Fantasy &nbsp; God of Lost Faith - The Storyline

TheImmortalDeity · Aug 20, 2019

Elder Cairos
[BOSS]

As Camila approached the skeleton, the condition it was in was less than appropriate for the ceremonial grounds it rested inside. Bones were scattered in the coffin, remains settled in a state of disarray. They had been moved recently, and cracks had begun to form in their archaic structure. Chunks of Elder Cairos' torso had fallen off as if they were bashed in, and the slightest act was enough to have the body unhinge from itself, limbs tumbling in directions the human form was never meant to go in. The tomb had obviously been tampered with, and whoever did it was in a hurry. Most likely from the reanimation of the one who slept in it.

Elder Cairos' jaw was unhinged, a malodorous stench seeping from his mouth, feeding into the miasma that wafted both in and out of the tomb. As Camila came closer, the odor became stronger, smelling of death and decay. As she reached out for the knife cuddled up against his torso, her hand was met with none other than Elder Cairos himself. Similar to that of a long lost lover, his boney fingers curled around hers, digging into her skin, before a blood-curdling shriek broke the silence between them. As she yanked away, his arm came with her. Having been awoken yet again, Elder Cairos' head craned itself towards her direction, his eyeless sockets burrowing holes into her person.

The monster was unable to move, his build having been splintered into disrepair and left in a predicament of immobility. Instead, the ghastly fog started to flow at a quicker pace from his mouth, the entire tomb now encased in its own sickening fog. Outside, the shifting of Rabble was becoming violent, their movements rigid and hysteric in nature. They still did not dare to enter the tomb of their beloved master, but their ferocious attacks on the champions were now bolstered as the anger of Elder Cairos transferred into them. Whoever dared to enter the tomb of Boering Village's elder was to pay with their lives.

TheImmortalDeity · Aug 21, 2019

Hatch

Another miss. Hatch's patience was wearing thin as his duel with Berlin continued to be a stalemate. Every ferocious attack that was thrown in the mage's direction was reciprocated by a narrow evasion. As Hatch continued to push forward in an unrelenting rage, the sound of dancing footsteps navigating the marshy terrain filled the battlefield. As his feet sloshed in the muddy puddles below, the pactborn was comfortable in using the added mobility to feed into his strikes, naturally swinging into a punch whenever he risked losing his footing. Despite his brutish nature, the brawler was accustomed to duking out in unfortunate conditions, and his genius for fighting compensated for his hot-headed nature.

His energy was running thin. The strain on his muscles ached, and as his body begged for him to stop, his pride never allowed it. Where his body acted on its own accord, his mind buzzed with questions. How was his enemy still standing before him? Why hadn't he landed a single hit yet? Why was it taking so long for him to eradicate some irrelevant pipsqueak from existence? His inquiries were never answered. Outrage howled in his actions. Then, Berlin had let up, his balance faltering and his death sentence signed. In a singular strike, Hatch put all of his weight into a demonic jab, crashing down in waves of sheer power as the wind itself feared to connect itself alongside him.

The slimy albino, against all odds, had somehow avoided the bombardment, but not without consequence. Torn in half like scissors snipping through paper, Berlin's garb gave way, exposing his branded frame. Hatch had dug his toes into the muck, exasperated gasps giving rise and fall to his stout figure. In awe of the coward's feat, he failed to notice the Rabble that had crept into their personalized arena. Gnarly teeth sunk into Berlin's shoulder, the jagged edges breaking through the skin in an attempt to meet bone. The mage did not falter, grabbing the skeleton by its brittle neck and hurling it over his shoulder akin to a hammer meeting an anvil. Devoid of thought, Hatch unconsciously brought his fist up and shattered the unlikely weapon into tiny flakes. In the corner of his eye, he saw the sparks of flame begin to ignite in the palm of Berlin's hand, and the sudden realization of the grave mistake that he had made dawned on his face.

"Shit-" Hatch said, raising his arms in an "X" formation before being blasted back by the explosion. Nerves of steel and tenacity were what kept Hatch from barreling over on his back, his feet being dragged through the mire and leaving a trail from where he once stood. He dispelled the flames with a roar, ripping through the magic with brute strength alone. As he stood in the mud, the tang of burnt skin expelled off his arms, hairs singed to a crisp. He swept away his matted hair and peered at the mage before him.

Berlin stood with the glow of the morning sun radiating behind him. Ash and dust trickled over him, landing in his silver hair and that which surrounded him. For the first time, Hatch had taken a minute to look at someone else, and as he did, the markings on Berlin's shoulders resonated with the pactborn, an innate familiarity calling out to him. As the sorcerer denounced the name of his race, an eerie amusement washed over Hatch. Was he joking? He hoped not. Standing tall, the burning sensation on his arms had begun to subside and his initial shock had now been masked by his usual demeanor.

"That's rich coming from my kin. Where's your pactborn pride, fuckface?!" Embers had stained the entirety of Hatch's shirt, and with a tug, he ripped the useless apparel to expose his own toned body. Not a speck of wasted muscle was seen on him and as the sunlight reflected his haughty superiority over his rival, the arrogant man went on to ridicule him further. "Is that all my race has to offer? If you're the standard, then we must've gone into the shitter a long time ago." Ripping his feet from the suction of the swamp, Hatch puffed out his chest in triumph. "Killing someone like you would only tarnish my name. I'm disgraced to have been related to you at all."

The time for talk was nearing its end. Having the arduous fighters conclude their clashing, the Rabble flocked to their position, now making their way between the duo. Hyped on his furor, Hatch extended a finger at Berlin. "First, I'm going to demolish these trivial relics, and then I'm coming to show you what a true pactborn is all about." As one of the possessed charged at him, Hatch raised his foot high in the air, only for the sole of his foot to come crashing down on the skull of the being that dared interrupt him, smashing them into specks. "You better watch your back, worm," he threatened. Adjusted to face the invasion alone, Hatch charged into the thick of battle with no hesitation. As swords and pitchforks embedded themselves into his skin, he used the zeal of combat as a means to pave a path to the grave, a trail of blood-stained grass marking where he had passed.

HTCOR · Aug 25, 2019

Iain

Iain, as the fight went on, was getting steadily more exhausted- but his presence was draining. With a blade that'd nicked his side- desperation swelling, he disengaged- moving swiftly away from the rabble, and intending to, well. Keep his distance. Focusing on defense instead of offense at this rate, he seemed to be avoiding the majority of the rabble to say the least, his eyes flicking towards each of them- and reading them with a much more frantic eye. He didn't focus anything on attack- no, he moved out of the way, and kept his distance. Sometimes trading a blow as to clear a path, but he seemed to be taking a roundabout path towards the center crypt.

The Rabble who chased him moved slowly, as he seemed to draw less and less in- until almost none seemed to see him, as he glided towards the center, his presence slipping by the mass fireballs and the air-shattering punches. He slipped by Allara, finding his way to settle on the edge of the crypt- looking at his wounds, as he settled beside the gravestone. Ichor and blood, signs of what he should be- dripped out of him. "...Sonuvabitch." He'd murmur, looking up at the fight between Hatch and Berlin. Their names, familiar, yet unfamiliar completely. A flicker of memory, something- calling to him. His hands, looking at them- they weren't right, a brief moment of sorrow...for the loss, as something spawned in his mind. "...Mmn." With that, he went quiet, watching the crowd fight, as he sat inside the black miasma- protected from their reign of terror.

From the outside, one could see his smile- youthful, tired, glad to see the world. Fresh eyes, something that belonged on no hero- let alone someone who'd faced death. Perhaps one could call him a child, amidst adults. But as silver ichor bled through his clothing, and blood mixed with it- the rabbles seemed to slow away from him- and focus on another. On Iain's face held no aggression, no fear, just simple child-like curiosity and wonder, as ideals and personality bled away, the silvery ichor fully replaced with the oozing red blood- his body tensing for a second, before relaxing entirely. With that, all of the wonder on his face increased three fold...

Violetti · Aug 27, 2019

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Camila | Interacting: Corpse with good hair

TheImmortalDeity | Mentioned: |
[div class="Lines"]

What is love? What did that feel like? Camila's mind was far from it. Having not recollected her memories, it was a rhetorical question. Not sure if she had ever experienced such emotion, her expression did not represent a flushed maiden. Anyone who had their fingers intertwined with such a majestic corpse would be overjoyed, no? This was, pure enchantment! The skeleton's hand broke off as the vampire recoiled rather swiftly. With the element of surprise losing its effect, her shoulders rested once more. Eyes casting over with disgust, Camila violently shook her hand in order to unlatch the hand's hold. "LOOK HERE, YOU ANOREXIC MUPPET. How dare you lay a hand on me!!?" Finally ripping the arm off, she cringed as it twitched, even without being conjoined to its owner. Taking another look at the monster, she became uncertain if it was really a part of him or not. He appeared to be assembled in such a rushed manner that it was a genuine question as to if these weren't merely parts of other undead bodies smooshed together.

Slapping the skeleton with his own hand, his jaw completely dropped onto the floor with a saddening crack. I know I make jaws drop. Never thought it would literally happen, though. Feeling as though the man had repented enough for his sins, she gracefully flipped back her hair. "Yes, you are feasting your eyes upon royalty. Gaze no longer than 2 seconds at a time. Such beauty cannot be upheld if tainted by those such as yourself." Of course, she carried nothing but her instincts as proof, but wasn't it enough to just know you were destined for being someone greater in life than the average peasant? "I must express my admiration for the decor of your place. Never have I seen such intricate murals." Then again, she had only been alive less than a day.

A part of Camila longed for something. Anything. If her body felt so much at ease here, would a memory resurface within her mind? Another part of her cared not to know. That distinct sense of hatred and betrayal was still deeply embedded within her. Why? Hatred was a commonly felt emotion ever since she opened her eyes in this new moment of time. Where was the sense of accomplishment? The lingering high of knowing she died an honorable death? Camila stared right back into the immobile man's eye sockets. They reflected the emptiness in her soul. Just who was she? The scenery brought nothing tangible to her. "You mind closing that mouth of yours? Your breath is toxic." Scrunching up her nose, a small fit of laughter followed after a few dull seconds. "Oops. I suppose that's no longer possible given your circumstances." Seemingly angering the monster, the miasma poured out quicker than before, causing Camila to sway in a fit of dizziness. before collapsing to the ground. Laying on her back, her eyesight grew hazy. Lifting her stick up weakly, she drew a straight line through the air. Useless stick. Shouldn't I be able to part the sea of miasma if I belong to God's army? Worthless piece of stick.

[div class="Lines"][/div] Original Code by AgWordSmith (You are a goddess) [/div]

HTCOR · Sep 15, 2019

Iain

A slow strain on his mind, as he stood. His wonder shifting, swirling, pacing. He seemed to step on forwards, descending into the crypt- past the fallen maiden, towards the corpse which tried to repel his body via the vile fumes. His breath was shaky, as he tossed his hatchet aside. Perhaps he was putting too much thought into this- but even his mind was becoming razed by the fumes, considering he'd inhaled over three times the amount that everyone but Camila had. Perhaps double what she had, even- he'd been sitting in it, instead of standing like she had...

But his pace was steady. Every step with purpose, as he muttered an apology to the corpse- before a boot slammed straight into the skull. The first 'crack' was heard, as the heel was shunted to the side, before he clambered fully up onto the coffin, stomping and trying to break the corpse as much as he could, without using his fists- only his boots. And so, every kick caused more and more impacts, until- the skull caved inwards. The miasma seemed to screech, the black mist shaking, shuddering, as the mana sustaining it winked out- and most of it seemed to sink into the ground, with only the heaviest of densities staying for more than two seconds.

All around, the corpses seemed to gently slow down, fading, their vigor crashing- their bodies unable to hold up the mana for more than ten seconds past the 'crackening' of Elder Cairos' skull. But...as that happened, Iain fell backwards- slamming into the ground, almost catatonic...

Interacting:

TheImmortalDeity · Sep 15, 2019

Hatch

As Elder Cairos was defeated, the remains of his vessel began to shatter into twinkling fragments called Memory Essences. The lights began to spin rapidly before shooting out of the crypt and being flung into each hero separately. As they made their rounds, Hatch had a shard impale itself directly into his chest and disappear inside of him. At first, he felt nothing, but then, his body became heavy as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He collapsed to his knees, his very being denying him movement. Then, he sensed it, the shard beckoning him deep within his psyche, forcing him to a time well before his own. To his past life. Feeling his eyelids close against his will, he slumped to the muddy floor, fluttering out of consciousness.

~~~

When his eyes opened, he was standing in a foreign location. He stood within a sanctuary, evident by the finely crafted pillars and biblical architecture that was so blatantly apparent. Upon closer inspection, he noted the stained glass depicting stories of numerous gods and their accomplishments along with the walls they were attached to. Words of scripture were chiseled into their marble surface as a reminder of who ruled over the realm. The floor was made of gold tiles and accompanied by rows of pews, notably designed by the finest wood money could buy. At his feet rested a long red carpet that led to a set of golden stairs and an altar, which was a podium where a large book embedded with valuable jewels sat its top. Standing behind it was a man adorned in white robes and various trinkets hanging from his neck. Atop his head was a large hat, bearing the insignia of an open book containing a pair of all-seeing eyes that stared back at Hatch with a hawk-like intensity. They were a high-ranking member of the Church.

“Welcome to my home of prayers, blasphemous one. May I ask why a pactborn, one intertwined in the dark arts, has come seeking sanctuary within the walls of the devoted?” The man was aged, possessing white hair and wrinkles all over his features. His tone of voice was bathed in a contemptuous sneer as if they had better things to do than waste time speaking with someone as lowly as a pactborn. As Hatch went to reply, he realized that he wasn’t able to speak. In fact, he had no control over himself. He was an onlooker, watching a story unfold before him. Instead, a different set of words escaped his mouth; ones from his past.

“I’ve come to kill you,” he said nonchalantly, his body moving on its own as he began to take large strides towards the man. Immediately, guards came in from various corridors leading into the room and created a protective barrier between Hatch and the saint. They dressed in plate armor that reflected their allegiance to the Church and wielded an assortment of swords, spears, and shields, prepared to defend the man behind them with their lives. Hatch stopped in his tracks, raising a brow in amusement. Behind the wall of guards, the elderly man laughed, a harmonic echo reverberating through the holy chamber.

“You? Kill me? I had a dream of one of your kind coming for my life, so I had security tightened because of it; however, I didn’t expect it to be this tactless!” Another fit of giggles escaped him. Clasping his hands together, the man’s fears were eased, his mannerism turning into someone who thought he had the upper hand. “Do you understand who you are speaking to? I am Amaerandish, a devotee of Mycroft the Scholar, and one of the seventeen saints of the Church! To raise a hand against me is to defy the gods themselves. You must understand the position you are in now. As I am in no mood to spill tainted blood on these hallowed grounds, I’ll let you go and pretend that none of this ever happened. You don’t wish to evoke the wrath of the gods, correct? Go along then, filth. Leave before I change my mind.”

Once again, Hatch inched towards the man, hesitation absent in his actions. He now stood in front of the guards, his muscles tensing. They had readied their arms, clenching their weapons and shields in preparation for the attack. “Move,” the demonic fighter demanded. Raising a single fist, Hatch slammed it down into one of the guards’ shields, going through the shield, their arm, and finally nestling his hand nicely inside their chest with as much ease as punching through thin air.

As the soldier fell with a single breath, a flurry of javelins poked themselves at Hatch, each hitting their mark. They never made it past the surface of his skin. Either bouncing off or breaking at the tip, the assailants had staggered back from the rebound. Lifting his leg, Hatch rammed his foot into a defender’s head, the appendage coming clean off in a single, swift motion. He followed with a hand plunging into the chest of another attacker and having them dangle lifelessly at the end of his fist. Slowly, he slipped their limp corpse off his arm and used their body as a means to slam down onto the rest of the group like a mace. The force was strong enough to create a sea of bodies on the floor before him, the stench of death lingering around Hatch as he carelessly took one life after another. Soon enough, the pactborn stood alone, having dispatched the onslaught of enemies with ease. Amaerandish looked on in both awe and fear as his personalized army was vanquished before his very eyes, backing away until his back pressed up against the marble wall that he cherished so profusely. As Hatch approached him, drenched in the blood of fallen warriors, the saint was only able to spit fruitless threats his way.

“K-killing me is a mistake, insect!” his voice quivered. “You will be judged heavily for your crimes against the Church and rot in the pits of Bastouni’s stomach for all eternity, y-you hear me?!” Amaerandish was silenced when Hatch buried his foot into the man’s chest, letting out a squeal as his ribs crunched under the pressure of the monster’s kick. Hatch squatted down to where the saint was seated. He felt nothing while the life drained out of the cleric’s face, a solemn silence being exchanged by the two until the priest was no longer among the living, a pool of red spilling from Amaerandish’s shell of a body. Confirming his death, a shallow grunt escaped Hatch’s lips as he hoisted himself up, brushing off his shoulder and gazing up at the mural of clouds and angelic beings painted on the church’s ceiling.

“Guess it’s time to head out for the next one,” he said to himself, leaving the destroyed chapel behind him, the memory of Hatch fading to darkness.

With a few blinks, the brute found himself back in the present, his face buried in crud and his senses slowly returning to him at a sloth-like rate. Rolling on his back, steady breaths escaped his chapped lips, the stimulation of battle having left his veins long ago. Laying next to piles of broken bones and irritated by the sting of his untreated wounds nipping at his body, he craned his neck over to the sound of shuffling footsteps. It was Leon making his way over, meeting Hatch’s gaze with a warm grin.

“You fought well, young one,” the wise elder said, standing over the hellion. Cupping his hands over his mouth and turning towards the rest of the group, he raised his voice for all survivors on the battlefield to hear. “I ask that everyone return to the guildhall immediately. I have a surprise waiting for your valiant achievement!” With that, he began to hop back to the building with as much of a skip to his step as the fossil was able to muster.

The concept of a gift wasn’t a bad offer in Hatch’s mind. Being the all-powerful vanquisher of any that stood before him, it was only right for the village to serve him for his heroism. Going against what every muscle in his body begged him not to do, he got back on his feet and gradually followed after Leon. His mind had flooded with questions on the vision he saw, but for now, that was to wait. He needed a drink, and he was damned if he didn’t get one as soon as possible.

HTCOR · Sep 15, 2019

Iain

Brutality, the sound of cannonfire going off- a man in ornate attire, with a spear cast from the-

The memory sidetracked, lost in the essence, being converted into information that was rammed into his head almost instantly.

”Child dearest, I know you will find this harsh. I know you won’t enjoy this moment. I’m going to place my last bastion in your care. It is the last fragment of myself. It is the Bastion of the Storm. Do not forget this. I am sorry. Only a direct child of my Blood can withstand this but...I am sorry. You will hate me for this.”

The newborn’s cry echoed throughout the room, trying to reach for her father. The man smiled at him, brushing his hand along her cheek...before turning to the door. ”I am sorry, Daughter of Mine. I ain't failing. Not with your life on the line.”

The door- a blur, unable to comprehend what it was, not just yet, shattered- the world shattering in a swirl of the brightest light. The Daughter cried, before-

Agony. The feeling of the End. It beckons her, her mind fracturing- before settling into place. Calm, serene, quiet. It was starting to envelop her...

What was the End? Her hand was slowly forming into view, as the world was revealed- a small shack, different from the wooden planks she- the wooden planks? From where? Her face, plain as any maiden ever could be, scrunched together. The scars from the past were gone (when did she have scars?), as she clenched her fingers together into a fist. She slowly released them, wondering where her gloves were as an idle thought...before nothing else showed up. She would glance up at the elderly man in the brown tunic, her eyes flicking over them. Her thoughts were...scattered. They couldn't form coherently, it felt like she was stuck in an unending fog that hindered the mind alone, and not the eyes.

With that, Iain’s head snapped upright, fear in his eyes- as he scrambled for Camila, trying to check if she was alright. The memory essence had come and gone- with it binding itself to his core. He’d wrap his hands around Camila’s, trying to pull her upright. “I hope you’re doing well, miss, but we need to get moving- you’ve passed out in a right bad place, and I doubt we want to stick around here. There was a faint shift in Iain’s appearance- from a brash man who knew the future like the back of his hand, to a child’s innocence within the time that they’d been apart.

“Just...stand. Please.”

Interacting:

Violetti · Sep 20, 2019

[class=Notes] // Forward slashes are comments and do no show up in the final design, these are to help you find everything easily and explain some code as well. These comments must be with in a class or script tags in order to be hidden, from what I know// // Long URls are images # followed by letter and numbers are Hex codes or color codes.// // This code does not show breaks unless is shows the
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[class=Notes] //Above is the background color and main border// //below are the two borders around the image// [/class]

Camila | Interacting: Iain the blood bag

HTCOR | Mentioned: Corpse with good hair and Hatch the ~~hunk~~ big butt hole

TheImmortalDeity |
[div class="Lines"]

Deprived of her sense's maximum potential, Camila could only hiss as foreign hands encased her own. Prepared to lash out at this molester, her vision cleared. However, the vampiric woman was no longer in the crypt she had collapsed in. But rather, an antique and elegant study. The wall was lined with books of all sorts, and the faint smell of ginger tea floated about. A nearby window was creaked open to allow the crisp air to waft in. Camila soon found herself unable to move or speak. At least, not by her will. These were her hands that flipped through the pages of a novel, but this was not the current her. What the hell is this? As the following scene unraveled itself, Camila had zero control. Something she wasn't used to.

"Marry me." An icy and calculating voice tickled the back of Camila's neck. Whipping around, she made a motion to slap the man, only to miss as the boy dodged her attack with grace. His foot pivoted around, having memorized this reaction countless times. Scowling at her enemy, she slammed her hands on a nearby table in repulsion. "Marriage? Have you gone insane? Where is your pride as a vampire? As the next heir of your clan?? Such a declaration is shameful. Your people should cut your tongue out for speaking such words. Or have you truthfully fallen for me?" Meeting her with an even gaze, the boy who looked no older than 16 traced his finger along the table's edge, daring to enter the woman's space once more. His dark bangs cast a shadow on anyone's heart, especially Camila's.

"Please, spare me the theatrics, Camila. You know better than anyone the way I feel about you, the way we think about each other. I'd rather marry swine. They prove to be better company than you and your uncultured, foul mouth." The tone of his voice was arid and curt. Before Camila could muster up a worthy retort, he continued his speech. "Our clans have been at war for centuries. A stalemate among stalemates. Tiresome, isn't it? Aren't you and your people suffering? Marriage is beneficial for both parties. With us being next in line for the throne, we can change the quality of life for everyone. More importantly, we could conquer more land by switching our focus onto other clans that might pose a potential threat in the future. We can crush them all."

Camila refused to subdue her glare towards the boy. "What an idiotic proposal. Are you trying to rush your death? Or are you giving up because you aren't confident you'll win in the end? Don't want your legacy to be tainted? My clan has never needed your help or sympathy. We'll keep fighting." An exasperated sigh left the boy's lips as he turned towards the door. "Always so stubborn. No matter, we'll talk again after you've grown up enough to realize the value of my offer. Where's the excitement in fighting the same opponent year after year? Think about it, Camila."

"Don't call my name so casually. You'll ruin it." The woman spat.
"Oh?" A smirk crossed the boy's face. "Haven't you already done that?"

And then he was gone, along with the entire room. A mob of color appeared before her. Right, she had been touched by some lunatic. What is up with all the strange men touching my hands today? Then, had that all been a dream earlier? A very vivid dream. "Just stand, please." This blob spoke out to her. The longer she stared, the more defined his features became. Even more so his scent. The scent of a human, a bleeding human. "Excuse you? Did your mother not teach you to ask permission before touching a lady? And ordering me around as if I'm a dog? You should be carrying me out of here with satin gloves."
Snatching her hand out of his grasp, the woman could see him clearly now, the human from their party. The headache she was currently plagued with did not subside, irritating her further. "Fortunately for me, a woman of my status doesn't need permission to do what she pleases. Unfortunately for you, you've angered me." Using the back of his neck to pull herself up, she closed her lips over his neck. Her bite was sudden and forceful, leaving little room for objection. She could feel the man's pulse through her lips. Humans were such lowly creatures. Yet, their blood was undeniably tasty. They were nothing more than livestock in Camila's eyes. He should feel lucky. This is probably the closest he'll ever get to being sucked by a woman....or a man.

Pulling away from him, the vampire licked the wound she inflicted. If she really was to be travelling with this party, having a viable blood source would be useful. She couldn't have him dying so soon if she didn't want to risk ever having to intake that foul, barbaric man's blood again. Taking her leave, she announced behind her, "Don't just sit there bleeding, idiot. Come on, so I can beat you with my stick." That's how healing worked, right? The miasma had thinned now that the skeleton's head had been destroyed, allowing Camila to move more freely. [div class="Lines"][/div] Original Code by AgWordSmith (You are a goddess) [/div]

Lo Mayn · Sep 21, 2019

Berlin A. Malkuth
“The Embers In Him”

With the fading dust and flames settled, Berlin’s masculine opponent let loose a gut wrenching roar, howling an anger that couldn’t be faced by the weak-hearted. Berlin’s attack had done well enough to push the brute of a man away, even managing to do damage to him in the process. An air of newly found annoyance surely would find hatch as they stood several feet away. Neither made a move for the other as Hatch finally took in Berlin. The mage, damaged and dusty, faced him without fear or hesitation, and hell, he packed a hell of a punch too. Berlin wouldn’t simply bow to him nor keel over in neither words or actions. And now Hatch knew it. For a moment, a respectable silence.

Blood streamed from Berlin’s exposed shoulder. He huffed heavy breaths from a wide mouth. His fists held closed, and his visage screwed. His ivory locks fastened to his forehead due to thick beads of sweat that poured from his skin. Berlin has visually gone through hell, and inside was no different.

“Is he finally done?“ he asked and hoped within himself. Every fiber of Berlin’s being wanted to scream out. After all, rotten teeth had treated him as an easy meal leaving a burning sensation in his shoulder. If it hadn’t been for vexation and adrenaline, the mage would’ve fallen awhile ago. Meanwhile, Hatch wouldn’t throw another punch, instead came his piercing words. The demon spared no time flapping in his lips in response to Berlin’s denunciation of their bloodline, a bloodline Berlin didn’t quite believe he shared. A rude awakening.

“No. No. No. That couldn’t be it .” Berlin mumbled to himself. “I couldn’t be anything like him.“ Unbelief rattles Berlin. Hatch is known to vex spirits anyways. Whilst Berlin never consider himself much to begin with, the pactborn all but shatter at the thought of being one. Being like him. Being a demon.

Hatch spat more syllables before stepping away to bring his anger elsewhere, drawing in and kill all the rabble around them. The man decided to simply leave Berlin for another time, giving the ivory-haired boy time to breath. Berlin has successfully skated by, technically winning the bout, yet felt as if he had lost a hundred more.

“I’m not that. I can’t be.” He denied.

His anger threatened to dissipate, and before it, his energy depleted kicking him to kneel. Berlin kept himself up by a trembling arm.

“A demon.” He scoffed. Berlin’s inner being threatened to collapse entirely but he kept his consciousness. Instead of falling, he laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Berlin fell onto his bottom. He sat and watched the battlefield.

“It’d make sense, I’d imagine. I felt it. Something inhuman. But this?“ He considered. “By the Gods,” he began, “What am I?”

The skies were of miasmatic gloom, yet a heavenly warm glow of sunrise painted everyone gold in ironic beauty. As Hatch, the only fellow summon he could see, laid waste to one more rabble, they all became lifeless. Across the entire graveyard, the undead toppled over, dropping like the sack of bones they really were. Somehow, mission complete. Answers. Finally, there’d be some answers. Even if some answers weren’t ones he wanted to hear.

An idea that followed him the moments he had opened his eyes, one he shoved to the back of his wailing mind. It had been brought forward. Berlin looked at his bloody, dirt covered, and calloused hands. “Demon. Aye, a monster beneath my feet.”

Monster. A wave of inherent panic rose within him triggering Berlin to ruffle his hair manically. “No. No. No.”

Meanwhile, a shard, a memory essence, made its way across the field and shot into him. No warning. No shot. The world touched his shoulders; He wanted to scream from the pressure, but his voice had vanished. Knocked to the floor, the world vanished too.

———

Where there was once light, darkness clouded Berlin’s vision, and his body no longer accepted his control. In its place, he became a spectator to the movie presented before him. Where was he? Berlin’s attention was drawn to a soothing voice; a woman’s voice. He listened.

“Hush, My Berlin.“ She sung in a soft melody.

Faint crackles of fire revealed a fireplace of sorts to his side. Its light casted an even fainter glow upon the woman, who was now cradling Berlin’s head. He’s smaller now. A child.

“Mmmmm.“ She hummed and smiled.

The woman’s pale fingers caressed his cheeks. He laughed and smiled too. Berlin couldn’t quite place his initial familiarity nor figure out this woman’s identity, but he embraced the comfort. Long black hair hung to her sides, and her dark eyes watched him without any contempt. In fact, they seemed to hold endearment instead. Impossible. No one could love him. Yet, clear within the woman’s eye, she did. She loved him. Her melody sweetened the very air, joining the cinnamon and other incense already did. Not too warm neither too cold. Oh, if only he could lay here forever in her arms and on her lap. At home. At home. Such hopes wouldn’t last.

The crackles of the fireplace grew a bit louder.

A wooden plank creaked from the weight of someone. A thick muddy voice spoke indiscriminate words to the woman. The creature itself stood in the dark, just out of Berlin’s vision. Again, it spoke more disturbing sounds. She gave a glance to the creature but quickly returned to Berlin.

“Berlin.” She cooned. “My little Berlin.”

The crackles of the fire grew even louder till it became nearly deafening.

“Berlin.” She repeated. At this point, the creature’s speech had turn to a pattern as if he was reciting a passage. “My little creation.”

Flames crawled across the wooden ceiling as his vision blurred.

“Berlin, My little demon.” In her eyes, tears welled. “So soon...”

The fire engulfed everything in sight but the woman before his vision went back to black.

“Berlin.“

A scream came sharp and gruesome. Shrill and loud.

The real world returned in a begrudged hurry, tearing Berlin away from the woman back to the present. His presence and pain cascaded as an ocean. Splash. His eyes blinked. His gift of living has been thrown upon him. He sat up.

Leon’s voice echoes across the field. Berlin held his head. The minor headache persisted since summon strengthens for a bit as the memories of his past settled in. He roar to his feet, mechanic in nature. It was an order that had been spoken. Each step dragged with the weight of a new passenger. He carried on. It hadn’t been a real body that held onto him, but instead a thought. Tears. Gods-forsaken-tears rolled from slimmed eyes. Berlin began to mutter.

“Mother.”

TheImmortalDeity · Sep 22, 2019

Leon
[NPC]

As he trudged through the aftermath of the brutal exorcism that had taken place, Leon took in the scenery with a bittersweet awareness. The dead that were coined as "Rabble" were once living and breathing beings; friends that he shared drinks with or family members he shed tears with. All of that felt moot as their barren faces lay soulless in the trodden mud, not a glimmer of activity arising from them. He had wished that they were able to achieve a proper passing into the afterlife, despite the acts taken that had led up to their massacre. Perhaps this was his way of coping from the horrendous deeds he had committed towards his ancestors, forcing himself to believe that they were in a better place. His disposition grew weary, the arch of his back becoming more prominent with every step he took.

It was until he reached the top of the hill when he came to a halt, turning towards the heroes and having the guildhall tower behind him. They were a mess, every last one of them. Either covered in mud or riddled with exhaustion. It didn't take long for Leon to realize someone was missing from their ranks. The red-haired woman from before. In a hurry, he moved to the edge of the hill, a full view of the graveyard coming into focus. As he scanned the horizon, his attention locked on a glimpse of red. A pile of undead warriors was scattered and broken, cluttered around a single point. In the middle rested the elven hunter, bloodied and beaten. She had put up a good fight, but in the end, even she fell to the countless numbers that the Rabble possessed. A heavy loss so early on. His heart ached for the child, wishing they had the chance to live out their life to the fullest. Ripping his eyes away from the scene, he returned to his original spot, his hands flimsily holding onto his cane for support.

Clearing his throat, Leon pushed his sorrows to the side, happy enough to see that the rest of his children came back to him relatively unharmed. "Your first battle in this new life of yours has come to an end. Much has been lost, and one of your members lost her life in today's battle; however, I pray that the knowledge you have gleaned from this will not be in vain." He looked at each of them individually, an aspect of pride washing over him. "You have lived to see another day and have proven yourselves on the battlefield. It is with great honor that I use whatever power I have left to celebrate your victory with the utmost diligence." Pounding his cane into the dirt, he straightened his posture as much as possible. Now was not the time to dwell on past mistakes. These children needed him, and for that, he was to be their beacon of hope. To promise them a new tomorrow.

The elder twisted away from the line of heroes and began to walk towards the guildhall. As of now, he promised himself a new beginning. If he ever planned to move this town forward, he had to cast aside their old ways. To put their future into these young pups' hands and trust in their ability to succeed. Placing wrinkled palms on the guildhall's double-doors, he gave a push, motioning for the others to follow him inside. "Tonight, we drink!"

Lazili

TheImmortalDeity · Sep 24, 2019

Hatch

Standing before Leon, Hatch wasn't in the mood to hear another one of his pointless pep talks. The man was irritated and hungry. He considered the idea of simply shoving the old coot aside and getting his hands on a drink, but the shifting of a certain magician kept him at bay. Giving a glance to his left, he watched as the albino frantically wiped his eyes. He had been crying. "Pathetic," Hatch growled under his breath, his impression of them becoming worse by the second. Berlin marred the very existence of what it meant to be a pactborn, and it took all of the limited self-control the brawler possessed to not pummel the coward where he stood. Deciding that spending any more time giving heed to the man was a waste, he fixated on Leon, who now stood near the edge of the hill. Trailing where the old man had been staring at, Hatch saw the same bloody scene that their assassin was left in.

His lips curled, finding the death of his comrade to be entertaining. What a worthless piece of shit, he thought, brushing long strands of black hair away from his eyes. It made sense for the weak to be weeded out, but as he saw the rest of his team, Hatch wondered how they all had escaped the same fate as Allara. Clicking his tongue, he relished in the thought of them all dying on their own. That way, he didn't have to share his glory with the ones piggybacking off of his triumphs. He swiveled on his heels to be faced again with Leon, who was now praising them for their victory. Why bother? We were guaranteed to win the moment I appeared. A cocky sneer was plastered on Hatch's face during the entire interaction.

It was only when Leon opened the doors to the guildhall where Hatch truly began to appreciate what it was the town had for offer. As they entered the glorified saloon, the party was privy to the jovial atmosphere that it contained. Nearly half of the entire town was now partying within its walls, drinks being passed and merriment being shared by all. The town's musicians had taken to the stage and a melody of joy rung throughout the building's interior. The cries of glee heightened as the heroes made their way to the bar counter, being granted the occasional pat on the back or an offer to join the rest of them for a drink. It was all in celebration of the victorious outcome from their first battle. It was no surprise to believe that it was Leon who orchestrated the event, the fogy nodding his head in agreement with the rest of the townsfolk. He had faith in their team, and for that, he made sure that the rest of the village did, too.

It was Hatch who answered the requests for a drink, taking beer after beer and downing them with only a few gulps. He had waited so long for this moment. It was the first time he felt satisfied since being born into this crummy excuse of a world. Being the life of the party that he was, he had left the rest of the group and allowed himself to get swarmed by the masses, standing tall above each of them in his stoic glory. He boasted his power with flexing and answered questions of their battle with retorts such as: "I killed him in a single blow . . ." or "You could see the fear in the undead's eyes when . . .". It was obvious the pactborn was in his element, and who was to blame him? In the end, they DID win, and he was going to milk that fact for all it was worth.

HTCOR · Sep 25, 2019

Iain

Iain's pace ripped him back from Camila, his head swirling in a cloud of muddled thoughts. His hatchet was swept off the ground, slammed into a belt strap. It was odd to have such there, but he'd grabbed it off a fallen Rabble. His feet carried him out of the abyssal crypt, into the draining light. His face was starting to become more ashen, as the world seemed to trickle in colors, droll and dull without something. A flash of crimson, a bloodied corpse- he stopped in front of them, Leon's words carrying through his mind. 'One of your members lost their life in this battle today...' He'd thought it was someone else- the Elf had seemed so confident in herself. Without much thought, the fellow party member was gently picked up on his shoulder like a barrel, as he started to walk back towards the crypt. With the corpse upon his shoulder, he descended into the earth once more, making his way over to the place that Elder Cairos laid.

It wasn't long until the long dead was replaced with the shortly dead, and the coffin resealed with a grunt of effort. The scattered bones were about the room, as Iain left it- intending to leave the grave behind him in full. Perhaps someone would disagree with what he'd done, but he'd care not. He seemed tired, exhausted, as he made his way to the outside of the inn, breathing heavily, exhausted. His strength had waned over the time of this combat, his eyes starting to draw in far too much information- to kill, to shield, to prevent someone from harming, where to strike to kill easiest. His mind was beginning to overload with the information...and perhaps, that was just too much for him. He'd find a tree, coughing the last specks of silver ichor out- and settling into seated position against the tree, drawing his arms around himself.

Interacting: A corpse, and a living corpse. (

Violetti )

TheImmortalDeity · Sep 28, 2019

Leon
[NPC]

The festivities were going off without a hitch. It had been the most life Leon had seen in the town in a long time, and while his people rejoiced in the chance of salvation, he felt an ease wash over him; a feeling he thought was lost years ago. As he combed over the room, his eyes flicked from one hero to another. Ah, how they all appeared well enough during such trying times. He craved for every day to be similar to the one they experienced now, but his wisdom knew better than to expect something so naive. While in his thoughts, the senior realized something amiss. One of the valiant fighters was nowhere to be seen. He was certain that they had lined up with the rest of the group, but perhaps they never came inside? Unsettled, Leon went for the door, allowing for the ongoing merrymaking to continue without the needless worries of an old man to bring them down.

The warm winds of the day washed over his brittle skin, Leon having to cover his eyes from the blazing illumination of the sun above. The weather was a great juxtaposition from the events that ensued earlier. With a tired saunter, he moved onward. The local fauna had begun to relocate into their old homes, rodent-like critters and larger beings with horns peacefully making their way through the gravestones and deceased, as if to bless their prayers to the lives that were lost. The town was returning to its serene roots, accepting all living things to co-exist now that the danger had passed. Marveling at the sight, the ringing of a cough broke his immersion with the scenery around him. Near a dying tree, one of the heroes lay in his bloodied shirt, an aura of pain and sadness seeping from his frame. How did it come to this? Leon thought, a frown taking place.

His frail feet brought him over to the man, Leon creakily sitting himself down next to them, his back pressed against the support of the tree. It didn't take much to recognize the being beside him was deteriorating at a steady pace. If he wasn't mistaken, they were the strategist of the group. Their presence was not as obvious or outgoing as the others, but they played a great role in the removal of the plague in his home, and for that, Leon was thankful. Reaching into the sleeves of his brown robes, he held a vial, a sloshy green liquid with flakes of crumpled leaves residing inside. Grabbing their arm and slipping the substance into the man's palm, he nestled back into his seated position. The liveliness of the guildhall was heard from their spot, the faint sounds of music reaching Leon's ears. "It's come to my attention-" Leon croaked, taking a moment to clear his throat. "It's come to my attention," he repeated, "that I never asked for your name, son." Placing his hands on his knees, he leaned into the tree, his mind fixed on the brown leaves that floated down before their feet. "Oh, and don't mind that tincture. It's meant to help ease the pain. And before you go on saying that you're fine, remember that this old man has seen many things throughout his life. You cannot persuade me otherwise. Drink, and then let us talk a little, shall we?"

Violetti · Sep 28, 2019

[class=Notes] // Forward slashes are comments and do no show up in the final design, these are to help you find everything easily and explain some code as well. These comments must be with in a class or script tags in order to be hidden, from what I know// // Long URls are images # followed by letter and numbers are Hex codes or color codes.// // This code does not show breaks unless is shows the
code When typing responses to rps, be aware that when you press enter it will not show that you did. You'll have to use the
tags// [/class] [class=Lines] border-top:2px SOLID #680b0a; margin-bottom:8px; margin-Top:5px; margin-Left:12px; //This is the line dividers in the code, the tiny ones.// [/class]

[class=Notes] //Above is the background color and main border// //below are the two borders around the image// [/class]

Camila | Interacting: Hutch

TheImmortalDeity | Mentioned: Blood bag outside |
[div class="Lines"]

A bar was no place for a lady. Camila turned her nose up at the barbaric scene before her. The smell of booze stuck to her clothing even from the doorway. The healer had fully intended to aid the man she drank from earlier. However, the bar's obnoxious energy ate away any sympathy she once felt. Fuck good deeds. If he died, what the hell? It wasn't her problem humans were such a weak and feeble species. Try as she might, the woman couldn't drown out the gleeful laughter and gasps of awe that surrounded a particular brute. It was him. What was his name? Hutch? He had the ignorant masses wrapped around his dick. What world had she been reborn in? Couldn't she return to the world within her dreams, where she was the heiress to...to what?
A nearby dwarf woman hobbled past her, eager to join in on the pactborn's faux glory. What a revolting creature. Wanting to escape the madness, the woman turned to leave the establishment. She barely made it three feet before a mug was projected at her poor, little head. THWAK! Down the healer went, for the...third time today?

Gritting her teeth, Camila pulled herself up. Rubbing the back of her head, a glare that could easily split someone in two crossed her face. Enough of this uncouth behavior! She didn't have to search far for the culprit. Inhaling one drink after the other, Hutch would toss the empty mugs into the air without a care in the universe. The vampiric woman had had enough. Gripping the mug in her hand, she pushed through the crowd in fury. The unsuspecting dwarf from earlier was easily trampled down by Camila's rage. Reaching the front, she slammed the mug into his current one, knocking it over. The golden ale poured over the wooden counter like a mini tsunami. The chatter around died down a bit, secretly egging on a fight with their eyes. " I didn't know you were such a good liar. As far as I saw, you didn't even enter the crypt. That sack of blood outside is more of a man than you. Why don't you take this trash you recklessly chucked at my beautiful head and throw it in the dumpster along with your filthy self!" The man wreaked of so much alcohol that Camila feared getting tipsy just from his stench. "Only low-class people who are unhappy with themselves drink mid-day." Leaning in, she flashed her fangs in a mocking smile. "Are you unhappy with yourself? Should I end your suffering?" [div class="Lines"][/div] Original Code by AgWordSmith (You are a goddess) [/div]

Lo Mayn · Sep 29, 2019

Berlin A. Malkuth

“The Party”

Laughter! Excitement! Much joy was to be had within the guildhall for the summons had won their little quest. And now, the rewards: Fame, drink, and some much needed rest time. But for Berlin, the pactborn, he’d only partake in the rest. Initially hard for such a private man, a certain place caught his eye. Far enough that no clattering fan would mistakenly stumble upon him, Berlin came out onto a balcony, leaned on its railing, and watched the party from above.

Wounded from the battlefield, the bitemark of a stray rabble laid etched into his shoulder, as well as minor cuts from his fellow summonee’s attack. Berlin had did well to cover the mark with the remainder of his destroyed shirt, ripping a chunk from it and used it as a tie. But, the exhaustion wore on him. Worst yet, a few heavy thoughts weighed on his mind. For now however, he’d attempt to drown the thought out with the party in front of him.

Berlin’s eyes scanned the crowd for familiar faces and locked onto a head of silver which dipped under the crowd for just a moment before popping up again. A few bounces later, she stood before the unnamed demon man. Berlin began to mutter to himself.

“Vampire woman, Camila, who knows not her limits, yet surprisingly durable. Supposed ‘Healer,’ but…”
Berlin shifted his shoulder and quietly groaned under its pain, “No healing has been done. Instead, right back to him, she leads herself. I suppose it’d be foolish to try to stop her, she surely has a death wish.” Berlin chuckled for the first time that day. He moved focus onto the drunk Hatch.

“Demon…” The word stopped Berlin’s lips. The warmth then fear of his only former memory flickered. He shook his head and focused again. He attempted to search for another face in place of Hatch, however, with his favorite elf dead and the human nowhere to be found, it was in vain.

With a sigh, he slid unto his bottom and turned toward the hallway. The valiant and impressive decoration of the guildhall quickly lost its novelty, and no longer mattered to Berlin. The people weren’t complaining, so neither would he. His head rested onto his knee. “Soon.” He said. “Soon, this will stop being a mystery, then… What’s so ever shall come.”

Mentioned:

TheImmortalDeity · Sep 29, 2019

Hatch

As one drink made its way to his lips, another soon came after. "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!" the crowd roared, rhythmically stomping their feet as the party had reached its climax. How many cups was this now? Hatch had stopped counting well after twenty, the animal not being one to think too far ahead when it came to the disastrous toll the excessive drinking was going to have on his body. He found himself stumbling a bit, his mind becoming fuzzy and his body feeling hot all over. He was, without a shadow of a doubt, trashed. As the drunkard went for another go, it took him three tries to grab the mug off from the tabletop, the foamy head spilling off the sides of the glass as he opened his mouth and prepared to pour. Sadly, the booze never touched his tongue, and in a quick scene of events, it was out of his hands and splattered on the counter, lost forever.

All of the locals had gone silent, the drops of wasted alcohol being all that was heard as Hatch's physique turned to the twit that dared ruin his night. His nose flared at the sight of the vampire, her snooty disposition being as welcomed as a dog shitting on the floor. He wanted to kill her. Smash her into a puddle of vampiric goo and throw her remains in the trash. The only thing stopping him was her remark. Does this bitch think she has permission to speak? He peered at Camila, trying to come up with a good comeback with as much power as his intoxicated self was able to bless him with. Eventually, he thought of something. "I ain't a fuckin' liar. Last time I saw you, your ugly face was buried in mud. The hell would you know 'bout anythin'?"

Taking two large steps, he overshadowed the insect, his bare chest puffed out in malice. "I'm Hatch, you motherfucker! The only ones unhappy are the people who aren't me," he said, a slur to his words. Pressing an accusatory finger against her pale cheek, the degenerate pushed onward. "You're jealous of the fact that I can hold my liquor. Typical pansy, acting like hot shit and lashing out at their insecurities." The mob began to murmur from the outsides of the bubble that formed between the two heroes. Good or bad, they weren't able to peel their eyes away from the interaction between the two crude individuals, and a hint of excitement was felt throughout the room. Was something going to happen? Was a fight about to start?

A swift hand from Hatch was raised, calling for the bartender. "Keep on with the drinks. I ain't got all fuckin' day!" As the caretaker rushed to prepare their glass, the pactborn swiped up the finished product, gently waving it in front of Camila in a mocking manner. "How 'bout you stop runnin' your shit-eating mouth and show you ain't a pussy. Or are you too scared that your fake dignity will be ruined? A bunch of stupid bullshit if you ask me." Spitting on the floor, he waited, showing off his teeth with an aspect of brashness. "Well? Go on, slut."

HTCOR · Sep 29, 2019

Iain

Iain seemed to gently take the mixture, a smile upon his face- starting to stand up again. "Allow me to find the Healer. Wounds are not something to trifle with, even for someone like myself." A smirk formed on the human's face, as the wound itself was horridly serious- absolutely so. He seemed to be having a moment of silence for the fallen elven comrade before Leon had approached. But as Leon provided the medication, he seemed to look it over- his eyes flashing in delight. "I will say that your choice of herbs is good, but..." He'd twirl a hand. "I'll greet Death once more with open arms. Bastouni shall grasp my heart once more." The tincture was swept back, tossed back without much thought to him. With that, he grasped the elderly man's arms, hefting him to his feet. The man seemed to be rather lucid for the amount of sedatives in his blood now, as the wound seemed to be festering with miasma.

"Mourn not the death of a comrade, celebrate the short life you have given me." He'd say, a smile on his face. "Therefore, thank you. Thank you for housing us, thank you for giving myself a last night of merrymaking. Therefore, I hope you have a wonderful night." With that, the man began to try and drag Leon towards the inn, a smirk on his face. His mind was forcing itself to stay awake, panic in his blood- adrenaline coursing as he forced himself to slow down. "Let us not sit here and perish, let us live. Live through the youth who cheer and jeer at us." In those moments, Iain's age steadily became apparent. Old eyes, something that had seen many seasons, and was willing to pass on the world to the younger generation...Leon.

"So, Leon. I know the others won't thank you, sadly enough- they're young, brash, impolite, and crude. Especially Camila. Always found the pretty ones to be the cruelest." He seemed to be rambling to himself, something as to keep his mind from running off, even as the life drifted out of him. "Reminds me of my seventh wife!...if I recalled her. I think I had nine in total- all of them died before I did." He'd admit, his voice growing weaker and weaker. He stumbled once, planting his hand against the wall. "From old age, that is- I recall blessing my great great great granddaughter, and I was still young! Odd, isn't it?" He'd laugh, a frail sound.

HTCOR · Sep 30, 2019

"Quor"

As a young Pactborn seated himself upon the balcony, a massive shadow swelled atop him. "Kid." A vaguely irritated voice came from behind Berlin. "Do you mind walking with me for a moment?" As the Pactborn looked behind him, he'd see the massive Goblin standing there, a pair of glasses on his face, along with numerous scrolls and papers underneath an arm. He seemed upset, but not at Berlin. "So you can help me, and I can help you."

"Aye." Berlin answered, his voice rough and devoid of the shyness that was usually evident in a more mentally rested version of himself. He lifted up and followed behind the behemoth of a hero. Quor would take the moment to guide Berlin along, their pace carrying them from the lavish guildhall to a much more utilitarian hallway. As they paced along, Quor was silent for a few seconds, until they got to a door with something engraved into the wood.

'Quor. Secretary and Taskmaster' was written upon the door, as the goblin pushed open the massive door with a free arm. "So. Do you want me to ask about your condition, or would you rather work for now?" He'd ask, stepping into the room. The room itself was rather spartan, with only a few chairs, a small desk meant for a normal sized person and one sized for Quor, and a weapons rack that held a greatsword, an axe, and a shield. The scrolls were settled upon the bigger desk for now, while a few of the papers were placed upon the small desk. Berlin searched the room with his eyes. Strange, he thought. A man of Quor's stature should be the last person behind a desk. Is this where the good heroes end up?

"Work..." He said. "What are we doing?" was the question that lingered in the air, as Quor looked up at him. "We're making requisition requests for you, and your party. I can't give you the supplies that you need here, so you're going to have these forms for the capital- I have more than a few requisition request forms stored up for myself, and am lending you some. I don't expect payment back. I don't need more gear." A snarl formed on Quor's face. "Especially not from the Guild itself. Let us simply put it this way- they don't look on non-Heroes as kindly as they do Heroes." A pause, as he grabbed a quartet of copper tags on a leather cord, before placing one into Berlin's palm, while holding the other three. "And to clarify what I mean, I wasn't summoned like you."
Berlin looked over the copper tag before closing his fist.

"Yet, you look kindly upon us." He stated. "You saved the woman before, and now these. I'm not quite sure we are deserving of it." Said tag was a simple pendent cast from copper, without any identifying marks upon it, except for 'BOERING' written across the front.

"You don't." There was no words minced on that. "You have bickered among yourselves, fought like a set of strangers who were thrust into an uncomfortable scenario without a dash of memory- which, mind you, is extremely odd. You can call it curiosity, or the fact that I wish for you all to be my own. Just know that you are underneath my domain, and as such, I, by all rights, should protect you."
Berlin considered a thought of the dead elf, but pushed the thought away. "Why then are we here- why were we summoned? If it was for this hero life you've mentioned, half so or not, you surely could've done better than demons and vampires."

Quor seemed to crash into his chair with the grace of a falling tree, the chair groaning under his weight. "Well. The Guild does not...like me acting outside my parameters. I can assist you, but they do not like me doing much. Unsummoned heroes are not the best thing to do- and we do not pick what is summoned. We put out a broad spectrum call for heroes, and you answered."

"I can't imagine a world in which we were heroes." Eyes glanced to the side as Berlin whispered to himself. He looked up to Quor and sauntered to his desk. "Where then are we supposed to go from here? How can we--Though I doubt I can say we confidently as we're not even a real party-- complete the purpose of a summon? And afterwards, do we return to the grave?"

Quor took a moment. "...I'll be honest, Berlin. I might be one of the few true heroes- the original meaning of the word. But every Summoned, if that suits you better, has one thing in common. They died without having their life's purpose fulfilled." He'd suddenly grab Berlin by the arm, wrenching him over without much care, eyes suddenly zoning in on the brands upon the man's chest. "...Ah. I see." He'd suddenly stand up, letting go of Berlin, opening a drawer in his desk. The crackle of heavy magic stung the air, even apparent to Berlin's weak senses. From there, a tome was pulled out, as the Goblin poured over the pages for a few seconds, before turning his attention to the Pactborn once more.

Berlin stepped back, "What is it? What do you see?"

The massive being looked down at Berlin with a sad look in his eyes. "I have an inkling of a feeling. But, even my eyes see not what you are. They only inform me that you have some potential. More than you'd think from a normal being. Your brand. It isn't something I'm familiar with." His voice tinged with sorrow, as he looked at the child in front of him. "So. You do have the potential to be a hero, unlike the majority. I do not have much faith in you. But I will place my hopes on you, nonetheless, to be one." Quor patted the smaller man's head. Within the dragonling's head, something brewed- something sad, something akin to pity.

Berlin's brain raced about as much needed answers were delivered to him, nearly freezing him in spot. He took a deep breath. "To be a hero. But... How?"

With that, Quor laughed lightly. "Simple, child. You fight, you war, you band your party together into a cohesive unit- play to their strengths. Temper them like steel, ignite the passions of their hearts. Do not find what is different amongst you all, find what is the same. Hatch, for example, is prideful- play to his pride. Tell him about the many foes that you can support him on. Or worse, tell me to step in for a swift brawl- I may be an Unsummoned, but I count among the strongest of Guild Members out there. But your current objective is to get to the capital, so focus on that first- understand each other as well. You will be picking up supplies for yourselves, and making a name. I will send you with enough funds for it to be deemed 'Guild Business', and you all to get proper supplies. This...village isn't good enough for such a thing. They are too poor. I will, however, do my best to keep them protected- perhaps misplace some of my rations, if you know." The elder Goblin laughed.

Berlin too took part in the cheerfulness of the moment, a smile of sorts came to his lips. Whether they were due to cynicism, his mind-numbing exhaustion, or to the possibly inspiring future Quor sold to him, he himself wasn't sure. It was a start. Whatever plentiful answers were left now existed on the other side of this 'hero' business, and the young pact born only knew that he would do whatever it took to get there.

"Okay." He paused, turning the copper coin over with his fingers. "I greatly doubt it'd be that easy for the drunkard to be convince, same for the women." He scoffed. "But. Okay. Heroes. To the capital. I'll try to rally the others to leave as soon as possible, but I'll need the day to rest and get this wound healed first," Berlin rubbed his shoulder and winched. "I may have some more questions later, but in the meanwhile, where can I get a room?"

"If you mean a room here, you can stay at the Guild. If you mean a room in the Capital? That'll be harsh. Plenty of travelers stay there, but you'll be able to secure lodging with the Guild quarters there. If they even have anything for you, because they certainly like to drag their feet- politics." He'd snort.

"I can just imagine." Berlin remarked. "Thank you for your assistance, hero Quor. I'll be on my way." And with that Berlin would leave Quor and his office to find himself a room.

“Before you go, remember that you can take any room that you want- and it shall be yours, as long as you wish.” He’d stand up, setting aside the scrolls as the words ‘CHUG CHUG CHUG’ could be heard in the background. Quor seemed to adjust his remarkably tiny glasses with a sense of irritation, before starting to stroll out himself- intending to at least get some mead into himself before his day was trashed even further by the more dumbass Pactborn. “Berlin.” His voice suddenly lowered. “Please stay out of the ensuing brawl- you are not strong enough.”

With that, Quor planted a roll of cloth bandages into the child’s hands, along with a pin meant to seal the bandages together. “Use these wisely-” without another word, Quor used his height to bring himself away rapidly, for the balcony above the tavern proper. With that, Berlin was left to either find his room...or follow.

Interacting: Berlin (

Lo Mayn )
Others:

TheImmortalDeity · Oct 2, 2019

Leon
[NPC]

Picked to his feet by the upstanding man and grabbing his cane, Leon's frown slowly faded from the kind words that Iain recited to him. He had hoped to have given them a proper introductory in the world, and while he hadn't anticipated receiving any praise for his hospitality, the gesture was still pleasant. If only I was able to do more for you, my child, he reflected, allowing the strategist to guide him. The two hadn't gone far, maybe a few steps or so, before Leon felt the hold on his forearm weaken. As he peered at the hero, he saw an unintelligible quality exhibited around them. How his insincere smile had masked the sorrowful eyes that paved a way into his soul. It was as if he lived a thousand lives, and yet none of them were satisfactory. What had his memories revealed to him? What truths had he witnessed?

A single waver forced the hero against the wall, bracing himself with a single arm stretched out. From where he stood, Leon was unable to see Iain's face, yet a hint of sadness seeped through his words. As he kept speaking, a part of the old man wished to involve himself in the exchange; however, as hard as the wounded individual tried to dissuade the uncertainty in the air with jokes and charisma, the everpresent sensation of dread rested in the pit of Leon's stomach. They were going to die. Even a mortal without any noteworthy abilities was able to see that. Feeble as he was, Leon assisted Iain in propping him along the wall, his old ears listening to the ragged gasps of his doomed friend as he struggled to move them. Having set the man down, Leon sat cross-legged across from him, holding the edges of his cotton tunic to keep upright.

"Aye, I have a granddaughter of my own," Leon said with a disgruntled voice. "Her name is Elizabeth. She is a sweet one." He had written off Iain's outlandish comment on age as a side-effect of the herbs. He had started to cough again, more silver specks painting the surrounding area. The senior had never seen this sort of affliction, but as Iain's ability to hide the pain became weaker, he knew it to not be any good. Unable to help, Leon continued to speak, hoping to ease the man in some way through the sound of his voice. "She seems to be around the same age as the magician, youthful and full of spirit. I'm sure she'd love to meet you all. P-Perhaps, I can introduce her to you some time. . ." Remorse filled the back of his throat, Leon having a firm hold on Iain's hand as if to ground himself in the dying man's presence. As Leon fell silent, Iain had mouthed something indiscernible to Leon. His last words.

It felt surreal as the color drained from Iain's face. He was smiling, his eyes open with a glimmer that challenged to be ceased. His chest had stopped moving, an unsettling stillness left in its wake. As Leon moved forward, he pressed his hand to the side of Iain's neck. There was no pulse. He was dead. Placing a finger on either one of Iain's eyes, the old man closed them, clasping his hands together and giving a simple prayer.

"Bastouni, may your hands cradle this young man's heart and shield him from corruption. May you grant him safe passage to The Pantheon, and allow him to sit among the divine. Let his soul be soothed by your kiss and his mind comforted in your embrace. Forgive him for what sins he may have committed in his past and hold no resentment, for he is only mortal. Most importantly, oversee that he is reunited with those he may have lost and ensure their happiness in eternal paradise. In your name, I pray. Myr."

Separating his hands and rising to his feet, he solemnly beheld the peaceful remnants of the used-to-be Iain. Much too young, he thought. Leon knew he had to have the town clean up tomorrow morning. Their burial grounds were ruined and littered with the dead. He wondered if it was possible to give a proper burial to the fallen heroes given their current financial injustice. He never got a name from the man, and never was. He had convinced himself to move forward, and yet with so many losses, it was difficult to see a light at the end of a long, tragic beginning. He had to clear his head. With a push of his cane, he headed for his home. He knew that rest was going to evade him; the image of Iain burned into the back of his eyes. However, he was unable to tell Quor of the recent passing, and his mind was too muddled to be of any benefit elsewhere. So, with a heavy heart and a pain that no healing except time could reach, he drifted off to his house, not a sound to be heard.