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Fantasy Guardians of Landfall

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Guinevere.png

The Dragon



  • Guinevere VII





    A crowd was forming from the passengers and workers that occupied the ship. All the commotion made it hard to concentrate. Still, the woman doubled down on her efforts and continued to do what little she could. She wasn't healing per se, but rather stabilizing. Things were progressing slowly but she thought they had at least made ground. She continued her breathing and the jolts continued to form.

    It was then, in the middle of the chaos, that she felt the splash of warm liquid hit her head. The smell hit her immediately. Ale had been tossed on both her and her Morgrim. Anger swelled through her. A grimace etched itself unto her face as she fought against her instincts to throw the man overboard. Her breathing broke momentarily and the flow of the jolts broke as well. The disrespectful act caused her to momentarily lose concentration and she felt his heartbeat slip. She refocused on her breathing and she felt the stinging heat of the bolts steady itself as well. But she did not feel his heartbeat steady. Instead, she felt his pulse weaken. Her ears then picked up on drunk words, the same spouted from the drunks you would find on the streets at night, insisting that he had a solution. This stranger was infuriating. And to make matters worse, he started pouring more cheap booze on Morgrims head.

    And just like that, she felt the last beat of his heart. It was no mistake, Morgrim was dead. Bleed out from his heavy wounds. She had seen it before. Just like all the men she killed in the arena and just like the soldiers who died beside her defending that wall. The sight triggered her memory and for a brief moment, she lost control. The jolts of electricity faded and Reflexively, Guinevere balled her hand atop of Morgrim's chest into a tight fist and lunged forward. She slammed her fist square in the stomach of the drunkard, sending him reeling back. Lucky for the man she had missed her target. She was aiming for a bit lower.

    A few tense moments passed in where the gladiator's gaze did not shift from the man. She stared him down like a bull before a charge. She took a deep breath and regained control over herself. She relaxed the tense muscles and recomposed herself. He's not worth the effort she thought. She turned her gaze back to Morgrim and Roxii.

    Great. They hadn't even stepped foot into town and her employer was already dead. Disappointing. Not only would DeRosso be displeased, but that means she had no excuse to leave the city. She would just have to take the next ship back to Oweumont and explain to her master that the man was dead and she had no reason to continue her orders. Her gaze focused on Roxii, who seemed more on edge than normal.

    Her gaze once again turned back to Morgrim's lifeless body. She located the pouch that contained the winnings, at least she assumed it was the winnings, and unhooked it from the body. No sense in wasting a resource. Guinevere got up and handed the pouch to Roxii. "You can keep the pay. I won't be needing it"









    empty
NOTHING


 
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Health: 46%

  • Tags: Morg Morg | Federoff Federoff | AnimusLight AnimusLight

    Addressed: Guinevere "The Dragon" | Falaern Damaer | Morgrim Hemwick

    Mentioned: Jass
The rogue's shadows passed over the man's wounds carefully. She mended severed nerves and broken skin, staunched bleeding, and soothed bruises. Her healing prowess was not as exceptional as she'd like, so she couldn't go very fast. With how small and delicate each piece was, she needed to be careful with how she maneuvered her shadows without damaging the male's body further. The process was meticulous and required almost all of her attention. So much so that she hardly noticed when the gladiator woman raced to her side and began aiding her. It wasn't until she roared "Medic!" that Roxii remembered the woman existed.

The wassik-kesir could practically feel the anger radiating off of the larger woman, mimicking her own displeasure. And when she spoke, only anger and frustration laced her words. It was understandable. Their journey had just begun, even more so for the sargtlin, and they hadn't even gotten to their first objective before the male had gotten himself fatally wounded, and possibly killed. The same indignation laced Roxii's response as she growled, "Juk sa da mutami." She took a moment to reign in much more colorful insults and instead resorted to translating the rough elvish. "He is a madman."

A tense silence passed between the two women as they worked on trying to keep the Guide alive. Their efforts seemed worthless. Each beat of his heart was growing more stagnant, and his very essence was draining like air seeping out of a pinhole in a balloon. But then she felt it, heard it. The pulses of electricity forming around Guinevere's hands as she attempted to kickstart the man's heart. A knot of fear choked her, and she suddenly became very aware of the dormant electricity circling her neck. Her shadows faltered as her train of thought broke. Did the fighter know how to maneuver that raw power? Would she keep it from harming the small assassin? And then her thoughts returned to the threat already clamped around her. If she didn't continue to aid the man, to keep him from Death's clutches, then she would very well be experiencing the raw power of electricity very soon.

And so she continued to work. She plunged herself into her shadows, carefully planning each move as she mended the man's body. She found it unusual; unlike other n'til'nond edainra she'd encountered, Morgrim's body felt as though half of his body were natural. If she were to carve away the rotting parts of his body, he'd be a relatively normal, full-blooded human. He was no undead man who'd clawed his way from a grave; he was a human with some not-so-great-smelling parts. If she were the guess, he'd gotten himself cursed or contracted some sort of disease that made him something more than human. He was just unfortunate, and perhaps younger than he looked due to the peculiar nature of his composition.

"That should help!" Roxii had hardly noticed the drunkard that had stumbled up to their trio, smelling strongly of rum. She had no problem with the thick aroma of the spicy alcoholic beverage, but he smelled so strongly of it that he nearly overpowered the stench of the man she was healing. The hybrid noted that he was trying to help, which was accepted... mostly. She also noted the anger that was radiating off the larger woman's body, accompanied by the smell of rum that had been spilled on her person. Great. A clumsy drunk.

Her attention averted back to the Guide once again, but she didn't get far in her healing efforts. His heartbeat was slowing dramatically, breathing ragged and long, his skin growing colder by the second. No, no, no... His essence, his soul was dissipating, traveling to the land beyond the one they traveled, one she couldn't travel to. She reached out with her shadows in a last ditch effort to drag him back to his mortal body, to trap him in the world of the living. But it was useless. Morgrim's heart stopped pumping, his lungs stopped laboring, and his body had grown cold and vacant. The Guide was dead.

There was only a single second of silence, of pause before the Dragon threw an angry punch at the drunken stranger. The Lythari wasn't paying attention to them however. She was focused on the body of the Guide before her and her failure at keeping him alive. There was nothing more she could do. Surely Master Damaer would understand that? She had expended much of her own magic, her own essence to try and save this man she didn't care about, and it left her feeling slow and tired. She had tried as best as she could. But it wasn't enough. Her efforts were futile, and she had failed. The Guide was dead, and Master Damaer would blame her for it.

Roxii barely noticed Guinevere unhook the Guide's winnings from his person and attempt to hand it to her. It took her a moment to drag herself back to reality and contemplate the offer. Her brow furrowed as she thought, her mind jumbled and fuzzy. "I do not steal from the dead," she spoke plainly and softly.

Without waiting for a response, the velglorn pushed herself off the ground and walked away, opting to get away from the rotting stench of the Mirigg, the thick aroma of the drunkard, the anger radiating off the Draedan, and the crowds of strangers. She needed to be alone, and she had a sneaking suspicion that someone else wanted her to be, too. So she went below deck, the rickety wooden stairs creaking underneath her weight, and searched for a separate room; perhaps some sort of storage closet. Fortunately, there were plenty of items that needed to be stored, and she was able to slip into one of the small rooms undetected, closing the door behind her softly.

She noticed the suffocating darkness shroud the room first. Falaern's disappointed glare pierced through her, and she wished she'd had her eyes to glare right back. His voice was unrelenting and cold, almost otherworldly, and it sent a foreboding chill down her spine. "You failed, sajorte."

Roxii snarled, "There was nothing more I could do–."

The shadowy assassin had hardly finished her sentence before a punch was sent into her gut. She didn't even see the man move towards her, nor did she sense the activation of his magic as he appeared before her. The Lythari was sent to her knees, arms braced around her abdomen. But it wasn't enough. A kick sent her sprawling to the floor, and when she tried to push herself back up, she was met with another kick to send her back down. "You failed me, Roxii," he repeated. "I expected more from you."

The rogue attempted to fight back and get away from the Crimson Shadow leader, but she was met with blow after blow. He kicked her, punched her, and attacked her with his own shadows, and she was no match for the man. She had been drained due to his most recent demand, and each blow, each attack left her grasping for a new opportunity. Something that would get her leverage. But here, Falaern held all the cards.

She attempted to regulate her breathing and push herself off the floor again, but Falaern's boot pressed against her spine and forced her back down. "You have disappointed me, Xiad Kyolin." Falaern's boot pressed harder against her back, and she was finding it hard to breathe. "I will make sure that you will not do so again."

Master Damaer's boot was lifted, and she breathed deeply to fill her lungs. But it was a short-lived escape as a jolt of electricity coursed through her body. Her muscles tensed, her breathing constricted, and she spasmed on the floor of the storage room as Falaern Damaer watched his prodigy struggle against the terrifying amount of voltage. The wolf-elf tried to scream, to yell, to even cry, but the electricity knocked the breath out of her, and her body was not cooperating. Dots and stars danced in her vision, and she wondered if it would be the last thing she saw.

And then it stopped. Roxii gasped and remained sprawled upon the floor. She had thought Falaern was going to kill her, and she was almost positive that was his intention. But she was still alive. Was it a malfunction? Was it a cruel game? Did he think of another use for her?

Falaern answered her silent question. "It seems you have been given a second chance." And without another word, Master Damaer disappeared and his magic with him, leaving Roxii to her own devices. She curled up on the floor, shaking violently as she attempted to calm her racing heart and regulate her breathing once more.

As she lay there, composing herself, she felt what Master Damaer was talking about. A strange, otherworldly essence touched her darkness, racing upwards towards the ship. She furrowed her brow thoughtfully, trying to pinpoint the source of this odd presence. It held an outer casing that was not of the living, as if it was coming from a different realm, but its core was natural, local. The essence was from the world of the living, and it felt familiar. It took her a few to realize what the essence was: it was a soul, and she knew exactly who it belonged to.

Roxii finally pushed herself up off the ground and staggered to the door, attempting to keep herself from looking like she'd just gotten into a drunken bar fight. She took a deep breath before joining the others again, this time below deck. Hushed whispers spoke of the spectacle that was Morgrim's death, and Guinevere looked lost and troubled near the Guide's covered body. The Rum Man had also followed the Dragon and the Mirigg's corpse, though he seemed to not really bother anyone. This was perhaps the worst funeral she'd ever seen.

The wolf-elf approached cautiously, and she was a few paces away by the time the Guide's soul was rejoined with his body. She'd never seen someone come back to life before, but it was about as exciting as she'd thought it would be. The two pieces of Morgrim joined together again, he shot up like he'd been awoken in a cold sweat, and the first words out of his mouth were swears. He seemed out of it and totally confused, which she expected. He had left the realm of the living, went into the great beyond, whatever that was, and shot back into his still malleable body, where he was now in a completely different place.

The Dragon's response to the Guide's terrible magic trick was almost amusing, but all the wolf-elf could think about was how much she hated Morgrim. She hated that he was so important to Falaern. She hated that his sudden death was the cause of her recent injuries. She hated that Falaern sent her to follow him around. She hated that he existed for Falaern to even consider the forced mission. She hated Morgrim the Guide.

Seething with absolute, boiling fury, Roxii advanced upon the n'til'nond edain and stood before the dazed and confused man. She ignored the height difference and reeled her arm back and brought a shadow-covered fist directly to the man's jaw. Whether it broke anything or not, she didn't care. She just wanted it to hurt. The wolf-elf continued her silence and stormed away from her two companions, back up to the top deck and to the railing, where she allowed the cool sea breeze to soothe the heated wrath radiating off of her.

 
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Jass hums, waiting to see if the one-armed man would wake up. He wouldn't have thought the man was already dead after loosing so much blood. This would be the first for him to meet a fated person who would die in such a short time. Jass feels the anger radiating off the large lady across from him and watches her hand form a tight fist. Before he can even glance up at her, the fist thrusts forward. It slams right into his stomach causing the wind to be knocked out of him. Jass flies back, crashing into the wall. "HMFF-" He falls on his ass, before keeling over. Jass coughs loudly and holds his stomach, while rolling to his knees. It takes him a minute to catch his breath, as he feels his lower ribs to find out if anything was broken. He wipes the string of drool that escaped his mouth. Then, Jass mistakenly looks up and locks eyes with his assailant; she looked like she was ready to make him the next person to die on this ship. Jass gulps down the tightness in his throat.

"W-well jeez. Someone doesn't know how to control their anger. Hey, your friend stopped bleeding. Not my fault he bled too much." The wanderer gets up on trembling legs, unsure if the blow, the drink or the angry woman is the cause. Probably a bit of everything. Jass coughs once more before patting his belt. The rum bottle lies shattered next to where he fell. Fortunately, he wasn't cut by the shards but Jass frowns about something else. "There goes the last of my drink." He did sober up from that punch. Jass rubs his stomach knowing for sure its going to turn black and blue down there. He then searches for his flute while the two female companions of the dead guy are likely talking about what to do.

Jass spots the black flute just a few steps away. He wobbles to the instrument, bending over to pick it up. He groans, feeling the after-effects of the punch.The wanderer tries to recall if he found any potions during his travels that dealt with bruising; he'll have to search later. Jass brushes the dirt of the flute, knowing well how oddly durable it is. He slips it on his belt before noticing the two women heading off. The burnt body is being carried below deck. Most of the bystanders has dispersed while some lingered at the scene. Jass hurries to where the group was heading, while keeping a distance from the large lady. She seemed to have cooled off but Jass isn't asking for another potential punch in the gut.

They set the body down and Jass stares disappointingly at the side; why did the visions tell him to meet these odd balls only for one of them to die? Jass crosses his arms, while pondering on this thought only to jump when the dead guy isn't actually dead? The one-armed man wakes up like as if he suffered through a nightmare- which isn't far from it in his state.

"Shit!" curses Jass as stumbles back. "Warn a guy if you're going to raise from the dead like that." It's not the first time he's seen the undead, if that's what currently happening right now. Most of his encounters with the undead weren't pleasant; Jass keeps his hand on his really-durable flute, remembering he once clubbed an undead once with it.

The undead(?) asks, "What happened"

Before Jass could open his mouth in response, the giant lady nearby tenses up."You won't fool me undead."

The more shorter of the companions appears, making her way to the awoken dead?- alive? She straight up upper cuts the poor guy with a fist full of shadows. Jass gives them a second to see if anyone else was going to add to this welcoming before clearing his throat.

"In short, you blew up, lost an arm, supposedly died from blood lose- by the way which I tried stopping but you decided to die still. Then giant lady here punches me-" Jass jokingly pouts at the large lady for a sec, "Which I would like an apology for." He continues, "- then you were brought down here." Jass hums before adding last, "And low and behold, you are not dead! Are you? I've met some nasty undead, so hopefully you are somewhat alive. Luckily, the fixer liquid I gave you seems to do the trick. Less 'bloody.' Hmmm...there shouldn't be excruciating pain but hell if I know since you pulled a stunt like this." Jass rubs the end of his chin before adding once more, "Oh! Name's Jass by the way. I'm supposed to meet you guys."
 


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Prior to today...she had only heard of the goings-on in the Ashkii Forest, knowing that people were going missing and others were losing their ether, their magick, either partially or entirely. The threat was unknown, as many have been too fearful to investigate, whereas the more courageous have journeyed there and are yet to return. Clad in her traditional priestess' robes, the female drow drew her white cloak tightly around her face as she regarded the decaying trees and dismal land with a tense expression twisted with confusion. Her bright, pale, moonlit eyes scanned the territory that was once a beautiful, magnificent forest filled with the most magical creatures of Landfall; now it was a wasteland, the familiar twinkling of lightning bugs and the singing of insects as well as some of the beings who inhabited the forest nowhere to be seen or heard. The silence was deafening.

Before... whatever was happening in the Ashkii Forest began... a myriad of races lived within the forest harmonically with an established peace recognized by all who came to visit. Untouched by the rage of war in the world, the world was a mystical paradise where everyone was accepted and treated as though they were family. Any form of currency was not a concern to the beings who lived there; they shared food, drink, heart, and home. Racism and prejudice were merely forgotten constructs of society amongst them (*cough* then, everything changed when the fire nation attacked *cough cough*). Once this unknown threat came to the forest, arguably the location with the most ether in all of Landfall, the climate was not the only thing that changed. It drained magick from the land and its inhabitants, causing many people to be left broken or disappear entirely. Whether the disappearances were the victims' own doings would remain unknown until further investigation. Those that stayed, however, changed visibly and mentally. They became ill and starved of magick, some going mad from the sheer sense of absence they felt within their bodies. Like those who became addicted to certain chemicals, they went through some sort of withdrawal, but it was taxing in a way no one had ever seen.

It was this sight that faced the drow healer, making her chest hurt and the female more grateful for the warm pulse of ether she felt resonating within her. Others could sense she was unharmed by the plague that was bestowed upon them, and some moved to engage with her in a non-friendly manner. Grabbing her staff from where she kept it hovering along her backside, the female drow's eyes met those of the people who would dare harm her, the small amount of power she chose to demonstrate being more than enough to make them cower into the ground.

"I have no desire to harm you or yours." The female spoke, her voice smooth as silk and soothing, despite her stark appearance. An elf with dark indigo skin marked with bone-colored tribal paint, a white cloak, a matching top, skirt, and a lack of shoes was definitely unusual, even in their parts. Most drow priestesses wore the colors of the earth or of blood, painted with their respective gods' colors and symbols. Unashamed, the female approached them slowly, making sure her every move could be seen from any angle. She had no intention of scaring these people, only helping them. Speaking once more to no one in particular, she gently lowered her staff to the ground outside the forest, the touch of the wood hitting the dirt making the only sound in the near vicinity as the victims who watched her held their breaths. "I come to you as an ally, a healer. My name is Mydhalia Sylvestra, and I am the last of the House of the Hidden Moon. I cannot restore your magick, not right now. But I will cure you of your ailments and restore your bodies to a shadow of their former glories. That is the best I can do, for those of you who accept." She finished softly, her voice portraying the warmth she felt and the desire she had to help.

Some burst into tears, while others approached her with their sick children in their arms. Many spoke different languages, but the common tongue was the most reliable in situations such as these. After living for so long, Dhalia learnt a thing or two about survival and caring for the sick and needy. She helped them set up their temporary homes on the outskirts of the forest, keeping them within the edge of the trees for protection but near enough to the edge of the forest so that they would hopefully be in no more danger at the time. She taught them how to survive without their magick, showing them how to find resources and use the nearest amenities to their advantage. A stream was not far and could be used for freshwater; another forest was only a few miles south, and many already knew how to fight, so once she treated their wounds and sicknesses, the hunters went to bring food back to the rest of the survivors. Whilst assisting those who were most affected first, she asked questions, hoping to find any answers that could help her discern what truly happened in the forest.

After healing 30 people of their minor sicknesses and injuries, she was rather exhausted and hadn't gotten the responses she'd been looking for. Some said they couldn't remember what happened, others quivered in fear and a few even soiled themselves before shaking their heads almost violently and bursting into more tears. She consoled them as best she could, but victims were always difficult to deal with and gain information from as the shock, developing traumatic disorders, and losses they experienced had sunken in before she'd arrived. There was nothing she could do but help them recover over time, as she had to help heal others as she recovered her energy and ether. She stayed with them for hours, helping and teaching as best she could, coaxing any information she could get out of those who may have seen anything.

As time passed, the female had cared for each of the survivors in the vicinity, her last patient of sorts being a child. He sobbed as she held him close, mucus draining from his nose and tears spilling down his cheeks as he hugged her tightly, despite having no idea who she was several hours ago. "P-Please...I want my Atara*.." The small elf child cried out, hugging her tightly as though that would bring his mother back to him. "Amin hin, lle atara naa yassen i' Seldarine. Manka re naa il, amin will utua he`.**" She murmured softly, making him cry harder. She comforted the child as best she could until a couple of other elves that knew him came to claim him and ensure his safety. The priestess hated how the perception of death was so negative, but with those who are young, it is unavoidable, no matter how much life and death rely on each other.


Addressed: N/A | Mentioned: N/A | Status: Assisting the Victims | Mood: Concerned/Worried | Location: Ashkii Forest Outskirts | Inventory:


Notes:
* "Atara" translates to "Mother"
** "Amin hin, lle atara naa yassen i' Seldarine. Manka re naa il, amin will utua he`" translates to "My child, your mother is with the gods. If she is not, I will find her."​




 
To say that Morgrim was feeling a whole mix of emotions when he 'woke up' would be a large understatement. First there was what he saw, the afterlife, or one of them, and his newfound purpose to go back to Eldergloom. He could not abandon his mission though, first he would have to go to the Ashkii forest, then to Eldergloom. Secondly he had to deal with the mixed reactions of the now three people before him. First was Guinevere, her reaction was not untypical. She raised a sword against him and called him a foul undead, well the joke was on her as Morgrim was always an undead, at least somewhat. He raised up both of his hands defensively to show he meant no harm to her.



“Relax, it's me. Put down the sword, I'm not going to attack you.” Morgrim said his voice clear, with no sense of malice behind his words. He meant it, this really wasn't any sort of trick. Next was the Lytharii's reaction, and hers was a bit less typical. She stood up right before him, small in stature, but threatening all the same, and she landed a punch right across his jaw, laced in shadow. Thankfully the initial shock of everything made it so it barely even registered in his head. He barely felt the blow, but it did draw a small amount of blood. The confusion was plastered on his face as he couldn't figure out why exactly she would be so pissed off at him that it warranted an uppercut.



Lastly was the new person, Morgrim could take a single look at him and realize it; he's an idiot. Morgrim looked down at his arm as he registered the idiot's words, and saw that it was not part of his dream that he couldn't feel his arm, it really was gone. With nothing left of the limb he knew it would be an unfortunate process to get another one. First he would have to get an arm, and then find a flesh weaver to attach it. He let out a groan of misery that could be heard throughout the entire ship. “Just my fucking luck.” He yelled to himself. “Look we still have a job to do though, and this isn't going to stop that.” Morgrim thought for a moment, and he knew he would have to address whatever the issue was with the wolf elf, knowing that the other two would be fine he gave them a curt nod, and headed above deck to where the wolf elf was. He took a spot beside her, and let it settle that he was there, not trying to force the conversation just yet.



Even now the journey had continued, the ship still heading merrily on its way, it wouldn't be much longer before they reached their destination. “Do you want to explain what that was? I wouldn't care if you weren't happy to see me back, but you were pissed. What's keeping you around?” He said standing beside her, and looking for any sign of an answer. He wanted the truth, and he wanted it now. He knew there was something up with her, she may be a great assassin, but she is a terrible actor. Morgrim could feel it as time pressed on, she did not want to be here, but nothing he did was forcing her to stay.
 

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Health: 46%

  • Tags: Morg Morg | Federoff Federoff | AnimusLight AnimusLight [Just taggin' b/c y'all are nearby]

    Addressed: Morgrim Hemwick

    Mentioned: Falaern Damaer
The cool sea breeze wrapped delicately around the Lythari's skin. A light mist washed over her as the waves lapped and broke against the hull of the ship. It was a stark contrast to the heated fury that was radiating off of her, and, despite the blistering sunlight boring down upon her, it was a welcome relief.

But it didn't mask the fact that her body ached. Each breath made her lungs burn, and she was sure there was a broken rib or two. Unfortunately, she was still too drained from her recent healing to turn the magic upon her own wounds without doing more harm than good. For now, she'd have to deal with the pain—the bruises, the lacerations, the broken bones—until she could replenish her energy enough to tend to herself. It would only be a few hours. Perhaps when they arrived at their next destination, she could break away from the group and tend to the injuries in solitude; she couldn't allow her companions to see her in such a pitiful state. Not to mention that there were no viable reasons for her to be injured without betraying her questionable loyalties.

The wolf-elf allowed her mind to wander. It settled upon her reaction to the Guide's revival. It wasn't one of her most proud moments. She'd lost her temper, and it was sufficient to say that she shouldn't have reacted the way she did. But the anger that consumed her... That sort of fury hadn't enveloped her in such a way in a very long time. But losing her temper, releasing the grasp upon her emotions was unacceptable. It completely went against her code. Emotions were never to dictate her decisions and actions. And here, she'd just allowed herself to physically assault the man who'd hired her—albeit a job she couldn't refuse—just because she hated the circumstances she'd been forced into.

The corners of Roxii's mouth tugged downward into a disappointed frown. She was losing control of herself, which in and of itself was inadmissible. The stress of her old master forcing his way back into her life was enough by itself. But the collar secured around her neck, containing deadly amounts of electricity and controlled through a technology she didn't understand, made her feel trapped and helpless. It was a terrifying feeling, one that she had hoped to never experience again.

Yet here she was.

Her thoughts halted as footsteps approached. Morgrim's steps were slow and gentle, loud enough to let her know he was there. There was not a hint of aggression in his step, and she wondered if it was because the man was just confused and still recovering from his sudden journey into the Beyond, or if it was just that he was a forgiving individual. Perhaps it was a mixture of both.

They stood there in silence for some time. She expected the man to ask her something, and the way he seemed to fidget and contemplate his words confirmed her suspicions. There was a moment of hesitation, as if he was allowing her to grow accustomed to his presence before pressing the matter. Perhaps he just wanted to enjoy the sunlight and the sea breeze, especially since he'd just crossed realms with no intention of coming back.

And finally, the Guide spoke. He asked her the question she expected: why did she punch him so ruthlessly for seemingly no reason? What she didn't expect was his last question: "What's keeping you around?" The hybrid allowed a silence to fall between them. She couldn't tell the man why she continued to accompany him on his journey. She couldn't tell him the truth. Master Damaer would kill her for her disobedience.

But would that really be a bad thing? The assassin wasn't afraid of death; she'd already come to terms with the possibility long ago. There was no one left here for her. Her family was either dead or had estranged her, and she had no true friends. She'd left them behind long ago; now there were only partners, acquaintances, liabilities—expendable people. All she harbored here was material wealth, and though it would be anticlimactic to have spent so many years amassing such wealth only to throw it all away, the fact that death seemed more appealing than living was a truth she'd ignored for far too long.

But she had more to lose than just her life if she told the truth. Her pride, her reputation, her influence... How would the Guide beside her view her if she told him that there was a shadowed man behind her actions, one who had bested and now pulled the strings and held all the cards? She'd be a joke, and all of that notoriety she'd built up for herself, the very same prestige that had gathered Morgrim's attention, would be thrown out the window in a matter of seconds. She'd be a worthless fool, and that would be her legacy after Falaern killed her.

The shadowy rogue sighed deeply, wincing at the sharp pains erupting in her chest. Master Damaer gave her a second chance. Despite the circumstances, one that she had not had the liberty of choosing, it was a mission all the same, one that she got paid for all the same. And thus, she would see to complete the mission, one way or another. She was the infamous Shadow. She bested her partners in the Crimson Shadow, she survived Sanguine Isle, she survived the Pits, she survived dangerous assassination missions, and she would survive this. She was Roxii Sicarius, and she would not give up.

Roxii furrowed her brow thoughtfully and answered bluntly, "I do not like you, but there is more to this for me than just the journey." The familiar edge still laced her tone, but it was not as harsh or cold as before. "I have my own reasons for continuing to accompany you on this mission, ones that will benefit me." It wasn't a complete lie, but hopefully it would be enough for him to not pursue the topic further.

 
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The Dragon



  • Guinevere IX





    A whirlwind. Yes. That was the best way to describe what had just transpired. One minute the group of three were peacefully traveling by boat, and the next minute the life of the man she had been hired by was taken by a large eruption of flame, only for him to return in a ghastly fashion just hours later. Guinevere locked eyes with Morgrim as he plead his case, watching carefully for his eyes to betray him. But they did not. She slowly lowered her blade before sheathing it as Roxii appeared and uppercut the man, silencing the blabbering that the gladiator was ignoring up to this point. She watched as Roxii stormed out of the room, her sharp eyes picking up on signs of a scuffle. After Roxii left Guinevere turned back to her employer. By the look of confusion on his face, he didn't look like the blow affected him too much. "Sorry boss" Despite her blunt way of speaking she was sincere with her words, something she preferred to the fancy words that the rest of the world used.

    After apologizing to Morgrim the gladiator exited the cabin. Wanting to get away from the drunk that was following them, she instead chose to silently trail Roxii through the boat and topside, keeping a respectable distance. Even from afar Guinevere could feel the hatred flowing from the assassin. Better to let her have space

    Ultimately Guinevere chose to instead keep watch from a few feet away. Close enough to react if anything else went awry, but far enough to give the smaller woman some room to breathe. Although she did not show it, Guinevere could sense that something was off about Roxii. She had never known her to be angry like she was now. The fact that she looked roughed up from a fight did not help either. Perhaps later she would confront her. But, for now, she bore a face of indifference.

    Some time passed before Morgrim joined the two women. Leaning her weight to one side, she kept a watchful eye on the two of them. Morgrim approached Roxii and asked of her intentions and reasonings for being with the group. Truth be told, Guinevere had wondered why Roxii was with this man, to begin with. But she knew not to question Roxii. And, besides that, the gladiator ultimately didn't need to know. They were here and that's all she needed to be satisfied.

    To Guinevere's surprise, Roxii did answer...vaguely. It was no more an answer then she would expect from the assassin. She was never the type to reveal information about herself liberally. "I can vouch for her boss" Casually she asserted her voice just loud enough to be heard by her companions. "She won't steer you wrong"








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"They're a friendly bunch. Aren't they," grumbles Jass. It's not like he hasn't ran into angry women before- if you could call them women. Jass looks up to the wooden ceiling before mumbling more to himself, "Thanks, drink god. I got myself some rough company. I hope you're happy." Maybe the visions aren't always good? Jass taps his foot in thought, while his eyes trail after the other two leaving without a word to him. He brings his hands up in the air, "What- 'I am supposed to meet you guys'- did you all not hear." With a sigh, Jass follows after them like gum stuck to someone's shoe. "You knoooww- teamwork works well through communication," hums Jass. He frowns when no one amuses him with a response.

Above deck, the sea breeze is a pleasant contrast to the stuffiness below. Jass squints, spotting the lone assassin and can understand where the undead was heading towards. Having caused a scene just moments ago, of course the group caught other passengers' attention. Some who didn't witness the "rise and shine of the undead" are puzzled to see the one armed guy up and moving. Jass loiters nearby as he half pays attention to the group's conversation while locking eyes with curious onlookers. The bystanders would nervously look away the longer he stared.

When he hears the gladiator chime in, Jass thought- maybe he should speak up, "I know you three will stick together somehow. I've seen it so I can vouch!" He flashes an okay sign at the three. He's half sure about what he said; he would have to take another swing of hard liquor to piece anything more. Would he be sticking with them too? Only the drink would tell.
 
The ship continued to lap across the waves as they made their way to the nearest city by Ashkii, which is Kingsguard. As they ship continued on, Morgrim listened intently as Roxii finally gave her answer, and he wasn't surprised at all when it was as cryptic as ever. He felt a bit annoyed with her answer, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it. There was not much use trying to extract information out of someone who was forged by pain and imprisonment. He let out a small sigh, and took a step away.



“Very well.” Was all he replied with. It was then that first Guin responded, and vouched for her, and then the drunk followed up as well. Morgrim was outnumbered three to one, and so he surrendered to the fate of his companions, speaking of which.



“I am not familiar with you, what makes you think we have to travel together?” Morgrim asked Jass. He knew enough to say that Jass tried his best to help, but he could not pin this person as being the most capable sort, and he would rather not have dead weight pulling him down on the mission that he was on.


By the time he got an answer he saw that they had made it to port, and that the first real step of their journey was ahead of them. “Very well you can come with us for now.” He told the elf as he stepped off the boat, and onto solid land. The city itself was much smaller than Oweumont, and doing far less better. Morgrim could see it just by looking many of the buildings had been abandoned, and looked to be boarded up. The market was small and humble to say the least, but had very few people shopping it. There were no grand or glorious homes or landmarks, it seemed everybody was living in shabby dwellings just trying to get by. As for people many of the were dressed in raggedy clothing, and there were children running around in small groups. Their dirt stained clothes, and thin frames suggested they were homeless.


At the outskirt of the city there were a few lumber mills that had been shut down, and a hunting guild hall boarded up as well. Morgrim remembered this town relied on the Ashkii forest to bring in lumber which carpenters would use for making homes, boats, and even some siege weapons for the army to use. The guild was a popular place where would be hunters would bring in monsters for skinning to make all sorts of clothing and armor, and even use the bones or or other materials to make weapons and trinkets that bestowed luck. With most of the town missing or dead, and the forest being too dangerous to go into the town had been hit pretty hard in the last few years.


“Last time I was here this place was rather nice, now it looks like a hell hole. I doubt we will be able to fix this town, but if we find out what is going on in the forest maybe we can give them a fighting chance.” Morgrim stated aloud. He looked out past the outskirts, and saw a relief camp of sorts. There were people being treated by mages, though he spied something unusual, a Drow. Morgrim remembered them being a reclusive sorts, and many of them have been less then kind or favorable to others. This one seemed different, and maybe this one knew something about what was going on.


Morgrim approached the woman, and greeted her in kind. “Hello there, I'm a guide sent by the guild to look into the situation in the forest. I see your helping these people, can you tell me what you know about the situation, and the forest itself?” Morgrim asked her hoping to get some insight so they would not be blinding walking into occult territory.
 

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Health: 45%

  • Tags: Federoff Federoff | AnimusLight AnimusLight | Morg Morg | Anaxileah Anaxileah

    Addressed: N/A

    Mentioned: Guinevere "The Dragon" | Jass | Morgrim Hemwick | Mydhalia Silvestra
"She won't steer you wrong." The Dragon's assurance made an odd feeling twist her chest. Despite their past, Guinevere considered the small rogue to be one person she didn't want to kill. Would that make her an acquaintance or something more? It was a foolish decision on the warrior's part, trusting a shadow-borne killer-for-hire, but the way the woman unquestionably convinced the Mirigg that she would not betray him... The odd feeling, she realized, was guilt.

But it wasn't her fault she was dragged into this mess, much less that her recently acquired companions chose to trust her with their lives. This was all Master Damaer's doing, controlling the situation with phantom hands. It was convenient that the Guide sought her out and trusted her so easily, but when she finally goes behind his back, when she finally betrays him, she would not hesitate nor feel guilt. Her loyalties to the undead man were fake, but her loyalties to the Crimson Shadow were not. Master Damaer may have gotten her arrested and captured—possibly, though she hasn't been able to prove it—, and she may have chosen to not seek out the guild after her escape, but she never removed the mark of the Crimson Shadow from her person. She was technically still a part of the guild, and the guild was where her loyalties lay. Once a Crimson, always a Crimson.

An ear twitched towards the Rum Man as he spoke. Where did he even come from? And what did he mean he's "seen it"? Was he some sort of drunken seer, or was he just insane? It was difficult to tell, given the drunken state he always seemed to be in. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

The Guide yielded and accepted the assassin's response. It was obvious that he was not satisfied with her answer, but what did he expect? She was an assassin, one that held secrets beyond his comprehension. Those secrets, that solitude is what made her such a formidable and successful killer. She had just met the man, and even if she didn't have her current mission, she still wouldn't have trusted such confidential information with Morgrim. He was foolish if he thought he was going to get a heartfelt answer from the Lythari.

Morgrim averted his attention to the strange man instead, opting to learn more about the drunkard who seemed convinced that he knew what was going on. Meanwhile, Roxii continued to lean against the railing of the ship, mulling over her current situation and what she would do. She didn't even fully understand what was going on in the Ashkii Forest. How was she to suppress information without insight into the problem? She supposed she wouldn't know until they arrived.

When they landed in Kingsguard, the blind archer knew immediately that something was wrong. She'd traveled to Kingsguard several times in the past. Udun, she had stopped here to rest just last month whilst out on a request, and it was not this depressing then. She remembered people milling about their usual business, the homes and shops were standing strong and bright with sconces and candlelight, and it felt alive. Now... Now it felt dead, and not just in the fact that Kingsguard's population had been decreased considerably. No, the very land felt dead, and the wolf-elf realized that the Guide's words were true: magic was gone.

The rogue blindly (lol) followed Morgrim and the others as her shadows crept along. She searched for the smallest fraction of ether in the land or in the homes of the Kingsguard people, but it was barren. Even as they grew closer to the forest, there was no change. Her brow knitted and she removed her gloves from her hands, stopping to kneel and put her bare skin against the ground. She focused on searching for the smallest vibration of magic, but again there was nothing. None of the raw energy responded to her magic, and it made her feel uneasy. It was unnatural for the land to not harbor at least some bit of ether, especially the magic-borne forest, so now that she was searching a barren landscape with no reaction... Whatever was occurring here was not the doing of some newfound vaern. This was the doing of something bigger, greater, and more dangerous than them. This was a suicide mission.

But her job was not to figure out what was occurring here. No; her job was to keep Morgrim and the others from learning more, from confronting the source of the problem. Perhaps she would keep them all from dying a ruthless, painful death. It sounded like a good trade-off to her: keep them all from being killed by meddling in the Guide's efforts.

Roxii breathed deeply and coughed. She felt the familiar warmth of blood coat her hand and subtly hid the evidence of an injury. She needed to tend to her wounds soon, but it would be a bit longer before she could. She could still feel the effects of trying to heal the Guide during his fiasco. If she was to heal her wounds, especially the internal bleeding, she would need as much energy as she could possibly muster. The assassin wasn't quite sure what she would do about the obviously broken bones—perhaps she would just let them heal on their own like she'd always done before. Her healing magic was not strong enough to tend to such serious injuries. She just needed to wait a bit longer. Until then, she would just need to ignore the burning in her chest and the ache that racked her body.

The blind rogue returned to her accomplices, the Guide now speaking to a Drow healer—a combination of terms that didn't seem to make much sense. Drows were not recognized as the generous sort, so seeing one so far from home and aiding the sick and injured was surely quite the sight. The wolf-elf was curious to know more about what was occurring here, and it was obvious she was not the only one. However, her intentions were not to aid the ones affected. She was here to complete her mission, and that was to learn everything she could to figure out how to successfully interfere.

 
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The Dragon



  • Guinevere X





    Death. A smell she was all too familiar with. Even with the salt from the sea dominating the air, she could smell it from the boat. Kingsguard. She remembered passing through the town but a few months ago. Desolate was the best word to describe this place. Once what was a simple trading town was now a forgotten village. Her watchful eyes gazed out onto the land as the boat entered the docks. She saw few people working the docks and even fewer within the town itself.

    Abandoned houses and buildings outnumbered the inhabited ones, entire businesses were simply gone, and an air of gloom persisted where ever they went. The people living here were reclusive, kept to themselves, and overall avoided their group. Whatever happened here left them traumatized. Her gaze analyzing everyone that crossed paths with them. Ever since they set foot off the book she felt a knot in her throat. She was no mage but even she could feel something off. Whatever was affecting this forest was clearly affecting the town as well. Hopefully, they would be able to bring back some sense of peace to these people.

    Eventually, the group made their way through the marketplace and into the outskirts of the town and towards small camps that were set up. The hastily made tents reminded her of her own from back during the war. And as they approached she could see that the conditions here were no better either. The clothing on the survivors stunk of body fluids and was caked with all manner of grime and muck. It was truly like a war zone.

    As the group made its way into the camps, they would end up meeting with a particular stranger. One marked with several silver tattoos, piercing, and adorn with rather peculiar white robes. Although she had never met one of her kind before, she had heard of these dark-skinned elves. Drow, as they were called. From the stories, she was told they were not to be trusted with anything. That was the same for the world though.

    Morgrim was the first to speak, offering a friendly greeting to the woman before inquiring about their business. Guinevere chose to stand to the side and keep a lookout for anything that might cause trouble. While her posture never slouched she did portray a lax appearance. A single hand rested atop the hilt of her blade, like a mercenary or soldier guarding a city. Even though her eyes did not rest for long, she would seem like someone who was just taking in their surroundings, nothing more.

    Behind this facade, however, the mind of a skilled killed was in play. She took notes on every single person she saw and every single object in her surroundings. Every limp, every manner of speech. Each table and what each person carried. Although it was unlikely she needed any of this information, she would rather want to know the most effective way to kill anyone who threatened them. She had noted that several small scars present on the drow. By how she walked and stood the gladiator could tell that this priest was no stranger to fighting. The arm without the staff in it would be her most vulnerable.

    During this time Roxii slipped back into the group. Although she wasn't following her, the dragon had been keeping a watchful eye on her. She looked bruised and had smelt of blood for some time now. It was obvious she needed to rest. And while she did not want to say anything, she was still worried nonetheless.

    While the others talked with the drow, Guinevere took small steps and placed herself near the smaller woman. "You okay?" She spoke softly, avoiding the attention of the others. "You've smelled like blood for a while now"









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Health: 44%

  • Tags: Morg Morg | Anaxileah Anaxileah | Federoff Federoff | AnimusLight AnimusLight

    Addressed: Guinevere "The Dragon"

    Mentioned: Morgrim Hemwick [Vaguely] | Mydhalia Sylvestra [Vaguely]
The wolf-elf continued to monitor their surroundings as the healer answered the Mirigg's inquiry. She forced her magic out in waves as she searched for the smallest inkling of ether, but, like before, her efforts proved to be fruitless. Nothing responded, not even the dirt beneath her feet nor the rocks buried beneath that. The trees around them groaned, and it wasn't because of the wind. In fact, there wasn't even a breeze blowing through the Ashkii Forest; the air was stagnant, heavy. The trees groaned not because of the wind or lack thereof, but because of the lack of magic in the soil, in the air, their roots and leaves unable to bring in the precious energy that sustained them. The same energy that seemed to no longer exist here.

Even her own magic seemed to recoil from the land. The assassin continued to push her shadows away from her, searching, but they were eager to return back to her, to no longer touch the barren landscape. It was as if it was afraid, and she wondered if her magic felt something that she wasn't feeling. Was it an omen, a sign that something was coming? Was this the work of another, more powerful magic? Was it natural, a way for Landfall to purge itself of the greedy and destructive? She couldn't tell because she couldn't see past the absolute emptiness. But her magic could sense it, could feel that there was something wrong; she just wished she could decipher it. It was an odd feeling, for her magic to react with a mind of its own. Was it a subconscious act of her own without her realizing it? Even so, this was an entirely different scenario that she'd never learned to deal with before. It felt nistai, both the forest and her magic.

An ear swiveled towards Guinevere as she approached her. Roxii noted the telltale signs of a soldier on guard. Though she feigned a lax composure, the Dragon's muscles were tensed, poised and ready to spring into action at the sign of danger. Her eyes flit about, examining their surroundings for threats, and her jaw was set and tensed. She reminded the blind rogue of a guard standing at the gates of a relatively safe city. The way she seemed careless about their surroundings, feigning the innocence of a soldier who didn't quite know what lurked around them whilst harboring the information to quickly take down any sudden opponents and the ability to protect those they were sworn to protect. It was interesting; more oft than not, the Lythari was studying these men at the gates, deciding if it were worth it to take them out or to skirt around them silently. Now, she was working alongside one of these skilled women, albeit one who was not a target nor an obstacle, but someone who was a bit more than a stranger, and perhaps more than an acquaintance, much to her displeasure.

Guinevere stationed herself next to the assassin, maintaining her careless posture. While the others talked, she questioned the hybrid's physical status. "You've smelled like blood for a while now." Roxii's brow furrowed slightly, but she maintained her uninterested expression. Curse the Draedan's attention to detail.

The assassin scoffed quietly, matching the gladiator's soft tone whilst ignoring the burning ache in her chest. "I always smell of blood," she answered matter-of-factly. "I am a killer-for-hire." Though the response skirted the actual reason for her scent, it wasn't a complete lie. She supposed she would be doing a lot of those from now on.

 
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After an hour or so of rest, Dhalia was startled awake by shrill screaming on the other side of their makeshift camp. She rose to a crouch, rolling out of her lax position into one prepared for danger or combat. Her pale eyes glanced around the camp, her silver-streaked, dark blue hair draping over her shoulder as she remained tensed up, her staff in one hand and the other outstretched in front of her. The few villagers who were near her were also surprised by the scream, as well as Dhalia's sudden rise, backing away to give her space. Once she fully assessed the situation, the female drow made her way to one of the more injured victims who had just woken since the epidemic. His shrieks were unintelligible, accompanied by panicked cries and sobs that shook his entire sickly frame.

Moving quickly, she placed herself beside him, kneeling on the ground and placing a hand on the small of his back as he curled over on his side, wounds covering almost his entire body. Most had been wrapped in bandages, while the worst of the wounds had been healed by Dhalia. He was her latest patient before she took a break to rest, and it was good to see him awake, though she had hoped the circumstances could be different. "Breathe, young male. You are safe among your people and no longer in danger," She murmured softly, her ether spreading from her palms into the terrified man, soothing him and allowing his airways to reopen after his panic attack. He was a dark-skinned half-elf it seemed, with cropped hair, dark eyes, slightly pointed ears, and tribal markings on his face. After calming down, he looked at her with fright, opening his mouth to speak though no sound came out. "Worry about breathing first, then talk when you are able." She spoke gently, patting his arm before turning to treat another since the situation was resolved.

Before she could go he grasped her arm, squeezing so tightly he was starting to cut off blood circulation and hurt her, but before she could say anything he spoke in fearful bouts of whispers, his words almost impossible to make out: "C-cold. It was so cold. Wet earth, couldn't see. Nothing. No magic, no power. Everything hurt. So weak. Words, words we didn't know, dark, evil, dangerous words. Couldn't understand, don't understand..." The man's mumbles became too quiet to hear clearly after that, at which point Dhalia laid him back down and he promptly fell into a restless slumber.

Before the female had time to respond, a group of newcomers approached, and at first glance, they appeared to have the same motive as her for traveling to the Ashkii Forest. A man who smelled as though he should be dead and looked as though his flesh would fall off at any moment approached her first, making it apparent that he was the leader of the small band of people. "Hello there, I'm a guide sent by the guild to look into the situation in the forest. I see you're* helping these people, can you tell me what you know about the situation, and the forest itself?" His inquiry was straightforward, and his words rang with truth, though she had to be sure. She stood up straight, not bothering to change her appearance or wipe away the blood on her hands. The drow approached the half-dead male, her eyes scanning the others in the party as well.

A small rogue coughed as the rotten man spoke with Dhalia, piquing her interest for a moment. She smelled blood, and it wasn't that on her hands, nor did it have anything to do with the practical zombie in front of her. It smelled elven and...something else. Interesting. Her eyes then darted toward a knight, it seemed, who was surveying the area. No doubt watching for danger, as I have. Dhalia continued to muse to herself, taking in the intriguing set of characters before her. The other was a drunk, that much she could surmise - the smell of alcohol and the bottle in his hand were only two small hints to his state of being. Finally, she looked back at the rotting corpse in front of her, reaching forward and grasping his hand in a flash of movement, checking his palm. It indeed had the mark of a Guide, confirming his brief introduction. In the time that she held his hand, she transferred some of her ether and repaired some of the wounds inflicted upon him, including those internal.

"I am here for the same reasons as you and know very little. The forest and its people have been drained of ether, and very few recollect details of what occurred. I can tell you more, but I should tend to the wounds of your party. For yourself and the elven rogue." Her pale, white-ringed eyes flicked to the Lythari, serenity ever-present in her gaze. "I understand that you prefer your privacy, and wish to hide your wounds, yet you appear to be bleeding internally. Should that go untreated, you will die a slow and agonizing death. Please allow me to help, and if you'd rather no physical contact, I can utilize my staff." She spoke softly, noting the ears atop her head and tilting her head to the side in silent curiosity. She continued to assess the party, but the Lythari piqued her intrigue.


Addressed: Morgrim Morgrim Javax Javax | Mentioned: AnimusLight AnimusLight Federoff Federoff | Status: Sleeping -> Assisting the Victims -> Addressing the Group | Mood: Concerned/Worried -> Cordial/Friendly | Location: Ashkii Forest Outskirts | Inventory: A satchel containing her armor, a small bubble where her sprite familiar sleeps, and her staff, attached to her backside.


Notes: N/A​




 
“I am not familiar with you, what makes you think we have to travel together?” Morgrim asked.

Jass ponders the question; he couldn't exactly explain the full truth without looking like a complete idiot. If he were to mention he had visions of- the future? He's half sure it is the future.- no one would fully believe him. Jass doesn't look like the "seer type." To be honest, if he was told that a drunk like himself could see the future, he would be a skeptic. This random ability of his.... he still doesn't know why he has it. All he knows is that the drunk visions are never wrong. So, Jass has to think of a valid response without having to explain his full ability.... maybe leave out the "having to get drunk to get visions" part.

"I have a bit- just a tiny bit- of foresight," explains Jass. "My gut feeling said to travel with you guys. Usually it's not wrong." Gut feeling? Jass feels the urge to drink after spitting that bullshit out. The ship has reached their destination and Jass thanks whatever god is watching for having mercy on him. The last time he told former traveling partners that he needed to get drunk to use this foresight ability, they ditched him in a city. It wasn't the worst situation he's been in since he gained a crap load of gifts from playing his flute on the streets (just means he doesn't have to share the gifts he receives).

“Very well you can come with us for now.”

Relief. The odd undead guy took his half truth, whether it be from him looking like a lost cause or that they were in a hurry to go to their next destination. Jass follows the group off the ship and onto land. The state of the town doesn't faze Jass, as he's seen similar towns. Usually he doesn't stay long since there isn't anything interesting to do or see but now he has a party to follow. Despite these violent and weird people, I do like traveling with others, thought Jass. It just means he's less likely to die if anything life-threatening happens.

Morgrim says aloud that this town wasn't a hell hole before, which Jass finds it hard to believe. The group approaches a camp where people are being treated by mages. Jass takes interest in the mages before noticing who Morgrim's talking to. He's never met a drow before, but he's heard of them from those full-blooded elves in the slums he used to live in. He feels her eyes look at him for only a second. He wonders if its being an obvious drunk or being a half elf half human is disgusting for her since the full-blooded elders in the slums used to treat him like that. But since the drow did tend to that half elf a moment ago, maybe she isn't like those elders.

Jass side glances Roxii since he knows she's a more peculiar elvish mix. The drow responds to our undead party lead, showing interest in Roxii. Fortunately the antics on the ship didn't affect him but the urge to drink, after all of that, is rising. He dejectedly pats the empty bottle of liquor, wishing it was an endless supply of his favorite ale.
 
Morgrim is pleased to see that the Drow is cordial and polite. Rumours had it that the dark elves were all occult and evil, not to be trusted, but he knew well enough to not listen to superstition. There have been many that Morgrim met that saw him as a monster, raised pitchforks and torches and all that. Despite it all Morgrim understands that the world will be what he makes it. If the ignorance of the peasants and cries of the sheltered dominate the world, then he will find its root and cut it out. He will bring the world into the light, even if it means extinguishing everything that rots its core. As he stands here now though he can see the evil has stripped this place bare. What was once a hospitable town, known for free trade, a lush and vibrant forest teeming with life both floral and fauna, and good honest people, has now become a festering den of inequity. In it all he can only see one light, one thing fighting this sickness, and it was a drow of all things, it almost made him laugh, if it weren't all so sad.

It was then the Drow went out and grabbed his hand, transferring some of her magic, some of her ether into him, and healing his wounds, but not to the extent she would have wished. Morgrim visited the realm of the dead, and brought some of it back with him, his body suffering a permanent scar of the soul. He wouldn't be able to heal the same, and while the aid of the Lytharii, and the Drow may stabilize what damage was done to him some of the wounds persist. All the same he thanked her, at the very least for what should could do.

"Thank you, I appreciate it, for what you've done for me, and these people, but sooner we will have to face the truth. Whatever did this is still out there, and the body count will continue to rise until we cure this place, as oppose to tending to the symptoms." He said looking all around him. Symptoms maybe have been a cold term to describe the lose of life, limb, and magic of all these people. However it would continue to happen until they find the root cause of it all. Morgrim would appreciate having the company of the Drow with him in the incursion of the forest. "I think it'd be best for everyone if you come with me, and help me find out what exactly is going on here, and helping me fix it. Having another person adept with magic would be a huge boon."

Morgrim already had to guess what could be causing this, but until he could see it he would never be certain. He just hoped it wasn't them. "I think we all best be going now." Morgrim said loud enough for them all to hear, using his staff as a walking stick as he left the cropping of tents. He took one last look over this place, the gnarled black trees, the wilted grass and leaves, and the stale air blotted with grey skies. No sunlight peered through, and the groans of pain, and distant sounds of weeping only enhanced the doom and gloom of this place. Morgrim promised himself he would fix this somehow. The first step was in the forest, and so that is where he will head.

The forest in question was a short trip about thirty minutes out from town. As the group traveled closer the gradient of decay became ever more apparent, soon there wasn't even the faintest hint of a breeze, and the sound was completely drowned out by silence. The only thing in the once vibrant forest was trees that all looked as if they had been struck by lightning, jagged and grey, bearing no fruit. The only vegetation seemed to be mushrooms that looked as if they were swollen and bloated with too much blood. Dark black and red with diseased looking veins. The grass had all withered away, and the ground was just a large blanketed patch of grey and brown. The air quickly became cold, and a wave of drowsiness and fatigue would wash over the party. Each blink of their eyelids becoming heavier and heavier until one last time they would all close. Each person would dream more vividly than ever before.

Roxii would find herself back at the guild training area, though she would have no sense of space or time, and the darkness that she normally embraced was more oppressive then ever before. Her dark tendrils reaching out, but finding nothing, eluding to nothing as if they had been choked out by a greater power. Her master was standing there before her, with a metal rod in hand. He looked down at the sad sight of Roxii, a blind girl riddled in filth, and shambling around in the dark. Her master stood behind her, and lashed out with the metal rod against the back of her leg.

"This is no place for weakness." He shouted at her, eyes flaring in anger. "You are not some wolf, you are a worm, scrounging around in the mud. If you can't survive this night, then the world will crush you." He said, bringing the rod down once more until the bones in her leg threaten to break, forcing her to her knees. Roxii could feel everything a hundred times over, but she couldn't see a thing, her mater was taking away her only way to see. "If you want to live, then fight back, prove you are worth something, or die alone and cold like all the others." The sound of his voice coming from all around her. He was being especially cruel this time, not once relenting. His plan was really to kill her this time if she couldn't stop him. No one was going to help her here, even as the blood filled her mouth.

Guin would find herself back at Oweumont , the sound of canon fire, and screams echoing and ringing in her ears. Though this did not feel like a memory to her, it was all so real. The feeling of blisters and scraps along the palm of her hands from repeatedly hacking away with her sword. The wet and sticky feeling of blood over her skin, and the aching in her bones from all the hits she's suffered. There was an army swarming the streets, all bearing the colours of enemy flags and banners. Looking around she would see that few share hers. This was not a war, it was a slaughter, and she the lamb. Her gods have gave her more than enough second chances, saved her and her allies from so many killing blows, but now it would seem even the gods have lost their faith. The evidence enough as one of her allies had a sword shoved blade first into their mouth, and then taking off their head from the jaw up. Another one was taken apart limb from limb as they were beset by six men armed to the teeth. There was no one coming to save her, but running was not an option as her legs felt stuck in place, all Guin had was her sword and her wits. One against a thousand.

Dhalia was next in line as she would wake up to the sound of her master calling her for training. He had taught her almost everything she knew, took her in from a young age. He was a master when it came to healing and medicine, but today was not going to be a lesson in apothocary, she would have to learn to defend herself. After all if she could not save herself what hope would she have of saving others. Today was combat practice, and whether it was true to her character or not Dhalia would feel an odd sense of excitement. It was something new, something to help sharpen her sense and focus, the feeling and thoughts banging around in her head like an excitable child. So loud that she was only faintly paying attention to what her master had to say, but after he made a demonstration of using a magic attack on a dummy, he gestured for her to follow suit. She did, channeling moonlight through her fingertips and at the dummy. The feel of power coursed through her, and quickly became uncontrollable, the moonlight shooting from her hands turning to burning hot fire that she had no control over. It spread, engulfing the dummy, and everything around it. When her master tried to quell the power he was consumed in the flames. No matter how hard she would try to stop it she had no control, and soon the flames threatened to consume her as well as they spread up from her hands. No one could save her, she was alone.

Jass was next. Though he wouldn't see himself in anywhere that was familiar, the world he was in was a personified split of good and evil. On one side the world was pure, and white, and emanated a calm cool feeling the warmed every part of his body and made him feel safe. The other side, directly behind him the world looked like what the forest did, the forest he could barely remember. Everything looked dead, as if the soul of everything had been sucked out of if. Standing in either side was a celestial being, one the white and pure was an angel with six wings that spanned several meters each. She carried a gilded blade, and golden armor lined with embroidery. She looked immaculate and pristine, but her face expressed no emotion, especially as she stared over to the other side where the other figure stood.

On that side in the world of decay was a demon, but not some red skinned devil like villagers would portray them as. This creature resembled a number of the different sins. It's flesh was bloated red and black with diseased looking veins. Hands tipped with long claws that could cut through metal. On it's head there were four horns, two jutting upwards, and the other two curved forwards, black as ebony. It's expression reflected pure malice, and as Jass eyes settled on it, it stood up from it's throne of flesh and bone. It walked towards Jass, cloven hoofs stomping against the floor, and as he would look behind him for the goddess to protect him she turned her back and left. "Jass, I see it in you future, you are not pure, you will become just as putrid as that creature. No one can save you, get out of my sight." A feeling of loneliness would sweep over the alcoholic flute player, but looking back the demon was getting closer and closer, claws outstretched. Jass couldn't be sure if this thing was going to take him away, or take him out of the mortal plane, but neither was good. There was no where to run though.

Morgrim was last, and he found himself back at home, his real home. His skin was no longer rotten, his arm no longer missing, he was a kid again. He had one more task, one more duty to preform. If he wanted to become a mage, one that could be powerful enough to learn from the masters of Eldergloom, and leave his mark on the world he would have to survive. He was given a small rucksack with enough food to last a day, and a hunting knife. It felt light in his hands, and he looked at it with confusion.

"That is all you are afforded to go with, you'll have to survive the night in the forest, you'll have to rely on what you learned her if you hope to make it out. If you don't make it back her by daybreak then you will only have a grave in some monsters belly to look forward to." Said his master, and elderly looking man that was hunched over, and propped up on a walking stick. Morgrim nodded his understanding, and left the college, follow his master, and his master's servant who led him to the edge of town. The master gave a wave of his hand, and a small crack formed in the barrier around the village long enough for the young Morgrim to go through. As he stepped through it closed behind him, and he ventured forth. Then he felt something shake and stir around him, his vision seemed to rebounding like the ripples in a pond when a rock is tossed in.

"What the hell was that?" He asked himself, and a guttural chirping camp from behind him. "Oh how the mighty have fallen, you probably don't even know that you are dying do ya?" Came from the bird Familiar Luna. Morgrim turned around and saw him sitting there on a perch, and suddenly the things he was see were starky different to the way things felt. Morgrim could feel cold dark against his face and chest, but he was standing up and dry.

"Well master if you haven't clued in perhaps a hint. What magic can be broken by pain? Go on, you know this one don't you, oh master mage." The bird laughed at the hopelessness of Morgrim's situation.

"That's obvious you stupid chicken, it's pain..... Oh shit." Suddenly it all came crashing around him, and the last real memory flooding back, they were in the forest, the Kingsguard forest, not Eldergloom, and he was travelling with others. "Well that's real tough fucking luck since I can't break it myself." Morgrim said breathing out a heavy sigh and taking a seat on a nearby stump.

"Don't worry master, I'll do you a favour, consider it something I will enjoy immeasurably." The bird cackled as it disappeared from the dream, and stood over Morgrim's sleeping body. It hopped from his chest, down over to the stump where his arm use to be. The bird pulled away the bandages that were wrapping it closed, the flesh had healed a bit thanks to the magic from Dhalia and Roxii, but it still looked bad. It was about to look worse though as Luna shoved its bean right into a sensitive part of the flesh. While no real damage would occur since Luna was part of his consciousness, the feeling would be all to real as Morgrim shot upwards screaming as a phantom bird was lodged into his arm socket. He ripped the figment of his mind out of his wound, sweat from the pain beading on his forehead as he slapped the bird. His hand went through the bird, and it just laughed at him.

"That wasn't so bad was it master?" Said the cackling creature. Morgrim just shooting him a glare that looked like daggers. "You enjoyed that you little shit, didn't you?"

"Perhaps a little, but maybe you want to focus on your companions, they are having quite a bit less luck then you." The phantom bird chimed once more. "Might want to prevent the source of the thing that put you to sleep though."

Morgrim looked around, and reached out with a light pulse of ether. He couldn't detect any people or monsters nearby, in fact it was completely barren, but something struck him as off. The mushrooms, he knew a fair share of plants and fungal species. Those mushrooms, nothing had matched them though. He tried to feel them with his magic, and they each had small traces of a spell on them, once that would put creatures under and illusion spell, they were still just mushrooms though, and the transmission was likely spores. Morgrim pulled a similar trick as the one he did in the arena, and opened a wound on his arm, and pulled from some of his regenerative bone supply, and melded the bone into masks enchanted with magic to block out the spores. He put each of the masks around his companions mouths, and then for the fun part. He slapped Roxii, Guin, Jass and Dhalia hard enough across the face to break the illusion spell, and would explain the situation to them as they woke.
 
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The Dragon




Guinevere


"Your blood"

Her brief response was made briefer by the words spoken by the dark elf. The giant woman turned away from the group, suppressing a smirk as she did so, to find the guards she had spotted earlier. If the priest was keen enough to pick up on the smell of blood then Roxii would be alright for the moment, freeing up the gladiator to poke around a bit.

Without a word, she splintered from the group and headed in the direction of two guards stationed near one of the make-shift tents. Guard would prove to be a loose word, however. They were two scrawny boys in their teens with a mishmash of poorly, stitched together iron plate and leather armor. The weapons were dented and as poor quality as the armor, they wore. Even a fly could tell they hadn't even gone through so much as a lick of training. They fidgeted, never stood still, and were lethargic. Eyes were glossy and staring out into nowhere.

"You two"

If they hadn't seen her since entering the camp they sure did now. The two twigs barely came to her shoulders. One craned his head up to meet her gaze while the other continued to stare off. Her eyes drilled into the boy like an ax did a tree. It was a miracle the boy didn't turn and run the moment she stepped up to him. He looked like he was about to flinch and worse than the dirt that covered their boots.

"What do ya want?"

He sounded like a boy trying to impress a stranger. The deepness of his voice was hollow and filled with strain. The boy was like a child playing pretend or dress-up, and it amused Guinevere. Leave it to a boy to pretend to be manly. She flicked her chin over towards the dead trees that surrounded the camp.

"Any monsters here?"

At this point, the first boy nudged the second out of his stupor. A clear sign of what was to come next.

"Oy, who's askin'?"

He continued his pitiful attempt to sound tough, pulling his lips into that of a smirk. His ginger hair and snow-white skin told her everything she needed to know about him. He wore his inexperience like a medal of honor. Whether it was with pride or with stupidity, he couldn't tell.

Guinevere closed the small gap and towered right over them, scowling as she looked down upon the two boys. The smooth and powerful muscles swelled like balloons as she placed one hand on the blade hanging from her hip. Her gaze remained as silent as a wolf stalking its prey. Trails of water stayed behind the beads of sweat on the boy's square, featureless face. A full minute had passed before the titan spoke.

"Piss" Her nostrils flared to life. "Fresh"

The sound of iron clanking filled the woman's ear as she continued to stand menacingly. Before the ginger could respond, however, the blond's high pitch squeal broke the tension that was engulfing them like a dense fog.

"N-No, ma'am. N-Noone's seen anything since this all started. Animal nor monster"

"Get changed"

She grunted before turning back and wandered back towards the group, who had been receiving healing through the divine aid of their new priest. From what it sounded like, she would be accompanying the group for now on. Either way, it mattered little to the gladiator for she was just another face to defend. With any luck, she would be better than the last person to join them.

-----------------------------------------------------

Death?

Perhaps in the beginning...

But now?

No...

This was not death. It was nothing, absence itself. There was no breeze, no life. Save for the party of adventurers, there was no movement. No sound. The forest itself had withered away into oblivion. Guinevere had never seen anything like this. Who, or what could cause corrosion on this scale?

The walk was brief, less than an hour passed on their trek through the forest- if you could call it that. Her gaze was fixed to the horizon that encompassed them. She kept her fist tight around the hilt of her blade. As the muscle of the group, she found herself in the front lines of the group. Perfect. Since they were smaller than a company, she could still manage to react to any danger behind them while still providing the front line they, would, desperately need.

"Mushrooms and vines- rotted away."

She bent down next to the foliage and ran her hands across the vines.

No tension. she thought to herself. Odd.

She turned to examine the fungus. The mushrooms were stained dark with crimson. Her eyes caught splotches of dried blood around the base of the fungus.

She examined the rest of the ground. No trails to go off of. Whatever's blood was spilled here was riddled with whatever disease was plaguing this land. But whatever was spilled left no carcass behind to examine.

There was no sign of a body being dragged nor a body being eaten here. And for something to bleed this much without dying? It had to be something with a lot of blood.

As she began to stand up, she found herself washed with a wave of fatigue. Her eyes became harder to keep open. She felt her energy beginning to falter. She shifted to face the rest of the group, only to find them already beginning to collapse to the ground. Great. Whatever was affecting her was also affecting the group.

She drew her sword hanging from her side and tried to ready herself. She found herself dropping to one knee as the rest of her energy continued to be drained from herself. She frantically scanned around, desperately trying to pinpoint whatever was sapping her strength. The darkness on the borders of her vision continued its conquest on her mind. Before the void could take her, she saw the faintest shifting of something to her right.

Just before she collapsed a loud thud emanated from the tree to her right. She had no time to see what, if anything, she had impaled with her throw as she crumpled to the earth

-----------------------------------------------

Thunder came like the prelude to a great song, impetuous rumbling permeating the air every bit as much as the rain.

Guinevere blinked her eyes. She found herself back in the broken firmaments that laid, covered in brimstone and ash, just outside the city. The yelling of the cannons was cut short by the ringing in her ear. The earring DeRosso had supplied them buzzed with the enchantment.

"Platoon leaders"

The voice of Lord Ravenmere rung in her ear.

"Do not advance on the Wall. Fall back to the Solis Bay"

Guinevere freezes with a Devils's windpipe in her fist. She waits for DeRosso to justify the strategy.

"I repeat: All teams rally at the Solis Bay. Do NOT advance. The City is lost."

Guinevere drops the fiend, then plunges her sword into her chest. She and her team are running on fumes. The dead, Devil and Oweumont alike, litter the Gap.

"Guinevere! Do you copy?"

She risks a look over her shoulder at the place she called home. Not burning. Not yet. Gritting her teeth, she grabs her blade from the cavity.

"Guinevere, your orders are to retreat."

DeRosso's voice chimed in.

She sees a gap in the onslaught of invaders and gestures to the others. "Merrick, with me! Reirak! Take Oloma and Namiell! Cover us!"

"This battlefield is not your Coliseum, Guinevere! This is not about glory!"

Her platoon doesn't hesitate.

"Guinevere For the final time: Fall! Back!"

As the five of them emerged from the rubble below the final wall she removes the earring and throws it to the dirt.​

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The role of a soldier is to stand in defense of their city. But sometimes, a soldier is forced to make impossible decisions. She had already made her decision upon the second wall. It was still all a blur to her. In but a single day she had gone from a lowly gladiator to acting commander to a spear of white lightning. Her hands still trembled from the thought of that lat one. Her hands, now quenched with Devil Blood, continued to pulse with lightning. Since that encounter, the people had taken to calling her The Dragon.

She exhaled.

Pain from her cracked ribs flared to life.

Inhale.

No time for hesitation. She didn't know how long she had until the devils would come calling upon the final wall. They had precious few moments to prepare before they would, once again, face the endless horde. Her platoon of five made their preparations. Namiell and Oloma took their positions on top of the wall and prepared the cannons. Only five of them remained. The rest followed the call, retreating back to the bay.

Exhale.

What happened next would liberate them, or doom the city.

Inhale.

The gladiator held her face skyward, the endless deluge of rain cleaning her face from the ash and blood that directed her face. Lightning leaped from cloud to cloud. Whoever had looked after her team had not yet left them. Her mind flashed back to the first time. A ballista from their golems had pierced her abdomen. She remembered her vision blurring and for a brief moment in time she had died. She had been apart of the clouds above them. But a voice had called out. With the ferocity of thunder, the screaming of her soldiers had brought her crashing back into reality. She grasped the wound, but it had healed up.

Exhale.

Cresting over the horizon she saw the masses of Cultists and Devils alike begin to pool into the courtyard. One last chance.

Inhale.

---------------------------------------------

Guinevere saw a crackling offense as the best defense.

They hear the roar before they see her, but when they look up, they can make out a blue burst against the skyline. When she fell, she brought the whole sky crashing with her. Guinevere, acting commander of the Oweumont army, returned for the third time to the field of battle.

Her eyes hone in on the field of broken rubble and burnt grass. The air around her bends and breaks into infinite density. A cacophony of cackling erupted from within as jagged bolts of white flame lashed out in all directions. it ripples across her plate and bows outward against the terror, enveloping the bastard sword in her left hand. In her right, she held a luminous aegis that would push back the darkness, in her left, she wielded the fury of the heavens. The gladiator steps out from the smoke emanating from the crater below her as the lightning swirling atop her breastplate thrust out behind her, leaving a trail of protrusions that matched that of a pair of wings. She meets the Devil's charge with the doom of a thousand volts. Volleys of cannon fire and arrow fire rip overhead, cutting down the Devil's and splitting the front ranks. She takes ground with every step, shattering each challenger. The ground itself shatters under the pressure. She breaks through the line and plunges her blade into the chest of the gorilla and slams its corpse into the ground. The surge of lighting discharges from her blade and races across the ground, electrocuting the group around her.

In the corner of her eye, she can make out the blur of the falcon knight. He was swift and agile, and just like his namesake, his rapier picked off the devils one by one. He took to the battlefield like a dancer to the stage, dancing around and outmaneuvering the enemy with commanding grace.

A ball of fire and brimstone barrels towards her. Before she has time to brace, an arrow whistles past her and the blast is met with a burst of sunlight from Namiell atop the wall, some 300 feet away. Her eyes, filled with rage, watch as the smoke dances but a few feet in front of her.

The sound of steel against steel rings through the air as the smoke is pushed aside. Emerging from the smoke are two burning eyes that met her gaze. His horns threatened to pierce her as the giant looked down to meet the challenger. Pure evil emanated from the creature. Brimstone and flame flowed around his neck like the main of a lion. Despite standing nearly two feet taller than her, she stands her ground and holds. With each surge of strength the devil pooled into taking ground in this standoff, Guinevere regained back with her own strength.

She is at the brink, face to face with death. The Dragon braces. She is a dazzling ward against the dark. A just retribution. A wall of pure rage that stands to refute the night, but the dawn does not follow. The devil shoves her blade aside and the second swing of her ax connects. It collides apocalyptic. The immovable wall shatters against the blow. Only darkness...

A burnt hand, limp and flat, slowly clenches. They are dragged. Guinevere grasps at consciousness. Her vision is blurred. She hears the sound of Merrick's voice. Too distant for her to make out the words.

Guinevere blinks.

The world races around her.

The last thing she remembers is the voices.

"Get here out of here!!!"

"To the wall. I have someone here to lend his aid"

More darkness. Her keen senses are gone. Splintered, like she is. Barely aware of the world around her she fills the piercing of something sharp across her chest. Tiny pricks.

"Barely..."

She did not recognize the voice. It was quiet and raspy. Belonged to a man.

"This won't kill you sister"

Another voice. This one she did recognize. The smell of fresh dirt. His voice, fruity and suave, held contradictions with each word.

"She will live..."

She felt her mind slip once again into the darkness...

....


--------------------------------------------

She felt pressure, albeit small, form across her cheek. Conscious rushed back to her like the sweat that permeated her face. Her eyes flicked like the first embers of a fire. Like the flames coming after the embers, her body came next. She sat up and clutched the breastplate across her chest. With heavy breaths, she looked around to the rest of the group. Similar experiences she took it. What had happened?

As the adrenaline rushed from her veins her hand moved from her armor to the necklace below it. She caressed the polished symbol, a bolt of lightning from a cloud, with her thumb and muttered something under her breath. She looked around to the rest of the group Similar states to her, but no bodily harm. She turned to Roxii. Good.

She sat there, half-listening to the information Morgrim was giving them. Spore laced with magic. Why was it always magic? She grumbled as she stood up, walked towards the blade stuck in the cracked tree, and pulled it free. She held the blade delicately and with both hands, lifted it to the light. She saw no blood and no signs of ripped cloth. All she saw was the faint welds of the various armors that was used to forge this weapon.

Eyes closed.

Exhale.

"I'm sorry..."

She sheathed her weapon and turned to Morgrim.

"I thought the forest was devoid of ether."

She huddled closer to the group. Whatever had used these mushrooms to attack them may have been trying to pick them off. She scanned the trail behind them and the horizon around them. Nowhere to hide. Whoever, or whatever, had used these spores had not been close by, but now she could not trust anything in this forsaken, barren forest.

​










Lucius


Lucius burns; a roaring visage against the sky-soot firmament. Whisps of silver energy dance from his fingertips. The silver takes his eyes, jumping and dancing like a fire in the wind. The world itself melts from his vision. Stars jump into being. The vast infinity lays before him. He plucks the strings within this vast void that is the in-between and the stars blaze to life. Each pull of the string, each movement of his hands are like stones being dropped in a pond. Ripples fill the expanse laid bare before him. The stars begin to bob with each ripple that passes through, collecting the raw probability being created by his hands. Light and darkness weave together within the stars. Stretching from the hanging lights, potentiality itself is given a physical form. Humanoids dressed in the clothes of nobility emerge from the vibrations of the potential itself. Each turns to look at Lucius, and as one would expect from looking at a mirror, he finds himself staring at his own face. With a single picosecond, a million possibilities form. And he had access to them all.

Skeins of light twist and hum; charged sinew stitch through his muscle and bone. Compressing, endless night. Myriad shimmering-platinum marionettes, shinning silver like the moon hanging above the clouds, scramble to reinforce gaps across the City's defense at his behest. The East below him, breached by waves of frenetic clamoring Cultist. The front had not broken, only moved. He focuses his projections there.

A small battalion holds the line. Lucius twists. Silver defiance moves to stanch the Devils' momentum. One echo locks eyes with a cleric. She nods, and with fluid elegance, the projection lifts her skyward. She brings down a tempest of light that spirals across the city walls and scatters the advancing force. Guinevere bellows in the distance.

Multiple skeins snap. The sky stretches into the starless night; the oblivion crowds the borders of Lucius's mind in suffocating omnipresence. The margins. Light thinly stretched. Under duress. Never enough.

The West is bending.

The transfer, instantaneous.

Lucius weaves temporality and spatiality. Ether and gravity engulfing each other to exert his crushing will onto the universe. The ground fragments beneath him as waves of Devils and Cultists alike are pulled together before collapsing in luminescent silver. He spots eight Lights climbing the ridge. Click. A lone man - no aasimar- dives onto the ridgetop horizon. His attire is colored like the earth, green and brown, and he holds within his hand crossbows and knives, innumerous. Click. They will survive. Click. He turns, palm alig—

The North is bending.

Nerves burn. The city's golden hue wavers. Only a moment of exhalation.

No time.

The North fractures. Brimstone rips into the Wall.

He is there. An archer and knight hold. One snap-fires rays of sunlight from her longbow, wreathed in flame. The second dancing through challengers, his rapier a gale in purity. None would pass them.

His echo move to fill the gap.

Bodies in the rubble.

Evacuees from the Eastern breach caught in the blast.

Their deaths filled his mind through twenty gilded eyes, capturing the scene in its totality.

A mote of light filled his mind. He would find them when the fire ceased. They would be laid to rest.

But now was not the time for those thoughts.

Lucius would scour the Southeast front in silver twilight.

He looked to the shattered wall. Through the gap, mind inutile, overshadowed by the eternal precipice. Crowded with menace. Eyes peering down, seeping over, hungry, waiting to flood this last hope with plunging depth. Even now, as Devil lines break against the walls, others stand watching from deep starless hollows. If not this, another. The dam will fail, as all do in time.

But for now, the South bends… and it can still be cleansed with fervor.

Click. The transfer is instant.

He pulls his remaining oracles to the south wall, just above where his slave held the walls. His gilded eyes take in the sight below and a grin breaks upon his face. His oracles begin to emerge on the frontline. Abandoned artillery roars out by, seemingly, itself.

He aligns his palm outward once more...

He pulls on the loom again. Skeins of silver begin to form as the ground cracks beneath him.

The fruits of his efforts would soon bear itself. This was the first time in several years she would defy his orders...

The sound of thunder echoes like a voice in a ravine...

And he could not be more pleased.​



Tags

Direct: Morg Morg
InDirect: Everyone I suppose.



Notes

Sorry for some of the lesser quiality on the beginning and end parts. Still Rusty. Cough Cough AnimusLight AnimusLight Cough Cough

The Lucius portion is what her master is doing during the war before he retrieves her. Thought it would be fun to write for him as well, since not much is known about Lucius in the current rp.



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Roxii didn’t have a chance to react to the Draedan’s response before the drow, Mydhalia, addressed her. The Guide and the healer had been talking during their quiet exchange, introducing each other and addressing the problem that surrounded them. Roxii was caught off guard when the lorethven directed her words to the assassin. It seemed she looked worse than she had originally thought; after all, her shadows were never able to show her her own physical appearance.

The wolf-elf’s face scrunched up in irritation, but she held her sharp tongue and instead considered the Ssri`Tel`Quess’s offer. Her chest ached and burned with each breath, the pain originating from many places at once. Her lungs felt scratchy, and if the blood she’d wiped away was any indication, there was blood seeping into her lungs, though at a slow rate. The remnants of electricity still tickled her fingertips, and she silently wondered if the feeling would ever go away, even when the sadisla was removed.

Roxii was in a poor state and had hardly regained any of her strength. Master Damaer was ruthless and cruel, and he knew exactly what he was doing when he sought to punish the wassik-kesir. Her strength and determination was a force to be reckoned with, and if she were healthy, she would have put up a fight. But the Crimson Shadow leader had kicked her down, forced her to her knees at the very beginning to ensure her submission and loyalty. He could easily snap her like a twig, kill her with a wave of his hand, all because he had guaranteed his success by keeping her under his thumb.

As a result, she was weakened and unable to fend for herself against the assassin velahr, much less able to tend to her own wounds. It would be some time before she could begin healing the lacerations and bruises, but what about the broken bones? Even if she were at full strength, she had no skills in tending to the more dire injuries. In fact, healing was the exact opposite of her profession; she was a killer, one who brought pain and harm. She could let it heal on its own like she’d done before, yes, but she would have no hope of surviving this time. She was seriously injured this time, and she would be dead long before she could turn her magic to her own wounds.

The velglorn knew the healer spoke the truth. Though she would be a fool to deny the drow’s aid, Roxii held no desire to be touched by the stranger, physically or mentally. She held no qualms nor scorn against healers and medics. Instead, she respected those who healed and saved others, despite their differing professions. Healers helped stitch the world together while others tried to destroy it. But the blind hybrid was a loner, and her pride itched to refuse Mydhalia’s help. Not to mention the fact that magical healing sessions always felt extremely weird, making her skin crawl.

Though her pride and arrogance defined most of her responses, this would not be one of those times. She was a proud individual, but she was no fool.

The Lythari hesitated before releasing a slow, defeated sigh and nodding once towards the drow healer. The white-haired drow watched as the half-elf’s shoulders slumped in surrender to the healer’s offer, a small, sympathetic smile donning her face as she recognized the assassin’s latch onto her pride. “Do not worry, young assassin, I do not challenge your status or capabilities. I simply wish to relieve you of your injuries before they befall you greater than they already have.” She bowed her head in respect to the Lythari before turning to face the reeking guide:

“I will accompany your party once I finish tending to those in need, including your own allies.” She spoke firmly, as though she wouldn’t take no for an answer. After doing so, she beckoned for the Lythari to follow, heading toward one of the makeshift tents built about 5 to 10 meters from the forest’s edge. Roxii followed at a distance, allowing her shadows to monitor their surroundings. She did not expect the drow to bring harm to her, but she could not say the same about the others that inhabited the camp. However, most of their attention was directed toward one another and tending to the wounded, young, and old, rather than the passerby. Once in the tent, Dhalia gathered gauze and long strips of bandages in her hands, turned to face the hybrid, and spoke.

“Feel free to close the front of the tent if you wish to conceal yourself, as you will need to remove some layers for me to properly tend to your wounds. Internal bleeding is especially difficult, but not impossible to repair.” She spoke softly, keeping her words concise and calm as she addressed the Lythari, watching her with cautious eyes. “If you require any assistance, let me know.”

The blind assassin stiffened and crossed her arms over her chest defensively. “You are a healer—a skilled one, I assume. You cannot do something without…?” She allowed her voice to the trail, unsure of how to finish. The question was clear, however. Dhalia raised her brow at the Lythari with an amused expression before responding with a soft chuckle. “If you have other plans for caring for your wounds, by all means,” she waved her hand in the air, “find yourself another healer who can properly tend to internal bleeding, which is nigh impossible to treat in time, to begin with.”

Roxii scowled but remained silent. She hesitated, shifting her weight from each foot until she finally relented. The hood was removed from her head, revealing the woman’s loose locks, the waves reminiscent of those of the ocean. The wolf-elf said nothing as her deft fingers worked at the buttons of her coat before undoing the garment altogether and tossing the coat to the side. Underneath, she wore a long-sleeved tunic, black to match her breeches and boots. It was loose enough to not constrict her movement but tight enough to not be in the way. Without the coat on, she looked even smaller than before, if that were even possible for the unnaturally small elf. Not to mention that she felt uncomfortably small in front of the drow healer, the silver band of confinement clear to see.

Dhalia’s eyes watched as the female removed her thicker garments, paying attention to the winces of pain and tenderness as she moved. Which side she favored, where the pain appeared to be at its worst; it was what Dhalia did as a healer, though her assessment was interrupted by the glint of silver surrounding the Lythari’s neck. Her white irises widened as she realized the symbolism and watched the hybrid’s face with thoughtfulness and...empathy. She emanated no pity or disdain, her aura showing only concern and pain from her own past. Shaking her head a small amount, she dismissed the thoughts, focusing on the task at hand.

“Let me know if anything proves to be more painful than it presently is - I understand your desire to keep things to yourself and remain proud, but if I’m messing around with your organs and hurt you in some way, I must know.” She spoke softly, moving slowly toward the female as she removed her staff from its holster on her back, reaching the Lythari within arm’s reach, and gestured for her to sit. “The process will be rather uncomfortable, so I recommend you sit or lie down. As I am sure you would prefer to avoid being vulnerable, you may sit rather than rest.”

Roxii said nothing as she made her way over to a single chair, taking the lorethven’s advice. She braced herself for what was to come. It would not be the first time that she’d be at the mercy of a healer. The experiences were unpleasant, the pain excruciating, and each time seemed to be worse than the last. Perhaps it was the specific healers she came across, or perhaps it was the injuries she sustained, getting worse with each job. The rogue had a sneaking suspicion that this time would be no different.

Dhalia smiled at the Lythari female before kneeling in front of her, holding her staff with both hands, as though she were offering it to Roxii. She closed her eyes, humming softly to an ancient tune not many knew outside of her old tribe, pushing out a soft sensation of peace in order to make the healing process less unpleasant. Energy hummed through the staff as Dhalia charged it with her ether, her hands glowing as the energy channeled from her staff to the Lythari, enveloping her like a warm, soft blanket. There would be some pain during the process, particularly as the internal pool of blood was removed, but once the wounds were treated, the bleeding stopped, and the broken bones repaired, the Lythari would find herself breathing easier and in much better shape compared to before.

Roxii never enjoyed healing sessions. Not only was it painful, but it felt as though someone was probing inside of her. Though she was wrong before—it was not as painful as she’d expected—it still made her feel uneasy. The healer’s magic worked its way through her, mending lacerations and bruises and stitching bones together. It felt odd and uncomfortable, and though the healer was much more experienced than others she’d come across, the pain was still there. Her knuckles turned white from clenching her fists, but at least she felt no desire to scream in pain like previous times.

Upon completion of the healing process, Dhalia opened her eyes slowly, quickly placing a hand on the ground to steady her now rather shaky form. She let out a shuddering breath before rising, offering a hand to the newly healed wolf-elf. Though the gesture held no ill will, Roxii rejected the kind action. She rose on shaky legs, getting used to the sudden lack of pain that racked her body. It was not completely gone—there was still a ghostly ache that resonated within her chest—but it was more bearable than it was before. It always threw her off guard to go from writhing in pain to being more or less healed.

“I hope this has restored some of your strength as well, though the rest of that healing will come with time and rest. I have undone the damage, rejuvenated some of your blood supply, and cleaned out the toxins that would have otherwise killed you from your wounds. The process took a little longer than anticipated, approximately thirty minutes I would say, but you are now fit to continue with your party.” She spoke somewhat breathlessly, closing her eyes for a brief moment to regain her composure.

The Lythari’s xiadin traveled over Mydhalia, revealing the tired state the healer had put herself in. She respected their selfless nature, but she had a hard time understanding it. Why put their own well-being at risk to save someone they don’t know? It seemed careless, in a way. If healers were so determined to save the injured, ill, and dying, why would they waste so much energy to save one person when it could very well be the death of them, or at least put them in increased danger? It seemed counterintuitive to the wolf-elf, but she couldn’t complain. The same selfless act that depleted the healer’s energy had restored the assassin’s; that was enough for her. Dhalia let out a shaky breath and glanced back up at the assassin, a soft smile on her face as she opened her bright eyes and nodded at Roxii in acknowledgment.

Roxii’s head turned slightly away from the healer, brow furrowed, as her curtain of hair obscured the drow’s view of the collar. “Thank you,” she spoke quietly, moving away from the taller woman to retrieve her coat. The outer garment was quickly donned and buttoned, hood placed back over her head and concealing her hair and nasty burn scar once more. She straightened the collar of the coat and situated it to hide the steel sadisla again before beginning to leave the tent. Dhalia rose behind her slowly, stretching before she followed the Lythari to the tent entrance, gingerly placing the gauze and bandages into her satchel as they began to exit.

But Roxii stopped before the flap, forcing the healer to halt behind her. A sternness had hardened the velglorn’s features as she turned slightly to speak to the woman behind her. “Not a word will be spoken to the others.” It was not a request. Roxii’s voice had returned to its cold, unforgiving tone. Dhalia smiled softly once more as she looked down at the Lythari and bowed her head in respect, her voice also soft but filled with warmth and understanding rather than frigidity. “As you wish.” Roxii did not allow the Ssri`Tel`Quess to question nor object the demand further as she stormed out of the tent.

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Addressed: Mydhalia Silvestra | Mentioned: N/A | Status: Severely Injured ➙ Healed, Energy Replenishing | Mood: Irritated ➙ Uncomfortable, Defensive | Location: Kingsguard ➙ Ashkii Forest | Inventory: Bow & Quiver, Daggers, Longsword, Canteen & Flask, Whetstone, Money | Notes: N/A
Addressed: Morgrim Morgrim Javax Javax | Mentioned: Federoff Federoff AnimusLight AnimusLight | Status: Cordial Greetings -> Healing Roxii -> Walking in the Ashkii Forest | Mood: Calm -> Focused -> Confused | Location: Campsite -> Inside the Forest | Inventory: A satchel containing her armor, a small bubble where her sprite familiar sleeps, and her staff, attached to her backside. | Notes: N/A
​



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Health: 95%

  • Tags: Morg Morg | Federoff Federoff | Anaxileah Anaxileah | AnimusLight AnimusLight

    Addressed: [Dream-State] Master Falaern Damaer | Morgrim Hemwick | Guinevere "The Dragon" | Mydhalia Silvestra | Jass

    Mentioned: N/A

The closer to Ashkii Forest they traveled, the more she wanted to turn back. Death surrounded the group, and an odd sense of foreboding settled in her gut, causing her chest to cave and tighten. Her shadows recoiled from the land to the point that she couldn't force them out in waves anymore. She sensed something here, something she didn't feel back at the once-lovely town. Kingsguard had become a land of no magic, no ether, unlike the forest. Instead, something else covered the sylva, something sinister and otherworldly. It was a blanket of pure death, and it purged the land of any life by suffocating it with a lack of magic.

The darkness that had shrouded the forest was darker, colder, and more powerful than anything she'd ever experienced. When her faern touched it, that horrid blanket of death, the shadows raced back to her in fear, disturbed by the cold and singing her senses upon contact. And perhaps the most terrifying part was that the blanket of darkness was oddly familiar.

It wasn’t until they’d entered the forest that she smelled it. It was faint, and the Lythari wondered if it were just a figment of her imagination. But soon, it became undeniable that there was a toxin in the air, slowly poisoning the group. And the closer she came to this understanding, the more her mind became jumbled, fuzzy, her thoughts incomprehensible. She could utter no warnings to the group before the toxins took effect, taking hold of the smallest of the group first. The wolf-elf collapsed to the ground as the airborne poison plunged the assassin into unconsciousness.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡​

Crack!

Her knees buckled when the rod made contact, and she couldn’t tell if the splintering sound was from the impact or her breaking bones. Her body burned and ached all at the same time, and she wondered if this would be how she’d die, at the hand of her newfound master. His voice was cold, unrelenting, and it echoed in her head.

Roxii had been training with the Crimson Shadow for about a fortnight now. The wassik-kesir could hardly believe that the accident had occurred so long ago, yet it felt as though it were yesterday. The still-fresh wound on her face continued to burn with phantom flames, and she wondered if the pain would ever ease. She was grateful that Master Damaer was so generous when he’d found her, collapsed on the road. He’d scooped her off her tired feet and brought her back to his manor, nursing her back to health and promising her that she’d get revenge.

She just needed to trust him.

The young child had been wary at first. Her heart still ached with betrayal and grief, and it took her a few days to recover from both the physical and emotional turmoil that tormented her. But soon, she began to understand Master Damaer’s coldness, why he was so harsh with her. He saw potential in her, raw and untouched, and he wished to unleash that potential to help her achieve her goals. She believed he cared for her, that he wished to see her succeed.

It was times like this that she questioned this care. He’d grown angry and frustrated with her, she knew. She’d questioned him, his authority. What was he to expect from a lady of her background? Complete submission? She supposed that’s exactly what he expected, and now she was being punished for not bending to his will.

Roxii tried to push herself back to her feet, but the metal rod cracked against her calves. She let out a cry of pain as she collapsed to the ground again. Her skin was slick with blood, and she was well aware that it was her own. Her sticky hands shook as she tried to find purchase on the ground, trying to pull herself away from her Master.

“Synthra...” Her voice came out in a pitiful rasp, and tears began to mingle with blood. The young woman’s hand raised above her and extended outward towards where she thought Master Damaer was. “Shalafi Damaer, eru sulise...”

“This is no place for weakness!” His voice rang in her ears like a thousand drums. He was all around her, and it terrified her. She hadn’t yet learned Master Damaer’s technique, his Xiad Oban that he claimed would allow her to regain her vision. The darkness was suffocating, oppressive, and it made her feel so terribly alone.

The rod connected with her back this time, knocking the breath from her lungs. Was that her ribcage that splintered and cracked, or was it her resolve? Her face was wet with bloody tears. Never did she think that this was where she would ever be, writhing on the ground in excruciating pain as a master beat her into oblivion. She never felt so much pain before. How did the soldiers manage, the ones who endured terrible afflictions and lost limbs? How did they manage when they were captured, tortured to the point of mutilation and yet still maintaining silence? A newfound respect blossomed within her for her soldi–

No. They were her soldiers no longer.

Another blow to her broken body, this time to her side. She retracted from the blow and curled into a ball on the floor. “If you want to live, then fight back!” His merciless hand brought the rod down again, and she curled up tighter. Would she be able to fight back? How did he expect her to escape the clutches of the most skilled assassin in Landfall? She couldn’t see him! How would she pinpoint his location to accurately land a blow? He was a phantom; he made no sound when he moved. It was like he didn’t exist, and there were times she wondered as much.

He grabbed her by the hair, and she let out a squeak of pain, grabbing at his hand as he brought her back to her feet. He shoved her away from him and brought the rod across her cheek. A hand cupped the injury as she fell to her knees before Master Damaer. Her hands shook more violently as she extended both towards Master Damaer again, palms upward in a sign of submission and pleading. “Synthra, Shalafi Damaer! Via silta! Nae nada, Shalafi! Synthra!” She cried around the blood that filled her mouth, trailing down her chin.

“Prove you are worth something or die alone and cold like all the others.” The rod connected with her head again, cracking against her temple this time. She never knew it was possible to see stars without her eyesight. They danced across her mind like a whirlwind of ashes from a fire, and there was a ringing in her ears. Her mind reeled at the impact, and the dizziness made her world flip and tumble as if she were rolling down a hill.

And then everything was silent. A sense of deadly calm washed over the young Lythari, enveloping her in a blanket of cold. Her breathing slowed, and she could hear the rattle of her chest from the blood that pooled in her lungs. She could hear the uncomfortable shuffling of one of the assassins posted at the door. She could hear the woosh of the rod as it raced towards her head once again, hungry for another blow.

A swift hand raised and grabbed the rod before it could connect. The impact was absorbed by her hand, sending tendrils of pain up her arm, but she held fast to the weapon. Without hesitation, the Lythari brought her other hand up and forced her shadows outwards. There was a grunt as Master Damaer lost his grip on the rod, leaving the full weight of the weapon in the trainee’s weakened hands. Roxii’s arms collapsed at her sides, and the rod clattered to the ground. She doubled over in pain, allowing her forehead to rest against the cold floor.

There was a moment of silence in the training room. The wolf-elf didn’t need any sort of sight to see his gaze piercing through her. Whether it was of frustration, annoyance, anger, or surprise, she couldn’t tell. She shook and trembled on the ground, silently hoping that his punishment had ceased.

“Bring her to the healers.” There was some shuffling and footsteps before strong arms hooked underneath the broken child. She cried out at the pain that enveloped her during movement, but they did not loosen their grasp on her mangled form. She knew what was to come. She’d had healing sessions for much less trivial things, and they made her writhe and cry. But she could only imagine what this session would bring.

That night, the Crimson Shadow Manor heard the girl’s screams for hours on end.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡​

An inhuman growl emanated from the Lythari when she was startled awake. The remnants of the slap left stinging pinpricks of pain across her cheek, and it only took her a split second to deduce who possessed the hand. She had half a mind to trap the Mirigg in a sphere of darkness and slowly allow him to suffocate in his own stench, but then she noticed the bone-mask that covered her mouth and nose. She realized the intention of the attack, and instead kept her hands and magic to herself, opting to cup the stinging cheek with a scowl.

Her fingers brushed against damp skin, and she realized tears had been trailing down her face. She wiped any remainder of tears away with the heel of her palms and pushed herself to her feet. The dream-like memory was still fresh in her mind, and the pain lingered in her bones. She wondered if it was just a ghostly pain from having to relive the painful experience, or if it was a result of the hallucinogenic toxins that filled her mind. The memory sent chills down her spine. She was terribly naive then, and it nearly cost her her life on multiple accounts.

Roxii released a short pulse of shadows. Her magic retreated from the otherworldly darkness that surrounded the group, but it lingered enough to provide an image. They hadn’t made it far into the sylva. The jagged husks of trees rose up around them like large thorns, and though they bore no leaves, not a hint of sunlight brushed against the blind woman’s skin. Morgrim had quickly moved from the wolf-elf to the others of the group, employing the same method to force them from their slumber. Fortunately, he’d thought ahead and placed the filtration masks upon their mouths in advance.

The bone mask, she realized, was from his own body. The stench of his rotting body lingered on the piece, and her face twisted in disgust. However, she made no move to remove the mask. There was no telling how long she’d last without the filtration spell, and she’d rather not be plunged into another terrible memory. If only the Guide had something else to offer them, something that didn’t come from under his skin and smelled of putrid death…

The assassin allowed her attention to shift to the bloated mushrooms that dotted the forest floor. She approached one of them cautiously, studying the specimen with her magic and kneeling down before one. Her shadows didn’t like the fungi one bit, but she forced them out anyway, intrigued by their appearance. They were unlike anything she’d ever seen before, even during her teachings regarding poisonous plants. It seemed that they’d undergone some sort of mutation or disease, but it was nothing natural. She caught the traces of magic that was woven into the mushrooms’ veins, and though that answered the question regarding the forced slumber, it didn’t answer who or what did this.

But it was not her job to figure out what caused these poisonous abominations. She reminded herself of that fact. If meddling in the Guide’s investigation meant convincing the group to leave this wretched place, then the wolf-elf was all for fulfilling Master Damaer’s plan.

Roxii stood again, surveying their surroundings for any threats. “We should not be here,” she spoke quietly, as if not to disturb the forest. However, her voice seemed louder than normal, amplified by the deathly stillness that covered the forest. “Perhaps some research should be in order, before we walk into certain death.”





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The healer made her way to the rest of the group with a reserved state of mind, her thoughts wandering as she thought about the Lythari’s collar and her motivations; who put the collar on her? Someone of her caliber certainly wouldn’t allow such a thing if she weren’t in a vulnerable state, so it must be someone from her past. Dhalia glanced around at the rest of the group, her gaze resting on the mountain of a knight that accompanied them. Her entire 7 feet and 8 inches in height were astounding to gaze upon and prompted questions, which Dhalia would have to ask later. The drunk was another member that Dhalia would need to address, as that lifestyle certainly wouldn’t suit long-term adventurers nor their constant state of being battle-ready.

Regardless, she let her mind relax as she glanced around the dead forest, the life seeped from it by whatever ailed the people of the forest and the nearby town as well as the ether-rich earth below. A splash of color caught her eye, however, causing her to halt as the group walked ahead to a sort of clearing filled with this strange, scarlet-colored fungus. It appeared to be a natural flora for the usually enchanted forest, but among all of the death, it was the only life present and smelled rather...odd. It was not a fungus Dhalia recognized as unusual, but it appeared to be…

Before she could finish her thoughts, Dhalia was hit with a wave of dizziness, crumpling to the ground as her breathing grew labored and her mind clouded. She opened her mouth to speak to the rest of the traveling group, but before a sound could escape her throat, she fell to the ground completely and lost consciousness.


It was meant to be a day of excitement and joy.

Dhalia awoke with a start, her heart racing as she heard her name being called in the distance, the dark-skinned female making her way out of her thin hammock with a light skip as she neared her bedroom window. The drow stuck her head out of the wooden structure, looking down from the top of the tree she lived in so she could see her mentor bellowing from below.

“Im hi, Herder Myrddin!”* She called out in Elvish, her white teeth standing out as she grinned at him, her ebony lips curled upward in joy. She quickly donned her white healer robes, their design rather loose for her thin, 26-year-old figure. She was meant to grow into them, as they had been her mother’s, but for now they hung from her frame, rippling around her as she hopped down from branch to branch until she reached the ground beside her adoptive father.

“Ceri im cost sír?”** She looked up at him with giddiness about her, watching him with admiration and expectation. He was rather old for a drow, his age unknown but his appearance surprisingly wrinkled for an elf, which meant he had to have been ancient. His skin was covered in wrinkles and other lines, possibly scars from combat and other experiences during his life. His height reached 6 feet and 2 inches when standing straight, but most of the time he hunched to a solid six feet tall and held his staff to help steady himself after many leg injuries.

He had a wise expression upon his face most of the time, and his greyish hair was tied back in a short braid that Dhalia often did herself because of his impaired shoulders. She, of course, did not mind - he saved her from a lonely, frightened childhood that would have turned her to darker paths, had he not found her. His name was Myrddin, and today was the day he would die.

His soft smile broke through the hardened expression on his face, likely there due to a rough night’s sleep, though she always managed to cheer him up. “Cin foeir, cin tur cost.”***

At his words, she jumped in the air happily, clasping her hands together in excitement before dashing off in the direction of the fighting dummies near some of the stone buildings of the village, briefly stopping to chat with another student before continuing toward the sparring field, the smile never leaving her face. She had been learning how to perform certain abilities and how to make certain concoctions, but she had never been permitted to practice fighting, and so it was a fresh task for her overactive brain.

He made his way to her slowly, causing the young drow to feel her impatience grow, even as he demonstrated the attack she was meant to try. Barely listening, she nodded and nodded until he stopped speaking so that she could try to harness the moonlight during their natural time of strength - nighttime. She reached out toward the dummy with her hands and fingers extended, speaking the words for the spell she was performing with rushed speech and wiggling fingers, expecting her hands to do the same thing her master’s had.

“Ithil mír, on cín galad, leith aer naur!”****

However, even as she said those words and felt the ether flow through her, something felt...off. She frowned, looking at her hands as they shot out the white flames that were meant to hit the dummy alone, but quickly spread to the stand and grass beneath the dummy’s base. She let out a terrified shriek, unable to control the flames, her bright white eyes glancing to her mentor as he quickly doused the fire that touched the ground, but could not reach her with his water magic before her flames spread to him.

His screams echoed in her mind, clashing with her own as her white fire coated his body and turned him into a burning corpse in a matter of seconds. Once the flames no longer had a victim to attack, they began moving up her arms, spreading across her body as they lapped at her flesh, burning whatever they could touch while her cries reverberated into nothingness.

No one could save her - she was alone.


A shriek escaped her lips as soon as she regained consciousness. She sat up quickly, her panicked shouts and white tears making her distress obvious as she scratched at her arms and torso, terrified of the flames that threatened to engulf her entirely and consume her whole. Her breathing was panicky, the hyperventilation overcoming her lungs as she tried to make sense of her surroundings, taking a moment to realize that the flames were gone and being forced to realize once more that she had killed the only father she’d known. Sobs wracked her body with grief, the soft white glow streaming down her slender, ebony face as she hugged her legs to her body and remained curled up in anguish for several minutes after her awakening.

Upon her composure, Dhalia registered the stinging pain on her face and reached up quickly in a panic, her muscles relaxing slightly as she felt no flames or burning tissue. She ran her fingers along the strange, noxious contraption on her face, but looked to Morgrim and recognized the smell as his, the female elf understanding the function of the mask and nodding to him in acknowledgment, her breathing still rather shaky. She closed her eyes tightly a moment, pressing her forehead to her knees.

It was a couple hundred years ago, but it still shook her to her core. She had since sworn from performing any spells without thoroughly studying them, how they are completed, and practicing on her own in a stone tower she built in the middle of a barren field tarnished from the wars of past. She missed Myrddin dearly, but there was nothing she could do to restore his former self and apologize for what she had done. Not that a simple apology will suffice… She thought to herself with a grimace, the dark-skinned woman filled with guilt and grief. With a sigh, she made an effort to stand from where she was seated without toppling over, still rather light-headed from restoring the Lythari’s inner organs.

Her bright white eyes darted from one group member to the other, her gaze almost apologetic as she slowed her breathing and spoke in a soft, trembling voice. “My...apologies. I saw something I have not seen in years, and it..was most unpleasant.” Her voice wavered as she wiped away her milky tears, stepping away from the group for a moment to lean against a tree along the edge of the clearing, hoping to calm down and keep herself from disturbing the rest of the group.


Addressed: Morgrim Morgrim Javax Javax Federoff Federoff | Mentioned: Everyone | Status: Walking in the Forest -> Passing Out/Having Nightmare -> Panicking TF Out | Mood: Curious -> Panicked -> Shaken | Location: Ashkii Forest | Inventory: A satchel containing her armor, a small bubble where her sprite familiar sleeps, and her staff, attached to her backside.


Notes:
Elvish Translations:
Dreadan: Dragon
Lorethven: Healer
Ssri`Tel`Quess: Drow Elf
Sadisla: Collar, generally marking a subordinate (sajorte)
Wassik-kesir: Wolf-elf
Velahr: Leader
Velglorn: Assassin
Xiadin: Shadows
Sylva: Forest
Faern: Magic
Synthra...: Please...
Shalafi Damaer, eru sulise...: Master Damaer, have grace/mercy…
Xiad Oban: Shadow Sight
Synthra, Shalafi Damaer! Via silta! Nae nada, Shalafi! Synthra!: Please, Master Damaer! I’m sorry! No more, Master! Please!
Mirigg: Guide

Drow Dialect - Elvish Translations:
* - I am here, Master Myrddin!
** - Can I fight today?
*** - You are correct, you may fight.
**** - Moon shine, give your light, release holy fire!​




 
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This lifeless forest doesn't sit well with our local drunkard, Jass. The word 'lifeless' shouldn't even be a description for a forest. But with how still... how eerily quiet their surrounds were, 'lifeless' was the only description. Corrosion... he's encounter it a few times on his travels but it was never severe like this. Dust kick up wherever he steps as Jass follows the group who ended up accepting him. For someone who isn't complete aware of the affects of the darkness surrounding Ashkii Forest, Jass's gut feels a sense of dread during their trek further in the forest. If only he had an extra bottle of liquor, maybe the visions will set him at ease for what's to come. With a group like this, anything bad is bound to happen.

An unfamiliar scent catches his senses, and a wave of dizziness and nausea hits Jass. He blinks back the feeling of blacking out, observing the larger woman of their group examining something on their path. He sways in place, "H-hey, guys-" Jass feels himself succumb to whatever is pulling him in. He watches most of his companions fall one by one before he himself blacks out.

Jass jolts up from the cold ground as he frantically searches for... "What in the world-" This was not the forest he was in. Was it? Why can he barely remember? The serene view before him was nothing like he's ever seen. It made him want to forget all his troubles, and not bother with remember what he was doing previously. The 6-winged woman in gold armor is what left him speechless but she doesn't seem to be looking at him. For the first time every with no words coming to mind, Jass gets up on shaky legs, below him an obvious line between dust and thick green grass. Confused, Jass turns around to see a darker version of the forest behind him. Surprised, he takes a step back, passing the line and into lighter territory. What surprised him wasn't the scene but the being standing there alone. It's malicious eyes lock with Jass's unnerved ones, sending a chill down his spine. It feels more darker than a devil, with the throne of bone and flesh exuding a sense of foreboding.

The horned being begins to head towards him, its eyes never leaving Jass. The feeling of panic wells up inside Jass as he looks towards the golden plated angel behind him. She stands on the opposite side, so she must be against whatever that is. As if answering to his helpless gaze, she turns his back on him. "Jass, I see it in you future, you are not pure, you will become just as putrid as that creature. No one can save you, get out of my sight."

Wait! Don't leave!... is what he would plead but his voice is caught in his throat. His heart feels empty suddenly, as if he lost something important. A cold tension causes his body to feel nothing. The woman disappears and Jass is left to fend off the evil-being getting closer and closer to him. What are you!? he tries to scream at the being. Jass begins to dart to further in the light side only to see the decay of the dark behind him stretch like tendrils, as if it was also following him. His heavy breathing and the sound of thumping- from his heart or the hooves behind him?- is the only thing Jass can hear as he sprints with all his might away from the darkness chasing him.

Situations like this never happen to him? Why is this happening to him? Who-

Jass trips on his own feet, sending him in the grass-then-suddenly-turned-dirt. This has to be a nightmare, nothing else can explain this situation. The horned-being takes it time coming closer, claws outstretched. Jass watches everything turn to the decayed land and he crawls backwards on his elbows. The being gets close enough that Jass can smell the stench of death. Eyes closed, he brings his arms up to shield him when the claw strikes at one arm. Jass lets out a silent scream as he feels the sharp pain.

Jass hears the dark creature growl in delight, "-I've finally caught you abomination."

A slap across the face, and Jass wakes up in cold sweat. He rubs his stinging cheek, while trying to get his bearings, "I had the most strangest nightmare. It was a nightmare, right?" He takes note of the mask covering his nose and mouth. Whatever knocked them out must have been airborne since that smell was the last thing he caught wind of before passing out. Morgrim explains to them about the mushrooms littering the forest grounds. "So nightmare-inducing mushrooms, huh? And here I thought, for a forest of barely anything living, we wouldn't have vegetation attacking us."

He glance to each of his companions who are in similar states as him. Jass gets up, brushing off as much dust lost in thought about his nightmare. He's never seen those two celestial beings before, so how could his mind conjure up such a thing? Was he to blame books and art that held any possible imagery of angels and demons? Shaking those thoughts away, he nodded in agreement to what Roxii suggests. From how moody the party was, he could tell they all collectively wished to not repeat whatever nightmares they were stuck in.
 
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