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Fantasy Ballad of Renegades

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[✦] Hunadi Dralis- Group 3​
The boat pitched and rocked against the steep waves, making Nadi’s stomach flip with each rise and fall of the wooden vessel. Every wave seemed to heave the boat up to one side before dropping it down again. Don’t throw up, don't throw up....don’t th-- Another wave tipped the boat nearly to its side and Nadi felt the contents of his stomach rise into his throat. Instinctively, his hands reached up in an attempt to cover his mouth but were stopped abruptly by the tight shackles that limited his movements. It was hard enough being so close to water, one of the few things that made him physically uneasy, the other being restrained just as he and the other prisoners were. He sensed other bodies near him but didn’t know how many or how close they were. Beyond his better judgment, his body hunched forward as his stomach seemed to heave in sync with the ship. His throat burned as his stomach emptied itself onto his boots, the cramped space feeling smaller and hotter than it had before.

If only he had followed his instincts, he may have avoided his current predicamant altogether. Having been tracked through several villages for stealing and pickpocketing, he wrongly assumed he would be safer blending into the crowds of a larger city. His plan seemed to work for a while, laying low and taking to the streets only for necessities. He mentally kicked himself for letting his guard down and allowing himself to be captured. In his defense, he had put up a good fight and nearly escaped but was soon outnumbered and overpowered. Nadi had done a number on the first few guards before they had overtaken him, which was probably why he had received several extra beatings before getting stuffed into the dark belly of the ship.

Relief flooded over Nadi as the ship skidded to a halt along a sandy beach. It was short lived as taskmasters rushed about the vessel with their saps and whips swinging in every direction. Trying to stand, Nadi found his legs numb and stiff from the long voyage. His slowness earned him a strong whip across his left calf and a hiss escaped his dry lips as his leg buckled. If he hadn’t felt so disoriented, and his restraints were not so constricting, he would have lunged at his captor. Seeing the situation was not in his favor, he thought better of his actions and limped off the boat with the other captives.

The march inland was slow and heavy due to the shackles and his throbbing calf that subsided to a dull ache by the time they reached the second water crossing. There wasn’t much to take note of on the way, but Hunadi made sure to casually glance at the trees..or lack there of- incase he should return this way at a later date. Reaching the second water crossing, he knew better than to show his hesitation. Another damn boat... he cursed inwardly as they were herded onto the small vessels. It had been hard enough just hearing the water against the outside of the first ship, now being seated so close to open water was making his stomach tighten again and he leaned forward a little incase he was ill once more.

By the time the ferries reached the citadel, Hunadi was nearly ready to start begging to be let off. His head throbbed as his boots touched land again and he swayed against the chains unsteadily. While he wasn't fond of being captured and treated like a herd of goats, he had to acknowledge the lengths his captors had gone to in their attempt to hide their location.The dark ship, traveling deep inland through forests, and the citadel that loomed over them as they trudged nearer. It all was enough to make it seem like they had entered a new world. Which perhaps they had in a way. With his two biggest fears, water and confinement, working in unison against him Hunadi has lost all sense of direction. It had been a long time since he had lost his way entirely and he briefly thought of giving his compliments to one of the taskmasters when he felt better.

The last leg of their journey seemed endless, with steep steps and the threat of being branded with hot irons if they could not climb fast enough. Hunadi did his best to keep up with the group he was shackled to, not wanting to be the reason they were all flogged. His sore leg had begun to throb in time with his aching head and he clenched his jaw in an attempt to stay focused. Despite the echoing screams of torture, it was a miracle to hear the sound of chains and shackles being released once they had reached their cells. Nadi rubbed his wrists gently where his binds had chaffed and irritated his skin, shuffling to the end of a thin stone bench before easing himself down to sit and press his back against the wall. Tilting his head back, Hunadi eyed his fellow cell mates with little interest. He wondered how long they all would last before they began fighting over scraps. A day or two at the most judging by the screams and cries for mercy that echoed through the hallways.
Home, sweet home.. He mused blandly to himself, as the tension in his stomach began to fade.

 
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Khadija Aslan​
Group 2 ( BlueXBlood BlueXBlood , Zazz Zazz , Xen6n Xen6n , Aegis Aegis )​

Khadija leaned over the cart to see what the Seeker had written in her journal.

"Thank you for helping us. You've earned favor amongst the Seekers. - Aris Iyesgarth"

"Hah! Favor amongst the Seekers? That's no small thing, I'm sure. Well met, Aris. My name is Khadija Aslan of Axasterke. Pleased to make your acquaintance," Khadija said, giving a slight bow. The Seekers were proving to be good company, so far, now that they had some means of communication. Khadija took the flint from Aris, weighing it in her hand like it was some alien stone, foreign to this world.

Aris and Bal hobbled off the cart, and Khadija helped the former when she stumbled. What a sorry lot we are. I hope R'hllor is more dangerous than he looks, otherwise some bandits might make quick work of us, she considered, glancing at the man as he read from some ancient-looking tome. A scholar of the Order, perhaps. Khadija sat down and set about starting a fire, or at least trying to appear that way, as Bal limped over to the tent. Through some means, which seemed like some form of outlander magic to Khadija, she straightened the tent out to stand tall enough to accommodate more than two prone bodies. "Well done, and thank you!" Khadija said from her seat in the grass. "See? Not that hard to show a little gratitude." Khadija saw Bal's previously clean bandages grow red with blood and grimaced. Those were the last of the clean cloth she'd stolen during their mad escape out of Kildeo. Even she knew wounds should be treated with fabric not coated in blood and grime. Khadija let the matter rest for the moment; she sensed the gladiator's patience was wearing thin.

"It's a hidden gem among the lands of Kirlia, I wish I could've stayed there a bit longer than I did."

Khadija smiled at R'hllor's comment. Certainly it was a gem to her, and there was no place in the world like it. "Aah, so you have been to Axasterke. No amount of time there is enough, I'm afraid. You'll always wish to return." Again, she grew silent, introspective. Thoughts of home, and those in it, raced through her mind. She pushed the memories aside and redoubled her efforts banging flint against stone like some primitive at the dawn of time. She reflected that, hundreds of years ago, starting a fire to her people would have been second-nature.

"Khadija, where did you learn how to use magic?"

"Is a lady not entitled to some secrets? Some tricks up her sleeves?" She asked, giving a sly wink to the Seeker. "Unfortunately, the answer is rather mundane. The Imperial Academy teaches all students with magical aptitude rudimentary spells. Nothing too intensive, but I took a liking to it." Khadija set the stone down and held out her hand. A large golden coin, with R'hllor's face inlaid in profile, sat there. It felt real enough, heavy and cool against the skin. She tossed it to the man. Within a few hours, the coin would grow shimmery and faint before disappearing entirely. "Parlor tricks, really, just illusions. But they are quite fun, aren't they? No, the real magic is drawn out with that," Khadija added, nodding to her tanbur, a long-necked stringed instrument, in the cart.

After numerous attempts, sparks flew from the flint and caught on the small pile of tinder she'd gathered. "YES!" She exclaimed. The half-orc looked around for fuel to feed the fire. Dry grass. More dry grass. Grass as far as the eye could see, and not an ounce of kindling. Unless they planned to stoke the fire all night with grass, which would belch thick smoke endlessly, it looked like tonight would be without fire. "Well, it is a warm night, no? Perhaps no fire is needed," Khadija considered. She stomped the embers out so as not to start a wildfire on the steppe.

"You all are welcome to sleep in the tent; as for myself, I'll take first watch and rest in the under the stars tonight." Khadija knelt down and ripped a length of brocade fabric from the least-soiled part of her robes. She frowned at the ugly, jagged pattern it left, but there was nothing to be done. Khadija wordlessly handed the fabric to Bal before hopping onto the cart.
 
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Agonos Isles​

As the two skiffs glided closer to the shore, the rough likeness of people standing in the sand came into focus. They were ragged. Thin. Just frames of people in tattered hides, shimmering in the gentle heat. Cries of hope and cries of sadness traveled over the calm waters, and already those strong enough were wading into the shallows to greet the rowboats.

The Hesper’s first mate, a stocky dwarf with a matted beard and two missing fingers on his right hand, cursed as he watched the desperate people trudge towards them. “Right. Soon as you can touch the bottom, hop off and head ashore,” he said to their passengers. The rowers picked up their pace, the skiff’s wooden bow colliding with the first of many would-be boarders. The man, his face pockmarked with festering boils, begged to be let aboard, but he was shoved away. Eventually, the skiffs could row no further, surrounded in knee-deep water on all sides by the weak and the dying. The first mate recognized many of these sorry souls. The Hesper delivered many to the cursed island. Now, they wanted off. Their faces were warped by disease and desperation, but the first mate could make out one in ten at the very least.

“Alright, you lot know the drill!” He bellowed. “Women and children first, then we take on the rest!” In his ten years aboard the Hesper, he had delivered many youths to the island with their parents, hoping to cure their children of disease or save them from death. They never retrieved any children though. The island, and its inhabitants, was not kind them.

The skiffs were loaded up with the weakest of the refugees. Sailors shoved and cudgeled those who tried to throw themselves aboard without permission, lest the entire boat capsize. New arrivals to the island slinked away unnoticed for the moment while the attention was on potential escape. The skiffs filled as quickly as they emptied, and soon they were at capacity and driving off all seeking passage with club and oar.

“Please!” A cry cut through the din. A woman, her eyes beyond ruined, waded through the water. She shoved her way through the crowd, holding above her head a small bundle of rags. “Please,” she repeated, now pressed against the port side with water up to her chest.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s no room,” the first mate said, hardening his heart.

“My baby. Take my baby,” she cried, holding out the bundle. The first mate paused, and gently took the woman’s burden from her with his rough and shovel-like hands. She felt the weight lifted from her, and cried tears of sorrow and joy from tattered sockets as she melted into the crowd. They pushed off into deeper water where only the strong followed, and even then not for long.

The sailor looked down hesitantly at the swaddling, slowly unfolding it. There was nothing within. No baby, just soiled rags.


Once ashore, the newly arrived were met with a similar swarm of islanders, this one healthier, less eager to leave. They hawked wares, offered services. Bodyguards, guides. Some promised enchanted trinkets made the Conclave’s very own mages, in exchange for any food or weapons they might have brought with them. A fair trade, they promised. Thieves rifled through pockets and snatched any loose belongings, dashing off with their ill-gotten goods before their victims realized what they’d lost.

On the outskirts of this mob, more patient, more dangerous predators stalked. They watched the newly arrived through sunken eyes, burning centroids of murder and malice.
 
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After the party turned in for rest, the long night did sink its teeth fully into their weary and aching minds. It had been a long journey for all of those who had seemingly gathered through happenstance; for some, it was a physical burden, and for others it was a profoundly more mental one. The harsh heat of the steppe gave way to twisting zephyr that seemed to bumble through the grasses before glancing at the skin of those gathered around a fading, flickering flame in the vast expanse of black that was this uncivilized place. The unforgiving chill of night sapped the warmth from whomever left skin exposed from under blankets for now-harsh gales of the steppe.

Dust hurtled itself violently from the parched lands of Hakugei--sand infesting the mouths and throats of those unaware of the harsh nights of the Steppe. It was a long night. A long night of tossing and turning and holding their covers up in hope of dissuading the wind and dirt, but to no avail.

By the time the sun breached the inky black, the night was another battle to notch onto the belt of the ever-weary travelers. The carriage was now home to several piles of sand and dirt, each member of the group stood to have similar substances spill from their clothes, the unbearable cold giving way to a brief respite of heat before they began to get cooked once more. Truly, the lands here were for the desperate and the experienced.

It was a quick departure toward the Dragon-Tooth Spires--eagerness in their steps, as the horses drew their carriages from beyond the parched and dismal lands of Hakugei and into something greener and more forgiving. The sun seemed to bite with less strength, birds chirped with a light-hearted delight, and if one listened they could even hear the gentle flow of nearby creeks. The foot of the Dragon-Tooth Spires was a land of plenty nestled in a valley, and many great hunters and explorers often ventured out here. However, their journey only began here.

Looking upward, the colossal cliffs carved their impression deep into the sides of stonework that jutted into the very clouds themselves. Who knew how many animal trails and forgotten paths laid buried in their guts? Who knew what mysteries dug themselves into the embrace of that harsh land? Aris and R'hllor knew of one such path, but how many others were there?

The carriage veered away from the lush basin they were headed toward and onto a gravel path that seemed to snake up the Spires for as far as the eye could see. Wooden wheels groaned as the ground beneath shrank to a size that was far less developed--the wagon mere inches from a sharp hundred foot drop onto spikes of granite. The wind beat down on them with a great fury, their lungs unable to catch a full breath, but still the party pushed on. They pushed on until the land they knew bled grey from the green and only lichen and the stoutest of trees still remained. They pushed on until they were forced to dismount and get behind the wagon to push; the horse too tired to continue on its own.

Despite having been there already once, even Aris and R'hllor may have begun to doubt whether the Sanctuary was a real place, yet just as evening began to firmly set on the mountains their struggle was rewarded. The harsh upward trail finally levelled out to an open flat with an almost railing that had been built up to allow one to get close to the edge and peer over at the sights below: a lush forest of blue and green cutting along the base of the mountains. More importantly, though, there seemed to be nowhere further to climb, and while the two Seekers knew what to do from here--the Sanctuary obscured just at the other side of the flat, it was the ultimate time to decide whether to bring the other two on. Their last chance to shape things exactly how THEY wanted. Then again, they had already come this far together...

 
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Group 2 - Aris, R'hllor, Khadija, and Bal'Kafaz ​


As the day was spent toiling in an attempt to trudge closer to the sanctuary, it was easy to become bitter toward the harsh lands, the Hakugei Steppe especially. A few unprepared nights in such a place could quickly lead to an eternal loathing of dust, mountains, and anything resembling a slight windy chill. Aris learned not to hate it after her few years of traveling for one reason or another, but truthfully, it was impossible to grow fond of. Not the sensation of sand invading your clothes, at least, which Aris still had yet to wash off from Prigalla.

But that was the least of her worries... R'hllor occupied the least of the half-elf's thoughts, as she knew he was accustomed to the varying landscapes as well, and even the gladiator earned little concern from her, as she doubted any offer of assistance would be appreciated anyway. Rather, it was the bard she considered. Aris had found herself watching Khadija every now and then, just to see how she was holding up. Yes, her incompetence as an outdoorsman contributed faintly to the half-elf's concern, but the bard's attitude also had her intrigued. The fabric of her clothes, torn for the sake of the gladiator, and the cold night endured without complaint. She still had a long way to go before Aris would grow fond of her, exactly, but it was enough to earn some level of respect, which Aris expressed unconsciously through moments of quiet attentiveness.

As the terrain started to grow stoic and grey, it was beginning to resemble what Aris was more familiar with seeing at the end of her long missions. Not the noble stature of Iyesgarth, no... Rather, the previous sanctuary she had made a home of in the Northeast. Another decaying fort, enclosed in the depths of the mountains, overlooking the rolling hills and plains. Grand in its isolation, as she imagined every other sanctuary was after encountering the one they were in the process of coming upon. Reminiscent of each other in every way, save for the pervasive emptiness of the latter. Having lifeless tapestries of older days representing the sanctuary's history instead of cynical mercenaries and self-interested rogues almost made one's perception of the Order feel innocent and virtuous again, though a far cry from what it's been in many years.

For the past few weeks, however, Aris hadn't minded as much. For once, it felt like she had found a place to separate from her tiring life, either as a sell-sword or as a soldier. She had only gotten to rest there for a short while before meeting with R'hllor and leaving for Prigalla, but even just for a few days, the peace and tranquility were priceless. She could serenade herself for hours on the terrace with her ocarina if she wanted to, and there was nothing to interrupt her. It left her with feelings of anticipation in the present moment, the sanctuary being a reward at the end of this coarse road.

As the panorama of the verdant landscape came into view from below, Aris was almost caught off guard, brought to a momentary halt. Though the sanctuary was the true prize of respite at the end of their tedious journey, the experience of witnessing such a sight still felt like a soft kiss from nature to bless the weary travelers who made it this far. It certainly left Aris enamored, though she was a tad bit embarrassed to get distracted so easily, pulling the brim of her fedora over her face slightly and pressing on. She didn't want to be the one to hold the group back over pretty scenery, as gratifying as it was to stop and stare. Especially when none of the rest had been to the sanctuary, forcing her to lead and choose their paths.

It wouldn't be long before they'd arrive, and Aris held on to the thought. At that point, she cared less for whether or not the two half-orcs joined them for a few days. She simply wanted to rest for a while.


​
 
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Group 3 Rohan Rohan Goonfire Goonfire escapist escapist​


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Either the gods had long since abandoned her, or they could not bear to look at this place. Maybe it was a mix of the two? Maude wouldn't blame them. Nothing could go through this little seafaring trip and leave the same. Unlike the time of her apprehension, Maude remained silent. She had watched as other unfortunate souls tried to fight. Yelled and struggled against their captors. Yelped as the last of their courage was beaten away.

She knew better than to waste her breath. She lost. Hard. No amount of fight could change that.

Like a tamed giant, she walked with the rest of her shackled buddies, not even sparing a grumble. As the waves crashed against their ship, she sat in contemplation. Even as the slaver's light shone at her, she remained still. Clinging onto the one thing she had left: her dignity, which she knew was very much at stake.

And Maude needed whatever she could keep.

Upon reaching the Isle of Kupari, part of her stony facade finally cracked. Not of duress, but one singular chuckle. Dire amusement at the fact that she was sent here of all places. She could tell by the stupid grins on the captors' faces that they knew this. Their unmistakable sadism as they whipped sap after sap. Maude watched them with an unreadable eye. She'd been on their side of this coin—more than once. Funny how things work out, she thought.

Beyond that, she did not dare act out. As things were, her life was in the slavers' hands. And as long as this annoying, scratchy choker pulled her neck, she had no cards to play—no hands to play them with! So she walked where she was told to walk. Climbed (to the best of her ability) when the smug slavers demanded she climb. And trudged into her new cell.

It was the smallest bit of relief when their shackles disconnected. Still an awful—yet familiar—environment. Maude watched one of her prison mates scratch their legs with a tinge of envy. Oh, how she missed her bloodied hands already...

Now that they were alone, Maude was first to break the silence. I'm still here, she thought through dry laughter. "I'll bet these guys got a real kick out of sending a hand-less gal to do labor!" she remarked, making use of the stone ledge seat. "What do they think I can do? Lift crates by my teeth?" Her toothy grin sunk a bit at that. "Ah, piss, they would, huh? I know I would've."
 
Jac'aal the Vagabond - Group 3 ​
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His captors' professionalism had become evident to Jac'aal in the moment the short devils had continued beating him, maybe even with increased motivation after his hood had fallen back, revealing his gruesome visage. He could still feel the parts of his body throbbing where their fists and weapons connected with his flesh. Not a usual reassignment and - he would have dared bet on this one - not by the average prisoners. The way they handled their small group and made sure the prisoners have no clue where they were, all of the little detail pointed out to the fact that Jac'aal found himself in big trouble. When he had been accused with witchcraft as if they were living in the previous century, he had thought he would get out of prison after a few week. Now, as he was standing on the boat and was listening one of his companion vomiting, he started questioning he would get out that easily. "Heuu" He couldn't help but started gagging, not out of solidarity but because the sounds and the acidic smell inspired his stomach to sway like the waves against the boat.

As they were led by the dwarves, Jac'aal's biggest problem was to follow the rythm of the other prisoners' steps, trying not to pull after himself or hold back anyone. He wouldn't have been surprised if it had turned out that there's a third lake within the final island where they got off the boat and were guided down on the winding slope. Jac'aal closed his eyes for a moment, trying to sense Harpy, the headless chicken, filled with his life energy. The chicken was still alive, he could tell for sure but besides a subtle sensation, he had no idea where his little friend had gone after he had gotten captured. Not like Harpy would be able to rescue him but sensing it still gave him a little stroke of hope.

"Finally...!" He thought as the cell's door opened and one of the many shackles, that had been biting in his flesh, got off of him. With an almost relieved sigh he strolled in the cell, finding himself the darkest corner and threw his massive, weary body down on the ground, the subtle shadows hid his twisted face just enough to feel himself relaxed. He savoured the first peaceful moment since he had met with the dwarves, catching his breath and trying to find the most comfortable position in the corner. The floor under him was wet and cold - he wanted to get out here already. Restless soul.

He smirked as he heard the woman with a robust physique matching with his own, complaining about the lack of her hands; Jac'aal could tell that none of them were here out of coincidence "I heard they said I would endure the corvee" He said, his raspy voice echoes unpleasantly in the silence of the cell. Jac'aal had been in enough cell to know that a wrong word and the inmates end up slaughtering each other but staying quiet wasn't one of his strengths. "So why don't we put together any information we have?" He adressed the others, sounding more like an advice than a question.

 
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Group 4 | Rael, Eibor, and Quart
The Forests Southwest of Iyesgarth ​


A soft wind drifted through the forest where a bird and a man gathered together, carrying the slightest distant noise. As they settled in next to each other and spoke, something grew closer, first becoming audible after their first exchange. It was an eerie noise, a shuffling step, dragging through the undergrowth. Something moved in the darkness with inhuman strangeness, something unnatural too these woods.

When it emerged fully visible it didn’t get much better, a strange shape in the darkness stumbling forwards. It seemed like nothing so much as some sort of shambling undead, creeping aimless and uncontrolled through the woods. The quiet groaning mumble now audible didn’t help, wordless sound with a little too much gurgle and roughness for comfort.

The moment was however fully ruined when it took another step forward and there was an audible thump, immediately followed by it jumping up and down clutching its hand at its foot and audibly swearing, “Where the fuck did that root come from, I swear I was looking right at that damned patch of ground. Gods I need proper boots.”

It was at that moment the source of the now clearly feminine voice looked up and made a noise that could be best classified as a squawk of surprise, falling over on her ass as she realized she had unexpected company in the woods. Wide eyes now shone from under what was revealed to be the hood of an old gray cloak, small cracks lighting up her eyes in a very literal sense and a myriad of colors. She blurted out, “Where did you even come from?”

Earlier

Quart was, in a word, lost. Granted she hadn’t actually been found at any point, not having any particular destination or map. Still, wandering through the woods at night was much less than ideal. She should have found a safe place to curl up and rest a while ago but she had been distracted with foraging in the evening and lost track of time. Now she was just being stubborn and trying to find some relatively clear ground. She was used to sleeping rough, but she still wanted to minimize how much her bones hated her in the morning.

Perhaps she should have lit up the night, but while a basic lamp spell was something even she knew how to do, she hadn’t been able to get it any less than blindingly bright in years. Seemed more trouble than it was worth, especially with how it destroyed her night vision and was lost to any significant distraction. If she was to be honest, there was something comfortable about picking her way through the woods, a quiet peaceful solitude, just her, the trees, the breeze, and all the little critters.

That didn’t mean it was perfect though, the aches in her bones were starting to rise above normal levels, and she could tell she was getting tired and distracted. She would need to stop soon one way or another. The ground beneath her feet had drawn her eye too much, half watching where she stepped, half considering whether it was worth paying the price of morning aches for earlier mistakes.

Unfortunately it didn’t save her from the mossy root into which her shoed foot firmly slammed. The blinding flare of pain at least woke her right up as she hissed and danced the dance of a badly stubbed toe. Her annoyance with herself didn’t have long to last though, as she then happened to look up and see a man and a bird sitting under a tree, witnessing her embarrassment.

She promptly fell on her ass, utterly startled to find other people in the forest. She could feel the fear pulling her magic into her eyes, but in the hopes that they were peaceful she first called out, “Where did you even come from?” Hopefully they wouldn’t see the wince afterwards, she had never been a talented speaker, and not having spoken to another person in months doesn’t seem to have helped.



 
Khadija Aslan​
Group 2 ( BlueXBlood BlueXBlood , Zazz Zazz , Xen6n Xen6n , Aegis Aegis )​

The night hard for Khadija.

It was not the cold or the wind or the darkness that disturbed her. It was the solitude, and the thoughts that came with it. The sting of whipping sand against her face reminded her of home, a welcome pain. Khadija’s mind went out and came back and went out again like a ranging dog, exploring all of the darkest avenues of her mind. Here she was, divested of all that she had been, origins as remote as her destiny. Those she cared for either thousands of miles away or gone from this world entirely.

If only my heart was hewn from stone.

There was little to do on her vigil, and even less to see, even with her keen eyes attuned to the darkness as they were. She had half a mind to wake Bal just for the dull conversation that might ensue, but Khadija knew the wounded gladiator needed rest for the journey ahead. So she waited and watched and tormented herself for lack of better alternatives.

Sleep never came for her, so Khadija did not wake the others until the eastern sky turned a deep cyanic blue.


As they marched through the grasslands, Khadija chattered inanely, sharing stories of little consequence and what she knew of the surrounding regions, their kingdoms, their rulers. Reinvigorated by their companionship, such as it was. She studied flora and fauna, enthralled by the greenery, of which she had never seen the likes of before. The musician silently regretted lending her journal to Aris, for she wished to try her hand at sketching some of these green wonders, but let the thought go. Instead, Khadija simply admired the flowers of this strange land, each a novel wonder. With gentle reverence, Khadija gathered a few, weaving them into the dark tresses of her hair—blossoms of yellow and pink, living tokens of this lush world. She marveled at foreign birdsongs, mimicking their cries with a singsong voice and was endlessly delighted when they replied in earnest. The hem of her robe grew damp with the morning’s dew, a phenomenon both alien and amusing to her. Khadija wondered why the Seekers hadn’t established their base here, in this peaceful valley.

As the land rose under her feet and they ascended out of the verdant basin, Khadija’s ramblings tapered off. Up until this point, the traveling had been uncomfortable, but tolerable. Flat ground, sitting in a wagon, a climate familiar to her body. The flourishing trees gave way to thin whisps of life eking out a place in the rocky soil. The trail grew narrow and steep. Her muscles screamed with a pain unfamiliar and crude. Her breaths grew ragged. Her skin slick with sweat and grime. Each step took a titanic effort, and the half-orc's sunken eyes fixated on her feet beneath her. Khadija feared her spirit might falter if she looked anywhere else. Above to the mountain peaks and she might lose hope, seeing them tower over her with so much further to go. Below, to the pleasant meadow, and she would abandon her efforts and seek refuge in the streams and shade. Her robes snapped in the wind as she pressed onwards, head down like some whipped penitent.

Legs shaking with fatigue, Khadija felt the terrain level out, and she collapsed into a pile of robes and flowers. “Is your sanctuary nearby?” the bard asked miserably, her chest rising and falling heavily. No quips or jests this time. She'd concealed her fatigue well enough up to this point, a sort of bullheadedness she drew upon that often got her into trouble, but Khadija was at her breaking point. If they were nowhere near, she had half a mind to just lay there among the rocks until the buzzards stripped her flesh and the sun bleached her bones.
 
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GROUP 2: Corn Orc Vandal Corn Orc Vandal BlueXBlood BlueXBlood Xen6n Xen6n Aegis Aegis

With every step up the mountain, Bal's thighs burned and ached. Days of lying in a cart, unconscious and wounded, had done a number on her endurance. She was used to perhaps half a day of rest after a particularly rough battle, maybe two if she had fared worse for more coin. But sedentary life weakened her muscles, as did malnutrition. Perhaps, she thought to herself, she just needed a decent meal.

She had seen a few mountain goats on the way up, when she wasn't taking a turn pushing the back of the wagon. It was all she could think about when she *was* pushing. Her wounds from the sand hydra's bite had, at the very least, scabbed over, but the sand and dust made them itch. Bruises from every other beast darkened her skin an unpleasant blue-green.

At the plateau, the loudly dressed bard collapsed to the ground, and Bal's legs faltered. She held onto the cart so as not to meet the ground, even as her heart pounded in every muscle. She felt as though she would be sick if she walked any further.

"I can't," she breathed, just loud enough for the wood of the wagon to hear her.
 
SHERAGA THE LEPER
GROUP 1:
Corn Orc Vandal Corn Orc Vandal Daylight Fantasy Daylight Fantasy Tool Tool Aegis Aegis
Clank, clank, clank.

The ropes holding the skiff creaked under the weight of its newest and noisiest passenger: a humanoid clad in full plate armor. Though he hardly spoke during this voyage, the bright yellow fabrics with white flame emblems had already told a tragic story: this Nurite bore a disease and his situation seemed hopeless. It felt all too appropriate for his pilgrimage to lead him here.

The leper shifted towards the middle of the skiff to balance the weight as the crew lowered it into the water. Even as they approached the shore, he sensed the tension among the sailors, who bore simple clubs. He also lifted his mace, its flanged head at chest height to indicate he stood with his wary company. Among the many figures swarming the beaches, there were surely charlatans and thieves. While he had little in the way of desirable items, these few possessions were still more than some denizens of this cursed rock had. A silver ring dangled from a chain around his neck. Whether it had simply slipped out or he was admiring it previously, he noticed it was showing and quickly tucked it safely behind his chestplate.

Next, the pilgrim took note of the man preparing to block the beggar onslaught with his backpack. One man's shield was about to be another man's meal ticket. He shook his head and placed a hand on the scholarly-looking character's shoulder to get his attention. "Bad idea. Stay behind me," he suggested in a deep, gravelly voice.
 
GROUP 1
Goonfire Goonfire Corn Orc Vandal Corn Orc Vandal Aegis Aegis Daylight Fantasy Daylight Fantasy

small annik.JPG

Annik approached the baby boat with open curiosity, though she didn't plunge into the desperate throng of humans, preferring instead to stay along its outskirts and hope that the sick man in yellow metal was somewhere, either amidst the boiling crowd or within the baby boat's ribs.

The crows were still interested in She Who Gave Food, but they were only crows and less than thrilled to be within reach of unfamiliar fingers. As such, they lazily circled and cawed before landing some distance away and taking to the air once more should anyone approach too aggressively.

Thanks to their better vantage points, the crows spotted the figure in yellow metal before Annik, and their enthusiasm made the girl grin. They were talkative creatures, and as soon as one spotted the figure in bright yellow, they all took up the announcement, as though merely saying so would bring upon them reward or renown (renown optional, reward assumed). Admittedly, they did not know the Food Giver's Found-thing was sick, or even a man for sure, but it was yellow! And metal! And on two legs! That was close enough for a bird. Truth be told, it would be enough for most humans.

Annik spoke to her feathered friends in her way, a combination of mental contact and a rattling, low, clicking language that sounded strangely hollow, rattling from deep in her diaphragm. It was a deeper sound than rightly should have come from her throat, but that was by far not the strangest thing about the girl. She told the crows that they had done very well, and that she was very impressed, and she would absolutely kill something so they might rejoice in their victory.

The 'something' Annik picked was a fellow predator (When in Civilization, Never Eat the Weak).

He'd only just started to follow the dreamtouched woman with a clever gleam in his eyes Annik didn't like. A knife in his palm and up his sleeve was not hidden well enough to escape Annik's notice. A hunter who hunted hunters, Annik followed him in turn and sniffed at the air, picking through the smells until she was fairly sure she was sniffing the stalker.

He wasn't wearing his own clothes.

They smelled faintly of dried blood.

They smelled considerably more like blood, once the hewn tip of Annik's spear jutted out of the middle of his throat. The dreamtouched woman gave a yelp and took off as Annik put her foot against the small of her prey's back and pulled her spear out and to the side, tearing open the tendon and muscle in a gout of crimson that soaked into the sand within seconds. His meat was clean. A swipe of her spear tip presented his entrails to the exultant crows and the gurgling not-yet-a-corpse slumped to one side. The dark cloud of flapping wings crowded around her without much in the way of fear; she was the Food Giver and she was making good on a bargain.

Annik stood behind her kill with a charmed smile across her face, and she chuckled when she shrugged off the birds that had settled on her shoulders, encouraging them to eat.

Some of the crowd did not look perturbed by the casual murder of a man right over there, some looked decidedly disquieted, and a few opted to leave. Annik turned back towards the baby boat and looked for the Sick Man in Yellow Metal. He wasn't difficult to spot, and as he was presumably getting off the baby boat, Annik was content to wait for him, though she did call out in a clear voice, carefully and slowly enunciated, heavy with an accent not often heard in civilized lands:

"Sick Man in Yellow Metal! I speak to...."

No, that wasn't right. "I speak with you."

Nailed it.
 
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Group 2 - Aris, R'hllor, Khadija, and Bal'Kafaz ​


Aris' head throbbed from the taxing climb, but she remained stoic for both her sake and for those around her, who seemed to be collapsing underneath the fatigue already. The poor bard and gladiator, whom she had spared a few thoughts of concern for along the way, had finally succumbed to the harsh conditions of the mountain, and the half-elf stopped and watched as they took a breath, letting them rest for a short while. Glancing to her right, she saw a discrete carving etched into a rock. Up-close observation wasn't necessary, as she recognized it from her first trip up these barren paths. To her relief, they were, indeed, close...

For a few minutes, she also sat down to rest. The sun was hot, yes, but her fedora shaded her scarcely, and that was enough to let her tolerate it for the moment. The bard's journal was still in her satchel, and the idle time for recovery beckoned her to pull it out, prompting her to flip to a page that had captured her intrigue the night it was given to her. Taking note of some brief glimpses between each page she passed through, Aris couldn't help but recognize Khadija's personality within her creative works. Her mad scrawlings, which were vibrant but excessive, resembled the charismatic but overly talkative demeanor the half-orc emanated with. It wasn't important, but it was a detail that Aris fancied acknowledging and keeping in mind.

Finally, she found the page, and opposite from her signature was but a small piece of what Aris assumed was a composition the orc had begun at some point. It wasn't extensive, but Khadija was still evidently a talented and creative composer. Otherwise, the half-elf wouldn't have bothered reminding herself of the composition. Closing the journal and returning it to her satchel, Aris reached for a wooden ocarina that hung from her waist, tied to a string just long enough to suffice as a necklace that was fastened to her belt for the sake of being accessible.

For a fleeting moment, Aris lifted the ocarina and began to channel her breath into a soft, dulcet melody. Her fingers danced along the smooth holes of the instrument, manipulating the sound into something euphonous and graceful, entertaining her mind with thoughts of beauty to accompany the sound. Though quiet at first, as the Seeker hoped to avoid criticism from the piece's creator, the silence forced upon the party by fatigue eventually allowed the music to pervade throughout the immediate area, filling the air with a soft and singing whistle. It wasn't long, though, before the time for rest came to an end, and the half-elf resolved to continue pressing forward with their destination closely within their grasp.

Aris approached Khadija and offered a hand to help her up, doing the same for the gladiator as well. She cocked her head toward the end of the path, where the landscape seemed to end in a ridge, and one could imagine the view before which the sanctuary was perched. Her gesture invited them to look upon it with relief, reassuring them that they were very close to resting under an almost proper roof, give or take the overgrowth that resided there as well. With a wave of her hand, Aris hoped to pull Khadija's attention to the weary gladiator before flicking her wrist off to the front as a signal for them to continue on ahead of her, preferably helping each other. It was a straight path from there, and the two could aid each other while the half-elf took the burden of monitoring and pushing the cart upon herself.

With just a little more trudging, the silhouette of the sanctuary would come into sight, and its broken doors would welcome them, finally. Aris looked forward to it.



 
GROUP 2: Corn Orc Vandal Corn Orc Vandal BlueXBlood BlueXBlood Xen6n Xen6n Aegis Aegis

_________

When it became clear that their group was stopping for a break, Bal'kafaz sat herself upon a rock to rest and catch her breath. She knew if she sprawled on the ground like Khadija, she would likely never rise. The gladiator peered up at the clouds, shielding her eyes from the sun with a hand. She had removed the rest of her armor quite some time ago to give her legs some relief, keeping only her heavy boots on. Her clothing was sticky and smelly, and crusted over from the sand they had trudged through for however long. Bal'kafaz couldn't decide which she desired more, a hot meal or a bath.

The faint sound of trickling water perked her interest. Perhaps if they were near their destination, she could find its source, soon. She didn't know how far they were going. Though, there wasn't much farther to go, at all, up this pile of cold rock. Bal'kafaz had considered turning back to her fate in Kiledo several times on their journey, but... Frankly, she didn't know the way. Perhaps this was another form of suffering, another way to die for her crime.

The sound of Aris' ocarina, however, was far from punishment. For a moment, the half-orc, half-elf slave felt a little lighter. A little less gloomy. Enough that when Aris came to offer her hand to the gladiator, Bal' took it without a grumble and stood, ready to carry on.

"How much further?"
 
GROUP 3
HAMMERFIST CITADEL
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AriAriAbabwa AriAriAbabwa escapist escapist Rohan Rohan ​
Without a strict guard to keep the new prisoners quiet, the voices slowly rose. First, it was heated whispering and murmuring, stifled crying, and quivering vocalizations. Then, it grew to a crescendo of debating, sobbing, and desperate pleading to various gods and to the scribe for water and food. It was difficult to discern what was being said at any given time, as the acoustics gave the cell block a horrid echo. Even so, one could hear the crack of whips from elsewhere.

It seemed as though the skittish scribe was about to crack under the pressure by the time she finished writing, each stroke of her quill hasty and sloppy. She then left her open book and quill on a wooden table with an ink well at the end of the cell block. From this spot, she overheard Maude complaining about having to work with no hands. She approached the black iron bars. "You poor thing... I'm truly sorry," she started with a heavy sigh. "I'm unsure what business they would have with you, but I doubt they have good things planned for anyone here, be it hard labor or some other purpose."

After a moment, the scribe switched topics. "You strangers must all have a story. May I ask where you hail from and why they took you?"
 
SHERAGA THE LEPER
GROUP 1:
Corn Orc Vandal Corn Orc Vandal Daylight Fantasy Daylight Fantasy Tool Tool Aegis Aegis
Once the skiffs made landfall, the yellow-clad pilgrim stood at his full height. His ornamented helm and boots only added to it, making him tower over the others at nearly seven feet. "Stick together. Cover all angles," he ordered the other sailors before leading their exit. "On with you. Get away from here," he scolded the conmen and wannabe guides attempting to obstruct their path.

"Sick Man in Yellow Metal!"

The hulking man paused for a second and turned his head, the visor of his helmet facing the tribal woman directly. He was looking at her...

"I speak to... I speak with you."

With him...? Indeed, she stood out from the rest. While the rest of these destitute souls merely had the ragged clothes on their emaciated, weathered frames, she still had muscle on her blood-speckled body. He then glanced past her—at the crows' crimson-drenched smorgasbord—and then down at her weapon. Under any other circumstances, that may have raised a red flag... but when there was easier prey mere inches from him, her interest in him specifically only raised burning questions.

Deciding there would be no problem, he continued marching along the shore, beckoning the huntress to follow him away from the noisy throng. "What business do you have with me?" he inquired.
 
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Khadija Aslan​
Group 2 ( BlueXBlood BlueXBlood , Zazz Zazz , Xen6n Xen6n , Aegis Aegis )​


The crumpled and miserable pile of cloth that was once Khadija stirred to life at the sound of a familiar melody. She had not heard it before in taverns or market squares, ballrooms or dance halls. She'd only heard in her head until now. The song, a spritely melody of longing and resolve, was hers, written in dark days. Now it echoed faintly through the mountain air, lending it a somber tone.

A fleeting thought ran through her sleep-deprived mind.

Am I going mad? That didn't take much.

Khadija shot up, head whipping to her compatriots, as if seeking seeking to confirm her own sudden onset of insanity. Her eyes fell upon Aris, the ever-silent Seeker, now playing an ocarina she'd failed to notice. Bringing her music to life. She breathed a sigh of relief and flopped back onto the ground. Not insane. Yet. Khadija closed her eyes, allowed herself to transcend the pain of her tired flesh. She wandered far from the desolate mountain upon which they were precariously perched and focus solely on Aris' familiar song. She found it a strange experience, hearing another's interpretation of a tune she invented yet had not played. One thousand musicians could all play the same song, and yet none would be alike. Each song a reflection of the individual. Khadija listened carefully, trying to glean some insight into Aris' inner self from her own rendition. The woman robbed herself of speech, but perhaps she had more to say through the small wooden instrument clutched in her hands.

As the song faded into the air, Khadija returned back to the mundane world. Her legs ached just as much as they had before the brief respite, but she felt lighter somehow. The bard laughed and applauded lightly.

"Hah! If you ever grow tired of the Seekers, you may have a place in Safir Şehri among our musicians," she said as Aris helped her to her feet, upon which she stood unsteadily. “Hold on to that journal, will you? I’d love to hear more of your renditions once we’re somewhere more civilized. Tell me, are all Seekers so musically inclined, or did we just get lucky stumbling across you?”

Even the dour Bal seemed softened by Aris’ playing, a feat Khadija had yet to accomplish.

"How much further?" The gladiator asked.

"Look there," Khadija replied, pointing to a rocky outcropping of jumbled, lichen-covered stones. Beneath the moss was a faint engraving in the rock face, a strange rune Khadija had never seen. A casual observer might not have recognized it as the work of sentient beings at all. "Seekers write in a cant, a hidden code, leaving messages for other members of their order. I've been seeing them more and more since we've climbed this hellish mountain. I suspect we're very near, though you or I might not know it; the Order hides their places of refuge well from us strays, lest we stumble across them." Khadija looked to the Seekers for confirmation with a slight grin, as if she held some forbidden knowledge. Hoping to impress, maybe.

"Lean on me if you must, but don't expect me to lug your carcass through the front door!" Khadija kidded as the ragged caravan set into movement and she half-limped along. Now that the path was growing clear, she felt her excitement building within. A real Sanctuary, something she'd only imagined in her years at the Imperial Academy, was now very near to her. Hidden wonders, forgotten relics, and more members of this ancient order. Not quite civilization, but anything was better than Kildeo.

 
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The slightest twist of a smirk twisted one corner of Bal's lips upward; the mental image of Khadija trying to carry her was comical. "Seems more likely I'd be carrying you," she teased, eyeing the bard's unsteady gait. But she walked with the other half-orc nonetheless, thankful to be nearing the end of this journey. Bal'kafaz didn't know what symbol she was meant to be seeing, and, frankly, she did not much care.

"You seem to know a lot about these secret folk," Bal'kafaz observed quietly. Khadija seemed quite the opposite; she was loud and talked incessantly. The gladiator had no idea how someone could have so much to say, all of the time. She certainly didn't.

Finally, they came to a door, overgrown and abandoned. Someone had been there within the past year, perhaps, but the wind had blown dirt and sand and dust to cover the bottom of the door. Bal'kafaz stepped forward to shove it inward with her shoulder.
 
GROUP 1
Goonfire Goonfire Corn Orc Vandal Corn Orc Vandal Aegis Aegis Daylight Fantasy Daylight Fantasy

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Annik's feet were light on the sand, even as the Sick Man in Yellow Metal sank in a thumbnail's depth with each step. He did, indeed, smell sick, albeit without any of the undercurrent of dirt or filth or body odor that would accompany such disease in such confined quarters and under so many layers of cloth and metal. It was a strangely clean-sick smell, something that Annik was genuinely surprised to notice, and it made her bright eyes look at him more closely as she fell into a rhythm beside him.

The man's unusual height was a good sign. Perhaps his ancestors had ogryn blood, or perhaps he was simply descended from tall, strong stock. His armor, too, was well kept and clean, even if it bore the scuffs and hammered-out-dings of battle. The use of armor was not something Annik could ever look upon with admiration, but civilized war-crutch or not, the wide, curved panes of steel proved the Sick Man in Yellow Metal had at least seen battle.

It could have been worse.

Though her speech had the quirk of her native tongue, seeming both unusually formal and liberally sprinkled with metaphor-as-fact, Annik was easy enough to understand past her accent, even if her words were slow in coming.

"Prophecy." Was her succinct reply, before a few footfalls allowed her to collect her words more completely.

"I am Annik of the Kellid, Karwi Shadwar of No Clan but Friend to Many. I come from ice and snow, far beyond the Tusk Mountains and approaching the Shadowless Lands."

She looked out into the churning sea, the frothy waves spilling onto the shore and the darker waters beyond, sniffing deep of the brine and recognizing the water-lands as being just as untamed as the beloved forests and mountains of her home, even if the particulars were wholly different.

The Wild in Annik recognized the Wild in these vast waters, and it was good.

The widest, largest river that could possibly exist, was called the sea. This had been a recent understanding on the girl's part, and it still boggled the mind. Annik wondered which god had wept the sea into being, and why.

"The Mother of Time gave signs to Omak the Blind, who gave them to me. I am to remain by your side until I understand how to stop Civilization from infecting the Kellid and turning the Old Ways.... new."

The sound of the interaction between man and armor drew her attention back to the Sick Man in Yellow Metal. Did he feel caged, in there?

"Prophecy brought me here, and you are here, as was foretold. It is good."
 
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Group 2 - Aris, R'hllor, Khadija, and Bal'Kafaz
The Southwestern Sanctuary of the Order ​


As she heard Khadija's remarks, a soft smile played upon her lips, the half-elf biting the inside of her cheeks to stifle it. She averted any further interaction with the bard, though a keen observer could tell from the little she displayed that she was mildly flattered. Even the gladiator's softening semblance seemed to warm the silent Seeker, as her impassive facade seemed to melt into something just ever-so-slightly more... expressive.

She felt a slight tension of concern ease as the two cooperated and advanced while she stayed behind and pushed the cart. Aris would have instantly regretted the decision, though, if it hadn't been for a faintly inflated sense of heroism, as the gladiator was quite evidently of tougher stature than the half-elf. The only reason she looked more weak and weary was likely due to her gradually recovering injuries and Aris' advantage of traveling experience. Fortunately, in Aris' mind, mental resolve could make up for much, and so long as she convinced herself to press on and suppress the exhaustion, she was capable of giving herself the illusion of strength and endurance.

To the relief of the weary travelers, they were finally coming upon the sanctuary... Though, amusingly, they would not know that. Even Aris herself, having at one point been aware of the sanctuary's location, was not immune to the effects of the ward, which obscured the very existence of the stronghold in the minds of onlookers. It was a fascinating thing, that the party might look upon it for a moment and instantly forget what stood before them, but such was the magic of the ancient Order. It was the only form of magic that didn't unnerve or arouse suspicion in the half-elf, as it gave her the security and comfort she desired most. A place to be hidden, kept for herself and those whom she chooses.

As they came before the sanctuary, Aris came to a halt, wanting to witness the newcomers' reactions to the strange magic, just for the novelty of it. She quirked an eyebrow, though, as Bal'kafaz staggered forward in the absence of hesitance, passing through the ward and shoving what was still unacknowledgeable to Aris. It would seem that the mirages of weariness were fit to substitute for what was invisible to the party, as the half-orc's exhaustion allowed her to approach without a second thought and open the door. Such an approach had never occurred to the Seeker before, but if it worked, then it was worth no more thought. She followed, taking steps in faith at a leisurely pace.

Entering the security of the ward then unveiled a structure, wearing many years of abandonment in the form of overgrowth, fractured walls, and long settled dust. Large as it was, its broken visage would be enough to press upon the beholder a sense of nostalgia and sympathy. It was a ruin, in every sense of the word. That didn't seem to bother Aris, however, who tugged at the brim of her hat to cover the gentle yet vibrant smile that was emerging on her face. It was a rarity that few things could cause, such a smile on the half-elf, and she was insistent on depriving anyone of witnessing such a sight. Thus, she avoided anyone's gaze and followed relaxedly behind the two. She had finally returned to her new home.


 

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Group 4 | Rael, Eibor, and Quart
The Forests Southwest of Iyesgarth


Someone, or something, was approaching.

Eibor felt it in their ear slits moments after finishing their semblance of a bow: feet dragging through unseen dirt, a shambling movement not unlike those that smelled of death yet moved all the same. But there was another much fainter sound that didn't accompany such creatures; such unnatural beings may not be sure of foot, but they are sure of purpose, and pursue their prey with a sort of unholy confidence that in the past Eibor had found strangely admirable. What they heard now, just on the edge of their perception, was the quiet yet distinctly heavy breathing of someone floundering about in woods unfamiliar to them. Not the sound of a predator, no, but of prey.

How intriguing, to come across another in such a place and at such a time. One could almost hear a silent grin in the way Eibor turned their now-raised head wordlessly to the far edge of the grotto, where a few moments later the being in question stumbled out of the trees with a gurgling groan.. and promptly thrust their foot directly into a rather obvious root.

Eibor's eyes grew wider upon the woman's appearance, glancing quickly up and down her form as she cursed and jumped about in an amusing manner. There was something clearly unnatural about her, or at least different from the other humanoids they had come across in their travels; she had all the physical signs of sickness, and even some that were yet unfamiliar to them, such as hair that appeared to project a faint glow across the leaves and earth as their dance of pain carried them about, and yet there was no scent of a known sickness about them that Eibor could detect. She was indeed gaunt and frail, and yet she seemed to have a good deal of energy, and enough gall to travel through such a dangerous place as such an uncertain time. To say that Eibor was intrigued would be an understatement; they were utterly fascinated with this woman, and immediately abandoned their conversation with the mercenary to flap over to a root nearby the now calming woman.

"Hm hm, now this is certainly unexpected, but unexpected as a sweet pang in a tart fruit-of-the-vine. The bird turned their head and eyed the woman intently, something almost akin to a smirk in their lighthearted speech. "But such fruit does not grow in the dark as I imagine you have, sick one. I must ask how one such as yourself came to be, but that can wait, yes."

Eibor gracefully whisked themself up into one of the lower branches of a nearby tree, landing and looking back at the woman. "I must beg your forgiveness for my unseemly pushiness, when we have yet even to exchange the simplest of pleasantries!" They turned back to face the woman, performing another "bow" and clacking their serrated beak in greeting. "Those of you that live on the ground call me Eibor, and I am a Cojaega of the peaceful and wise Enlightened sect. It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, and offer you whatever assistance you may find yourself currently wanting for. I would much love to see what I might do to lessen what most certainly ails you."

Perhaps there would come yet another partnership from this undertaking, and the bird could hardly contain their glee.

​

 
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As the crew slipped through the magic veil surrounding the sanctuary, they were greeted with what looked to be a building carved from the stone. Looked in the sense that decades or more of natural wear had beaten down upon the unrepaired remains until what was left of the outside more resembled a roughly cut pile of stones than anything that had been made by man, but there were signs that poked through the otherwise natural mountainside: a small spire that rose from the crag below it, a clear hole into one of the many interior chambers, a rough cut stone doorway still affixed with the Order's Crest, and hints of worked stone that made up something of the wall inside. The stairway rising to the large, stone doors had been cut away by harsh rains and now it was a smooth path of mud that lead the group before the entryway.

Reaching out, Aris felt the familiar weight of the coarse doors under her palms, and with no small exertion--including the help of Bal, of strength began to heave the doors open before small runes turned alight in the corners that seemed to sail the fortress of stone along their course until they propped from either wall. The wide swing threw dust from the floor that even the prior week of occupation could not hope to clear out. A flash of green cut across the immediate foreground in stark contrast to the bleak, shadowed grey of the cut stone that made up the central sanctum of the Sanctuary. Rough, resilient vines strung themselves down and across columns that supported the ceiling--every few of them crumbled at the top, all originating from a hole collapsed through a thin section of the ceiling or having sprung from various garden beds in the ground; a large pile of rubble had collected below the broken ceiling and atop the bases of four statues in the center that had been obliterated from the falling rock. If one looked closely, they could make out pieces of chiseled stone in the form of limbs or the shards of a shattered armament, but it was nothing concrete enough to ascertain who the statues were made in likeness of--if they were even more than acts of vanity at all.

A staircase stretched down before them into the heart of the chamber before another picked up just a few paces past that--wings stretching to the east and west each holding its own rooms to be discovered by most of the members here. Tapestries hung from above the raised, side walkways that depicted scenes too dilapidated to garner any cohesive information from, and the mixture of the wet cloth and piled remains of wooden furniture mixed into a sickly cocktail of mold and mildew that assaulted the nostrils. Just across the room level to their elevated position, clouded windows hinted at some kind of terrace just beyond the wall.

Whatever the newcomers might've been expecting, this was a far cry from the glory days of the Order. It was home to them, but harsh as was everything they had been through to get here.
 
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[youtube]1Up9z9G8-E4zmBgk6bKpviS4UFd-IZzM2[/youtub]
Title of Song
Ying Ming-Xia
Ming-Xia’s attempt at shielding himself with his backpack wasn’t quite the protective one, he sensed. He knew that the sword he carried would come in handy in situations like this but it wouldn’t be wise to charge in attacking alone to a large crowd who were clearly more intent on fighting then him. Despite the danger in front of him, his 'shield' was still something worth protecting himself with.

He waits for the crowd to come closer. The obvious thing to attack was clear but he didn’t want to drop his guard by digging around his bag for his sword. Ming-Xia took a step back, his bag still in front of him before a man wearing armour tapped him on the shoulder.
"Bad idea. Stay behind me,"
the man said in a deep voice. Judging by the armour that he was wearing, Ming-Xia assumed that he was experienced with fighting and stuff of that nature. He nods, tossing his bag around his shoulders,
“I see. Then please, take the lead.”


Min-Xia stood silently as he watched the man shout orders at the surrounding guides and sailors. He grips the handles of his bag, just in case he needed to take them off again and take out his sword when a female in an odd attire approached them, the armoured man specifically. 'Sick?' Ming-Xia thought, 'What does she mean by sick? Unless there's symptoms of any illness that the man hadn't shown yet, he seems to be in decent health.'


Ming-Xia’s attempt at shielding himself with his backpack wasn’t quite the protective one, he sensed. He knew that the sword he carried would come in handy in situations like this but it wouldn’t be wise to charge in attacking alone to a large crowd who were clearly more intent on fighting then him. Despite the danger in front of him, his 'shield' was still something worth protecting himself with.

He waits for the crowd to come closer. The obvious thing to attack was clear but he didn’t want to drop his guard by digging around his bag for his sword. Ming-Xia took a step back, his bag still in front of him before a man wearing armour tapped him on the shoulder. "Bad idea. Stay behind me," the man said in a deep voice. Judging by the armour that he was wearing, Ming-Xia assumed that he was experienced with fighting and stuff of that nature. He nods, tossing his bag around his shoulders, “I see. Then please, take the lead.”

Min-Xia stood silently as he watched the man shout orders at the surrounding guides and sailors. He grips the handles of his bag, just in case he needed to take them off again and take out his sword when a female in an odd attire approached them, the armoured man specifically. 'Sick?' Ming-Xia thought, 'What does she mean by sick? Unless there's symptoms of any illness that the man hadn't shown yet, he seems to be in decent health.'
 
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Agonos Isles
Group 1 ( Goonfire Goonfire , Aegis Aegis , Tool Tool , Daylight Fantasy Daylight Fantasy )​

The ragged crowd surrounding the newcomers flared like quail the instant a body hit the ground, skewered by the wild woman's spear. These people might have treasures to steal or swindle, but they decided it wasn't losing their lives over. More and more corpses, half-devoured by man and bird, were littering the alleys and dark corners of Atychía. Rumors of cannibals, savages roaming the streets at night killing to sate their hunger flooded the ruined city. Many made the connection that the woman before them might be the cause of these black whispers. The onlookers fled to a safe distance, far out of spear range. Eyes watched from inside buildings or flat rooftops. Others fled altogether. The other newly arrived headed straight for the Agonos Conclave's tower that stood above the city, guided by an old and cackling half-elf.

As the strangers found their bearings on the beach, the city's bell rang twice more. To foreigners, it meant nothing. To locals, it meant trouble. Those observing from a distance melted into shadowed streets. Of other souls abroad there were none, and the world was silent save for the gentle tide crashing against the shore and and the cawing of feasting crows, all under the pandemonium of a harsh sun like some portal to a greater hell beyond.


Not long after the bell tolled twice, there were new arrivals in the harbor. They did not slink or scamper like so many residents of Atychía. The island had not yet robbed of their dignity or sanity. Casually they gathered, as if this was no new thing to them, forming a rough semi-circle around the three who stood on the beach. There was still some substance to them, some strength. Not like the rest of Atychía's ghosts, who were so faded and weathered they were nearly transparent.

A dozen or more of them stood before the trio. They were armed with vicious axes and chipped swords, clothed in salt-stained brigandines or rusted chainmail. No city watchmen, these, though some might have imagined themselves as such. Castoffs of lords and ladies or wealthy merchants, they were guards or mercenaries who might have once accompanied their patrons to the Agonos Isles, seeking the Conclave's aid. Perhaps their employers found what they were looking for, with their retinue choosing to stay behind. Perhaps not. Perhaps, when they arrived and their dire situation became clear, that no help would come, the charges abandoned their lords to look out for themselves only. Perhaps their patrons were beaten and robbed by their own bodyguards the moment they stepped foot on land. Whatever the case, these seasoned men and women found their fates intertwined.

Four more appeared on the rooftops, carrying with them heavy crossbows. They were silent. A few glanced at the fresh corpse laid out on the stone, his body with a growing number of wounds from sharp beaks like the victim of surgical experimentation, gaping sightlessly at the clear sky. The air was tight and strained as a stretched skin in a tanyard. Then one of them spoke, addressing Annik.

"So, you're the savage who littered this island with half-eaten corpses. I'm surprised you're not slathering over that one like a rabid dog," the human woman sneered. Her dark hair was cropped close to the scalp, and a jagged scar across her axemark of a mouth made it work imperfectly. She carried a vicious-looking broadsword at her hip. A sailor or privateer in another life, judging from her attire.

"We've been looking for you some time now. You've made some mess. This place may be lawless, but we do not suffer cannibals in this city." Her compatriots nodded in agreement. An affront to the gods to some, a total debasement of the self to others. Few places in Kirlia were tolerant of man-eaters. Even on this cursed island, the gristly diet was forsaken.

"So, you and your friends have two choices. You may leave this place now, and never return. If you divest yourselves of all belongings, and are a strong swimmer, you may just reach that ship before it leaves the bay," the leader said, failing to mention the ravenous sea predators which patrolled the shallows. Some of the others chuckled. It was robbery, plain and simple, dressed up as some noble deed. The group sometimes played at this notion of honor or righteousness, defending the weak, but it was just an act to soothe their consciences.

"But, should you decide to stay on this lovely island, I'm sure your feathered friends would appreciate three more meals." At this crossbows were loaded, swords drawn, and axes hefted. "Your choice. But choose."
 
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Arnou Sylvain, The Wolf in the West
GROUP 1 ( Tool Tool Goonfire Goonfire Daylight Fantasy Daylight Fantasy )​


The two hour descent into Atychía was generally a calming affair. Dirt crunched under his heavy footfalls as a salty, gentle wind carried up the side of the mountain, but the ever-looming fortress of The Conclave cast a dark shadow on a dying land. There would come a point on each walk where he would come to a point where the sun that graced his isolated complex would clash with the darkness and The Exiled Lord would have to make his decision: venture back to where he came or step forth into the misery that was this corrupted city. Each day, Arnou chose the latter and today was no different. The dirt pathway began to transform into cracked, dull brick as he stepped into the city proper.

Contrary to his remote retreat, the air fell heavy on his nostrils with the ripe scent of rotting bodies and food; the smell enough to make anyone without and iron stomach or enough time on the island vomit up the contents of their stomach. The houses around creaked and whined as though on the verge of collapse as though the very atmosphere was enough to sap the will to stay upright from these inanimate objects. Arnou started down the street--his left hand resting atop the hilt of his blade in order to steady his sword, as eyes peered at him from cracks in the stone walls, faces from alleys, shaded silhouettes in doorways and windows. They knew that the crestfallen man wouldn't beat and rob them like many of the brigands around town, and they knew he was no cheat either. However, as far as bodyguards go, his price was high and even then a good reputation wasn't enough to cut through the fog of distrust and malice that clouded the street; it blotted the sky--on even such a bright day as this, with its dull grey tones. The most a good heart would get him was that people felt safe enough to come out and start their day--downtrodden faces and hung heads coming out past him and starting their daily pilgrimage to the base of The Conclave. Although, Arnou briefly spotted a little girl peak at him from around a street-corner with a smile before a woman clad in patched robes tore her back. By the time the Exiled Lord reached the intersection, the woman and her child had vanished and were replaced by a half-orc fellow who yelped and scurried away in sheer surprise at the fact an armed man was looking straight at him.

Then, the belltower rung out a singular call and at once an anxiety gripped Arnou's heart. Newcomers would soon make landfall, and before them was a sea of troubles they weren't prepared for no matter how much they thought they were. So, he started forward toward the beach as he always did with a solemn hope in his heart that there would be a time when someone didn't need his services. There never would be.

It wasn't a particularly long journey from the center of town to the beach, but in the time it took him to traverse the swathe of land between the bell rang twice more. Trouble. Although, this didn't particularly hasten The Crestfallen Man's step as he continued his purposeful, steady pace toward the beach. Screams echoed out from those who could manage it as throngs of snake oil salesmen, would-be 'guides', and weary hopefuls expended the dregs of their remaining strength in a sheer sprint that saw them scatter to their familiar nooks and crannies; The truly weak followed a great distance behind either dragging themselves or pushing themselves along on walking sticks. Their feet kicked sand further into the streets of Atychía as they pulled themselves from the embrace of the sand--the beach's ever-gaping maw reclaiming the lower levels of the city inch-by-inch. One such figure was an older woman who simply sat and stared at a small lip-- no greater than six inches or so, where the stones of the street met the loose sand of the beach. Her face seemed to fade from panic to a grim acceptance as she tried to raise her foot only to lose balance on her walking stick and nearly tumble over. Arnou approached her and extended a hand.

For a brief moment, her leathery old neck curled upward and looked through the man standing before her as if he were as present as the wind around them, but slowly a glint of light returned to her sunken eyes, "...p-plea...se... he...lp.. me--"

Her voice was small, weak, dry. Yet, she wanted nothing more than to live just like all of the other poor souls on this forsaken land. It was a twisted irony that saw all of those with the strongest desires for self-preservation seek out this island just to die here, and it was likely because of that need to survive that many of the stranded souls turned to banditry to ensure they came out on top of what little resources were left. Arnou cupped her fingers as she presented them and pulled her over the lip. A low 'thank you' followed a nod as she started off down the street on her walking stick, the last of the crowd.

Turning his attention back to the source of the commotion, a rough dozen of the island's more hardened brigands stood toe-to-toe with three newcomers: one very strange, fierce woman, a person clad in fine armor, and another who seemed to be more of a scholar than a fighter. Each of them seemed to be considering their options but they hardly seemed like a cohesive unit compared to the half-circle of attackers. Although, a bloodied spear on behalf of the woman and a random corpse being gored upon the ground was a hint that perhaps they weren't the attackers at all. Footfalls smashed across the rooftops just above Arnou--the weak buildings echoing such movements for all to hear, and the familiar tensioning of strings clued him in that perhaps it was crossbows; years of military training had sharpened his senses to such noises and ques.

For all intents and purposes, the trio was going to die very soon. They were outnumbered and at a severe tactical disadvantage no matter how skilled they were at fighting. There were still sailors there, but Arnou doubted that the Ship's Captain would want them to join a near-hopeless fight. He clicked his tongue as he mulled over his options. Realistically, he should do nothing, but ganging up on newcomers in full view of the ship that dropped them off was bad for business. Everyone on the island relied on the steady income of supplies brought on by newcomers whether it be for trade in his case or plunder in others, so to openly engage in a display that could influence the ship to never return was the worse of these two tragedies as far as The Exiled Lord was concerned. With a sigh, Arnou started out toward the group.

His advance was slow, casual. It was as if he was nobody at all and he was simply passing through the fight as he approached the ringleader of the brigands, Mikaela; a woman who had long ago washed up here, turned to plunder, and tried to invite him into her little 'group'. Arnou's body language was neutral in a way that cut the risen hairs on the neck of anyone who watched him walk her down with the sharp intent in his eyes. The beach fell silent save the crunch of armored footfalls that trailed under The Crestfallen Man's every step, and as he passed through the shadow of the city and onto the sunburnt beach--his unkempt, midnight locks caught in the wind to reveal a clenched jaw beneath a lightly scared, semi-clean face. Arnou drew in a breath that boomed with an earned authority, "Mikaela!"

The Man closed to within arm's length of the Privateer before raising his gaze to meet hers with a withering dissatisfaction, "What are you doing?"

The question hung in the air for a moment before another gust of wind caused his half-cape to flutter upwards revealing his battle-scared breastplate and a partially draw Lucsebras. Tension was like an explosion of needles that made many onlooker's skin tingle with the heat of the unspoken exchange beneath their words, "You know as well as anybody that we don't do things like this to newcomers. Not right here, not right now. I don't care what has happened to cause this, but deal with this another time. You can't do this in front of the ship, or there might not be another one."

Arnou's muscles were taut with a curling strength as he looked ready to spring his blade from its scabbard in a moment's notice--the deep green in his intense eyes promising such a reaction if necessary, "Stand down, or be cut down for the good of the island."
 
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