Fantasy Cartographers of Spiral Deep (Main)

[BakaTheIdiot]

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Be Wary, O Traveler
Should you see it fit to learn of our travels and study our mistakes, should you deem our stories as that worthy to tell in the pubs and bars, head our warning, for no honorable deed is commemorated here.

Content Warnings include but are not limited to: frequent instances of violence, bodily mutilation, gore and blood, strong language, frequent depictions of substance (ab)use, and open discussion of death/self-harm. If for any reason you find this content to be disturbing or offensive to you, please, click away from this roleplay and find something you're more likely to enjoy. By pressing on, you have read this disclosure, and no further content should come as a surprise.
You have been warned, and now, you shall be rewarded with our story...​

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Cartography Headquarters - Mortimer - 47 Minutes Until Descent​

The rain has persisted for some time now. The early hours of dawn, not yet invaded by the chattering and labors of the village, are quiet and inviting, broken only by the sound of rain on the thatch. A candle rests atop one of many desks, giving only gentle light to glean the parchment laying idle. A quill scribbles, belonging to a man not yet elderly but approaching its cusp. His eyes are tired, sad, having lived to watch fourteen long expeditions descend into the dark, not one of which returned in the same shape admitted - and handful having never returned at all. His face furrows, striking through a mistake on his notes, before setting down his quill and raising his head.

Before him stood his pupil, cane in one hand and satchel at his hip, his speckles offering some reflection in the early hours' darkness. Even he was aged now, the fourteen years dotting his tree-trunk hair with stripes of grey. His mouth carried neither a smile nor a frown, awaiting the decree of his mentor.

"Don't do this, Camden," The older man mumbled, "We all miss her, but this is madness-"

"Stop. I've already passed the examination, there is nothing left to discuss," The pupil, Camden, spoke sharper than usual. Behind his eyeglasses, his inky pupils darted to the page, then back to the elder man. "I have to find her, Xander. Her family deserves to know. She deserves a proper burial, not some gods-forsaken empty casket."

His free palm reached upward, wiping some sweat from his brow. "Please, Mister Nosramus, we are standing on the brink of a spectacular discovery - a whole world, beneath our own! Does that mean nothing to you? If not for Lydia, at least let us go for the recognition. Let us map the Nycte."

"You blasted-" Nosramus raised a fist, clenched as tightly as his bitten lip, stifling a rare outburst of frustration. Finally, he sighed, resting his palm against his desk once more. "You're still the same damned fool you were all those years ago, Mister Foster."

A final scribbling of ink and parchment, followed by Nosramus sealing the decree with a wax stamp, marked his decision. After all this time, after years of study and preparation, it was finally time for Camden to take a proper descent into the depths. Nosramus rose to his feet, scroll in hand, and outstretched his arm to offer. Before Camden could accept, however, he retreated the decree, his eyes staring directly at his pupil.

"Promise me that you will return."

"Of course, Mister Nosramus. I plan on-"

"No, say the exact words. Say that you will return."

The younger cartographer was briefly stunned by the assertiveness of that statement. He opened his mouth to bring about a witty remark, yet nothing came. He finally conceded,

"I will come back. No, I will bring everyone back."

The elder gave him a soft smile, once more offering the scroll to his pupil. Camden's eyes lit up, a smile now adorning his face, "I'll bring back a treasure trove of maps, sir. We will get to the bottom this time, I can feel it." His master shook his head, offering a simple wave of dismissal.

"Just come home alive, Camden."

The Lip - Mortimer - 11 Minutes Until Descent​

A single step, and he would fall nearly 200 feet to his demise. The force of impact with the solid ground at the bottom would shatter every bone in his body, puncture his organs, and end his life in an instant. There would hardly be enough time to draw a single breath, to let out a scream, before Camden's feeble body would collide with the cold earth, smattering his innards upon the rock. Fortunately, such a fate was unnecessary, thanks to Sir Ceril and the supply team manning the elevator. The bottom of the Lip was lit only just by what little sunlight could penetrate the depth, and the numerous bits and bobs tossed down for luck all scattered the floor of its gaping maw like a well uncleaned in decades. Curious, how so much could accumulate over such a short time.

"Mister Foster?" A voice called to him, a few feet away. Camden blinked, turning on his heel and taking a step forward - notably away from the maw - before meeting his companion. "They're ready for you, if you have some words."

"Ah, Ceril. I'll keep it short, I do hope - never was one for speeches," He offered a friendly grin, before walking shoulder-to-shoulder towards the podium some couple yards away. A small crowd had gathered, some of Mortimer, some of the team, and some tourists probably sprinkled in too, but a crowd nonetheless. Oh, how he longed for his Mother's guidance - she was always so much better at connecting to the masses, but alas. Within a minute or so, Mister Foster found himself standing behind the simple wooden podium, dozens of eager eyes now laying squarely on him. The rain having subsided, Camden now stood as the only source of other sound - the masses of Mortimer, nay, the entire project, stood quiet in anticipation.

Gods, he should've written a speech.

"Good Morning, Friends, Colleagues, and good people of Mortimer," He began, "I was never much for the grandiose so I'll keep it quick.

"We stand amidst a great achievement, and on the razor's edge of an incredible discovery. Over the last fourteen long years, we have mapped every nook and cranny that we could possibly find, learning more and more of Spiral Deep's secrets with each passing year. Today, my friends, we hope to boldly set foot inside our dear monument's lowest reaches - we shall go to unveil the Nycte!" A few modest claps could be heard interweaved in the crowd, perhaps out of politeness, "We stand amidst the countless losses and tragedies of past parties, all hoping to discover something greater below our humble village - our humble kingdom. Let us hope no longer: in four months, we shall return with the trophy of success, fourteen bloody years in the making!" The clapping was slightly more pronounced now. The peoples of Mortimer always did love the odd curse, but he digressed, "In exactly... Nine- Eight, minutes, we shall begin our descent. Those of you of the expedition, you know who you are, and I await your arrival at the elevator's deck."

Before stepping down and euthanizing his gods-awful address, he offered one last remark: "Please, don't keep me waiting."

"Well, certainly not the worst speech I've ever heard," Sir Ceril offered a small condolence en route to the deck.

"On the bright side, I'll never have to make another one ever again," Camden laughed, his cane clattering against the damp rock beneath him. "And the roster will come?"

"They'll be here, as I've insisted the past four times, Mister Foster," The man wrung his hands, only smearing the dirt across his palms more than before, "You'd better get praying to those gods of yours, the team is even smaller than last year's." Before the pair stood a grand wooden deck, some 25 feet squared, and the elevator perched proudly in the middle. Camden set foot on the platform, checking for his belongings once more. Everything was there, exactly where he placed it, and the supply train rested snuggly at the bottom of the maw, waiting for the fifteenth annual expedition team. Now, all that remained was himself, and his team, for which he stood waiting at the elevator.

Waiting is the hardest part.

"I don't have to go down alone, do I? If they don't show up?" The elevator crew roared with laughter, even giving the cartographer a small chuckle - yet, curiously, devoid of an answer.

"Please, gods, may they be on time..."

6 minutes until the descent.

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Ayama Humble1 apocalypse tv ThaDruid OBESE Meredith ​

 

[Meredith]

Aoife Lorne

Five Minutes Remaining || Interactions: Camden ( BakaTheIdiot ) ​

It had been a over decade since she had last stood, overlooking, at the precipice of depth and blood.

That woman had been young, ambitious. She had moved through rank in the empirical military because of her strength, her complacency with overwork, and more than anything, because of her unwavering faith in the face of adversity. She was not overly intimate or engaged with her peers, which waylaid the scandals that usually set back progress over time. In a way, she missed that younger version of herself, that woman who had believed that their expedition would be worth the lives it cost. Pulling her hand from her face, the woman exhaled slowly, not minding the smoke washing down her body. A flick of the cigarette sent ashes and embers scattering into the depths of the Lip. For the briefest of moments, she considered jumping along with them and fading likewise from fire to dust—
But there was no honour in that.

Tch.

This one spoke like a man, but he was as idealistic as a boy. It made her sick. It was a small mercy that, smoking, she had an excuse to linger apart from the crowd. This at least prevented him glimpsing the draining of colour from her pallid face. The Spiral Deep had haunted her, and she would see it defined and defiled or die trying, in some attempt to free her younger soul. She often had dreams of this more vulnerable self—one that did not shirk from violence, yes, but one who also did not truly understand the consequences of that violence—as she was left behind in its recesses with the corpses of the others—

She dropped the burnt dart over the side of the Lip unceremoniously and replaced her leather gloves. The linen ones underneath were stained with tobacco. She smelled like the plant, sweet and earthy, though the combustion naturally soured her limp hair. The woman shook her head as if to clear it. She turned toward the elevator, not more than thirty paces off, and made her way toward the structure. The sound of laughter echoed as it travelled down the cavern. Her lips curved into a frown as her hands checked down her body. Her satchels—one on her left hip holding her bedroll, the right the rest of her supplies, as well as her sword—hung securely, close to her waist. Though the rest of her outfit was formal, she was overly conscious of the bracing around her back and chest, the latchings and lacings allowing her to really hold her bags. The metal heels of her shoes, filled with cork, clicked hollowly against the gritty stone as she approached the elevator. She had already said her goodbyes.

She regarded the lift before the man. The last time she had came up it had been with only one other person; she had known that she was slowly dying only because of her companions’ pleas for her to still and slow the bleeding because the wound no longer stung. If not for the coagulating powders they had prepared for their return—
She was staring, forlornly, at the entrance to the depths.

The man in question was not very tall, but still six inches moreso than her, and her eyes glinted as her chin tilted up and the silver lines cracking her irises caught the lantern-light hanging beside the lift’s creaking doors. He had introduced himself in front of her twice now, but she had not reciprocated either time. Perhaps she had not felt the need to. Now, though, her gloved hand raised to his level. “Officer Lorne,” she spoke clearly, precisely, “It’s good to see you well, Mr. Foster.”

Her grip was firm, but the blood rushing in her ears made it hard to hear any response. She took a few steps and turned to stand beside him, with her chin level with the ground and her gaze penetrating through the crowd. Her eyes matched her cheekbones: sharp and nearly colourless under the dark grey sky. She knew more, now, but there were no guarantees in that.

I've arrived at the Lift. We should begin our descent shortly.

 

[ThaDruid]

A rattle of chains breaks through the air. Two pairs of boot-clad footsteps separate from the larger crowd and approach the platform.

At the front, a tall and wide bear of a man, clad in well-used armor and suspiciously weaponless. Even more peculiar, are the lightly rusted manacles holding his wrists together, and the yellow-greenish healing bruise around his right eye. The brute's gaze is hidden under the shade of his heavy, furrowed brow, but he advances with his broad shoulders slumped, and a slight grimace on his lips.

Behind him, a lankier fellow, at least compared to the scruffy savage. Well-groomed, with armor of a lighter make that identifies him as a guardsman and, currently, jailer. He keeps his back straight, throwing careful glances at the surrounding workers and especially at his prisoner. Every once in a while, he nudges the brute ahead with a forceful shove, earning an annoyed grunt from his escort.

Camden would've been informed of this: a former mercenary had been drafted into the expedition's troop. A mercenary and a murderer, one very willing to descend into the depths the darkest hell to atone for his crimes. The elevator's crew already began murmuring, pointing fingers, spitting at their feet. Hardly would the man find companionship among their numbers. But Magnus, that was the convict's name if the papers were to be believed, did not seem to pay them much heed, or chose to voluntairly ignore them. His focus was on Camden instead, whom he recognized as the expedition's leader after the speech. He stared intently, squinting with his small eyes like a curious ape, just as he had done during the man's address. It isn't the easiest feat to breach through that ironclad look and try to gauge what he might be thinking. Simple thoughts, probably. Thoughts like "He doesn't look much of a leader."

Magnus snorts, mostly to himself than to anyone else. His mouth twists into a half-smile, flashing a canine before returning to its usual scowl.

The pair arrive upon the platform, not too far from the already assembled duo. Their steady bootsteps stop as they turn against one another. The guardsman fishes a keyring from his belt, finally unlocking the prisoner's manacles with a clunk, staright right into the man's eyes as he did. Magnus kept his head down, instead, ogling the iron bindings as they came undone. He flexed his meaty hands, rubbing at wrists that still felt sore under the chainmail and gauntlets. Only then did he grunt, and look up at his keeper.

Behave. the guardsman ordered, with his eyes.
I will. Magnus acquiesced, with a nod.

The bruise on his face stung for a moment, in the chilling air. There was a passage of items, between the two men's hands. A canvas backpack, reasonably filled with supplies, which went on Magnus' back. A leather helm, which went in the pack. Bedroll, fixed under the backpack. A wicked handaxe, one used for war, found its home hooked on the man's belt. A buckler shield adorned in small dents, strapped to his left hand. The tools of his gruesome trade.

The jailer, satisfied, addressed Camden. "Ah'll leave 'im to you, Mr. Forster." He spared few words, eager to return to his duties, and turned on his feet.

Magnus watched the man leave, pursing his lips as he considered the next move. A sneaking emptiness coiled around his guts as his eyes gazed over to the dark mouth of The Lip. The mouth of the beast. The point of no return. Something primal within him shrieked in fear for but an instant, as he clenched his fist tighter and the leather of his gloves creaked. Magnus grabbed that shrieking thing inside his heart by its small, fragile neck and told it to be silent.

He blinked out of it, re-focusing on the man in front of him and the woman at his side. Sizing them up. Calculating how much of a fight they could put up, out of habit. He found himself stepping forward, throwing his hand out... And giving Camden his forearm to grab, in a warrior's handshake, saluting with a low rumble.

"Commander."


4 Minutes until the descent.

 

[Humble1]

“What for the hurry? Does this hole close? Does it need to go somewhere?”

Nezhnaya seemed to mutter under her breath, yet somehow it was audible to the whole crowd. The middle-aged woman stomped a bit as she made her way toward the Maw, jingling a bit with each step as the contents of her pockets jostled.

All eyes turned towards her, this strange woman with her gypsy clothes and clattering jewelry. Her eyes turned towards the crowd. She considered them for less than a second, dismissed them with an audible sniff, and continued on to the platform.

“Feh, we’re a circus now. Next you’ll have me telling fortunes for the peasants, eh? For this, I studied at the Slanlis Academy for five years.”

The metal-shod tip of her staff clicked an odd counterpoint to her boots as she progressed. Perhaps she took pleasure in filling the area with the sounds of her passage. Regardless, she eventually made it to the platform.

“So, we stand here and pose? Perhaps someone paints our portrait? You rushed us here, let us get on with it.”

 

[OBESE]

Goran Belobog

[CHARACTER INFO]
Interactions: BakaTheIdiot Meredith ThaDruid Humble1 ​

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Dead silence surrounded Goran as he stood still, half kneeled, bow ready, aiming at a deer who had no idea that he is taking his last sip of water from the little pond in front of him. It was a bitter sweet thing to feel and experience on every hunting trip, but Goran was well aware that the life cycle for every creature sometimes is shorter than expected. The times were harsh and in order to feed his people and keep them alive, someone had to give up their life. That was how the VOL'NUMUL made sure that the balance between life and death was kept. Have you ever thought why we kill each others in wars, why plagues come and kill so many people? Those things happen when we have made imbalance on earth by killing too many of other live beings. Those are the times when the balance has to be restored and it requires drastic means and VOL'NUMUL makes sure that the balance is restored, no matter what.

"May our arrows find purpose, as they flee from our hand,
With respect for the circle of life, and its sacred stand."

Goran let his fingers off and the arrow pierced the wind, making a swift whooshing sound right before connecting with the deer's body, behind the elbow of the front leg, piercing the heart. For a split second the deer dropped in his knees to start to run away, but the next second it collapsed where it stood...

"With gratitude and humility, we extend this prayer,
Seeking your blessings, as we claim this life."

Goran stood up and begun to move towards the deer's dead body...while pulling out his hunting knife...

Goran had been away from the farm for the whole day and the sun had long set. Although he did not travel too far away from the farm, it took him several hours to get back while carrying the deer on his back like a backpack. It took a lot of physical strength to endure the trip home and Goran was physically fit enough to be able to finish the journey.
He slowly approached his farm that once belonged to his father, before the wars, and now was his proud possession. As he dropped the deer's dead carcass on the ground, right in front of the skinning shack, his sister came out of the house and approached him.

"This came for you today. A Tsars messenger came looking for you..." she said in a worrying voice and although it was dark and only occasional light from the house windows illuminated her face, you could see the fear.

Goran took the sealed letter "What's this?"

"I don't know, you tell me!" she snapped back at his dumb question.

Without replying he broke the Tsars seal and opened up the letter. As he was reading the letters content his facial expression did not change, but his sister curiosity took over.

"What is it, tell me already!?" she half yelled.

"Tell your husband to skin the deer and prepare my horse! I'm leaving first light in the morning." he said while folding the letter back in it's original fold and moving towards the house.

She stood there, confused and lost "But..." she stopped knowing her brother very well to understand that this is not the time for questions.

As the sun rose, Goran left for the capital of the Tsardom - Uruskovi. He arrived at the Tsars palace around mid-day and as instructed in the letter he received, he requested to see the Tsar. As this was a personal request by the Tsar Vitya Antonov II himself, there was no wait. Couple of minutes later Goran found himself to be in some sorts of a meeting room, waiting for the Tsar to join him. The room had a thick wood table in the middle, a large window behind the table, giving a spectacular view on the city that took Gorans focus.

"It's a magnificent view to our power and future, isn't it?" a sudden question arose from behind Goran.

Goran turned around and his eyes met with Tsars eyes as he patiently awaited Goran's answer, despite not being know to be a patient, nor pleasant man.

"Sure is your majesty! Couldn't agree more with you!" he replied not wanting to get all political about the actual state of the Tsardom.

"Glad you see it as well!" he gave a sick smile and continued "As the letter said you have been drafted to go to Spiral Deep in the name of the Imperial Majesty, me, Tsar Vitya Antonov II!" the mood in the room suddenly changed after that self announcement "You know the most what it took to get what we have now, but there is always someone lurking in the shadows, ready to jump your throat, so I need to make sure that I an protect myself and the fruits of your and other sacrifices!"

While it all sounded very honourable and majestic, sadly, it was far from the truth as the Tsar was notoriously known for his cruel tactics to "protect" the fruits of everyone's sacrifices that he mentioned. Unfortunately Goran did not want to jeopardise the future of his sister and her husband if he disobeyed the order as he did not care that much for himself and had no family of his own.

Goran just nodded, without saying anything. "Great! The next expedition begins in 7 days and your goal is to find anything and I mean anything that our beloved Tsardom could use to strengthen its position between the other Kingdoms!" he moved closer to the table in the middle of the room and took out two log books and placed them on the table, slowly sliding them a little bit closer towards Goran. "You might not exactly understand what I am looking for, so read these two. They are private log books of two members from our Tsardom from expedition 5 and expedition 9. This information is secret and not public as from both expeditions only our people came back. I will leave the details of why only they returned out!" he said while giving a bloodthirsty grin. "You will find some missing pages in both books, don't mind that, obviously we have removed the sensitive information just in case they end up in the wrong hands." he added. "Now, excuse me as I have some other business to attend. Remember - it starts in 7 days. We have already sent your name to the handlers of the expedition." the Tsar turned around and headed towards the doors when he suddenly stopped and faced towards Goran again "Oh and don't you worry, I will make sure your sister is looked after while you gone!" after what Tsar continued his move towards the doors and left the room.

Right there at that exact moment Goran wanted to slit the Tsars throat as the chills, anger and frustration all at the same time took over his body and mind. He knew very well what the last words meant.
Goran returned to the farm and begun his preparation for the expedition. During these days Goran did not reveal to his sister the actual place he's going to. All he said was that he has been requested by the Tsar to go on a scouting mission in new lands and bring back intel. Partially he was telling the truth, depends how you view so called white lies.

7 days later Goran arrived at the Spiral Deep while learning as much as he could from the public records and of course the two log books given to him by the Tsar. From everything that Goran gathered he understood that while there was a lot of information discovered, there was still way more to discover and the danger involved right now with the danger 10 years back is not comprisable as it is only danger that lies ahead.

As Goran was fully emerged into one of the private log books, a man took the podium and started a speech of sorts. During the war time he heard many of these before many battles, so he did not care to hear another useless speech of courage, hope, honour and the importance of the actions they about to take. As the man left the stage, Goran closed the log book and placed it back in his satchel.

He looked up the sky and mumbled "I guess it's time!" to himself as he read the time by the suns location in the sky.

He picked up his bow that was leaning against the side of the porch that he was sitting on and by locking his eyes on the lift in the distance that leads down the Spiral Deep, he started to move towards it.
As he was walking towards the lift he saw the man from the podium to already stand there. Second later couple more people joined the initial man. The most surprising one was a badly groomed individual that was in shackles and brought to the lift by a guard.

As he approached the group he spoke "Hello! Name's Goran Belobog from Tsardom of Grejet, here in the name of Tsar Vitya Antonov II!" same as Tsar announced it to him during the meeting.

The announcement was not about letting everyone know in who's name he's there, but to rather make sure that everyone around heard him saying that, therefore if Tsars spies or supporters would ask or hear anything, they would confirm that he did arrive to the expedition.

 

[apocalypse tv]

NATHANIEL EDELGARD
or, Nathan

10 HOURS BEFORE DESCENT

A small inn room in the seediest part of Mortimer teetering at the edge of civilization and the yawning maw of the Deep.

There, a man nurses a bottle of wine in sweat-soaked underclothes, reddened skin sticking to the dusty, burlap bedsheets as he lies half-prone, supporting his head on the bedpost.

Back in Norlanden, he avoided drinking like the plague. Colleagues had cajoled him, students had gifted him spirits in hopes of getting into his good graces — but he held steadfast. Alcohol slowed his reaction speed, blurred his vision. With his meticulous, calibrated experiments, relinquishing even an ounce of his dexterity and wit was tantamount to a death sentence. His research always came first. But the man he once was had died in the smoking ruins under the tattered emblems of his house.

The bottle in his hand was a cherished fall vintage from his father's vineyard—one of the few bottles he managed to smuggle out before the estate was razed. He had been naïve then, sentimental when preparing for his escape. Packing trinkets and heirlooms now long gone, pawned away in the weeks of starvation and struggle that followed. It would have been better to leave them in the fire, he thinks. Burnt along with the rest of his legacy.

As of now, the last remnants of his father's wine that he's held onto all these months were deadweight, exceeding the limit of inventory he was allotted for the coming expedition. He levels his bleary gaze down the glass neck of the bottle. It was too late to do anything else about it. Might as well take the edge off his dread at what was to come in the morning.

THE MORNING AFTER, AT THE LIFT

The morning sun shines through a veil of grey, its feeble light still managing to sting his bloodshot eyes. Frissons of pain jolt through his head culminating in a murderous headache as retribution for his activities last night. Fighting the urge to retch from both anticipation and the stabbing pains in his stomach, he shifts his weight as he fights to keep the desperate laugh that threatens to bubble up his throat—as well as the acrid bile. The man's speech does nothing for his nerves, and the smattering of applause afterward beat against his skull like drums. He sneaks another sip from his flask. It doesn't help.

Past the crowd at the wooden deck of the lift, the Lip gives way to a deep black that seems to suck at his soul. Suppressing the urge to cut through the crowd and take a running leap into the void, he makes his way toward the deck from the midst of the crowd, intentionally dragging his feet to survey the other people heading towards the lift. His nervous gaze flits from person to person, sizing up stature and expressions for hints of an ally like a drowning man searching for a hand to grab onto. Distracted, he almost misses the seam where wood transitions into the floor of the elevator, stumbling into the gathered group before catching himself on a beam.

Straightening up and fixing his clothes to recover from his misstep, he smiles, ingratiating—attempting to project some level of competence, with mixed results.

"Nathan. The engineer." The name feels foreign in his mouth. "A pleasure to be working with you all."

The pleasantries ring hollow, even as he says them, and he shuts his mouth to cut off a nervous ramble before it could start, and huddles in a corner, palming the metal alchemical discs hanging from his belt, their surface cool to the touch. Looking out of the open lift at an expanse of abyss, a half-remembered prayer to Forsyth threatens to spill from his lips. A corner of his mouth twitches in self-deprecation as he unconsciously places a hand on his chest, where his family ring rests on a chain under his clothes. For all his years as a staunch atheist, in the face of the Deep, his unwavering belief could only buckle under the weight of primal fear and a persistent, desperate hope.

 

[Ayama]

"To usefully pass into oblivion is the only honor I have left."

Aleksei Averin

The Lost Knight

It had been years since Alek had last set foot in the Empire of Rondon. Though a lot of it was still the way he remembered- the green fields, old growth forests, and much milder temperatures than those he experienced at home-, much had also changed.

The once well-maintained roads were now riddled with potholes. Many of the villages he passed had houses and shops that looked abandoned, and the people seemed miserable. A steady rain followed him as he traversed the kingdom, and ill-looking beggars sitting in the mud reached out their hands to him as he passed - clearly, the wealth of the Empire had been suffering.

It was, of course, an open secret that the Empire was in turmoil. The current Emperor had ascended to the throne in what many deemed to be suspicious circumstances, and he seemed to care more about holding on to his throne than caring for his people. In the cities, the air was thick with whispers of sedition and revolt, as most of the Empire's ruling institutions felt no loyalty to their new leader.

Once, these sorts of things would have greatly concerned the Grejetian knight, as the Tsardom had a long-standing alliance with the Empire, and it was his duty to worry about such things. Plus, it was only right to worry about your neighbors- during his youth in the army, he had even had some Rondonian friends, and it was only natural that he should feel concerned.

Of course now, seeing the misery of the Empire and its people up close only reinforced his own sense of misery. Where before he almost certainly would have stopped at every town, attempting to help people wherever he could, aided by Sacha or whichever of his family members was traveling with him, now he merely dropped coins along the ground as he passed, caring neither for wealth, nor for the poor wretches who grabbed through the dirt after him, trying to get the little metal pieces out of the mud.

It took him a surprisingly short amount of time to reach the village of Mortimer, which was just as bleak as the rest of the Empire. He made his way through the town easily, reaching the lip of Spiral Deep as the rest of the crowd gathered around to hear an announcement from this expedition's leader.

The man who stepped up to the podium seemed ill-at-ease with the attention. Alek stood watching him as he gave his short and succinct speech with baleful eyes, drops of water from his wet cloak steadily dripping onto the ground.

He did not bother to join in with the sparse clapping that greeted the end of the man's words, watching as he made his way to the rickety wooden platform that was the only means of safe ingress into the Deep.

The knight observed the man's steady but limping gait and, coupled with his general stature and atmosphere, deduced that this expedition's leader would not be doing most of the fighting. This was not surprising- after all, this was why Alek was there.

The man was joined in short order by a woman of diminutive stature wearing Rondonian military gear. Alek would have assumed her to be a soldier, only she walked with a lack of assurance that suggested she too would not be much help in combat.

The next to step up to the platform was a bearded man wearing full chainmail armor. Finally, someone else who looked like they could hold their own in a fight. Alek couldn't fail to notice that he was obviously a criminal conscript, but his interest in the matter was fleeting - not much really interested or mattered to him anymore.

His eyes widened when he noticed the next arrival - short, aged, gray-haired, and familiar. The Hedge Witch of Molagua was a fairly well-known occultist and philosopher in Grejet, and she had met with his family several years previously. He wondered what could have possessed her to venture into the Deep.

Alek did not know the name of the next person to join the group, however he would have bet, based on his clothing, his gear, and his size (he was the only one there taller than the knight) that he was from Grejet as well.

Last to arrive was a dark-haired man with the twitchy, pallid appearance of someone down on his luck. Alek's interest in him extended as far as to notice the lack of armor and the clinking as he walked, guessing him to be an engineer of some sort.

Knowing he couldn't just stand there in the crowd waiting until the group went down into the Deep without him, Alek started pushing his way forward. This wasn't exactly difficult for him to do, as he was about a head taller and twice as wide as everyone else there.

When he reached the rest of the group, he stepped forward onto the swaying wooden platform and inclined his head stiffly in the leader's direction.

"Aleksei Anatol Averin," he introduced himself in a voice made guttural from disuse. There was a pause, then "Knight of Grejet." He felt uncomfortable saying so, as he no longer felt like much of a knight, but it was, in fact, still his title.

As he raised his gaze to sweep over the rest of the party, he wondered how many of them might have heard about his family's misfortune, and which would think him to be cursed because of it.

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[BakaTheIdiot]

One by one, the expedition crew made their way to the platform, like clockwork. Country, gods, wealth, these things mattered little in the eyes of Spiral Deep - every one was just as mortal as the next, and every one vulnerable to its dark influences.

First came the officer, likely given high priority on the list due to standing or debt. Camden had heard of the ventures containing Aoife, and their rather gruesome ending - a detail he chose to ignore. The sword, while impressive, likely hadn't seen fresh air in a long time, leaving its necessity in question. Still, a lackluster swordswoman is better than no swordswoman at all, and who knows? Perhaps there was some hidden talent about the woman. He was prepared to be pleasantly surprised - in due time.

"Officer Lorne, Likewise. Mind the gap," the contact and handshake, while brief, served its purpose, and Camden said little else. Words would be wasted here.

Then came the convict, an absolute beast of a man. Towering above both the officer and the cartographer, his armor was well-worn and in dire need of maintenance. The axe, though clearly secondhand, clearly had some life left to it, and so Camden said nothing. Curiously, the man appeared injured, judging by the bruise of his eye and the wringing of his wrists. Such is probably common when coming from shackles. Even so, this expedition was pressed for muscle, and given his eagerness to accompany, Camden hardly had room to complain. After all, Spiral Deep stood as a pit for redemption - there was plenty of time for surprises.

"You must be Magnus. Now that we are afforded some privacy from the empire, I trust you'll know what to do once we descend." He offered a polite nod.

Then came a witch - or perhaps, the witch, for her reputation was surely warranted. She was certainly an odd character, but after the stiffness of Imperial formality, her speaking in riddles and obscurities was a welcome addition. Clearly, she was not one to be rushed, and given the task at hand, speed was of little concern. Now if only he could figure out how to pronounce the name...

"Miss Radomir. Good to finally meet you. I trust the journey was safe?" He offered, once again, little more than a curt nod.

Then came the hunter, of which he was ill-informed. Hand-picked by the Tsar himself, apparently it was politically necessary for him to venture. While Camden was unopposed to the help, draftees often made poor companions - but he had been wrong before, and perhaps he would be wrong again. He only hoped that the Tsar's taste in warriors was as fine as his taste for power. It was all just formality, anyway, and the title hardly carried any weight behind it.

"Mr. Belobog, welcome aboard. The Empire welcomes the Tsar's help."

Next came a strange fellow, vaguely familiar. While he hardly knew anyone from the Duchy, the alchemist did seem familiar. Perhaps in his textbooks, or in the gazette, he remained familiar nonetheless. Still, the past mattered little in times of the present, and all he was entitled to know was that this Nathaniel fellow was perhaps one of the best alchemists of the Duchy, or even the continent. Of course, this perception was drowned out by his reeking of booze, but that was hardly a first. Such sedations offered cold comfort when faced with the bowels of darkness.

"Sir Edelgard, I've heard a great deal. Looking forward to witnessing your work firsthand."

And then there was the knight, his profile impossible to mistake. He had heard whispers of tragedy shrouding the warrior, but what was true and what was false was impossible to determine. Such was common for much of the nobility of Grejet - still, in tragedy comes opportunity, and Aleksei was one of the earliest volunteers for expedition 15. Perhaps there was luck in that. Perhaps the rumors were just that: rumors. Only time would tell, and Camden sincerely hoped that this knight was as good as they say.

"Sir Averin, your presence marks our final checks. With you here, we may - at last - begin the descent." A quick headcount confirmed Camden's math, with all seven now standing in the elevator, swaying subtly in the gentle breeze. The rope was tried and tested, more than capable of supporting this paltry team of seven. With each expedition following Ligo, the numbers grew thinner and weaker, and now expedition 15 threatened to be the smallest, most humble gathering of souls since the 5th. Many of them had never even seen Spiral Deep, much less venture inside of it - even Camden had never managed to meet the Twilight on his humble Expedition 12 - but it would have to do.

The door was closed, and Camden fastened the bolt. There was no turning back now.

Outside, Sir Ceril offered a sharp whistle, his team some several feet away giving him an enthusiastic thumbs-up before setting about their work. Slowly, steadily, they cranked the levers, and after a sudden jolt, the elevator began its descent...

The sounds of Mortimer faded. The hopes and dreams of the outside world regressed into the background. The light subtly began to die. With each second, Expedition 15 fell deeper and deeper into the gaping maw of a terrible beast. Here, there were no crimes, no laws, no markets or brothels, no churches or graveyards. There were no gods, no emperors, no tsars or kingdoms.

Now, only Spiral Deep remained.

Spoiler: Theme Music

​

Swaying back and forth in a steady rhythm, the descent continued. At the current pace, it would take some five minutes to complete the downward trek, and given the steady dread now creeping up Camden's spine, the elevator could take as long as it wished. Outside, the dimming light painted the walls with the history and mistakes of expeditions past. Ancient smears, likely of those driven to fling themselves from the lip, or old pets making foolish mistakes. Name carvings, even a small painting, all hinting towards a greater journey waiting below. Though a part of him thought to speak, Camden opted for silence: his companions did not need false promises when confronting their new fate.

And yet, that voice persisted, so he gave it small satiation:

"I trust you all to do your tasks," He spoke quietly, "I only ask that you trust my ability to do mine. I will get us to the Nycte, and then..."

He paused. What came after? What waited at the bottom of Spiral Deep? What treachery was so extreme that entire bands could be slaughtered to hide its secrets? Was this expedition really worth dying for? Such were thoughts of a foolish coward, a cowardice that Camden could not afford. He quashed the thoughts with some effort, and returned his mind to present matters.

"...and then, we shall see."

Soon after, the elevator contacted the solid ground. The swaying ceased, with the sound of winds silenced by oppressive darkness engulfing the clearing. Above, the bright sky shone only with the feeble light of a full moon amidst a clear night. What light there was offered enough dexterity to draw a match from his satchel, and grant Camden the blessing of a lit torch, giving more light. A few feet away, a pair of wagons, loaded with foodstuffs and medicines, ensured their journey for at least a few months, carted by a humble mule and pair of Rondon squires. They were young, eager, perhaps foolish, but they too would simply have to do.

And beyond that, the entrance. The throat of Spiral Deep, leading deep into its gullet. Not a shred of light dare break its silence and darkness, shrouded completely from the moonish sky. His torch flickering, offering small comfort in such darkness, the cartographer took a deep breath. He exhaled seconds later, and with it, his last gasp of the natural air from above.

"Right."

One foot after the other, Camden started forward without so much as a word, slowly disappearing into the depths. The clattering wagons followed behind him.

He could only hope that the party - his party - would soon follow.

Meredith Ayama OBESE Humble1 apocalypse tv ThaDruid

 

[OBESE]

Goran Belobog

[CHARACTER INFO]
MENTIONS: Ayama Humble1 ​

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Goran walked on the lift platform and took his place which was in the corner of the lift. The size of the lift platform was quite big and the party gathered for this expedition did not take even half of the space, therefore left quite some gaps between each of the party members. You could tell that the lift was built for way bigger groups which also hinted that parties used to be way bigger at the beginning, but now the size of the parties were shrinking. Was it a good or bad thing, it was hard to tell, especially to Goran as he had never been on any of the previous expeditions as to be part of one you had to volunteer and rarely you would hear about cases like his where the individual was drafted. For now this size still might be acceptable, especially if it consists of capable bodies, but if the numbers will keep falling like they've been for a while now, it could mean that the expeditions could become mandatory trough the draft as there was still too much to learn about the Spiral Deep and the importance of it was way too big.

Goran stood in his corner and observed how the leader of the expedition named Camden kept greeting the members that arrived short after Goran did. While waiting for the lift to start descending, Goran took a quick look around him with bit more inspective look than before to see what he will be dealing with as the records he read from the previous expeditions made it very clear that the only support will be the people around you.

This moment was very similar to hunting when you see your prey for the very first time, you size it up and locate their weak point where to strike it. The difference was that Goran was not looking to kill these people and that these people were not prey, but could easily become the hunters. His eyes stopped at the witch named Nezhnaya. Although he had heard about her, he never met her or nor did he knew much about her. "Could she be an another agent of the Tsardom or was she not involved in anything like that?" he asked to himself.

As he got lost in his thought he heard something that for some reason felt familiar...it was the last name of the individual who just approached the group "Averin..." he repeated in his head. For a moment it did not come back to him, why would this last name felt like a name he knew or have heard of when suddenly the memory popped up and he remembered. It was a very well known fact that during the war there were many rumours and gossip and one of the stories he remembered hearing around the camp fire in his camp was about Averin family and what happened to them. He did not know no details, just that it was shocking to a lot of people.

Although it felt like couple of seconds it in reality was several minutes and as the lift wobbled and started to descend into the Spiral Dreep he snapped out of his thoughts.

 

[Meredith]

Aoife Lorne

T+6 Minutes || Interactions: ALL ThaDruid Humble1 OBESE apocalypse tv Ayama BakaTheIdiot ​

The first to emerge in front of her was the prisoner. The woman’s careful gaze slid to assess Camden’s reaction. His politeness surprised her, somehow, though it would be unwise to make enemies within the crew. As her face raised to examine him—chains, a belligerent captor, the crisp unlocking click of the manacles, and his bruises—she winced at the pooling of purpling blood under his skin and her eyes did not meet his face again. The men shook hands, but she did not greet him again. She had descended into the jail several days before to assess him before their expedition. He was unlikely to remember her shrouded face.

Then the witch. A rueful smile etched itself across the woman’s lips. It would be a horrible tragedy to lose a woman so spirited to the depths. She was proud, educated, and wanted not for spectacle. There was some affinity between them in that. She gave the woman a respectful nod.

Next, the ranger. They had not yet met. He moved with a sense of confidence that gave her some small amount of ease; it was good to know that they had more warriors than had been with her before. Her team had been larger, but had been composed mainly of support members. The engineer came next, but his pleasantries rang hollow, and Aoife gave little more than a wave of her hand to acknowledge his anxious presence. The last, the soldier. As he introduced himself, the smile slipped silently from her lips. They pressed together tightly. She knew him by reputation, as a fearsome knight, and while she did not put stock in supernatural rumours she considered what fall from grace might have led him here as well. He would have lived a life, away from here… however tragic. It was a mercy that Camden handled the greetings. There was nothing she wanted to say in front of the crowd gathering to witness their departure. If she had grown to known them before the descent, she would have told them each to leave. It had been integral to hold her silence.

They gathered into the lift. Anxiety crawled under her skin like thousands of bugs on fire. There was an ache through her back, growing sharper and more insistent, a memory that she could not force to fade. Camden did not make any grand promises, but that small one would perhaps prove too much, if he was not as capable as he dreamed. She forced herself to take him at face value. Something small to calm her nerves. Small, steady breaths, not too short or too long. The swaying of the lift licked at the edges of her consciousness. The entrance to the Spiral Deep loomed in front of them when she regained her composure, shocked into awareness by the meeting of the lift with the ground.

She stepped from the lift—last in—and shifted to the side of the tunnel to allow the fighters to pass her. The woman had no want for them to be behind her with their weaponry, not until it was feasible for something to come to them from that direction. Here, she felt a suffocating kind of danger, a fear of instability or insanity in others instead of the dangers of the tunnels itself. She grit her teeth, heels sinking slightly into the loose gravel at the bottom of the lift, giving her some excuse to move more slowly.

“Officer Aoife Lorne,” she spoke back to the group, introducing herself again to the rest of the party, and halting to wait for them to follow, “Veteran and Recording Clerk. It’s good to work with you all. The first part of the tunnels should be safe, so long as we keep our wits about us.” Her voice was flat, but.. not unkind. Her eyes glittered in the slowly-vanishing torchlight afore them.

Finally, we descend. I have isolated for days, and now, the tunnels seem some freedom from anticipatory dread. We should stick close to Camden, lest he run into trouble.