methods of consideration when he fished them beyond their graves. She could only speculate that Truth needed what they possessed, or perhaps it is for his personal entertainment. His haunting appearance and distressed apparatus, however, belayed the latter theory.

Despite coming to terms with the name she brought with her to the grave, the notion of keeping their demises to themselves was most puzzling. Primula eyes followed Truth the entire time he made his intermittent addresses. The ex-regent had an unsettling feeling, as Truth turned away. So many factors unspoken, and they were merely instruments to serve a purpose unknown. Primula ran her fingers over her sword's hilt, reminiscing what strength she retained from her death. This time around, however, she must find what she had lost long before she died. No matter how many times need she perish while partaking in Truth's quest.