Fantasy Ballad of Renegades

[Goonfire]

GROUP 3
HAMMERFIST CITADEL

@AriAriAbabwa @escapist Rohan ​

---

The golem Hammerfist abruptly raised its head, staring at Maude with an intense and hateful gaze. "Ah, yes... Little Maude Beswick," he identified the bold convict before him. His voice was just like that of his mortal self, albeit amplified unpleasantly. "Three counts of murder... Now four, and you reject my gift." Hopping down from his pedestal, the runes on his new body glowed. As he landed, a shockwave rippled through the floor, stone bricks cracking under the stress. Tools vibrated and clattered to the ground all around the workshop.

"He's mad...!" the scribe declared, clinging to the workshop wall. "He'll bring down the entire citadel if he keeps that up!"

Meanwhile, the loud chime of an enormous gong resounded through the entire citadel. The entire place was on high alert.

The two male rebels led Jac'aal and Nadi through the caves. "They're not far behind," the deeper-voiced one assured the former. "We should be safe until they catch up. The waterway is just up ahead." Indeed, the sound of trickling water was audible at this point in the hewn dwarven passage. The heat of the citadel's sublevels also gave way to a refreshing, cool, and moist air.

"Fear not, for that is a flesh wound," the other assured Nadi. "We have a gentleman who wants to join you on the journey home. He's a marvelous medicine man, albeit... er, decrepit. Anyway, I suppose you wish to know the whats and the whys."

"The whos, as well, brother," the baritone dwarf grumbled. At that point, they removed their hoods, revealing their long, red hair and braided beards. "I'm Felzen, and this is my... poetic brother Stein. The scribe back there is our friend, Sylvren. Sorry we had to meet under these circumstances, lads."

Felzen's hair and beard were slightly longer, the creases on his forehead a bit more defined than those of his brother, denoting his age. Though younger, a pronounced, angular scar bit into Stein's thick hairline on the left side of his skull.

"Hammerfist is a barbaric bastard, even to his own brethren," Stein continued dramatically. "Scant few are safe from servitude, and many Kupari Dwarves dread seeing their families dragged to this dank dungeon after dark. Most are afraid, while others are complicit, complacent, and cruel."

 

[Zazz]

GROUP 2: Corn Orc Vandal Xen6n BlueXBlood Aegis

---

At first, Bal' felt pity for the imprisoned, eyeless woman. She had been left, for whatever reason, to rot in her own filth for however many years. Bal' knew, firsthand, the weight of chains around one's soul. But the more she spoke, the more twisted a knot in the halfling's stomach became. This was a being of magic, of things she did not know. Elianor taunted at them through cracked, bloody lips. In another life, Bal'kafaz might have offered her water; in this one, she had none of her own, and was inclined to stay put.

Bal'kafaz knew not what the Cradle was, but she could tell it was very, very important to Khadija. The gladiator's grip on her dagger never faltered, even as the eyeless face settled its disapproving gaze upon her. If she'd had her strength, Bal' may have felt anger rise, and Elianor might have been silenced by a blade in her chest. But at this point in the day, after all she had suffered to keep the other three from dying... Bal' felt nothing. Felt nothing, wanted nothing, just as the wretched creature had said. Nothing but a hot bath and, if she were honest, an infinite pile of fried meat.

Perhaps she was spineless, after all; she hadn't the courage to die back in Kiledo.

Promises of assistance in exchange for freedom were made, and Bal' was about to protest when suddenly Elianor's head was impaled by the eight spikes of the floating halo. Bal' had seen death countless times before, but not like this. This was unnatural, abhorrent. No one deserved this cruelty, over and over presumably until the end of time. Bal'kafaz watched with both horror and fascination as the dead woman reanimated. She trusted not a word from Elianor, but would argue with neither Khadija nor Aris over freeing her.

She stepped forward, a hand out to block Khadija from approaching the seer. "I'll do it." At least, if she died here, she would feel no more pain.

 

[BlueXBlood]

Group 2 - Aris, R'hllor, Khadija, and Bal'Kafaz
The Southwestern Sanctuary of the Order ​

Strong enough..? Aris contemplated that thought. So much power entangled in the myth... maybe it was for the best for it to be far beyond the bard's reach for now. Far beyond anyone's, she hoped. Otherwise, if it really had the power to do so much as turn back time, the thought of a world altered by an individual was unsettling. But to be standing next to an individual with such a wish caused a bitter sigh to roll quietly from her breath as she gazed at half-orc for the moment, her expression deep but silent. She reserved her thoughts even from herself for the time being, though, as there was much more that demanded her attention.

This woman, chained to the chair... There was no doubt that she was not a force to be taken lightly, a conclusion that the old Order seemed to have come to as well from the evidence of her imprisonment. It wasn't so much fear that weighed upon Aris, so much as it was an ominous sensation. An instinct, that the things being detained by the cuffs on her wrist and her crown of thorns were too powerful for them to trifle with. And if she knows of the cradle... What is stopping her from seizing it? The woman's appraisal of Bal'Kafaz passed through Aris' ears without much meaning as these thoughts overwhelmed her. In the Seeker's mind, this was the reality where she did, indeed, arrive at the sanctuary, and even helped in slaying the spider that infested it. Therefore, Bal was passable. That was all.

The subject of Aris' suspicions and skepticism seemed to arise after all, as Elianor made her bargain. Free her, and we will receive our answers. Or, more specifically, answers of the Cradle, for Khadija. There was no way that she could agree to that... Unleashing this demonic creature AND encouraging the bard's ambitious wish? Which entails what? No... There was simply no way to reconcile that decision in the Seeker's mind. In no way was it worth what could come about from this.

In an instant, Aris was startled from her thoughts. "IMGONNADIEIMGONNADIEIMGONNADIE..." The woman's frantic cries were nearly enough to send Aris into a panic herself as she watched, eyes wide in horror and confusion. She felt herself wince on her behalf as the spikes impaled the woman's head, seemingly rendering her dead. What a gruesome sight... almost as disturbing as the scene that followed. The turning back of time on Elianor's horrid death. Such punishment, for grave things that Aris did not even have the creativity to imagine...

And yet, the gladiator stepped forward and offered to give her freedom. Why..? For what? Aris barricaded Bal's path with her arm, stepping in front of everyone. Her revolver fell pacifistically to her side, but her grip only tightened. She then glared at Khadija, cocking her head to her interrogatively so that she might explain herself. Explain her wish, and why on earth they should consider it worth freeing this woman. Otherwise... The cold look in her eyes reflected a less peaceful decision-making process.

[ Aegis , Xen6n , Corn Orc Vandal , Zazz ]​

 

[Corn Orc Vandal]

Khadija Aslan​

Group 2 ( BlueXBlood , Zazz , Aegis )​

Khadija gasped and every muscle within her tightened as Bal stepped forward, threatening to cross the circular threshold surrounding Elianor. She fully expected to see Bal's flesh ripped from her bones in a violent flurry, ancient and unknowable curses devastating her body until there was nothing left, but she didn't have the wits to actually stop her.

Luckily, Aris did, sparing Bal from what Khadija thought would be a rather disappointing end after the trials they'd just underwent.

"Wait just a moment, Bal; let's make sure you don't get flayed alive, though I know how much that would please you," Khadija suggested. Of course, she had no idea how they would go about dispelling any arcane traps. Her magical knowledge was rudimentary at best. Maybe throw something across the threshold first, see what happens? Stupid.

In that dark room, she felt Aris' gaze fall upon her in disapproval. Khadija knew she'd overplayed her hand, and whatever rapport she'd built with the half-elf was now in jeopardy. The woman was looking to her for an explanation, and while Khadija didn't think she owed her one, it would be the diplomatic thing to do.

"Why free her?" she said, a note of defiance lacing her tone. "Because I don’t believe in letting people rot in iron and torment for eternity, regardless of the sins on their souls. Whatever her alleged crimes, she's more than paid for them with this imprisonment." Khadija didn't know how long the woman had been trapped underneath the Sanctuary, but it must have at least been since the collapse of the order two hundred years ago. Maybe even longer.

"Besides, she might know things. Doubtful she knows where the Cradle is, but perhaps other things. More about the Order, about this Sanctuary; she certainly pretends to know much about us, but there may be some truth yet in her ravings," Khadija suggested, largely brushing past the Cradle. She'd abandoned the idea of it once Elinor started her ravings.

 

[BlueXBlood]

Group 2 - Aris, R'hllor, Khadija, and Bal'Kafaz
The Southwestern Sanctuary of the Order ​

"Why free her? Because I don’t believe in letting people rot in iron and torment for eternity, regardless of the sins on their souls. Whatever her alleged crimes, she's more than paid for them with this imprisonment."

Please, Khadija... Really? A dumbfounded sneer came upon her face at the naivete she sensed from those words. Her furrowed brow begged reconsideration. She drew her glance back and forth across the two parties she stood mediating between, Elianor and the half-orcs, and her expression swelled with an exhortation of caution as her eyes met Khadija's again. Don't be fooled. Aris knew that the slightest human resemblance of Elianor was not in any way an indication of humanity. Her thoughts could only echo the notion that it is not sins that make the woman worthy of imprisonment but quite possibly her very existence. Incarnations of evil are very real... and what better to hide in than the image of a woman?

Aris' thoughts cried out silently from the stern glance of her eyes. Until she could be convinced, she stood firmly between them and the oracle. If only R'hllor, who at this point, Aris was almost certain was dead from the fight, were here. Maybe the binding vows would be enough to ensure the safety of the world, and a compromise could be made. However, that was not the case. The three of them have no power over Elianor, and there was no room to entertain greed without the fullest consequences.

"Besides, she might know things. Doubtful she knows where the Cradle is, but perhaps other things. More about the Order, about this Sanctuary; she certainly pretends to know much about us, but there may be some truth yet in her ravings."

Aris didn't doubt that she knew something about the Cradle... in fact, if there was any doubt in the truth of Elianor's ravings, Aris would care far less. Instead, there was something very real about the woman, and that was what frightened her. The Seeker only felt tormented by her helplessness. The inability to know for certain that the situation could be manipulated in their favor. Without any control... It irked her most, above all things.

The gunslinger turned finally to Elianor, fixating herself on the woman. Her sudden attention on the oracle dared her to read the Seeker's thoughts. Somehow, she trusted that she could. Even if not the words of her mind, at least her current disposition. If Elianor wished to bargain, then with the fervor in her eyes, she challenged a negotiation. Persuade her. Or she won't be letting anyone free her from her chains.

[ Aegis , Xen6n , Corn Orc Vandal , Zazz ]​

 

[Aegis]

Elianor
Group 2 ( Corn Orc Vandal Zazz BlueXBlood )​

Elianor's head remained forward, but her brow furrowed in a focus that showed she was intent on the conversations surrounding her, a veritable war of ethics and impulse. Compared to her prior boasting, she now remained silent and let the strangers in her chamber discuss and bicker. Her fingers tapped on the arm of the chair. The woman's head bobbed and nodded with point after point being made, "It is, indeed, a cruel fate to be trapped down here for eternity. To die and die and die. I ask only for the right to die, once and finally. In exchange, I'll give you EVERYTHING. The Cradle is just that, everything. The power to alter it as you wish for ONE moment."

Elianor slacked back in her chair and allowed the knotted boards-- even the construct of the chair designed to rob her of any comfort, to ride into her back as a moment of clarity seemed to drown her weary features. Perhaps, it was the growing realization that it didn't seem favorable that they would release her that robbed her of the hysterical energy she had displayed, or the understanding that it robbed her of some credulity in the eyes of her would-be liberators. Her lips cracked as she loosed a sigh and dyed them cherry in the color of blood as she spoke once more-- Aris challenging her with a stern gaze, "I see you require something more convincing. A little more upfront on my behalf before you're convinced of the services I can offer you."

The Entity slumped forward upon her prison and her face tightened into something both serious and horrible to behold, "Now, you will see why I've been imprisoned here to die until this crumbles into a desert of dust and ash. Those of you of a weaker disposition I would advise to leave before you're confronted by your future. It can be... unbearable."

Elianor fell still upon the edge of her seat. Her elbows bent and contorted to allow her as close to Aris as possible as her lips parted in a silent, delayed breath. At once, a green fog seemed to erupt from the shadows she cast upon the ground and the empty hollows of her eyes filled with emerald rays of light as though she had opened her eyes for all to see. The act was altogether unnatural and a weight of terror and awe settled upon the chest of the group as they watched-- an ephemeral force crushing down upon their lungs as their minds screamed at the creases of reality being torn.

"I am the Oracle of Axasterke-- not some peddling fortune teller. I SEE your life from beginning to end like ink upon a page; every possible outcome spilling across chapters of your life from the moment you drew your first breath unto the thousands where you loose your final one. You desire answers to your questions? You desire proof of my intent? Have it."

Her voice is a commanding boom that echoes in whispers through the minds of each person present. Elianor wrenched back in her seat as the fog begin to form into more concrete shapes-- their stature like miniature puppets as they paraded along the ground with similar structures forming a rough background to an unfamiliar scene, "You will soon discover that you haven't the knowledge or resources to free me, and you will be without direction. Instead, the answers and skills you seek lie in the land of wheat and sun--of rot and swamps. There you will find the connections you so desperately need beset upon by a scourge from times past."

The figures now form into bones that snap into the shape of human skeletons--their eyes glowing with hate, as they brandish weapons upon faceless crowd; a cacophony of silent screams on the faces of the innocent as they run. Then, a bird swoops in as though the wind from its wings swept clear the field as a pack of wolves emerge from trees and fog. Their heads are low as they prowl into the open, "Allies from the East."

Soon, the wolves seem to stand and in a blink are replaced a woman wear a pelt and wielding a spear, a man adorned in religious symbols and armor, a rugged boy with a sword, and another mysterious man who keeps some of his dog-like features even after transforming like the rest.

This time, instead of a bird, the man in armor seems to melt within the metal until he forms a puddle that drowns the rest of them even as the woman in pelt tries to escape up a nearby tree. The water they sink into is quickly replaced by a shipwreck within which a large, rugged woman, a cloaked man, and others begin to emerge as they journey toward a beach, "Allies from the West."

The Oracle snaps back into her chair as the field before you all darkens with a black fog as the unknown figures are now joined by representations of Aris, Khadija, and Bal in a furious battle against a foe that seems to lurk just out of sight beyond the imaginary wall of fog, "Thus turn the hands of destiny ticking us closer to the turn of this era into the next. Be that glory..."

The faces of this group and the unknown figures light up in joy as they raise their weapons in celebration, "...or doom."

They suddenly seem to joke as they thrash and collapse to the ground in violent fits of shaking until they lay dormant and still.

As quickly as it appeared, the fog retreats and the illuminating eyes of Elianor return to coal-black hollows. Her body collapses back into the chair once more as the whole exercise seems to have taken its toll upon her, "There. Now, you must go and see of what I speak. I thoroughly realize you haven't the capacity to free me with the death of R'hllor and the centuries of destruction that has been unleashed upon the books of lore above."

 

[Corn Orc Vandal]

Agonos Isles
Group 1 ( Goonfire , Aegis , Tool , SilverFlight )​

Unearthly cries echoed through the streets of Atychía, closer and louder. Macabre shadows, shifting and trembling into grotesque forms that mimicked no creature born of nature. A trick of the light, perhaps, or something else. A voice, pleading, cut through the night. "Please, come. There is no safety to be found beyond these walls. Not anymore." The elven mage named Suldor, standing at the Conclave's threshold with his two hulking armored knights. He did not step beyond, bound to the Conclave's perimeter by fear.

As the torches grew nearer, the party cautiously entered the Conclave's gates with weapons drawn or teeth bared. Or both. Passing the threshold, a brief sense of panic overcame them. A great fear, one familiar to Annik. Turn back. Do not enter. The sensation faded the moment they passed through and saw the Conclave's courtyard. It was as if a veil was lifted from their eyes as they gazed up at the tower that dominated Atychía's skyline. The gleaming white stone now appeared as it truly was before them, fallen into disrepair and dilapidation. Time had gnawed at its edges, leaving the once-solid stonework pitted and weatherworn, with deep fissures running like scars along its surface. Patches of dark vines clung to the crumbling walls, their tendrils weaving through gaps where mortar had long since eroded. Grime and salt from the sea air coated the windows, rendering them nearly opaque. The courtyard itself was a ruin of forgotten beauty. A central fountain, its stone basin cracked and streaked with dark stains, burbled weakly, spitting forth brackish water. Moss clung to its edges, at its center a sculpture that had been eroded into an unrecognizable form. The garden, which might have been a lush haven in another age, was a tangled wilderness of thorny vines and sickly, overgrown plants. Leaves hung limp, tinged with an unnatural yellow, and strange flowers bloomed with unsettling hues, their petals curling inward. The faint thrum of magic felt at the Conclave's gates was stronger now, just enough to raise the hair on the back of their necks.

"A glamor," Suldor said weakly from behind them, flanked by the two knights. "To keep up appearances for... Those outside." At this sheepish confession, the elf stumbled and fell to all fours. The knights behind him seemed to mimic this, crumpling to the ground like marionette dolls with their strings cut. Their thick armor clattered to the overgrown grass, spilling forth like broken fragments of pottery. No flesh or bone within these knights. Hollow.

The gates sealed shut behind them as Suldor slowly got to his feet, drained from these small feats of magic. "Come in, please, it's safe here. For now, anyways," the thin elf said as he shuffled towards the tower's single entrance.


In the dim candlelight, it was the smell they noticed first. The scent of lavender, incense, and peppermint permeated the air, with death and decay at the edges. A once-grand entrance had been stripped of its arcane elegance, replaced with the haphazard functionality of a makeshift hospital. Stone walls were draped with rough linen to provide a semblance of privacy for the sick and the dying within. And there were many of them, racked with the same illnesses that afflicted the others on the Isles. But here, they seemed comfortable. Tended to by exhausted mages in bloodstained robes bearing salves and balms, which would only have a soothing effect on these men and women destined for death. Suldor led them up the spiraling staircase, talking as he went. "The Conclave has not always been like this," he explained, looking almost embarrassed. Like a child caught in a lie. "This... charnel house. A place to die. Once, we conducted miracles here. That feels like a lifetime ago."

As they climbed, Suldor explained that the Conclave had existed for centuries, predating many of the nations throughout Kirlia. A place for mages to learn the art of healing, and a beacon of hope for the downtrodden and sick to be restored. When the Order of the Seekers collapsed, one former member came to them looking for safe harbor, bearing with them with an object of great power and coveted by the now splintered factions of their Order. A jagged shard rumored to be a fragment of Aereoth, the half-forgotten god of life and death. To prevent its theft and misuse, the Conclave conducted a binding ritual on the shard, ensuring it could not leave the confines of their tower. The mages studied the artifact, and though they learned little of its origins, they were able to ascertain certain properties of it. They could channel its power, they learned, and use it to amplify their own healing magic. They used the shard's strength sparingly, fearing malevolent actors beyond their island might learn of it.

"This is all hearsay, mind you," Suldor said as they reached the middle level of the tower; here there were fewer of the dying and more of the mages; a small library and some of the Conclave's humble quarters. "Only the head of our Order knows exactly what happened, and they are... Gone."

The change, he explained, was subtle at first. So subtle and insidious that it wasn't until years later that they took notice. Their healing magic grew less potent, unable to combat the various ailments pilgrims brought with them to the island. Wounds continued to fester, illnesses took root deeper within the body, and the very air of the Conclave grew heavier, tainted by an unseen malaise. The shard, once a source of miraculous power, had become a silent parasite. The mages speculated that their over-reliance on the shard's abilities had somehow corrupted it—or perhaps it had always carried the seeds of decay, lying dormant until they had unwittingly awakened it.

"Had we just lost our magic, things wouldn't be so bleak. But it grew worse," Suldor explained, the exhaustion palpable in his voice. "This corruption; it doesn't simply affect the body, but the mind too. It creeps into thoughts like a shadow cast by a flame. Paranoia, despair, and even madness have claimed many of our best. The people who come here for help are affected the worst. Do not judge them harshly. They are not in their right minds."

As they continued upward, the dim glow of candles gave way to narrow windows, letting in weak shafts of gray light from the stormy skies outside. The air grew colder, the scent of decay fainter but still present, as if it clung to the walls themselves.

Suldor paused at a landing, glancing back at them. His young face was lined with age and weariness, seeming to carry the weight of centuries. "When the sickness took hold, we tried to purge the shard, to sever it from the Conclave. We tried everything, but it was as though the shard itself had rooted into the stone of this tower."

He gestured for them to follow him through an archway adorned with crumbling carvings of vines and flowers, now darkened and withered.

The corridor led to a larger chamber, the ceiling vaulted and webbed with cracks. In its center stood a pedestal of black stone, encased in faintly glowing runes that pulsed with a sickly green light. Atop it lay the shard, jagged and dark, emitting a faint hum that resonated in their bones. The air around it felt alive, thrumming with an oppressive energy that seemed to press against their chests, making it difficult to breathe. To try and gaze at the thing was impossible; one's eyes were simply unable to focus on its shimmering form. It was like some nightmare, skipping between moments. Blood roared in their ears like the sound of a raging sea. Suldor stared at the shard as best he could, his face expressionless, but dark eyes filled with rage and hate.

"We considered abandoning the tower entirely. Fleeing the island. But the shard might fall into the hands of those who could harness its power for destruction. And so we remain, trying to heal the sick, knowing each failure adds another layer to the misery of this place."

"We divined its origins to Darkmire. The leader of our order, Aubron, he set out to find the source of this curse, learn some way to sever our ties to the shard or destroy it outright. That was three years ago." Suldor’s voice dropped to a painful whisper. "No word has come of him since."

"Others were sent after him. The finest order. One by one, until all that is left is what you see here," Suldor said. He finally tore his broken gaze from the shard, looking to Arnou. "We have long watched you, Arnou. Your arrival was not unnoticed. We have seen how you act, the judgment you wield. There is justice in you, we are sure of that. As for your companions…" He briefly met Annik's eyes, but quickly turned away. "We do not know them. But you do, and that will have to be enough. We have no other choice. The city has turned against us. Against you. There is no place for any of us here now."

He turned to a narrow window, watching as figures cast in torchlight gathered around the Conclave, their anguished yells barely audible from this great height.

"Please. You must find Aubron. Find what has caused the shard to twist itself into this wretched thing. If there is any hope left, it lies in Darkmire."


The Conclave had fallen silent, save for the distant murmurs of the dying and the low chants of the mages tending to them. Outside, the mob raged.

When they stepped out into the courtyard, they saw them.

Four bodies, arranged in a circle, wizards standing over them. Incantations muttered, hands raised. The bodies were familiar. Too familiar. Each one was a perfect reflection of them—Arnou, Annik, Sheraga, and Dunan—lying still upon the stone, their lifeless eyes staring into nothing. The air thrummed with latent magic, the spell unfinished. Suldor did not pause.

“Do not linger,” Suldor said, his voice voice tight. “They will serve their purpose.”

Through the gates, beyond the Conclave’s walls, the city boiled with rage. A crowd of corrupted souls, their bodies hunched and broken, their eyes burning with something far worse than fever. Hate, hunger. A madness that had stripped them of reason. Almost every member of the undulating mass bore some grievous wound inflicted by crude weapons, yet they seemed to barely notice. Jaws hung on by thin tendons, arms twisted and mangled, bones jutting through flesh. The moment they saw Suldor, the wailing and babbling began anew.

Suldor raised his hands to placate them. “You call for the interlopers, those who sought shelter here,” he called to them, voice clear, sharp. “As a gesture of our goodwill, we shall give them to you freely.”

He gestured to the bodies. A command, silent but absolute. The mages lifted the corpses, carrying them to the walls. One by one, they were hoisted up, limp and bloodless, before being bound in heavy ropes and hung from the battlements. The sight sent the crowd into a frenzy, screams of triumph and laughter mingling as they turned first upon the false bodies, then upon each other, a mass of clawing, desperate creatures. They paraded the ravaged corpses through the streets like false prophets, everyone eager for a fist full of flesh to call their own. The crowd exploded outwards into the city as they sought more victims, more interlopers, more orgiastic violence.

Suldor then turned to them. “Go now. Follow the white raven. It will keep you from their eyes.”

A soft cry above them. A pale bird, stark against the night, wings spread wide as it dipped low, circling once before gliding toward the alleyways beyond.

“She is Selianne,” Suldor said. “A mage of our order. She will guide you.”


Through the ruined streets, past the broken remains of homes and temples, the smell of rot thick in the air. The cries of the dying were drowned by the violence of those who remained. The white raven led them true, its form flitting between shadows, always just ahead, never too far. The shattered docks rose before them. A single, small boat waited, bobbing gently in the dark waters. Tucked away from prying eyes, hidden with a glamor now broken. They were almost free.

"You!"

A familiar voice called out, yet it was strange and slurred. Figures emerged from the dark fog. Faces they had met here before, steel in hand yet again. A legion of horribles. Whatever explosion of violence occurred tonight, they did not escape it. Mikaela's clothes were coated in dried blood, her face a slashed mess; one cheek had been cut from lip to ear and crudely sewn back together with what looked like human hair, and her tongue was visible working. Others, too, carried their own wounds. The skin of one man's bald head was drawn and split like an overripe fruit. Another walked forth on a broken ankle, raw and bloody bone touching the cobblestones, yet he seemed not to notice. Their uniform smiles were broad and bloody, like open wounds.

"Did you think I would be fooled by that masquerade the Conclave put on? Those fraudulent bodies? Oh, no no no, Arnou," she laughed, the stitching holding her mouth together gradually breaking apart as she spoke. "We will not be deprived of justice. Come, let us finish this."


The tiny vessel bobbed gently in the water, its singular sail picking up the faintest breeze which carried with it the smell of smoke and rot. Atychía burned behind them, and even this far off the coast, screams and laughter could still be heard. Selianne stood at the stern, watching her home recede as the sun rose behind it, a deep orange in the rising smoke. The tall elven woman was still shaking as she tore her eyes away and focused on the others in the small craft, taking a deep breath before speaking.

“I was born there, you know. In Atychía, to a dying mother. But the Conclave took me in. Raised me. It was all I ever knew. And now… it is lost.” She let the words hang, the weight of them settling like stones in her chest. The wind tugged at her cloak as if urging her onward. “But there is still a chance to undo this. To find Aubron, to understand what has cursed us. Darkmire. Darkmire holds the answers. It must.”

She raised her arms, fingers splayed out like the ribs of a wrecked ship. Her eyes closed, and she inhaled deeply the breath of the sea - salt, brine, distant rain - and began muttering quiet incantations. The wind howled as if in answer, and the the boat's sails billowed as the ship jerked forward, nearly knocking Selianne off her feet. The cries of the damned city faded into the distance, swallowed by the vast and hungry sea.

 

[Tool]

GROUP 1
Goonfire Corn Orc Vandal Aegis SilverFlight


Annik had some very big feelings. Ever since she'd been a suckling, Annik had felt passions larger than her skin would hold, and though the oddity in her was eventually attributed to being a beast girl, that hadn't abated the enormity of her emotions. The Citadel being revealed as it truly was instead of what it appeared to be seemed terribly dishonest, and the weakness in the sorcerer was not inspiring of pity. Dishonor was anathema to the girl, though the realization of the sorcerer's species set Annik's hackles at ease. This was an elf. One of the races not beholden to the old ways, one of those who had their own ways, their own gods, for whom civilization was not a trap but a gift.

The sight of the sick and the dying accompanied a tale of good intentioned but ultimately misguided elves, meddling with grand magics and ancient artifacts in the hopes of doing something good...... and ending up doing something very bad. Annik saw the flaw in their current machinations, beyond the frothing crowd outside: why did they still allow people to land here? It would have taken relatively little effort to mark the buildings or the beach, set danger buoys in the water, line the shore with redstone and mark this as a place of plague and death, not healing and hope.

Perhaps the elves here simply didn't understand?

Anyway, why were the elves so convinced that Darkmire held the answers they sought? The elves who lived and worked here had supposedly divined the artifact's origins, but considering what the stone had done to this place, Annik was unsure why the object's birthplace had anything to do with finding a way to defeat or destroy it. If one wanted to fight fire, one didn't wander into tinder, hoping to learn the secret of water. That was stupid.

Perhaps, Annik reflected sagely, the elves were a little stupid. Then again, if the glowing, evil thing drove the people outside mad, perhaps it sapped the better judgement of otherwise wise elves.

When the elf flung false copies of Annik and her companions to the boiling crowd of malcontents, it only cemented Annik's confusion. Why do things this way? It was so backwards, but then, these were elves, perhaps even more different from her kin than the goat-men who lived in the mountains and feasted on man-flesh. Ultimately it didn't matter whether or not Annik understood. The Sick Man in Yellow Metal was going to Duskmire, and so would she, until the Wild made it clear her destiny lay elsewhere.

At least they'd be leaving this awful place.

A bird who was also an elf led the destined towards a beach and a receptive boat..... where cowards and the dishonored lay in wait. They...... were not doing well. They were diseased in the mind, and Annik took no pleasure from the fight. Putting down a diseased animal was not a victory, and the fight against these few was much the same, from Annik's point of view. It was a necessary thing, and Annik was as savage in her style as ever..... but when the blood had soaked the sands red and they were back in a stupid boat, Annik was merely glad to be done of this island.

Her gaze lingered on each of her traveling companions in turn. Arnou. Dunan. The Sick Ma-..... Sheraga. They could have been worse.

Hopefully, Duskmire was less civilized.

 

[SilverFlight]

Dùnan Skye

Group 1

Dune didn’t know what to make of it at first. He stood for a moment, fangs bared, but there was no battle. Instead, they were led into the conclave and shown just exactly what was secreted away behind its walls. How wrong he’d been. His dark-haired dog-form padded behind their unexpected host as he took in the words and the scenes in his silence.
The place looked like it had been lost to time, faded and broken like the city it watched over. The entered the Charnel.

The smell of death and rotting flesh made him curl a lip. He would not soon forget that scent whenever lavender or peppermint passed his nose now, and regretted the fact.
Pity welled up inside him as he looked on the hopeless. What a cruel fate to come here and find nothing but death in trade for their hope. Dunan walked on.
He felt the shard before he saw it. The pressing, fetid weight of a conscious darkness, a hunger he could feel nibbling at the edges of his mind. It made his hackles raise.
When Suldor called on Arnou for aid, Dunan looked up at him, trying to gauge his expression. At length however, Sheraga and Annik pledged to go, and Dunan, still canine, followed them in answer.

The plan to get them out of the conclave and past the angry mob crying for their blood was an unsettling one. Dunan looked upon his own pale, lifeless face. He turned away as it was given to the crowd, feeling some sort of curse or ill-luck if he should see his likeness destroyed.
The trip down to the beach was quiet at least, Dunan padding behind the group. Surely some must be wondering where “Dunan” was by now, and why there was a dog following them. He turned his head back to the city and beyond, where the first ribbon of dawnlight crept over the dreary stones.

Dunan heard the footsteps before he saw their source, and let out an involuntary growl. He looked upon them and had he been human, would have grimaced. His eyes fell over their injuries and he knew, from the likelihood of infection, they were probably already dead. Perhaps the fight now would be more a mercy.
It was over nearly before it begun. Their attackers, weakened by the mob, fell or fled before them. Annik dispatched several with no more emotion than hunting a rabbit. It was necessary.

Dunan wished he could feel the same, but some part of him wondered, if they succeeded, how many of these desperate souls could be saved.
It was just at that moment, that the first rays of the sun poured over the dusty hills, caught between the jagged teeth of the white city. He felt their warmth touch his fur and let out a pained yelp. The transformation…it was always painful.
Fur became cloth and hair and the dull howl of a dog became the voice of a man. Dunan got up slowly, shocks of pain still prickling his skin. He stood to face them all.

“I think, perhaps, I owe you an explanation.”
As the boat sped along, and they had heard Selianne’s tale, Dunan cleared his throat and began his own. He told them of waking in a barn by a fortress, with no memory of who he was, of his strange curse and how it is governed by the sun. He also explained his strength, and the abilities he had in his canine form.
“I suppose I am more after why I was cursed, or, spelled…” He gave a quick glance at Annik, remembering how she had thought of his affliction, “...rather than a cure for it. I am sorry I wasn’t more up front, there just…didn’t seem to be any good moment to tell you before sun set and then, well, losing the power of speech removed the choice.”

He glanced at them all in turn, trying to glean their opinions. "If you'll have me, I am still committed to helping you."

Aegis Corn Orc Vandal Tool Goonfire

 

[Aegis]

Arnou Sylvain, The Wolf in the West
Agonos Isles, Atychía
GROUP 1 ( Corn Orc Vandal Tool Goonfire SilverFlight )​

Arnou, out of the entire group, was the last to follow into the perimeter of the Conclave; years of mistrust had sewn seeds that had taken root like thorns in the valves of his heart. The Boy was slow to trust and his blood was not easy to thaw. An illusion was dispelled before their eyes as the stone of the courtyard echoed the heavy step of their boots-- Arnou's hand gripped like a vice around the hilt of his sword as they entered. His face bounced with tension, disbelief, and the hard glint of something... hateful in his eyes.

Not all that glitters is gold, and The Conclave was a gilded palace of false promises indeed. Whatever small hope he had stored in his heart had been vanished, the hole now a blackened tundra of trust. Something pressed on his bones from outside-- The Tower itself, with a feeling like knives scraping along your bones, like stones pressed upon your chest, like the cold chill of wind up your spine just as you were drifting off to sleep. It was familiar. This very thing had been with Arnou all these years and every step they took toward the spire of The Conclave unstrung thought from his mind as he lumbered forward along with the party.

The low groans and muffled chants of the dying and their would-be healers drew Arnou's eyes in a spiral across the floor as he absently followed Suldor. An energy seemed to occupy the very space around them like a malevolent fog that choked the lungs of all those around and kept their hopeful murmurs to just a whisper; meanwhile, the screams of the crowd drummed against the walls outside. The Boy's heart seemed to beat as though it was a violin and the wrathful shrieks of the crowd tore their claws across the strings until his very teeth buzzed with the shrill thrums of their malice. All the words being exchanged around him passed through his body as though they were talking to a Phantom.

The room that housed the shard escalated this to an entirely different level. Physically seeing the shard made Arnou pause in the door. The very essence of the artifact whispered in his mind as his eyes were chained to the oppressive aura of its power. However, with a show of willpower, he followed his compatriots to stand by the thing. Arnou's jaw hung ajar, his breathing heavy, eyes unfocused but still hard with something negative; perhaps, the very will of the shard manifesting.

Then, Suldor spoke to him, his mouth snapping shut as he turned to face the Elf, "I'll... do my best. Justice... saving these people. It's... the right thing to do."

Arnou said one thing, but his eyes crept back toward the shard, a commanding distraction that just... seemed to make sense somewhere deep in his mind. It was still this oppressive thing, but it almost felt like a comfort. The Boy's heartbeat began to increase with a steady rhythm as adrenaline coursed through his veins; the fingers on his hilt were now jumpy, impatient. Perhaps... the right thing to do-- the justice in all of this, was to simply end the suffering of everyone here. Kill the sick, the crazed--kill everyone. Let the island fall into a smoldering ruin where the bones of the dead stood vigilant as a warning to those foolish enough to come. The Conclave, in its own effort to keep up the facade, had allowed even more ships of the desperate to choke the dying streets of the City. Why should they be spared from this hell that they had unleashed upon this city?

Arnou gazed down at the shard with a now-longing. Perhaps, he would finally be free of this feeling if he just... reached out. Touched it. For this moment, the only things in the room were Arnou and the shard, powerful and magnificent as it was; the whispers of destruction such as a gift, an answer, to the question of this wretched island. The Raven-Haired Boy gazed down on it and the faded glow that seemed to avoid an visual detection. There was simply a hint of what was there, a promise. Fire spewed from his heart as Arnou stepped forward-- his eyes glued to the small thing that seemed to avoid his every effort to view it, and The Boy felt it spear through his heart as it desired to tear it open and take its place.

Arnou was nothing more than the will of the shard. The Artifact was Arnou.

However, as Suldor spoke of Darkmire and the Origins of the Shard, The Boy froze in his tracks. The pulsing fire and hate of The Artifact replaced with the choking cold of the swamps Arnou had temporarily forgotten. Who was he to make this choice on behalf of everyone on the island? Who was he to make choices for anyone at all?

Arnou shrunk from the artifact and made haste to lead the party down the stairs and away from that cursed room-- the weight on his chest returning steadily as The Shard rebuked his cowardice. The way ahead was marked by a white, ephemeral bird, and the past was left behind in the form of dummy corpses.

--------

As the party drew close to the docks, the final obstacle to their departure made itself manifest, Mikaela and her damned crew of brigands. They were clearly mad. Driven beyond logic by greed and hate and by everything they had been forced to do just to get here. Tonight, it was clear that The Island had reached its darkest hour. For too long, things had balanced on the razors edge, and now they all plunged into the black waters of madness. Pandemonium gripped the beachhead as weapons were drawn.

Arnou felt the slamming pulse of Atychía and The Shard even as he journeyed to leave and his sword screamed free from its sheathe as his eyes hardened with the same glare present in the eyes of their attackers. Mikaela had rushed for him--their past too personal for even the madness to overcome, and in a blinding flash she threw her wounded arm forward with her weapon. The Wolf from the West staggered back--his boots sliding in the sand, as he thrust his blade upward and parried her attack with the sparking clang of metal to metal; in the same instant, Arnou twisted his hips into a coil before whipping himself around and slashing the blade at her abdomen. A sick crunch echoed down the beach as the steel cut clean through and showered the sand in entrails as she fell into two pieces. Blood dripped down the blade and landed in a sprinkle of dots across Arnou's face as he kept the blade hoisted in the final movement of his attack; it was guilty release as The Shard tried to thrust him forward into more violence. Fortunately, though, the sight of the boat being right there was enough to keep him grounded as he made a mad dash for it.

--------

As the ship drew away from that cursed island, Arnou felt himself returning to a state he hadn't felt in a long time. There was a lightness upon his features and weight that had been removed from his weary muscles as he sat aside Selianne near the back of the ship, the island a burning speck against the horizon. He nodded along to the Elf's reminiscing, but didn't add much to the conversation aside from the occasional sigh of stress being released as they made distance; his pain a stark contrast to the roots of her own.

Dunan's transformation had been a gruesome, shocking sight. However, any negative thoughts Arnou may have had on the matter were dispelled by his earnest explanation. Thus far, Dunan had been a reliable companion and a man of his word. They should all be so lucky.

"Dunan. I can't speak for everyone, but I see no reason to bar you from joining us on this journey. You've been a reliable comrade and a place of comfort in the short time I've known you. Not all of us can say as much; some of my final thoughts on the island--the kind I will NEVER commit to the assault of your ears with, are worth ten of thousands of times more disdain than a curse that was placed upon you by something else. You are in welcoming company with me, my friend."

 

[Goonfire]

SHERAGA THE LEPER
GROUP 1:
Corn Orc Vandal Tool Aegis SilverFlight

---

Indeed, Sheraga was ready to strike—to destroy the witches and cannibals, to rescue the captives... Upon seeing the true state of the Agonos Conclave, his jaw dropped behind his helmet. This was no den of monsters, nor was it the solution people sought. Rather, it was merely a final stop for the dying. Throughout the island, the worst afflictions were superstition and desperation, the highest expectations coupled with the worst reality.

There was nothing Sheraga could have done about this... at least, nothing immediate. This cursed land, this tainted shard... It needed to be purified or destroyed, lest this land become devoid of all life, including people. "I'm truly sorry..." he started with a sigh. "I came to this island expecting a miracle at first, then a slaughter after witnessing the madness outside. 'Twas no different when I led a veritable force of crusaders... into the very swamps you seek."

After letting that fact sink in, the leper continued. "The air in Darkmire is stagnant and oppressive, its people hostile. The swamps are not unlike this island; I see the connection, feel it... and so, for the sake of the afflicted, I will seek the answers you need."

---

After a morbid illusion drew the angry mob's attention, Sheraga made haste along with his new friends and allies. However, Mikaela and her bandits intercepted them. The sight was ghastly—split flesh, broken bones, and none seemed to care. He gripped his mace tightly; the curse had consumed them until they were little more than thinking ghouls. For that reason, he rushed forth, arrows glancing off his armor as he charged alongside Annik, ending each sad life with a sickening crunch.

---

The island slowly faded from view, the dread of the past day melting away... but the horrors and trauma had already etched themselves upon the crusader's mind. More terrifying still was the realization that was all Selianne knew. She was born amidst the darkness, shaped by it, but not yet undone by it. She was adamant the answer lay within those cursed swamps. "It must," Sheraga echoed over her shoulder, clutching a ragged round shield he'd pillaged mere moments ago.

Dunan had also piped up, apologizing for withholding details of his curse. He wished to continue, and Arnou said it best, welcoming him. "The road ahead won't be easy," Sheraga added, "and you have no obligation to follow us into Darkmire, but you are indeed welcome here."

 

[Goonfire]

GROUP 3
THE JOURNEY BACK
Rohan ​

---

The clash was one for the ages. Maude and Hammerfist did battle deep in the heart of the Citadel, giving it their all. When the final blow was struck, her claw speared the mad golem's core, releasing the spirit of Hammerfist and sending him wherever he may have been called.

Though the tyrant was dead, the Kupari officials were sure to name a new leader, fearing what may happen if they surrendered to the newly freed slaves they had worked to the bone for the sake of profit. Criminals and pariahs became heroes and allies, and new tales were written of the trio who struck the first mighty blow.

Amidst the chaos, Nadi had stumbled across a thick old book, the type that seemed to contain knowledge long lost. What he found perhaps cemented why some things were best left buried. Ancient and esoteric formulae were scrawled upon its pages, haunting illustrations of profane rituals and nations collapsing, only for something new to be built atop it—an endless spiral of ruin and renewal, detailed in the most chilling ways. At its core, there was a seeming cave from which creatures of all kinds emerged, overseen by a veiled figure—a god, perhaps?

The book was hard to ignore, a mystery that gripped the mind, whether or not Nadi wanted to follow it. The images haunted his sleep and invaded his waking thoughts until it could no longer be ignored. At his side were two characters he met on this island. The first was Sylvren, the rebel scribe. The other, a golem who emerged from the forest. He walked with a limp, and his dingy robes and cloak partially concealed the myriad veins of hardy fungus that pulsed with green magical energy—the same emerald green with which his eyes and cracked core glowed. His name: Barrow. He claimed to bear little memory of his previous time as a living person, but insisted he knew about the item the half-elf carried and the Order of Seekers.

During the boat ride to the mainland, Barrow cautioned Nadi in his deep, metallic voice:

"Be warned, Hunadi. What you hold is the key to the mysteries of the beginning and the end of the very world as we know it. I will remain by your side... as you begin your search in a place where the worst aspects of the tome's truths can be glimpsed: Darkmire."