Fantasy Of Black Waters - A Witcher 3 inspired, dark fantasy RP [dead, we are restarting]

[KingHalliwell]

[class=biggie] width: 100%; max-width:1200px; margin: 0 auto; text-align: center; clear:both; font-size:12px; color: #fff; font-weight:100; background: #000 [/class] [class=whut] background: #000;[/class] [class=handsomedevil] background: #262626; text-align: left; width:32%; float:left; color: #fff; font-weight:100; [/class] [class=speakeasy] letter-spacing: 3px; word-spacing: 2px; border-bottom: solid 10px #47302e; font-size:14px; background: #262626; padding:10px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #fff; font-weight:100; [/class] [class=speaks] color: #fff; padding:15px; text-align: left; float:right; width:65%; background: #262626; font-size:14px; line-height:1.4; letter-spacing:1px; padding:20px; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=handsomedevil maxWidth="800px"] margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=whut maxWidth="800px"] margin: 0 auto; padding: 0px; width:97%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=biggie maxWidth="800px"] padding: 0px; margin: 0 auto; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=speaks maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=speakeasy maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box;[/class]
[div class=whut]
[div class=biggie]
[div class=speakeasy]
Hurt my dog and I'll kill you without a second thought[/div]

[div class=handsomedevil]

Location: The Woods

Mentions: mothspit The Gunrunner Archie BasiliskVeranda Whisker Keidivh

Mood Music: Champion - Barnes Courtney

Quest 1

[/div][div class=speaks]

Connor Stone ​

Connor watched as the Fletcher mustered as much strength as he could and unleashed torrents of flame on the imposing murder of crows that occupied the sky. In swarms many of the crows dropped from the air, landing around them in smoldering heaps around his compatriots. Connor pushed himself and Champ down to the ground, as the heat of the flames licked up his back. Connor kept an eye on the scene around them, ready to move again if the threat seemed to grow again.

When it was all over, he stood, watching as many of the crows that remained returned to the sky, flying back to their master. No doubt to tell a warning of those in search. Connor froze a bit as his mind tried to make sense of everything that had transpired and the state of his companions. Which was a little worse for wear. Champ licked at his wounds to keep them clean, but he like everyone else was covered in them, without the means to heal before moving on.

Lori's appearance from the woods pulled him from his frozen state as she inquired about what just happened, which no one really had an answer for, but that was standard. No one knew what the black waters were going to throw at them, and even preparing for anything wasn’t enough, and probably wouldn’t ever be enough.

Connor moved around the space listening as the group, collecting arrows from the corpses, stowing them in the leather quiver on his hip. Not all of them were his but he would handle the separations later.

Connor wasn’t prepared to hear another voice come from the mouth of Fletcher, something that sent a chill down the back of his spine and made his stomach churn. But Connor steeled himself as it spoke, addressing the group. Trying to determine a way to help fletcher with minimum resources. Connor rummaged through his bag, nodding to Shia as he did the same, most of the herbs he had in his bag were components for spells he was in the process of learning, nothing that could really help in this situation. Again, Connor felt useless.

Connor took in the darkness that surrounded the group and couldn’t help but feel like it was starting to encroach on their space. He felt his stomach clench, and ominous feeling fighting to settle in. He ignored it as he pulled a torch from his pack and lit it hoping to keep the darkness at bay, at least until they had a more solid plan of action. They needed to rest, at least until fletcher had the strength to move. But this deep into the woods wasn’t safe for anyone.

As Connor began to walk forward, the essence of a sentence on his lips, the ground of the forest began to shift around him. Connor almost watched rather than experienced himself sink into the liquid that became their ground. Connor was quickly consumed in darkness as the ground swallowed the group.

Connor couldn’t see with all the sand in his eyes, but the sickening flipping sensation in his stomach was enough to tell him he was falling. As he attempted to see, opening his eyes against the irritation of the sand he could just barely make out a floor rapidly approaching. Connor began to panic, arms flailing around him trying his best to find some sort of purchase. The panic rose as the sight of a thick wooden table cleared. Connor closed his eyes, waiting for the impact. Around him, originating from Connor’s outstretched arms was a blast of air, which stretched widely around him, although impressive did nothing more the slow Connor fall.

The impact of hitting the table was an immense pain that racked Connor’s frame. The table cracked in half and splintered, slicing his exposed skin with razors. He let out a light groan, as he laid in the ruins of the table trying to figure out if there was anything broken or bruised. Possibly a rib, definitely a rib.

Connor tried to gracefully remove himself from the rubble, but alas his foot caught on a shard of the table and sent him tumbling back down to the ground. Kicking up a light cloud of dust around him. When he finally stood, he took stock of the room around him, noticing that he seemed to be in some type of library. He could hear the faint sound of talking from not far away but he hoped it was his traveling companions, and he hoped more than anything that they had Champ because he was nowhere to be seen.


[/div]
[/div]
[div class=biggie]
[div class=speakeasy]
My dog son is the goodest of boys and you better let him know or we're gonna have a problem[/div][/div]

[/div]

 

[mothspit]

When the small woman came to both she and the unconscious thief's side, rife with questions, Gwyn found herself all but incapable of answering; Nose scrunching and eyes squinting with sheer disgust as Lori proceeded to practically spit into the mans very wounds. She might have gagged, had she not found it fit to come up with her own amusing quip, "Pity to the bull-headed fools who charge in. You encounter, and fight, the wrong bird," she said with a scoff. A type of false confidence all too palpable, it almost reminded her of herself.

"Birds," Gwyn corrected pointedly, "An entire flock, keen on taking us to our graves with more than just sinews exposed. But I do hope your romp with village idiots proved fruitful."

"We are lucky for your tender aid, Gwyndilin 'Fucking' Abernathy. You are lucky that I am patient with snap-jawed children," came the condescending voice in retaliation, the color nearly draining from her face for the millionth time that evening. So he could hear her after all. Suddenly the killer flock of fowl seemed a lot more peaceful in comparison to.. whatever he was. Though, it did seem to have limits-- Unable to move if Fletcher did not have the strength to physically do so. That was comforting, in a small way; It meant it could die. Or at the very least, be left without a vessel if Fletcher did.

He addressed Lori and her.. eccentric methods.. before mentioning the same sentiment previously shared among them, including Shia, "That one is correct; movement will prove costly," The nameless being continued, puppeting Fletchers hand to graze across her chin, "He embraces pain darkly—but the dance of blades is...wonderful art-making."

The very words sent a shiver down her spine, his touch getting no more than a faint grimace out of her. By the time she raised a wary hand to swat it, he had already retracted it, fingers curling in the dirt as if he were trying to pull himself to his feet, "Inconvenient that I'd be forced to speak so soon and without strength to renew Us. This complicates, but at least the ghost's useless letters will be corrected for Our sake. I'd hate to lose the little bird to his foolishness." He lamented plainly. There was lot going on here she didn't fully understand yet, with this cast of adventurers she had only begun to befriend, and now there was a demon wearing the face of a gorgeous man talking of pain, fatal arts, and ghosts. The whole affair left her speechless, passing looks to nearby compatriots with stark, nervous eyes.

My father often did warn me the devil would be beautiful. Can't say that I was expecting this, though.

"Apologies for the inconvenience." She could only muster with a stifled scowl, lips curling upward to form an equally condescending smirk when compared to his own. Frankly, she was in no pleasant temperment to engage in any sort of meaningful conversation with it-- Not presently, anyway. She wanted to speak to Fletcher about this. But luckily, she didn't need to; Alrick coming to their small gathering poised with his hammer and a threat not dissimilar to one he had dispensed to Baldur at the start of their trek. Gwyn listened curiously, eyes bouncing between those that spoke as dialogue moved faster than she cared to keep up with. But there was some useful information to be had in the exchange after all-- It had a name. Curious. Did that mean it had a father who sired him? A mother that cared for him? Names are given to things we find precious; Worthy to be addressed as more than the sum of its parts. Was this.. 'Veldspar' one such oddity?

And what of the notion that Fletcher was, in fact, willing? She found the statement rather ironic, for he used the man's own lips to utter it, but there was one thing she could not deny; He had helped them, slaying crows left and right with more skill than many of them could muster. That was worth something, wasn't it? Surely if it wanted to bring them to an end, it could have. Gwyn could hardly think of a more opportune moment.

..I'll be keeping my watchful eye on you, Veldspar.

***

"Does this answer suffice, or should I go into agonizing detail, while I doubly agonize to mend what I can from what could not be mended by—" He paused, immersed in his own thoughts as his mouth hung agape like the aforementioned ghost had stuck its--

—you let one escape? Wonderful," He hissed, "Brace yourselves, and hope We don't impale on an obelisk lest you never find your way out."

“Beg your pardon?” Shia piped up.

"..What?" Gwyn blurted, her heart practically leaping into her throat. One crow? Impossible. They had all been turned to cinders, hadn't they? The thought of one escaping their midst, only to return with a vengeance was enough to force Gwyn to her feet, again sharing troubled looks with those closest to her. And what of this warning? "Just what the hell are you--"

Gwyn never did get to finish that sentence. Within seconds, the earth beneath their feet began to tremble, groaning as if a giant had been woken from their slumber. Trees toppled and snapped, pulling roots up with the dirt to reveal sand-- Spiraling sand that caught Gwyn with a quickness, dragging her under as she clawed fervently at it. She opened her mouth to cry out, and was hit with a wall of sand, forcing her to cough and sputter lest it suffocate her. Her thrashing proved to only exacerbate its swallowing hold, finally pulling her head under.. and down they all went, in a perilous freefall.

"Aaaahhhh fuuuuuuck!" She shouted, spitting up a mouth of wet sand as the ground below drew nearer and nearer. Thankfully, the sand fell faster than she; A pile had formed below her, and Gwyn threw her arms over her head in an effort to lessen the blow. Though, the sand falling above her came crashing down onto her back, and she hit the dirt pile with a pained, muffled cry-- There was a hollow, wet snap, and Gwyn immediately felt an intense pain come shooting from one shoulder; Not quite broken, she felt, but her left arm would undoubtedly need to be popped back into it's socket.

To make matters worse, just as she struggled to push herself free from the mountain of sand above her, attempting to balance the rough irritant with its suffocating properties, came a hard thud above her-- Getting another pained groan from somewhere in the pile. Someone had landed on her.

God shits in my dinner once again.

She could hear them speaking, if only slightly, in some affectionate tone with reference to an animal, presumably, and certainly felt their weight upon her chest-- Her poor, poor breasts being crushed under the pressure. There were other voices, too, but none such that she could identify, much less what they were saying.. A hand manages to snake through the dirt, pushing its way up until finally, the surface is discovered. She hadn't been buried too deep, thankfully, and right as she felt around the immediate area, her pale digits instantly curled around what she assumed to be an ankle; The foot planted firmly atop her right breast. Despite any objections or displays of shock it's owner might profess, Gwyn used the last of her strength to pull her head from the sand, the ankle as her leverage.

With her eyes crammed shut, her head turns to the side, coughing and spitting the remainder of the dirt from her throat. If she could feel her other arm, she might have wiped the dirt from her eyes, but instead addressed the person atop her body with a rasping, pained voice:

"Could.. you please.. get your arse.. off my tits."


mentions: basically everyone and BasiliskVeranda

 

[Keidivh]

[class=biggie] width: 100%; margin: 0 auto; text-align: center; clear:both; font-size:13px; color: #1d1b15; font-weight:100; display:flex; flex-flow: row nowrap; height: 100%; [/class] [class=bigcenter] background: RGBA(16,19,20,0.91) ; text-align: left; margin: 0 auto; padding:10px; color:#eed9cd; font-weight:400; border: 5px solid #0b2427; word-spacing: 2px; letter-spacing: 1px; padding:20px; box-sizing: border-box; font-size:13px; width:90% [/class] [class=bigcenter2] text-align: center; padding:30px; margin: 0 auto; color:#eed9cd; max-width:900px; word-spacing: 2px; letter-spacing: 1px; box-sizing: border-box; font-size:13px; width:100%; clear: both; [/class] [class=left] padding:20px; color: #e2e8e5; box-sizing: border-box; width:30%; float: left; [/class] [class=right] padding: 20px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #e2e8e5; width: 65%; float: left; max-height: 700px; overflow: auto; margin-left: 10px; border-bottom:1px dotted #d68b5e; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; [/class] [class name=bg maxWidth="800px"] margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px[/class] [class name=bigcenter maxWidth="800px"] padding: 0px; margin: 0 auto; width:90%;[/class] [class name=bigcenter2 maxWidth="800px"] padding: 0px; margin: 0 auto; width:90%;[/class] [class name=left maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 20px; margin-top:20px; float: none; width: 90%; text-align: center;[/class] [class name=right maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 20px; margin-top:20px; max-height: 100%; float: none; width: 90%[/class]
[div class=biggie]
[div class=bg]
[div class=bigcenter]

Alrick Gottzmann
"What hope is there for man, when their greatest champions are no better than the monsters they hunt?"
​

[div class=left]

■ ■ ■
Location: Crow Moms place
With: His bro
Mention: The Gunrunner
■ ■ ■





[/div][div class=right]
Hearing such an inhuman laugh emanate from Fletcher sent a chill through his spine. The sound even seemed to hang in the air for a moment, as if Sedona itself was unsure what to do with something so unnatural. Rather than scare the man away however, he only pressed his hammer against it further. His time with the Huntsmen Order had provided him with little other than painful memories, yet there were some valuable lessons learned in that time. One such lesson was this, if you don't understand what you're dealing with, best to kill it. While Alrick wasn't fond of the idea of following such teachings, the idea seemed tempting at the moment.

"Such a big, strong man to threaten two weakened creatures out of fear. Fine. To put it into words even you can understand: My name is Veldspar. I'm something of a spirit. Your compatriot is my very willing host,"

Were it not for the otherworldly voice emanating from the blondes body, Alrick may have mistaken him for Fletcher himself. The biting tongue it had was near identical.

Spirit? What lingered within Alrick's own beleaguered soul seemed to be drawn forth by the words, finding something familiar in them. Eyes closed shut to try and block out the intruders, but it was in vain. It seemed they (it?) were finding their footing within the shattered remnants of their host. Is it one of us? Then why isn't it with us? No... No it is other. A foreign shadow, lingering where it doesn't belong.

And you are so different?

We are where we belong, it is not.

Were I not busy with other horrors I'd contest that statement.

"Does this answer suffice, or should I go into agonizing detail, while I doubly agonize to mend what I can from what could not be mended by—"

Breath hitched as an agonizingly familiar feeling began to envelop the group, though only Alrick and the Fletcher's unexpected occupant seemed to realize it. Bile began to rise in his throat once more, and a disgusting taste filled his mouth. It wasn't the foul water he had tasted before though, it was coarse. Earthy even. His head suddenly snapped towards the earth beneath him as strange runes seemed to be circling around each member of the group. So foreign were they that it almost pained him to see it, but he couldn't avert his eyes. They wouldn't let him.

She found us... How could she find us? We have only just found ourselves. The thousand whispers questioned, horror rippling through the voices like an unending tide through his head. If only the gods would grace him with blissful unconsciousness so he could be parted from all this madness, but the gods had abandoned this world long ago now.

"—you let one escape? Wonderful. Brace yourselves, and hope We don't impale on an obelisk lest you never find your way out."

And with that the world quite literally began to fall apart. The ground gave way to shifting sands, consuming greedily everything it touched. If the gods did still exist, then they truly they despised this group in particular. "Is a moments respite to much to ask for!?" Alrick raged at the heavens before desperately clawing at the sand. It was a practice in futility, but Alrick was not about to go quietly.

A strange surge of strength courses through the weary, bloodied man, trying to give them the ability to escape this fatal trap. We will not be denied our desires. She will not take it away from us!

Even this surge of energy could not hope to resist the insatiable hunger of this pit. As the grains pulled him deeper, Alrick took a few haggard breathes, his eyes looking toward the sky before all was consumed by black.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alrick had only felt the kiss of the oblivion one other time in his life. A time when the past came to reap the seeds he had sown. It was a blood harvest, cutting down all he had attempted to rebuild. It left nothing but the form of a broken man lying in a pool of his own blood, homesteads engulfed in flames surrounding him. It was a fitting end in many ways. Despite the bloody horror all around, there was a strange form of justice to the situation. In all ways except one. One innocent who was taken, one who would not be granted the mercy of a swift death. Even in protecting her, he had only damned her further. The cries still rang in his ears, a wail that pierced him deeper than any blade ever could have. Were that there was any justice left in the world, she would be spared.

Tears streamed down his face, even as darkness consumed him. He raged against it, knowing that none would spare her the endless cruelties that awaited. But none could defeat death. A final plea for retribution left his cracked lips before black consumed all. Just at that moment, his plea was answered.

And just like back then, his eyes opened. Though rather than a solid surface it felt as though he was floating in an endless sea of nothing. It was... Peaceful. A moments respite from the hell his life had been. Of course this peace parts from him quickly as a new scene of terror unfolds before him. An endless hellscape of sand, dotted with pillars of jet black. I just wanted to kill a smelly bird for gods sake.

As his descent continued, it became increasingly clear that his trajectory was less than optimal, as one of the black pillars grew larger and larger in his view. Alrick meanwhile could do nothing but watch, his course a predestined fate. To think of all the things that were to claim his life this day, it would be splattered against a rock. Laughter racked his body for the first time he could remember, the absurdity of this day simply to much to bear.

A resounding crack could be heard throughout the tomb as Alrick hit his mark, soon followed by a dull thud as he hit the ground. Both arms were twisted in ways that would cause ones stomach to turn twice over, while one of his legs had a bone jutting out from his skin. There he lay for a time, yet death still seemed hesitant to take him. We will not let it. Not yet.

With this declaration from his passenger Alrick's fracture snapped in place, eliciting a blood curdling scream that seemed to echo through the vast expanses of nothing. Our work has only just begun.

Further screams rang out has bones continued to snap in place, internal bleeding ceased, and wounds were bound shut. It was pure agony, the kind he had never imagined possible. Yet he was kept awake through it all, not allowed the mercy of blacking out by his 'savior'. For an eternity this seemed to continue, until at last the pain subsided. Rolling onto his side, Alrick began to retch violently, blood and sand coming up with what little food he had left in his stomach.

"W-what have you done to me? This... This isn't right." For once, the voices within him refused to speak however. Had it sacrificed itself for him? No. There was quiet, but he didn't feel alone. It was much reduced for the moment, but it lingered still.

Looking to his hammer, now covered in more of his blood than the crows, Alrick grasped the aged weapon before shakily pushing himself to his feet. The process was agonizing, whatever his occupant had done clearly not having worked fully. Still, he could walk, if only barely. So that's what he did, he hobbled off into the wastes around him, stopping every minute or two to double over in pain. What a pitiful sight he must have made.

The wastes proved to not be as empty as suspected as a voice finally got Alrick's attention. Granted it sounded like desperate screaming, but it gave him a direction towards something at least. Hobbling and wobbling along, a familiar figure soon captured his weary eyes. Nadir, currently favoring one leg over the other, resting against one of the obelisks that had so kindly welcomed the ex-knight into this warm and fluffy realm. "Nadir? Is that truly you, or has my mind finally been broken?" A weak laugh escaped his drying throat, but there was no response. Working his way closer, Alrick found the man not resting. Rather he was staring into the obelisk, a look of terror so tangible it shook even himself. Yet when he stated at the obelisk he only saw their reflections. He himself was quite the sight, fresh wounds that looked like they were haphazardly sutured, blood smears covering much of his form. It wasn't a pleasant sight to be sure, but there was nothing to cause such fear.

Grabbing his delirious companion, Alrick attempted to pry the man away from the stone. After his recent experience, he wasn't keen on being near one any longer than was necessary.

[/div]
[div class=bigcenter2]

“And yet, unworthy as I am, I must endure. I must fight until the dawn breaks this unending night, lest it swallow me whole.”
[/div]
[/div]

[/div]
[/div]

 

[BELIAL.]

[class=biggie] width: 100%; margin: 0 auto; text-align: center; clear:both; font-size:13px; color: #1d1b15; font-weight:100; display:flex; flex-flow: row nowrap; height: 100%; [/class] [class=bg]background-image: url(https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/49752230941_0d0a93d8c2_o.jpg); background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: cover; background-attachment: fixed; padding:30px; width: 100%; display:flex; flex-flow: row nowrap; height: 100%; [/class] [class=bigcenter] background: RGBA(11,11,12,0.9) ; text-align: left; margin: 0 auto; padding:10px; color:#eed9cd; font-weight:400; border: 5px solid #361316; word-spacing: 2px; letter-spacing: 1px; padding:20px; box-sizing: border-box; font-size:13px; width:90% [/class] [class=bigcenter2] text-align: center; padding:30px; margin: 0 auto; color:#eed9cd; max-width:900px; word-spacing: 2px; letter-spacing: 1px; box-sizing: border-box; font-size:13px; width:100%; clear: both; [/class] [class=left] padding:20px; color: #e2e8e5; box-sizing: border-box; width:30%; float: left; [/class] [class=right] padding: 20px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #e2e8e5; width: 65%; float: left; max-height: 700px; overflow: auto; margin-left: 10px; border-bottom:1px dotted #d68b5e; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; [/class] [class name=bg maxWidth="800px"] margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px[/class] [class name=bigcenter maxWidth="800px"] padding: 0px; margin: 0 auto; width:90%;[/class] [class name=bigcenter2 maxWidth="800px"] padding: 0px; margin: 0 auto; width:90%;[/class] [class name=left maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 20px; margin-top:20px; float: none; width: 90%; text-align: center;[/class] [class name=right maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 20px; margin-top:20px; max-height: 100%; float: none; width: 90%[/class]
[div class=biggie]
[div class=bg]
[div class=bigcenter]

Valoria​

[div class=left]

❦ ❦ ❦​

Location: Crow Tomb, Sandy dunes
With: Fletcher, Gwyn, Marsilia
Mention: BasiliskVeranda Gilzar mothspit

❦ ❦ ❦​

[/div][div class=right] It seemed she was not suspected, which was to be expected. Lori leaned into the scratches, feeling a purr tickle her throat. Admittedly she was relishing in the sensitive touch, as it had been... almost never since someone had touched her kindly. Having opposable thumbs and the ability to speak had its clear benefits, but the majority of the time, if Lori was in her cat form, she was treated so much kinder than as a human. This was, of course, due to her own prickly nature, but nonetheless strengthened by her own aversion to intimacy. The girl longed for it, as much as she feared it. Part of her wondered if she could dupe the others long enough, but she reasoned one of them might figure it out eventually (she was dragging along her bag like a mouse carcass to her master).

"You know you remind me of someone...I think. Your kindness...I can't be sure," Fletcher said and Lori very roughly pressed her head into his hand. Instinctively one paw raised and pressed against his hand, perhaps as a warning to not cease the action. "...everything has been so obfuscated as of late. Don't quite know where I end and he begins...ah...you surely cannot understand me, I apologize, little one," he continued and Lori shook her little head. No, I understand you blondie. More so, I reason that the actual demon living inside you may be why you feel as you do. That, or the perilous fall. An odd coincidence you bumbling oaf! She thought with a slit eyed glare, but nevertheless felt herself sink into his petting.

Suddenly, a presence came from behind. Lori felt it, whiskers twitching, before she saw or heard the girl. A pretty, fair haired thing who seemed about as nice as a slab of sweet loaf. Perhaps more sickening.

"I'm sorry this is all so sudden, but let me introduce myself. I'm Marsilia Sommer. I've been down here for three days..." Days!? That was hardly reassuring."You're hurt... How bad is he hurt?" It took Valoria a moment to realize that Marsilia was talking to her. The cat blinked, tail flickering. "Mrrow, meow, mrrow!?" You're asking me? Why are you asking me. Am I supposed to chortle out a response between my puny vocal chords?

It wouldn't be for lack of trying, however. Valoria turned back to glare at Fletcher, a trilling coming from her throat. "Mer, mer, meowrr. Merrrr!" Probably cracked a few bones, but a demon inside, as well. Two birds, one stone if we throw him from another high place and see if he starts leaking demon ichor.

"...are you two...er...companions?" Fletcher asked, and Valoria shook her head. Whether or not he'd reason that a cat was comprehending him was one thing, but she would let him have that realization on his own.

There was a movement beneath Fletcher, Lori could feel it, and the startled cat leaped off to trot a few feet away-- lest whatever be beneath Fletcher fling him across the sandy dunes. "Could.. you please.. get your arse.. off my tits."

Gwyn, no less. Valoria sat patiently next to Marsilia, her tail flicking once again in active onlooking at Gwyn struggling to unearth herself from beneath the blond wreck.

[/div]

[/div]

[/div]
[/div]

 

[Hell0NHighWater]

xxxx

Location: The Tomb of Crows :: Library

Interactions: Whisker | KingHalliwell | Lingua Frankly Not

Music to set the Mood

DAEALLA

Irises the color of Scottish thistle encircled dilated pupils, lids blown wide in shock, and she was falling. Her perception of time distorted, everything slowed down until there was nothing, only her and the liquid silver above and the molten glass that seemed to swallow her whole. Her hand reached out, kissing the rippling surface, grasping the endless crevasse of grey. Everything was a blur, a blur that swirled out of existence. Suspended in the air, she closed her eyes and surrendered herself into the infinite below.

She screamed like a baby in a tumble dryer, garbled, muffled, intermittent, but none the less distressing and intense. Her arms flung about at her side as if hoping that they would suddenly become wings. Her body twisted and she had a second to yelp before her face was filled with sand.

Sputtering, she snapped back into a kneeling position, spitting out sand with a grimace, "Mani i'Jukkete?"
Bewildered, emerald orbs flickered up from the sand surrounding her to the rest of the area. Weathered books decorated the lengthy room in organized chaos, some submerged and some coated by the golden blanket of sand. Unable to comprehend what had just occurred, she took her time trying to register the stone columns that had once surly stood as a magnificent architectural feat and were now decrepit and slightly slanted. The series of bookshelves stood in a similar state of disrepair, almost as if no one had been here for many years. Streams of light filtered in from some sort of hole in the roof, illuminating the area just enough so a torch wasn't required. Curiously her eyes drifted across a couple pieces of wood in the sand following the trail of splinters until they vanished behind a huge row of shelves. There was a sudden sound of metal clanking and the elf quirked her head slightly to the side, "Ya naa eller?"

Her forest green eyes scanned the surrounding sand as if looking for something, "Lle anta amin tu?" A long wooden staff caught her attention, half buried in the sand where she had landed, and she scooped it up carefully. Using it to pull herself to her feet, she frowned at the feeling of her bare toes sinking into the sand. Pulling her attention back to where the sounds had come from, she asked, "Lle anta awra?"

The blood drained from her face, mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish with no sound coming out, she stood still as a statue, ridged as a board, looking like a skittish wild animal.

Daealla's wide unblinking stare fixated on the metaled giant, analyzing the battered and dented armor before settling on his face—he had round ears. She reeled backwards, losing balance and falling back onto her butt, her feet kicking up sand as she pushed herself as far away as possible. "SH—SHEMLEN!" The scream ripped itself from her throat. The staff momentarily forgotten, her hands scrambled for something to defend herself with. Touching something solid she picked it up and chucked it at him, watching the book fly wildly to the left. It collided into another wooden shelf with a dull thud. Air hiccuped in her throat, realizing how piss-poor her aim was to have thrown something so wildly off course. Her gaze snapped back to him and she thrust both arms in the air, "N—no stab, please." Fear and concern and confusion fought an ongoing battle across expressive features, analyzing the tilted kind of way he was standing. Somehow she didn't think it was the sand making him do that.

Another voice snapped her gaze to the opposite end of the room, now noticing the two other figures a couple yards away. The sight of another metal-man had her scrambling back again, "JEN'RELL SHEMLEN IL'ENNAS!" Her nimble fingers curled around another book which she launched toward the second stranger. This book, too, veered wildly in another direction and too high to hit anything but a stone column with a pitiful thawk. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, her gaze caught the movement of the third figure. The first thing she saw was the antlers, sprawling and intricate yet unlike any elk she had ever seen before. But they didn't belong to an elk or any animal she knew of.

Come to think of it...she couldn't remember any of the animals she knew. Panic seized her, paralyzing every single muscle in her body.
She couldn't remember.
There was no recollection of how she got here—only fragmented heaps of images that floated just beyond her grasp.
Horror sprawled across her features as it dawned on her that she couldn't remember what she looked like. With trembling fingers, she lightly prodded at her face, eyes wildly shifting around the room for a reflective surface. The thought crossed her mind to use one of the human's armor to look at herself, but that was when she turned around and saw the mirror.

Irises the color of Scottish thistle encircled pitch spheres, lids blown wide in shock and brimming with un-shed tears, her pert full lips fixed themselves into a frown as she saw —and felt— the muscles in her chin tremble like a small child. Intricate tattoos framed her face in a soft design that she was certain had used to mean something and her raven's feather hair barely touched her shoulders. Daealla reached her hand out to press against the glass, a choked sob escaping her lips. She felt so much pain, so much hurt, that she clutched her other hand over her heart. She willed herself not to cry because she didn't understand why she felt this way. Her gaze moved across the carvings on the frame of the mirror, moving her hand away from her heart to brush her fingers across the inscription. The glass splintered suddenly, cracks arching across the surface like spiderwebs. Daealla jerked her hand away, a note of sorrow leaving her before she could suppress it.
She could never go back.
To where? She didn't know. She just knew that she could never go back there—home—wherever that was.
Remembering that there were giant metal-men and an antlered woman that could grind her bones into dust, she reluctantly turned her back to the mirror.

Daealla scrambled to her feet, picking up the staff that laid half buried a couple inches away. She held it in front of her like a shield, "Are," she struggled for a second as if not knowing if the word sounded right, "you to stab me?" She eyed the trio suspiciously, "Please do not stab me, I do not like to leak more than usual."
When she was certain that they weren't about to cause her any physical harm, she continued, "I do not mean to hurt."

Uncertainly, she looked between the fire-haired giant and his counterpart, taking a tentative step forward. The instinct to help outweighed the impulse to run, "Do you have pain?" She barely took a pause to breathe before continuing, "I—I can help fix?"
"Dolle naa lost." She hissed to herself, expression dismayed as she to communicate with the three entities in what bit of common she could remember,"My name is Daealla, I fix hurts...erm, heal stabs and stop leaks." Her expression illuminated slightly, obviously proud of herself for having made (what she thought was) a perfect sentence. She kept her gaze rotating between the three of them anxiously, still not sure if she should be running or not.

⇢TRANSLATIONS⇠

Mani i'Jukkete? ➤ What the fuck?
Ya naa eller? ➤ Who is there?
Lle anta amin tu? ➤ Do you need help?
Lle anta awra? ➤ Are you hurt?
JEN'RELL SHEMLEN IL'ENNAS! ➤ THE HUMANS KEEP SPAWNING!
Dolle naa lost. ➤ Your head is empty. (aka idiot)

 

[BasiliskVeranda]

[class=biggie] width: 100%; margin: 0 auto; text-align: center; clear:both; font-size:13px; color: #1d1b15; font-weight:100; display:flex; flex-flow: row nowrap; height: 100%; [/class] [class=bg]background-image: url(https://i.postimg.cc/FzBrn6WL/hellovel.jpg); background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: cover; background-position: top center; padding:30px; width: 100%; display:flex; flex-flow: row nowrap; height: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; background-attachment: fixed [/class] [class=bigcenter] background: RGBA(11,11,12,0.9) ; text-align: left; padding:10px; color:#eed9cd; font-weight:400; border: 5px solid #361316; word-spacing: 2px; letter-spacing: 1px; padding:20px; box-sizing: border-box; font-size:13px; width:60%; margin: 0 auto; [/class] [class=bigcenter2] text-align: center; padding:30px; margin: 0 auto; color:#eed9cd; max-width:900px; word-spacing: 2px; letter-spacing: 1px; box-sizing: border-box; font-size:13px; width:100%; clear: both; [/class] [class=left] padding:20px; color: #e2e8e5; box-sizing: border-box; width:35%; float: left; [/class] [class=right] padding: 10px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #e2e8e5; width: 62%; float: left; max-height: 820px; overflow: auto; margin-left: 10px; border-bottom:1px dotted #d68b5e; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; [/class] [class name=bg maxWidth="800px"] margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px[/class] [class name=bigcenter maxWidth="800px"] padding: 0px; margin: 0 auto; width:90%;[/class] [class name=bigcenter2 maxWidth="800px"] padding: 0px; margin: 0 auto; width:90%;[/class] [class name=left maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 20px; margin-top:20px; float: none; width: 90%; text-align: center;[/class] [class name=right maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 20px; margin-top:20px; max-height: 100%; float: none; width: 90%[/class]
[div class=biggie]
[div class=bg]
[div class=bigcenter]

Fletcher Niles Cambria
"What's the worst that could happen—I die? Been there, done that. Anyways, who wants to get drunk and do crimes?"

⸸ ⸸ ⸸​

[div class=left]

Location: The Tomb of the Crows (Sand Dunes near-ish Library?)
With: BELIAL. Gilzar mothspit
Mood Music: Florence + The Machine - Kiss With A Fist

Quest:
Branch 1: Ravens & Revelations

OOC:
he is confusion, he is a shit
he gon punch gwyn smack dab in the tit

[/div][div class=right]
The feline pressed her small head against his hand roughly, which painted a warmth over the plucky blond's features. What a blessed creature, Fletcher thought from behind a gentle gaze, not yet registering that the feline he was doting on was, indeed, a fantastical being. A fantastical being by the name of Valoria, who Vel would've called a 'foolish magicked thing', if he hadn't been knocked out cold, of course. The tattered thief ruffled over her ears and scritched to her furry cheeks; a pedigreed cat-parent, if ever there was one.

But this one wasn't quite a cat, was she?

Fletcher was still a fair bit disoriented, and he had no real reason to suspect the feline was anything but what he saw. It was more likely Marsilia had gone mad during her stay in this menagerie of dunes and black rocks. Had he had his wits about him, maybe he'd question the absurdity of a cat being down here, anyways. Sadly, he hadn't.

He had fallen far, as the others had, but he had the added ail of being lacerated within an inch of his life (entirely his own fault) before he fell. Furthermore, he had been fading in and out of consciousness, sharing space with a being who had, up until now, been fairly quiet and benign.

Not only that, but Veldspar had pulled a move that had further complicated and muddied up the works—quite literally. He could feel it now in little starts and stops, yet had no answers for the fatiguing sensation; the beast lay silent.

Suffice to say, Fletcher was not of the mind to be quite discerning, questioning, or aware of his surroundings. Thankfully however, the pain had tapered off enough, but further frailty had been left in its wake, which meant he was drained like a vampire's unlucky victim.

At the moment, he was weakly enjoying not being a stain upon the sand, and relishing the opportunity to flit his fingers under the little furry one's chin. The little furry one who was, unbeknownst to him, communicating with Marsilia via her meows. Who, also unbeknownst to him, would recognize her words by way of some magic.

The little one had trilled, and seemed almost to shake her head at his question. Curiouser and cursiouser, he thought, as the little feline then leapt out of reach. Not yet roused from his mild fugue state, his mind quickly snapped back into place when he felt a vice-like grip snatch at his ankle—

"f—aaaAH!" he half-thundered, half-screeched, then was half-dragged down as a sand-creature's shadow rose from beyond the yellow granular void. Fletcher wasted no time in scrambling forward enough to no longer be atop the beast, and then he twisted back, slamming his fist square into whatever expanse—

"Could.. you please.. get your arse.. off my tits."

—he could find to force it to yield which had...apparently been the...tits...he had just been only recently sitting...on top of.

Fuck.

It was a rather hard punch, considering the blond wasn't quite a master of melee, but he'd been so thoroughly tossed around from recent happenings that it had been full of all the adrenaline he had to his person. He kept his fist there for a time, not moving. Fearing, perhaps, that if he moved, the spell would be broken.

The spell of pretending he had never, ever done this.

Staring at the sandy, beautiful, possibly-very-pissed-off face of one of the most impressive women he'd possibly ever met, Fletcher smiled in only the way a man who knew he was about to get bludgeoned to death could (though yet hoping for mercy). The nervous sort of smile cheeky bastards could have, with tilted brows, accompanied by a terrified chuckle, equipped with the defense mechanism of a shit-eating grin.

"...so g-good of you to join us, darling. Yes, yes...well...I have.....thus removed my arse from your tits. Sadly, it seems a punch took its place," Fletcher removed his fist slowly, and struck a lightning-fast, nervous grin. His hands came up in the universal symbol of 'please do not knock my lights out'.

"I apologize...I've—I'm sorry. If...you're to retaliate, dear, could you perhaps wait a spell? I respect tit for tat, or tit for tit...rather, but," the blond winced, preparing for the worst but being brave enough not to run and civil enough to lend his aid where wanted, "I fear I'm in no state to be punched around at the moment," the blond said earnestly, hands yet raised. Certainly, he could enjoy a slapping fit, but a straight-up crack from Gwyn's clenched fist was not advisable.

He was a broken bird at the moment, and despite Vel's efforts, he needed actual medicinal aid. However, she too needed a wing popped back in its proper place, he noticed—bright blue eyes lingering on the way her shoulder seemed a tad contorted.

If she'd let him, Fletch would also very much try to help her with that. It all depended on her, of course. The blond smiled sheepishly, awaiting his judgement.

One does not simply clock a breast and get away with it unscathed.

[/div]
[div class=bigcenter2]

⸸ ⸸ ⸸​

"Hmm...I could help you, yes. But I could also just watch you suffer. That'd be far more amusing—what do you mean you'll get me a cat if I help?! Why the ten circles of Zaeria didn't you say that sooner?!"
[/div]
[/div]

[/div]
[/div]

 

[Whisker]

Shia Foxcourt


“I can’t feel my fucking a--- fuck,” Shia groaned. Stars were exploding like fireworks in the back of his skull. His legs, half-buried behind a mound of moth-eaten old books, throbbed as if he had just run a marathon. But perhaps worse than all of these aches combined was the taste in his mouth; it was as though he had swallowed an entire sand trap whole.

Oh . . .

He rolled, slowly but surely, over onto his stomach and started to hack and spit up the contents of his mouth. Long lines of drool frothed from the corners as he lingered there on all fours for nearly a minute, hacking and sputtering atop the tomes, before finally melting back down again to tear out a page from one of them.


“I am never doing this again,” he vowed as he used the page to wipe off the drool. “Never, never, nev – ” So wrapped up in his misery he had been, he hadn’t noticed a rapid set of footsteps approaching his location. In fact, he didn’t notice at all that he wasn’t alone until the person had already whipped past him, out through the archway, and kicked up a fat load of dust right back into his face.

“Oh, for Skodati’s sake!” Shia croaked. “Have a care, will you? Who even . . .?”

He never quite finished his angry inquiry when he heard an unfamiliar woman’s voice echo outside.

“Hello! Don't worry, I don't mean either of you any harm! But stay quiet...it's not safe here.”

Either of . . . us?

Shia hastily attempted to rub the dust out of his eyes on the hem of his torn mantle.

"I'm sorry this is all so sudden, but let me introduce myself. I'm Marsilia Sommer. I've been down here for three days..."

"A pleasure, Marsilia,” a familiar voice answered. Shia stopped rubbing at once, his head snapping up in surprise. Fletcher . . . The son of a bitch had also made it . . . to wherever he was now. His knees started to go weak in relief, but froze again as vague memories of what happened above surfaced in his pounding skull.

Devil’s luck, perhaps?

“My name is Fletcher. It's good to see another person, I was starting to worry I'd been the only one to make it—pardon. Th...three days?"

Well, it sure sounded like the real chap. The unfamiliar voice and Fletcher talked about more as Shia slowly extricated himself from the tangle of books and papers. He had just begun to rise when something cold, sharp, and definitely not a welcome sensation jammed itself against the side of his neck.

"Yes, sadly. Might you have any healing—Sorry. Why are you asking the uhh... Are you two...er...companions?”

Breathing as little as he dared, Shia craned his neck – red skin, leather jerkin, antlers . . . Antlers?

Somehow, this last bit struck a chord in his mind. As if this was all some kind of eerie déjà vu. As if he were reliving an act within the very play that was his life all over again. And then the moment faded as the woman – he at least assumed it was female – gruffly replied to Fletcher’s voice.

“Of a manner.”

Then her strange eyes snapped back to his blue ones. “Toss aside your weapons, Fox. Slow and still. ‘Fore I skewer you, and your lark of a friend, too.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Shia said, throwing up his hands. “Easy, now. I don’t have them. I’m unarmed, I swear. I dropped them when --- Hang on, is that a . . .a grub?” His eyes had come to settle at the small, still-wiggling adornment on the point of her blade. Yep, definitely a fucking grub. He seized backwards to get away from the manically wiggling legs. Eurgggggh.

It was at that precise moment a blast of air smacked him from above and without warning. Shia barely had time to blink as MORE FUCKING SAND rained down on him and the antler woman just seconds before yet another startlingly loud crash echoed through the library. In the seconds that followed, Shia just about forgot that he was essentially being highway robbed.

“Uh . . .What in Seven’s name was that?” he asked the antlered woman towering above him. But just as he barely managed that, there was yet ANOTHER sound – this one a high-pitched scream ripped through the library – or at least, he supposed it was one by the look of things. When he looked over, his stomach did a somersault. Through the gloomy alcoves, he could just barely make out the shadow of someone picking themselves up through the remains of a battered table. One of his companions, perhaps? There was other movement, too, and just before he could make sense of that, there came more screaming from the back of the library.

Just what in the world was going on? He must have asked the question at least a hundred times today, but none of what was going on made an ounce of sense. It was like he had fallen out of the realm of the world he knew into one of the picture books he had been given as a child. And all he could do was kneel there and gawp like an idiot.

They must have been quite a picture. Him – kneeling, spattered in sand and briars, and blood running down the side of his face from the crows – and the antlered woman with the sword towering above him for the next thing he knew, a woman fell on her ass out of the darkness, sighted them, and started – perhaps justifiably – screaming again. She seemed to be reeling, and looked about disoriented as Shia felt with the world. Unable to barely think anymore due to the chaos, he looked up at Isolda, back to the pointy-eared woman, and back up again, still entirely open-mouthed. His neck burned. Had he been cut?

It was the elf who brought him back to earth first.

“Do I have pain?”

Although his throat and mouth still felt dry and dead as a dog, he couldn’t help but snort.

“I just fell out of the bloody ceiling after being attacked by fucking crows. I nearly swallowed half the bleeding desert. And to top it off, I am assaulted by” – he broke off to look Isolda up and down – “this charming . . . person and her . . . grub – I mean, sword. And . . . who – what are you?”

Hoping that the antlered woman was just as distracted from this fun little barrel of chaos as he was, Shia dared to reach up and attempt to inch the blade away from his throat. In the second he made the attempt, he shouted in the direction of his known companions, Fletcher and Connor.

“When you’re all quite finished, a little help here, please?”

- - -

Direct Chaos: BasiliskVeranda KingHalliwell Lingua Frankly Not Gilzar Hell0NHighWater

Included: BELIAL. mothspit

 

[Gilzar]

[class=biggie] width: 100%; max-width:1200px; margin: 0 auto; text-align: center; clear:both; font-size:12px; color: #fff; font-weight:100; background: #000 [/class] [class=whut] background: #000;[/class] [class=handsomedevil] background: #262626; text-align: left; width:32%; float:left; color: #fff; font-weight:100; [/class] [class=speakeasy] letter-spacing: 3px; word-spacing: 2px; border-bottom: solid 10px #47302e; font-size:14px; background: #262626; padding:10px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #fff; font-weight:100; [/class] [class=speaks] color: #fff; padding:15px; text-align: left; float:right; width:65%; background: #262626; font-size:14px; line-height:1.4; letter-spacing:1px; padding:20px; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=handsomedevil maxWidth="800px"] margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=whut maxWidth="800px"] margin: 0 auto; padding: 0px; width:97%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=biggie maxWidth="800px"] padding: 0px; margin: 0 auto; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=speaks maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=speakeasy maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box;[/class]
[div class=whut]
[div class=biggie]
[div class=speakeasy]
[/div]

[div class=handsomedevil]



Location: The Crow's Tomb

With: Valoria, Fletcher, Gwen

[/div][div class=speaks]

Marsilia Sommer

So much was happening around her. In just the past few moments, an area that was once devoid of human life was now teeming with it. From behind, her, a familiar voice emerged out of the dunes. Marsilia immediately turned to see Isolda, the red tiefling mercenary, standing with a blade up to a red-headed man's neck...when did they get here? The very sight of the red-skinned Isolda caused Marsilia to drop her shoulders, and let out a small relaxing sigh. Though Isolda wasn't likely in the best of moods, Marsilia was still relieved to see her alive and well. The two had separated days ago because of a disagreement on their course of action, and ever since then guilt had blanketed over Marsilia. If anything were to happen to her hired blade because of her, she'd have a hard time forgiving herself.

The blonde man named Fletcher meanwhile, looked to be in bad shape. Not only that, but a perplexed look overcame him after Marsilia addressed him and his cat. Questions immediately rang out, regaurding the size of the area, whether or not Marsilia was talking to the cat, and if the cat was Marsilia's. Marsilia stood patiently for a moment, before answering the questions the best she could in one sitting.

"To answer your questions, this tomb is quite large." Marsilia explained. "This whole area is a maze of tunnels. Getting through here has proven difficult. However, I've also been in no hurry to leave until yesterday. There are a lot of things that need studying down here - "

Marsilia's thoughts were abruptly cut off by the sight of another person she failed to notice in the library. Beneath Fletcher's injured body, a woman's voice called out in a rather crude manner. Fletcher was on top of someone? Her mouth dropped slightly, and her eyes widened. A surprising amount of people were beginning to fill this library. Just how many people were down here?

Meanwhile, the cat had finally responded to Marsilia's questions. To everyone else, the cat's vocalizations were indecipherable; Just a normal series of meows. However, this was not the case for Marsilia. To her ears, the cat was speaking perfect English. With her attention now fixated on the cat, Marsilia listened.

The cat's tail flickered, and it stared at her with blinking eyes. "You're asking me? Why are you asking me. Am I supposed to chortle out a response between my puny vocal chords?"

"Yes actually," Marsilia replied, looking the cat dead in the eye. "A response would be appreciated!"

She spoke to the cat as if it were her equal, in a tone that did not belittle it or treat it like a pet. This, as well as repeating words or phrases to prove she could hear them was one of the best ways to establish reliable communication. The cat then responded to her second question.

"Probably cracked a few bones, but a demon inside, as well. Two birds, one stone if we throw him from another high place and see if he starts leaking demon ichor."

Marsilia glared back over at Fletcher, raising her brow as she curiosly looked him over. "Broken bones and a demon?"

She rubbed her fingers under her chin, thinking to herself for a moment or so as her eyes drifted back over to the cat.

"A mage is above such things. I'm not going to stone him or throw him off of another heights."

Just when things couldn't get anymore chaotic, another person came screaming into the library. Marsilia didn't get a good chance to see just hwere they came from...but it didn't seem like it was from any of the entrances to the library. The woman was blurting things out in a foreign tongue...perhaps she had hit her head on the way down from the fall and was suffering a concussion. The words that she could make out from a thick accent was just broken English. Where she was right now, Marsilia couldn't see that this was an elf. If she did...she would drop everything and go and investigate.

Instead, she decided to focus on where she was at the moment. Fletcher had moved over to make way for the buried woman with the strength he had left. Marsilia then walked around the vulgar woman buried in the sand, and knelt down next to Fletcher. She peered over his various wounds, trying to figure out just how bad this was. From what she could see, it was bad. This boy was in critical condition...though his wounds did not entirely reflect his fall. Was he attacked by something beforehand? Not that it mattered at the moment, but she would inquire about it later.

"I can heal you, though I'm unsure of the extent at the moment. I prefer to use the life force of plants to do my healing work, and they are sparse down here. If I could collect enough mushrooms I could surely get the job done. I have one on me right now...I'll use it to stop your bleeding."

Behind Marsilia, the red haired man beside Isolda began speaking. Just why Isolda was holding him next to a sword was beyond her, but so much was going on at the moment that she couldn't deal with it. Right now she needed to stop Fletcher's bleeding, or this could get bad. Marsilia reached into her bag strapped around her left shoulder and the right side of her waste. She grabbed the few mushroom samples she had collected to take back, and set them on the ground next to her.

Marsilia gripped her staff with one hand, and raised her free hand just slightly above Fletcher's wounds. She closed her eyes for a moment, and began to focus her strength and energy. Whispering something to herself for a moment, a green aura formed around the palm of her hand. Carefully, she held it over his open wounds, and they began to close at an astonishing rate. Days worth of healing sped up to just moments. Such a process seemed miraculous, but Marsilia was admittedly just an amateur at it. More experienced magic users could heal at a higher rate, at a farther distance, and with a more efficient cost.

All magic came at a price though. Beside her, the mushrooms were beginning to wither away. Though she did not like sacrificing their life, she deemed it necessary to save a sentient human. Such was the cycle of life after all. The withered forms of these poisonous mushrooms would be recycled by the earth, and benefit plenty of organisms in their wake.

Marsilia kept this in mind, and she whispered her sorrow to the mushrooms as she continued to heal Fletcher's wounds.


[/div]
[/div]
[div class=biggie]
[div class=speakeasy]
[/div][/div]

[/div]

 

[mothspit]

"f—aaaAH!"

Gwyn recognized Fletchers voice immediately, just managing to produce her torso from the sand as he so graciously leaped from it, careful so as to not harm her shoulder more than she already had. Right as she opened her mouth to address him, to beg his assistance in pulling her from the pile, she felt a hard fist come smack down... right onto her breast.

The same he had been crushing not seconds ago.

Feeling the twinging pain surge throughout her chest, Gwyn hunched over and let out a stiff, "FuuUuuck," The words seething from her clenched teeth, and her expression tightening as if she harbored a mouthful of wasps. In one slow, angered motion, she wipes the sand from her eyes with her good arm, a set of daggers for eyes suddenly staring Fletcher down from mere inches away, "Yooouuuu..." She hissed, a low chuckle suddenly emanating from the back of her throat. As if the mere fact of what he had done, though not intentionally, was so preposterous to have occurred, it was funny. Of course it was Fletcher. And the way her tone trailed off, like there was no assortment of words in the language to express just how badly he fucked up.

As she seethed there, chuckling away, he advertised his signature shit-eating grin like it was his only recourse; To play it off. And she listened to him, though not necessarily the words themselves, just that, in fact, there were sounds coming from his mouth. Sounds her brain would process as both a plea and an apology at the same time with some delay.

"...so g-good of you to join us, darling. Yes, yes...well...I have.....thus removed my arse from your tits. Sadly, it seems a punch took its place,"

"Mm. That it has." She mused sarcastically, watching him retract his fist like a jungle cat tracking it's prey.

"I apologize...I've—I'm sorry. If...you're to retaliate, dear, could you perhaps wait a spell? I respect tit for tat, or tit for tit...rather, but, I fear I'm in no state to be punched around at the moment,"

Oh, now that's very funny, isn't it? Fumed her internal monologue. The very saving grace of his actions just now were the sole facts that they weren't intentional, and sheer irony of it all. And he was correct in that he was in no condition to suffer the full of extent of her righteous hand. Trembling though it was, half-raised and open-palmed as if she were weighing just how much force was enough. Tit for tat indeed, but the firm, sharp slap upon the side of his head would do little to satisfy the terms of such agreements. But it could wait, as it seemed the universe was ever keen on fucking them over at any given moment. What with being trapped in some hell-pit and all.

With a huff, she began gently digging her other arm from the dirt, wincing as she brought the limp limb close to her chest, "Grant me another favor, darling, and move your arse out of my way--" She grumbled as her legs came pushing up from the dirt, itself parting and spilling before her like sea monsters breaking the waters surface, planting sand-filled boots onto the hard stone flooring with wobbling confidence. If he made any attempts to help steady her, they'd be welcomed with much begrudged snark, but welcomed nonetheless. They'd all had a day, and her attitude in response would pass-- Provided they could get some proper help.

It was then she noticed the assortment of figures around them, her movements coming to a curious halt at the sight of the red-skinned woman, spear in hand, and another woman.. talking to a cat? Their conversation hardly decipherable, she whipped her head around to Fletcher, her expression incredulous; As if to say, "Just how much stranger can today become?" Having hardly interacted with the waters and their properties, seeing only glimpses from her fathers tales, it was like a sick comedy that she be thrust into the middle of it's consequences in this way. And be punched in the tit for it, too.

“When you’re all quite finished, a little help here, please?” Shia pleaded at the other end of the demon-esque womans blade.

"Not to ruin your attempts to rob us, but is that necessary?" Gwyn again huffed in that direction per the gingers request, her ire temperament seemingly only exacerbated by Fletchers blow, "The mans right, spare us the hostility for one blasted second. We've only just had the world fall from our feet, this hardly seems fair."

At the mention of healing by the woman previously entrenched in a conversation with the cat, she jerked a thumb between herself and the blonde thief at her side, "My arms come from it's place, and it's a right miracle this one still breathes. Do call off your companion and give us a hand, we've all had a long fucking day."








mentions: BasiliskVeranda Gilzar Whisker Lingua Frankly Not BELIAL.

 

[The Gunrunner]

[class=biggie] width: 100%; max-width:1200px; margin: 0 auto; text-align: center; clear:both; font-size:12px; color: #fff; font-weight:100; background: #000 [/class] [class=whut] background: #000;[/class] [class=handsomedevil] background: #262626; text-align: center; width:30%; margin: 0 auto; float:left; padding:10px; color: #140033; font-weight:100; [/class] [class=speakeasy] letter-spacing: 3px; word-spacing: 2px; border-bottom: solid 10px #47302e; text-align: center; font-size:14px; background: #262626; padding:30px; color: #fff; font-weight:100; [/class] [class=speaks] color: #fff; padding:15px; text-align: left; float:right; width:65%; background: #262626; font-size:14px; line-height:1.4; letter-spacing:1px;[/class] [class=tip]background-color: #47302e; padding: 10px; box-sizing: border-box; margin-left: 15px;[/class] [class name=handsomedevil maxWidth="800px"] margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=whut maxWidth="800px"] margin: 0 auto; padding: 0px; width:97%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=biggie maxWidth="800px"] padding: 0px; margin: 0 auto; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=speaks maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=speakeasy maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box[/class]
[div class=whut]
[div class=biggie]
[div class=speakeasy]
Kaykavus Nadir[/div]

[div class=handsomedevil]

[/div][div class=speaks]


Nadir's eyes are so transfixed upon the obelisk, so locked in the horror of the reflection standing before him, he does not hear Alrick approach. Only when the man grabs Nadir's shoulder does he whip around, his stance combative despite empty hands. Alrick raises his hammer, ready to respond. However, Nadir quickly calms himself. He shakes his head, silently cursing his panic.
"Perhaps you have come to hit me hard enough, yet I prefer to have some company. Yes?"
Alrick releases a relieved sigh, lowering the hammer and sitting in the sands,
“Heh, I’ll take the company. I can barely lift this thing as is. So, was there a reason you were staring at your reflection like that? I hate to break it to you, but you’re not that stunning.” The two laugh with the joke, Nadir feels thankful for a break from the tension. However, his amusement slowly dies into a groan, as he presses an arm against his chest to again stabilize his broken rib.
"You are right," he says, lowering himself to sit with a dune to his back, "But I do not know how to answer." He pauses, adjusting himself. For a moment, he looks at the obelisk again. Again, his position stiffens, but he looks away after a few moments, "I believe the blonde is not the only one who need fear what comes." Alrick grunts in response. There is a moment of silence - Appropriate, perhaps, considering the circumstances. Unordinary people who had lived unordinary lives in a previously ordinary world. Perhaps this change of events is oddly appropriate. Finally Alrick breaks the silence,
"No, I imagine he isn't... But it seems to me we have more immediate concerns." He gestures to the endless sands, "Whatever horror awaits us in the future will have to wait in line." He pushes himself to his feet, "I suppose we should see if anyone else survived that tumble. So, which sand dune shall we check first?" Neither of them laugh. They both look over the blank and endless sand, in a world quite unknown. Nadir finally nods, a grunt to be his only acknowledgement to the comedy. He pushes himself up, arm gripping his chest tight, and looks about the place. Without much idea of where to go, he points in a direction - any direction - and begins walking.
"I suggest we walk until we find something. I hope you have rations, I do not know how long we will be down here," Nadir says, idly. He is finally beginning to feel hunger within him. Appetite had been quite fleeting for the past few days, he was barely touching his food for quite some time. Thankful, considering his rations have been quite empty.
“I have a full water-skin, and some finely crushed biscuits. Truly our cups overfloweth,” Alrick responds. Biscuits. Biscuits? And one waterskin. Things will be hard indeed.

“So, what brings a man such as yourself to such a backwater? You seemed to have traveled further than most to reach it.” Nadir grunts in reply, walking a few silent steps. He was not prepared to be asked such a question. His feet and hands carry him over another of the dunes, only to see that there are so many more to go. Shaking his head, in a gesture that could only be his version of a silent sigh, he decides not to avoid the question,
"Money. And, eh... safety. I am a deserter, and a bandit. I did what I thought I had to at the time, and now I am avoiding the consequences." He glances back, shadowed and imperceptible eyes scanning Alrick's reaction. Whatever the former bandit expects is not what he sees, merely a reluctant understanding. Curious. He looks forward again, and continues on their path, "There is a bounty, but I am now so far that the cost to return me would be more than what you would earn. Almost like being pardoned, yes?" He chuckles, shrugging off the guilt of the joke. Alrick shares in the humour, though then Nadir turns the question around - "I heard your sins too, friend. What did you do to search death for redemption?" Alrick does not avoid his answer,
“One tale deserves another I suppose... I know not where you are from, but it seems far enough to have not heard of the Northern Purges.” Alrick stops, spitting to the sand, perhaps in disgust, “The Black Waters was young in that time, poorly understood. Not that we know shite about it now.” He gives a laugh to conclude the story, though devoid in humour. A laugh can be for more than comedy, after all - Sometimes it is in frustration. “Anyways, the land where I had grown was hard it early on. Madness infested the minds of many, corruption seeped through the earth itself. The usual. Our response was... Unrefined. Any suspected of being tainted were purged, to spare those around them. A practice in futility to be sure, but that didn’t stop us... The cure proved to be far worse than the disease.” A silence hung in the air for a time as Alrick stares at the ground, watching their own steps. “So I left, much to the chagrin of my brothers in arms. Unfortunately I haven’t been able to put quite the same distance between myself and them.” He is quick and abrupt to change the subject, “So, any idea how survive... Well, all of this?”

The story keeps Nadir's attention. In truth, he had witnessed the similarities between the two - The regret of their atrocities ordered by superiors, fighting for something without knowing the limits. Even the desire for redemption through death, Nadir understands. However, one thing that gnaws on his mind as Alrick shares a background that Nadir to some degree had assumed: How did Alrick not fall as far. Nadir continues to walk, he can not spare the time considering the circumstances, but the words affect him more than he visually makes clear. Alrick tries to change the subject, but Nadir ignores the attempt,
"Two paths out of the same city, yet one is paved and the other rough. I wonder what makes it so." His mind chews on this, a thought that was present in the back of his thoughts - However it is a different form of consideration once brought to the forefront. Alrick responds,
"Hm, paved is a generous way of describing it. I suppose there is still a light that leads me, even if I'm not sure it's there anymore. Makes me all the more a fool eh?" Nadir can only shrug. Normally such self-deprecating humour would bring him to laugh, but at the moment the matter weighs on his mind. He concludes there is little to conclude - he can merely shake his head to himself, and decides it is best to change the subject after all:
"I have no plan. I am used to deserts, but despite the sand this is no desert. I believe your people say that is 'irony'? I struggle with that word. Anyway, I am using the simplest plan when one is hopelessly lost: Choose one direction, and walk." And walk he does. No matter how many dunes, how many steps must be taken, he does not show any signs of fatigue - No desire to slow at all. Another dune is reached, and he climbs it without losing his pace. Alrick keeps pace, and the two climb and maneuver through these strange lands side-by-side.

[/div]
[/div]
[div class=biggie]
[div class=speakeasy]Memories of fate to be[/div][/div]

[/div]

BasiliskVeranda Keidivh

 

[Lingua Frankly Not]

[class=biggie] width: 100%; max-width:1200px; margin: 0 auto; text-align: center; clear:both; font-size:12px; color: #fff; font-weight:100; background: #000 [/class] [class=whut] background: #000;[/class] [class=handsomedevil] background: #262626; text-align: left; width:32%; float:left; color: #fff; font-weight:100; [/class] [class=speakeasy] letter-spacing: 3px; word-spacing: 2px; border-bottom: solid 10px #47302e; font-size:14px; background: #262626; padding:10px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #fff; font-weight:100; [/class] [class=speaks] color: #fff; padding:15px; text-align: left; float:right; width:65%; background: #262626; font-size:14px; line-height:1.4; letter-spacing:1px; padding:20px; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=handsomedevil maxWidth="800px"] margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=whut maxWidth="800px"] margin: 0 auto; padding: 0px; width:97%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=biggie maxWidth="800px"] padding: 0px; margin: 0 auto; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=speaks maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=speakeasy maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box;[/class]
[div class=whut]
[div class=biggie]
[div class=speakeasy]

[/div]

[div class=handsomedevil]

Whisker mothspit Gilzar Archie BasiliskVeranda Hell0NHighWater KingHalliwell
[/div][div class=speaks]

For a fleeting moment the world, though chaotic, had held a sort of sense to it. Isolda tensed as that illusion shattered. When the fox and his companion had been the only human additions to the labyrinth she’d seen, her initial reaction had been one of practicality — disarm the knight, ensure the druid’s safety, assess the danger of the situation — but now, with every dust-filled breath revealing new screeching figures in an erstwhile scarcely inhabited labyrinth, Isolda faltered. Her vibrant fingers flexed upon the hilt of her sword, and her faintly glowing, otherworldly golden gaze flashed from place to place, and person to person.

More shouts. A collapse. A mirror, scampering, and she swerved her sword to address the newest threat only to find it entirely lacking. A creature, a humanoid creature that was neither human, nor like herself, was scampering around, and speaking the common tongue with so heavy and foreign of an accent that Isolda stared, baffled beyond measure. Her ears and the markings upon her spoke of a story Isolda could not quite place. A reference to something she had heard once as a child, as though from the mouths of men meaning to frighten her, or tales of times long since past —

Her sword swiveled back to the knight, and she eyed a splash of red at his neck where she must’ve sliced him amidst the noises and arrivals.

“My name is Daealla, I fix hurts...erm, heal stabs and stop leaks."

Fantastic. A priestess.

“I just fell out of the bloody ceiling after being attacked by fucking crows. I nearly swallowed half the bleeding desert. And to top it off, I am assaulted by” – Isolda sneered down the length of her sword, halfway to indignant – “this charming . . . person and her . . . grub – I mean, sword. And . . . who – what are you?”

The knight’s fingers moved to push away her blade. She watched it happen, and… though her gut turned at the necessity, she allowed her blade to swerve aside, her illuminating gaze narrowing.

“When you’re all quite finished, a little help here, please?”

"Not to ruin your attempts to rob us, but is that necessary? The man’s right, spare us the hostility for one blasted second. We've only just had the world fall from our feet, this hardly seems fair."

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Isolda called back, over her shoulder and aimed toward the woman who had last spoken. Her, a robber? Perhaps. But t’was not the case on this day, when their numbers were so grand. “Got all his bits, still. If you mean no harm to the druid, we have no quarrel.” This did not stop her from briefly baring her teeth in the fallen man’s direction. Finally, she withdrew her blade from the fox’s air, and stepped aside. The grub had ceased its wiggling; raising the sword, she pulled the dinner-to-be from her sword, and dusted it along the front of her leathers to shake sand free of its flesh.

“Collect yourselves,” she said to those closer to herself, turning her back to them, and the doorway which separated them from the others. “I am hardly the danger that lurks in this tomb. I expect you’ve woken them.”

“More danger. Excellent. I was just wondering how my evening could possibly get worse.”

An amused snort proved his answer. Spitting a wad of dust-flavored saliva on the ground, the tiefling left the human and his attendant — his something attendant, though what this ‘Daealla’ was precisely Isolda knew not — and rounded tall, musty bookshelves to come upon her strewn pack, and overturned pot. Crouching down, she first dug the pot free of the sand half-burying it, taking up a corner of her cloak-turned-bedding to wipe the sodden mess free. It’d taken half a day to fill it with water enough for drinking and boiling; and with the arrival of so many more, Isolda cast a distrustful gaze to the stick she’d wedged between wall bricks, and the droplets of water that travelled it, drip, drip, dripping into sand below.

With such a large group, they would need more water.

And with such a large group, she felt a slow hatred simmering within her. How long would it be until they forced her away, as she had so often experienced before? She feared not persecution. Its familiar flavor had forged her as truly as the few willing blades of her uncle’s men. No. But to be discarded in this labyrinth, with whatever beasts left such large, avian footprints, with the monsters that lurked the halls come night—

That was a different terror entirely.

Bundling her affects together, Isolda took up twine and tied the vast majority within her cloak. The pot she left out, underneath the steady trickle of water; that, she could grab in a hurry. She would be ready. When the group of adventurers drove her off, when their superstitions and blades turned upon her, she would be ready.

And in the meantime, she vowed to herself, scrounging and patting through the damp sand and scattered fire for beetles and grubs she’d been boiling before chaos had fallen from the sky, that she would feast her rumbling stomach into submission, constipation or not.

It would not be her famished nor dehydrated when the beasts descended.


[/div]
[/div]
[div class=biggie]
[/div]

[/div]

 

[BasiliskVeranda]

[class=biggie] width: 100%; margin: 0 auto; text-align: center; clear:both; font-size:13px; color: #1d1b15; font-weight:100; display:flex; flex-flow: row nowrap; height: 100%; [/class] [class=bg]background-image: url(https://i.postimg.cc/FzBrn6WL/hellovel.jpg); background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: cover; background-position: top center; padding:30px; width: 100%; display:flex; flex-flow: row nowrap; height: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; background-attachment: fixed [/class] [class=bigcenter] background: RGBA(11,11,12,0.9) ; text-align: left; padding:10px; color:#eed9cd; font-weight:400; border: 5px solid #361316; word-spacing: 2px; letter-spacing: 1px; padding:20px; box-sizing: border-box; font-size:13px; width:60%; margin: 0 auto; [/class] [class=bigcenter2] text-align: center; padding:30px; margin: 0 auto; color:#eed9cd; max-width:900px; word-spacing: 2px; letter-spacing: 1px; box-sizing: border-box; font-size:13px; width:100%; clear: both; [/class] [class=left] padding:20px; color: #e2e8e5; box-sizing: border-box; width:35%; float: left; [/class] [class=right] padding: 10px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #e2e8e5; width: 62%; float: left; max-height: 820px; overflow: auto; margin-left: 10px; border-bottom:1px dotted #d68b5e; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; [/class] [class name=bg maxWidth="800px"] margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px[/class] [class name=bigcenter maxWidth="800px"] padding: 0px; margin: 0 auto; width:90%;[/class] [class name=bigcenter2 maxWidth="800px"] padding: 0px; margin: 0 auto; width:90%;[/class] [class name=left maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 20px; margin-top:20px; float: none; width: 90%; text-align: center;[/class] [class name=right maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 20px; margin-top:20px; max-height: 100%; float: none; width: 90%[/class]
[div class=biggie]
[div class=bg]
[div class=bigcenter]

Fletcher Niles Cambria
"What's the worst that could happen—I die? Been there, done that. Anyways, who wants to get drunk and do crimes?"

⸸ ⸸ ⸸​

[div class=left]

Location: The Tomb of the Crows (Sand Dunes near-ish Library?)
With: BELIAL. Gilzar mothspit Lingua Frankly Not Hell0NHighWater Whisker
Mood Music: Mitski - Nobody

Quest:
Branch 1: Ravens & Revelations

OOC:
FEELINGS. Also King is taking a lil break, btw.
edit: sorry for the edit. apparently gwyn's slap wasn't hypothetical.
lmao


[/div][div class=right]
"To answer your questions, this tomb is quite large. This whole area is a maze of tunnels. Getting through here has proven difficult. However, I've also been in no hurry to leave until yesterday. There are a lot of things that need studying down here—" Marsilia had begun her curious explanation, just before Fletcher had the impeccable misfortune of busting his fist into Gwyn's chest like a battering ram. Nearly everything after, between the cat and Marsi's apparent...conversations therein, was processed in retrospect like a fever dream.

The blond—thin of continence and thin on blood—had to make sense of it all while facing his imminent demise. He wore a smile as the events unfolded around him; his greatest of defense mechanisms, and yet it was a paltry armor.

"FuuUuuck," Gwyn wound up like the bellowing of a preternatural beast, "Yooouuuu..." Ah shite, here it comes, thought the disheveled, harrowed thief. In truth, he was not afraid of death by (rightly) pissed off companion. He was, however, afraid of the untimely death of whatever brisk smiles he'd managed to pull from her in passing. Being unable to conjure them would have been a tragedy.

She, thankfully, had the good humor to chuckle while quite certainly contemplating if she should turn his bones to dust.

"Broken bones and a demon?"
"A mage is above such things. I'm not going to stone him or throw him off of another heights."

These sentences flickered past, Fletcher catching Marsi's mouth moving from the corner of his eye. He made the fatal error of not keeping his focus on the irate woman in front of him, yet realigned as always to smile defensively as she spoke. Though Gwyn did not break his face or bust his ribs with the thunder of her knuckles, she did at this moment give him a good firm slap with her open palm. The thwack resounded, and yet he seemed not taken aback as his head was forcibly turned.

In the usual logic of this unusual fellow, this was grounds for courtship. This, Gwyn did not know, and Fletcher wasn't quite keen to tell her just yet.

Face stinging, he placed a hand to where the flesh burned and conjured the strength to grin sincerely. It was a vast undertaking, as he was mired in the thick of bloodlessness. But she deserved nothing less than a true grin for not breaking his jaw, and also endearing herself further, despite perhaps being unaware of that facet.

"Grant me another favor, darling, and move your arse out of my way--"
"Of course, darling. Here—" Fletcher shifted back to stand, although unstable himself, he managed it. When her tepid steps found purchase, the blond with the veritable smack mark on his face helped her find her footing and pulled away to let her march forward at her own pace. Marsi had begun to speak again, and he had yet to process what she'd said prior.

Was the cat...one of their companions? Maybe the slap had rendered him stupid. Before he could cleave the air in twain with a half-grin quirked reply, the air crackled before his eyes like a sea of stars; a memory licked the vertebrae of his spine as time, for Fletcher, stood still. Shia's plea for help fell on ears of sand.

Veldspar had let a gossamer dreammare slip, possibly because now, now was the right time.

As before, Be Humbled. Be Humbled, and learn.

⸸ ⸸ ⸸
​

He was shorter, poorer, younger, and weaker than all of them—and they knew it. They would then seize this opportunity as they had plenty of times before, to misplace the tapestries of their own pain to mark his own meager book to splintered bindings.

One knows the type; bullish youths who find whoever is easiest to target; and this was always Fletcher. There was no mother to run to on this day, no bright-smiled matron to wave away the offenders with an errant broom. Amalia was terribly sick at home and unable to escort him, and he'd been in charge of going to the wet market in nearby Tallis to grab what he could for a stew.

The chipper blond youth had been on his way back, tip-toeing over Tallisian cobblestones in his own sort of game, dodging cracks with a small basket in his arms. A broad smile mirrored the sunny sky, and nothing felt truly wrong in his difficult little corner of the world...until the basket went flying across the brisk blue sky and collided with a nearby doorway, just as a fist collided with his face not unlike his had collided with Gwyn's chest.

The sun of his smile had been clouded clean from his face. His small bag of coin, containing mere coppers, was plucked off the street.

Once dropped to his knees, the other boys fled the scene. There was no need to bludgeon him further; they'd done their damage. Boys will be boys, after all, and this boy was now trying to smile through the blood running from his mouth, as if to conjure the glimmer back into being.

Nearly rotten cabbages, one scrap of meat, and various herbs were strewn about him like corpses on a battle field.

The blond sat for a spell as the pain blinded him. The left side side of his face fractured in pain, traversing that lightshow of agony down to his mouth. He spit, wiped his mouth, and resumed to trying to pick up what he could salvage. Brush himself off, reclaim what he could, mimic the sunny sky in smiles, head home, and return to the gentle embrace of the mother made of warmth—at least that had been the plan.

At that moment, a stray black cat who had sincerely seen better days hobbled his way to snatch the only meat he had. Not that he could use it for the stew, given the dirt it was covered in, but he made chase after the spry creature. The pain throbbed, his eyes welled with tears, but he now wore the malice of war and made haste.

"Wait, you big jerk!"

The cat did not wait for him, but it did lead him to a place that would give him more than was taken. Filled with the thrum of a tiny war, he stalked on short limbs through an alleyway and found himself scuffling beneath an enclave of broken boards.

Before his eyes, in a bed of hay, lay an assortment of many tiny kittens and a weakened mother feeding them. One might think her haggardly black tom cat would face this coming supposed predator with claws and teeth, but he didn't, perhaps sensing the busted boy was about as threatening as a pill bug.

The anger fled as his tears had earlier, and he dropped to his knees after much effort. His face still rung true with pain, but it was all forgotten in an instant. They were endearing creatures; small and vulnerable, not unlike himself.

"You're hungry too, huh?" he sniffled, wiping his face with the back of his hand. Fletcher smiled like a bursting star. Indeed, they were hungry. The little ones mewled as their mother gave them what she could, but she seemed so weak...

As the kittens' parents needed food, his mother needed food, and he certainly needed food, Fletcher took it upon himself to solve this problem in the only way his small frame could.

This is when he learned to steal; what was now a borderline addictive habit had once been his one way to survive. He fed these little ones fish and milk, they grew used to his presence thus adopting him, and his mother and himself ate better than they had in years.

The bullies stopped their torture when he gave them 'borrowed', glimmering things. He was caught but thrice as a youth for his transgressions, received his lashings, and never again made the same flavors of mistakes. The dance of blades came much later, and only after faced with a foe his stealth and slight of tongue failed to work on.

That lesson he learned with a razor-sharp smile, bloody-mouthed but victorious.

Be Humbled, and learn.

⸸ ⸸ ⸸​

The sea of stars faded, leaving Fletcher feeling naked in his own skin. It took a bit too long to get past his distant gaze and foggy expression, but it abated like grains of sand through loose grasp as Gwyn spoke.

"My arms come from it's place, and it's a right miracle this one still breathes. Do call off your companion and give us a hand, we've all had a long fucking day." Fletcher's brows raised to his hairline; apparently they were all seeing this bright red, antlered woman...right?

"I can heal you, though I'm unsure of the extent at the moment. I prefer to use the life force of plants to do my healing work, and they are sparse down here. If I could collect enough mushrooms I could surely get the job done. I have one on me right now...I'll use it to stop your bleeding."

"Anything would be deeply appreciated—you're curiously kind, you know that?" Fletcher managed a thin smile, if only for the blood loss and his weakness. He was trying to be genial, but his star was on supernatural life support at the moment.

Marsilia's magic kindled, drawing from the mushrooms that were most certainly mild deliriants of some sort (of course he'd know this), and her spell took shape. It was beautiful to behold, certainly, and Fletcher grew humbled by her gifts.

Magic constricted through his skin, ricocheting symbiotically off the invisible work Veldspar was employing. As Gwyn intimated, the demon was honestly holding him together, in wait of aid like this. Fletcher would have to be humbled from this point forward, and learn not to dive into battle ready, willing, and apparently aiming to die.

Was that the deeper truth beyond it all? Memories covered over were not memories lost; the body, perhaps, remembers all its fathomless sorrows and great joys. Fletcher felt that his sorrows must certainly be endless, if he rushed to death's heady embrace to escape them.

"Thank you," the blond said, placing his hand on Marsilia's to stop her ministrations, "...ah, in Tallis they refer to these as 'Tandy's Marbles'..." he chuckled, referring to the mushrooms—in better spirits already yet unsure of why he knew this. The phrases spilled from his lips naturally; the ghost in his body begged remembrance.

"...they have unusual affectation. Which...I'm apparently feeling at the moment," the blond paused, rearing to stare incredulously at the partially obscured visage of the quite fluorescent woman lording over...Shia. The technicolor auras must be starting already, he assumed based on her brilliant hue.

"I would very much like to ask you why you and the cat can converse, and why they know what they do and why they'd suggest throwing me from a great height, however it appears we have more pressing matters to attend to. Gwyn's bruised breast and unfortunate arm for starters, and the—oh." The pieces of a puzzle he didn't know he'd been working on came together. Who is permanently prickly, wields magic (supposedly) of some sort, and has privy to the knowledge about himself the group had gleaned earlier? Who's sort of magic involves...spit?

Who, out of all of them, would suggest flinging him to his death? Baldur was a possibility, but Fletcher hardly thought the man capable of even stomaching being something so small and...fluffy. Who is also painfully small?

The blond surveyed the others, noting that a few of his companions were absent, but decided that his conjecture was correct, if not amusing enough to test.

"Well, well, well! Look what the cat dragged in. Valoria, dear, you'll have to teach me this parlor trick sometime. It'd make burgling far, far easier," the blond poured on the sardonic pleasantries, glancing at the feline with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

"Much later, of course..." Fletcher paused, hand to his mouth, then to the cheek that no longer hurt, and back again. Bright blue eyes glimmered over the scene in the adjacent apparent library. He took a few steps forward, more spry than before yet still fragile, and cocked his head to the side. He had had the brilliant, albeit stupid plan, to galvanize those around him to take down the...antlered, bright red woman...should she pose further threat. He was not about to lose his one-time drinking partner, the fiery rogue, or any of the rest of them, for that matter.

Yet, what had he just promised to himself? To not leap into death's arms like a fool. But she was outnumbered, and whatever stupid spirit of heroism that lived within him wished desperately to save the red haired fool who conveniently seemed to get himself in the thick of trouble at the drop of a hat.

However, that would not come to pass.

The pale thief ducked his head around the corner of the adjacent bookshelves that obscured him. At the far end stood a curious woman with pointed ears. He would've been surprised, however, he had met a purple man, hadn't he? Furthermore, a red one with horns had come upon them in a gruff display. Fletcher was also possessed, and Vel had warned him of Alrick and Kaykavus, as well...

Fletcher honestly didn't think he could be surprised anymore. This chaotic, black watered world wouldn't allow it.

“Got all his bits, still. If you mean no harm to the druid, we have no quarrel.” Of course they meant to no harm. They needed her possibly more than she needed them, judging by how battered they all were.

“Collect yourselves. I am hardly the danger that lurks in this tomb. I expect you’ve woken them.”
"Them?" Ah, yes, little bird. You were...mostly sleeping—an old thing perches. The crows are her stewards, Vel managed though it took a great deal of effort and his inner voice sounded haggardly, and very far away. You sound like dog shit.

Hmm, well, yes. That's...to be expected, when one's stupid host is so intent on dying.

The demon said no more within the chasm of his mind, settling back to rest now that he hadn't the need to keep the blond alive with every small slip of black ichor he had at his disposal. Vel was due for a long nap, however that may have been quite a mistake, considering where exactly they all were. However, Veldspar was far too weak. He had been roused a great deal too early. Without the magic catalyst he needed, embodying his dark designs would be a wholly implausible task. Especially with the poor choice of hosts he'd been destined to occupy.

Fletcher was incorrigible.

The blond sauntered forwards, then placed his hand on his hip. He flicked a bright blue gaze over the brightly colored woman, Shia, and the elf.

"I have one very pointed question: all of us can see that this impressive woman is red and horned, correct? I mean no disrespect," the blond paused, to place a hand to his chest as his dramatic flair willed it, "crimson is quite beautiful. I'd simply like to know if the mushrooms Marsilia used have...compromised me."

With that statement, a deafening boom resounded in the distance. Far enough away, it seemed, to not be an imminent threat. But it was there, and it sounded like the guttural cry of a deep-warbled bird. As if the tones had been brought down to the deep color of something Vel might employ.

"She's right. We'd do best to tend our wounds, and find the others—Fletcher, red woman and elf. Red woman and elf, Fletcher. Let's 'collect ourselves' and get out of this shit hole. I'm destined to die of old age in the embrace of many beautiful someone's, with a belly full of food, sitting on a pile of gold coin. Not stuck in a pit of sand."

The blond crossed his arms and leaned against a towering bookshelf, cascading his eyes across Shia's form with concern, to the nick on his neck, to the elf (weren't they a myth?) who seemed frazzled, to the brilliantly painted woman, to Marsilia, to potentially Valoria, and back to the bookshelves beyond him.

"How's the tit?" Fletcher asked Gwyn who was hopefully about to be healed, in bright enough spirits to grin like the sun they could see no longer.

[/div]
[div class=bigcenter2]

⸸ ⸸ ⸸​

"Hmm...I could help you, yes. But I could also just watch you suffer. That'd be far more amusing—what do you mean you'll get me a cat if I help?! Why the ten circles of Zaeria didn't you say that sooner?!"
[/div]
[/div]

[/div]
[/div]

 

[mothspit]

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Grumbled the woman who, thankfully, lowered her weapon levied against Shia.

"Aye, it's what happened," She grumbled back, her good arm incredulously gesturing between the sand around them, the top of the pit, and those near that had fell. Dramatic. Psh.

Gwyn watched on curiously as Marsilla worked her magic-- Mushrooms withering and wilting away upon her completion. The dark-haired rogue cradled her own arm, craning her neck at Fletchers side to examine the exposed bits of flesh through his torn, tattered garb from the previous quarrel, her furrowed brow and pursed lips equal parts concern and curiosity. Despite her pointy exterior, his death would have been another she carried heavily; Someone young, beautiful, and full of life-- Both literally and metaphorically, with recent developments-- It would have been one wasted. And perhaps preventable, a thought not unfamiliar to her. Magic, of course, she had witnessed before; The court of her ill-begotten noble father often sought entertainment of mages and tricksters. But this magic was different. It gave where others took, the mushrooms very life force powering it's properties. Simple card tricks and sleight of hand was enough to command her attention as a child, mistaking the rudimentary (and undeniably human) practices for real magic. His wounds cared for, he became invigorated almost instantly, his face lighting up with wistful reminiscence. With it, hers too seemed to relax, grateful enough to have at least his fate prolonged, rather than avoided-- Though, that remained to be seen. And not just for Fletcher; They were all now tasked with escaping this pit together.

"...ah, in Tallis they refer to these as 'Tandy's Marbles'....they have unusual affectation. Which...I'm apparently feeling at the moment,"

Gwyn stifled another giggle from under her breath, a half-shake of her head bringing back a slew of her own memories. While it came as no surprise he was familiar with the mushrooms and their whimsical side effects, he might be shocked (or perhaps not) that she did as well; Noble gatherings often were rife with substances to alter the mind, some more egregious than others, and many of her first taboo experiences were had with them-- Those so above her in status, yet romped through the mud with her anyway; A masked devil among a sea of the wealthy and important. For those short nights, she became one of them, privy to their warts and secrets alike.

"..'Devils Footstools' we called them," She added once Marsilla eventually came to heal her next, offering the druid woman a thankful nod, "Eat one too many, and you'll be scraping your very soul off the walls."

Swept up in his own ramblings for yet another time, Fletcher came to some sort of realization in the middle of Marsilla tending to Gwyn's injuries; Thankfully she harbored little, a set of cuts along one cheek, the dislocated arm, and the additional scrapes and bruises throughout. Like how the pain had permeated through her chest cavity, instead what blossomed was relief. A warm, comforting light that reached from the top of her head to the tips of her fingers. When it passed through her arm, the bone saw fit to snap into place on it's own, the feeling so strangely involuntary it knocked the breath from her.

"Ah, saints keep you," She inhaled sharply, giving her arm a quick roll as the feeling returned in the form of pins and needles. "Well, well, well! Look what the cat dragged in. Valoria, dear, you'll have to teach me this parlor trick sometime. It'd make burgling far, far easier," Came Fletchers snark tone. When Gwyn followed his voice, he was talking to the cat, addressing it as though it were Valoria in some other form. Now wasn't that curious? With all the commotion that had occurred in such a short period of time, it seemed only natural each new development became stranger than the last. If not for Marsilla's healing hand, it might have sent her into a spin. Too much to keep up with, too many questions unanswered. Hell, the moment she and Fletcher could pry themselves away from the others, she had a list for this 'Veldspar' to answer for. Speaking of those mushrooms, surely it wouldn't hurt to.. take a couple for the road, right? Just for whenever they can navigate their way from this hellscape, something to take the edge off..

She carefully bent down next to a patch untouched by Marsillas magic, picking a helping handful to stuff into the pocket of her now-healed breast. Then, she decided to follow the thief in question, lest he run off and get himself into more trouble in need of healing once again. Namely, in Shia's direction-- Near the makings of a dilapidated library, towering books and crumbling shelves dotting the sandy space. Grateful to see another of their crew had survived the fall with, 'all his bits,' as the red woman so eloquently put it.

“Collect yourselves. I am hardly the danger that lurks in this tomb. I expect you’ve woken them.”

"Them?" Fletcher responded. As if on cue, from somewhere deeper in this maze of sand of books, there sounded the chilling, guttural cry of some.. thing. A creature the rogue woman was not reticent to meet, yet the same they were undoubtedly tasked with murdering. The crows themselves were certainly fear-inspiring, but what commanded them had to be far worse.

"Oh, brilliant," She muttered, popping the smallest of her mushroom hoard into her mouth. Taking the edge off indeed. Again she could hear the voice of Markis Abernathy, scolding her for such a reckless decision; It's not like alcohol, She reasoned internally, as if it were anyone but herself she were trying to convince, I could fight it this way. Who knows what kind of madness the mere sight of it could instill. Better that I see a giant rabbit in it's place..

..Or you, father. I hope it would be you.

"She's right. We'd do best to tend our wounds, and find the others—Fletcher, red woman and elf. Red woman and elf, Fletcher. Let's 'collect ourselves' and get out of this shit hole. I'm destined to die of old age in the embrace of many beautiful someone's, with a belly full of food, sitting on a pile of gold coin. Not stuck in a pit of sand."

Gwyn turned her dark eyes in Fletchers direction, dragging them across every inch of his cooler-than-ice posture. It was funny-- What he just described is precisely the future she had always envisioned for herself. And at one time, she might have attained it, had it not been for her own hubris. Still, there was something about Fletcher that she couldn't help but find.. charming. Endearing, in his own way. It reminded her of herself, and all the worst parts that came with. She figured that was why Veldspar attached to himself in the first place; Like she, he was a little too eager to jump headfirst into trouble. These days, such folks were not a rare occurrence, but ones that she could relate to.. very much were.

In the midst of her thoughts, he seemed to catch her eye with his usual cheery smile, and just when she thought he might have said something equally as pleasing..

"How's the tit?"

Not a poet, is he?

"..Pleasantly un-punched. I can see you're well," Gwyn shot back with a small grin, leaning against the same aforementioned bookshelf there next to him, "But I'll be holding you accountable soon enough, you needn't worry." ..Did she just wink, or was it a trick of the light? Either way, soon she held in her palm one of many crumpled mushrooms; A peace offering, of sorts. 'I forgive you, but this means you owe me,' her expectant expression seemed to say. Her mood had lightened, but one thing that would certainly keep the spirits up would be a companion in this trip-- In both meanings of the word. If he accepted, of course.

"..Just to make our inevitable deaths a little more interesting." She whispered playfully.

 

[Keidivh]

[class=biggie] width: 100%; margin: 0 auto; text-align: center; clear:both; font-size:13px; color: #1d1b15; font-weight:100; display:flex; flex-flow: row nowrap; height: 100%; [/class] [class=bigcenter] background: RGBA(16,19,20,0.91) ; text-align: left; margin: 0 auto; padding:10px; color:#eed9cd; font-weight:400; border: 5px solid #0b2427; word-spacing: 2px; letter-spacing: 1px; padding:20px; box-sizing: border-box; font-size:13px; width:90% [/class] [class=bigcenter2] text-align: center; padding:30px; margin: 0 auto; color:#eed9cd; max-width:900px; word-spacing: 2px; letter-spacing: 1px; box-sizing: border-box; font-size:13px; width:100%; clear: both; [/class] [class=left] padding:20px; color: #e2e8e5; box-sizing: border-box; width:30%; float: left; [/class] [class=right] padding: 20px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #e2e8e5; width: 65%; float: left; max-height: 700px; overflow: auto; margin-left: 10px; border-bottom:1px dotted #d68b5e; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; [/class] [class name=bg maxWidth="800px"] margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px[/class] [class name=bigcenter maxWidth="800px"] padding: 0px; margin: 0 auto; width:90%;[/class] [class name=bigcenter2 maxWidth="800px"] padding: 0px; margin: 0 auto; width:90%;[/class] [class name=left maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 20px; margin-top:20px; float: none; width: 90%; text-align: center;[/class] [class name=right maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 20px; margin-top:20px; max-height: 100%; float: none; width: 90%[/class]
[div class=biggie]
[div class=bg]
[div class=bigcenter]

Alrick Gottzmann
"What hope is there for man, when their greatest champions are no better than the monsters they hunt?"​

[div class=left]

■ ■ ■
Location: Crow Moms place
With: His bro
Mention: The Gunrunner
■ ■ ■





[/div][div class=right]
Seeing Nadir drop into a combative stance caused Alrick to groan inwardly. After all that had happened so far, would he be forced to strike down a man he owed a blood debt? The idea sat ill within him, but worse was the idea of dying in this endless desert. With a rather considerable amount of effort he readied his hammer, waiting for Nadirs next move. While he was unarmed it was more than possible, he could overtake the ex-knight, his wounds holding him back despite the spirits best efforts.

The strike never came however as the foreigner managed to shake off whatever haze he was trapped in. Releasing a shaky sigh, he lowered his hammer, his muscles thankful for the relief.

"Perhaps you have come to hit me hard enough, yet I prefer to have some company. Yes?"

“Heh, I’ll take the company. I can barely lift this thing as is. So, was there a reason you were staring at your reflection like that? I hate to break it to you, but you’re not that stunning.” The two men shared a much-needed laugh, a momentary escape from the unending shitstorm of events that had so far unfolded. Still, there was a true question in the jesting remark. It was as if nothing but that obelisk existed to Nadir for that moment. Perhaps he had simply hit his head on the way down. Or perhaps this desert had more sinister effects than it openly presented.

Nadir grunts in pain as he holds his side to sit down, clearly having had a rough landing himself. It was rather remarkable they had survived at all in truth.

"You are right, but I do not know how to answer. I believe the blonde is not the only one who need fear what comes." As he spoke Nadir seemed to stare off into the distance, his helm keeping secret whatever emotions swirled within him. Clearly, he was not the only one in this group to be haunted by some type of horror from the past. At this point it wouldn’t surprise Alrick to find they were all cursed in some manner or another. Perhaps the gods decided to draw them together for some reason. Likely to amuse themselves considering how useless they had been of late. Sitting next to Nadir, Alrick remained silent for a time as he ruminated over this discovery.

As the sun continue to beat down on him however, it became evident rather quickly this wasn’t the time to wonder how these events had come to unfold.

"No, I imagine he isn't... But it seems to me we have more immediate concerns." Wincing, he raised his arm to gesture towards the endless dry sea around them. "Whatever horror awaits us in the future will have to wait in line." Pushing himself up, Alrick had to hold in a yelp as pain rolled through him once more. Taking a moment to collect himself, he turned back to Nadir. "I suppose we should see if anyone else survived that tumble. So, which sand dune shall we check first?" It was meant to be another jest to lighten the mood, but it was evident by the silence that neither were in the mood to laugh any longer as the gravity of their situation settled in. Nadir simply points in a direction, and they walk.

"I suggest we walk until we find something. I hope you have rations; I do not know how long we will be down here." Alrick’s eyes widen for a moment as he checks his pack, which had of course torn open at some point disgorging much of his supplies he would usually take when he knew he would be away from civilization. What he was left with didn’t inspire much hope. His timeframe for survival seemed to be shrinking with every moment.

“I have a full water-skin, and some finely crushed biscuits. Truly our cups overfloweth.” It would last him a few days if he really managed to stretch his rations, though it was rather doubtful. In his condition he needed rest, food and a great deal of alcohol. None of this would be in abundance anytime soon.

They trekked silently through the dunes, which held a quiet that disturbed him. It was as if there was nothing alive here at all, a truly dead realm. Perhaps his own world would resemble such a place when the Black Waters had finished taking its course. It was a thought he did not wish to linger on.

“So, what brings a man such as yourself to such a backwater? You seemed to have traveled further than most to reach it.” While small talk wasn’t something Alrick usually cared for overmuch, it was far better than the quiet that surrounded them. Nadir simply grunted as he proceeded forward, apparently a question that he didn’t care to answer. And why would he, anything to have caused him to travel so far must have been a horrid circumstance. This was why he did not make small talk. It was far too complicated.

Despite his initial hesitance however, Nadir seemed to resign himself to answering. "Money. And, eh... safety. I am a deserter, and a bandit. I did what I thought I had to at the time, and now I am avoiding the consequences.” Trudging through the sand aimlessly, Alrick simply stared out at the vast nothing before them as Nadir laid bare his past. In another life he would have been disgusted by the thought of desertion, but he had learned the folly of blind loyalty and obedience. When Nadir glanced back to see his reaction, he would only find reluctant understanding. Desperation made monsters of men. "There is a bounty, but I am now so far that the cost to return me would be more than what you would earn. Almost like being pardoned, yes?"

Alrick chuckled darkly as the man joked about his ‘pardon’. He knew better than most that the past could not be escaped no matter how far you ran. The laughter died quickly though. Of course, the question would be turned upon himself. You really need to learn to just keep you’re damn mouth shut you fool. Seeing no way to avoid it after Nadir as had answered, Alrick provided an answer of his own.

“One tale deserves another I suppose... I know not where you are from, but it seems far enough to have not heard of the Northern Purges.” The taste of these words upon his tongue made Alrick spit upon the sand in disgust, dissipating in an instant as the dry environ hungrily consumed it. “The Black Waters was young in that time, poorly understood. Not that we know shite about it now.” He couldn’t help but laugh at how little was learned of the phenomenon over the many years. Rather it was simply accepted as normal. Was that a testament to mankind’s adaptability, or its lack of willpower?

“Anyways, the land where I had grown was hard hit early on. Madness infested the minds of many, corruption seeped through the earth itself. The usual. Our response was... Unrefined. Any suspected of being tainted were purged, to spare those around them. A practice in futility to be sure, but that didn’t stop us... The cure proved to be far worse than the disease.”

A silence hung in the air for a time as Alrick stared at the ground, watching one foot trudge over the other. There was more to the story, but he couldn’t bear to share it. There was too much pain there. Too much shame.

“So, I left, much to the chagrin of my brothers in arms. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to put quite the same distance between myself and them.”

Not wishing to continue this line of thought, Alrick quickly pivoted more immediate concerns. “So, any idea how we survive... Well, all of this?”

Sadly, his diversion seemed to be ignored as Nadir said nothing, likely pondering the tale he had just heard. Perhaps he was disgusted by the purges and Alrick’s part in it. It was something he would blame him for. He didn’t have to wonder for long as the man spoke up.

"Two paths out of the same city, yet one is paved and the other rough. I wonder what makes it so." It was difficult to read what was behind the words he spoke, Nadir being a true stoic. Still it seemed he was curious, maybe even frustrated that while he had succumbed to the darker depredations of humanity, Alrick has not.

Such a thought amused him, as the atrocities he committed would make any bloodthirsty psychopath envious.

“Hm, paved is a generous way of describing it. I suppose there is still a light that leads me, even if I’m not sure it’s there anymore. Makes me all the more a fool eh?” Again, the jest fell flat as silence reigned again. It did not sit well with Alrick, digging through his past in such a manner. He enjoyed letting such things remain buried, so when Nadir changed the subject Alrick was happy to go along with it.

"I have no plan. I am used to deserts, but despite the sand this is no desert. I believe your people say that is 'irony'? I struggle with that word. Anyway, I am using the simplest plan when one is hopelessly lost: Choose one direction, and walk."

As Nadir spoke of his plan, Alrick could only nod. Side by side, the two men would force their way through this ocean. No matter the obstacle, they would push through. No redemption could be found here, thus death was not an option.

[/div]
[div class=bigcenter2]

“And yet, unworthy as I am, I must endure. I must fight until the dawn breaks this unending night, lest it swallow me whole.”
[/div]
[/div]

[/div]
[/div]

 

[Hell0NHighWater]

xxxx

Location: The Tomb of Crows :: Library

Interactions: Whisker | KingHalliwell | Lingua Frankly Not | BasiliskVeranda | Gilzar

Music to set the Mood

DAEALLA

“Do I have pain?”
Her words were echoed back to her and she found herself nodding slowly, gaze flickering from the metal man's face to the cut on his neck. Her slender fingers pressed into the skin of her forearms, nails biting in the layer of fine dust, leaving crescent moon imprints that weren't deep enough to draw blood. Daealla watched the man speak with wide eyes, his voice animated with a tone she distantly recognized.

“I just fell out of the bloody ceiling after being attacked by fucking crows."
"Fucking?" She parroted in confusion, tilting her head.
Instead of pausing to explain, he forged ahead, "I nearly swallowed half the bleeding desert. And to top it off, I am assaulted by this charming . . . person and her . . . grub – I mean, sword. And . . . who – what are you?”

She couldn't tell if he was insulting the rather intimidating woman or complimenting her. Perhaps it was both? Unfamiliar with human customs, she shifted a bit self consciously. Dipping her head slightly, Daealla managed to give the other woman a soft smile despite how terrified she felt, "Lle naa vanima, do not let a Shem say opposite."
Pausing for a moment, she returned her attention back to the metaled man looking him over clinically. Her inspection stopped on his ears, gaze narrowing as she leaned forward to peer at them.
They didn't look all that different from her own; they were merely nubs. She wondered if they worked the same way. Curiosity compelled her forward, moving into his personal space, "Mani naa essa en lle?"

Looking at him expectantly, it took her a moment to realize that she hadn't spoken in the language she was trying to speak in, "Your...name?"
Without waiting for his response, she was circling around him, hands pressing gently into his sides and between the gaps in his shoulder plates. Watching his reactions carefully, she paused when he made a note of pain when she tried to move his arm. Stepping away, she placed her hands on her hips with a quizzical frown, "Can you remove the metal arm drapes?"

While Daealla waited for him to remove the armor from his arm, she began to roll up the sleeves of her robe giving the antlered-woman a wary look as she called something out. Realizing that there were other, strange, voices shouting back she stopped to listen.

“Got all his bits, still. If you mean no harm to the druid, we have no quarrel.”

Quarrel? Druid? She didn't know these words, but they sounded very strange. Her head quirked to the side, curiously watching the exchange. After a couple more seconds her gaze caught on the mirror and she found herself staring at it for a long moment.

“Collect yourselves,” Daealla jumped at the sound of the other woman's voice, “I am hardly the danger that lurks in this tomb. I expect you’ve woken them.”

Blinking, round emerald irises sparkled with a mixture of confusion and curiosity, "You all look very awake to me." Dae paused for a moment, burrows furrowing in confusion before lifting in understanding, "Oh, Them? As in more than one of—mhn—something?"
Confident that she had now caught herself up with the conversation, she started looking around the room before her attention refocused on the metal man and his shoulder.

With practiced guidance she moved his arm into the position that she wanted, gaze lifting to rest on his face. Her mouth pulled into an easy grin, "Lle naa belegohtar," the phrase held a touch of condescending glee, as if she were a mother soothing an injured boy out of spite, but it was lost as she continued, "Remember to breathe."

She popped the socked back into place with a quick jerk.

"Breathe." The command was soft-spoken, barely above a stern whisper as she settled one hand against his shoulder.

"I have one very pointed question: all of us can see that this impressive woman is red and horned, correct? I mean no disrespect," She paused and looked up, as a new voice began to speak, "crimson is quite beautiful. I'd simply like to know if the mushrooms Marsilia used have...compromised me."

"Mushrooms!?" She echoed, leaning around the metaled man. Temporarily abandoning the metal man, Daealla rubbed her hands together nervously, creeping up behind the crimson toned woman, looking like a small child trying to hide behind her mother's skirts, "Can I see? They may help hurts."

As soon as she finished speaking there was a boom that echoed in the distance. Reflexively, she dipped behind the taller woman as if she would do anything to protect her. Feeling foolish, she cleared her throat and took an overly large step away.

"She's right. We'd do best to tend our wounds, and find the others—Fletcher, red woman and elf. Red woman and elf, Fletcher."

She blinked, completely lost. He spoke too fast for her to understand and she found herself looking like a deer in the headlights. Maybe she should have run when she had the chance—but she wanted to help. Her lips pressed into a thin line and for a moment she thought she might burst into tears. Gritting her teeth she willed herself not to cry, forcing her expression to remain as indifferent as possible. Taking a deep breath, "I am not elf? My name, I mean—it's not—"

"Let's 'collect ourselves' and get out of this shit hole. I'm destined to die of old age in the embrace of many beautiful someone's, with a belly full of food, sitting on a pile of gold coin. Not stuck in a pit of sand."

"Shit hole? Is that what this place is called?" She looked around at the stone columns and sand—the books and the metal man whose arm she had reset. "Gohtar, your kin say this place is called 'Shit hole'—this is why the desert was bleeding, no?" Grinning, she turned back to the antlered woman only to notice she had walked off; which left her standing there awkwardly with people she felt like she didn't know as well. Which was dumb, she didn't know any of them really—but she had known those two metal-men and the antlered woman for ten minutes longer.

"Ah," she started, turning her head between the blond man and the other figures behind him, "You said Mushrooms?"
She held her hand out expectantly, before realizing that no one had any. Looking a little disappointed that there weren't any mushrooms she sighed, "Do one of you have stab—" she made a cutting motion, "but small? Little? A little stab?"

"Certainly," the blond started, unearthing one of his rudimentary daggers.

She gave him a relieved look, "Diola lle, tanya farnuva—Thank you."

However, the moment it tilted to fall hilt-side to her open grasp, he clasped it just out of reach. "As long as you make sure not to lose it, or your fingers, in the process. Though old, these blades are my only true possessions." The blond smiled distantly, and then was sunny once again as he let the hilt fall to her palm.

"Amin n'rangwa edanea, amin n'ruwa ta—amin uma ma’ ten’ raaaashwe ta tuluva— a’in lle unke'naa lye omentien!"

"...I should have asked you why, but perhaps my elevated spirits endear me to yet more surprises."

She huffed, too focused on her own monologue to even try to translate what he was telling her. Taking the blade from his hands, she took a second to weigh it in her hands, narrowing her eyes at him, "Mani'in hama neva i’nau, Mallen pelu e’ n’alaquel min en’ sen."

Turning the dagger towards her arm, she paused for a second suddenly looking a little concerned, "Sut naa lle amin?"

Allowing the entire train of thought to crash and burn with a shrug, she made a very precise cut across her inner arm, careful not to dig too deep. Crimson blossomed across pale flesh, beginning to dribble down her forearm. A rose colored droplet rushed down the side of her arm, lured by gravity, Daealla drew a breath to exhale a whisper, "Tangwa en’ templa." The ruby crystalline droplet froze just before it hit the ground, lifting as if it were made of helium. Calmly, she hovered her hand over the gifted blade and the blood on the knife leapt toward her open palm as if it were a magnet. Gathering her own lifeblood into the palm of her hand, she watched it swirl into a golf ball sized sphere. Lifting her head, she graced the blond with a cheerful smile, extending his blade back to him; she said by way of explanation, "I can help hurts now."

Moving back over to the metaled man she beamed showing off the little ball of swirling blood, "Gohtar, I can make your pain less now."

⇢TRANSLATIONS⇠

Lle naa vanima ➤ You are beautiful
Lle naa belegohtar ➤ You are a mighty warrior
Gohtar ➤ The name she now calls Shia, means warrior
Diola lle, tanya farnuva ➤ Thank You, that will suffice

Amin n'rangwa edanea, amin n'ruwa ta—amin uma ma’ ten’ raaaashwe ta tuluva— a’in lle unke'naa lye omentien! ➤ I don't understand these humans, like I don't doubt it—I'm sure it could cut me reeeeeal bad—if I didn't know how to use it!

Mani'in hama neva i’nau, Mallen pelu e’ n’alaquel min en’ sen. ➤ Which I most certainly do, I've cut bodies up enough times to know what I'm doing.

Sut naa lle amin? ➤ Actually how do I know that?"

Tangwa en’ templa ➤ (Elvhen magic my guy idk what this means)

 

[Whisker]

Shia Foxcourt


"Lle naa vanima, do not let a Shem say opposite."

Shia's attention swiftly diverted from his companions back towards the disoriented woman from earlier. She was smiling now, albeit a slight one, and he wrinkled his nose a bit at her unfamiliar tongue.

"Er, yes," he croaked dubiously. "Naa vanima or whatever."

What was this language she was speaking? He racked his brain. It sounded familiar, as if he should've known from his days pouring over scrolls in the convent. If it was cipher or even remotely Tallisian in dialect, he should've known. So why, then, did it stump him now?

He was still puzzling over this when he heard Gwyn call over from the nearby dunes.

"Not to ruin your attempt to rob us, but is that necessary? The mans right, spare us the hostility for one blasted second. We've only just had the world fall from our feet, this hardly seems fair."

"You're a peach among women, Gwyn," Shia started to say, but broke off hacking from all the sand he'd swallowed earlier. Fortunately, it seemed to be enough to way the red woman; she lowered her blade.

"Don’t be so dramatic. Got all his bits, still. If you mean no harm to the druid, we have no quarrel."


Shia spit onto the floor. "Of course, we're no bloody threat."

At least in our current state.

It was difficult to imagine that not even hours ago they were still in Medreen, a proper warband for all of five minutes. And that his ancestral sword was still there in the hands of an ornery blacksmith. Wiping the spit from his mouth with the back of his hand, the red-haired lord of Foxcourt sat up wearily and started to his feet. He heard Isolda mention something about danger nearby and shot her a withering glance.

"More danger. Excellent. I was just wondering how my evening could possibly get worse."

Harpies. Crows. This accursed place. What next? Mummies, perhaps? More demons?

"Your name?"

The voice was close. Shia whipped around again to see the woman circling him, studying his movements as if he were a bug in a jar. His slender eyebrows shot up.

"P-pardon?" he asked warily.

The tone didn't appear to phase her. She pressed in suddenly. Her hands slid through the gaps in his armor, feeling, pressing … and — "ow!"

He winced broadly as she pressed into the gap of his pauldron. The dull throbbing had hence gone unnoticed, thanks to the leftover fear and adrenaline of the fall; but it returned now in spades, causing his head to swim. So much so, that he barely had time to think about how bizarre this ritual was.

"Can you remove the metal arm drapes?" she asked.

"I-I think so," Shia answered. Making sure to keep his arm as still as possible, he used his good left to try unfastening the buckles that held them in place. It took a minute, his fingers clumsily working to slide off the bracers and heavy straps that buckled his gear in place. And when he finished, they were placed into a careful pile next to him on the ground. Gray eyes watched the pointy-eared girl expectantly.

"You a healer or something?" he grunted, resisting the urge to spit into the sand again to relieve the dryness of his mouth.

"Lle naa belegohtar," she replied. Whatever that was to mean. "Remember to breathe."

"What are you —?"

Pop!

Shia let out a sharp hiss as in one swift jerk, his shoulder popped back into place.

"Gods … fuck, agh."

Tears swam in his eyes, though the nobleman blinked them forcefully back. Blinking, he lifted his chin, trying to mutter either 'thank you' or another blistering oath, but to the discovery the pointy eared woman was gone. He turned to find her hurrying up the slopes towards his companions, squeaking all the while about mushrooms.

Doggedly, he gathered up his gear in his one good hand to finally go rejoin his party.

. . .

He found them at the top of the slope. Fletcher, Gwyn, a cat, and the two strangers. Shia unloaded his gear into the sand, then plopped down next to them with a thump.

"Connor's alive," he said to Fletcher and Gwyn as he sat. "Spotted him in the library. No sign of our other companions."

He looked down at her hands.

"Those ... aren't poisonous, are they?"

But before he received his answer, the pointy-earned woman returned. She had something floating — as if Shia had any disbelief left — above her palm.

"Gohtar," she called. "I can make your pain less now!"

Shia grimaced, looking over at his companions, then back up warily to the floating crimson dot in her hands. "How?" he demanded. "I warn you, I better not have to put that in my mouth. I'd rather eat grubs." The very suggestion made him shiver, and despite himself, he found his eyes roving back towards the library where they had left the red-horned woman.

Between antlers and pointy-ears, he wondered which would rob him of his sanity first.


Direct mentions: BasiliskVeranda mothspit Hell0NHighWater Lingua Frankly Not
Included: Gilzar KingHalliwell BELIAL.

 

[idalie]

Location: Tomb of Crows
Interactions: (Anyone in the vicinity of library entrance!)
Mentions: BELIAL. BasiliskVeranda mothspit Hell0NHighWater Lingua Frankly Not Gilzar KingHalliwell Whisker

Guillemot de Clermont​

The sands moved with strange tides, sinking his boots in rippling dunes as the paladin staggered through the halls. Wounded, his leg dragged, a gauntleted paw grasping at his side. The armoured figure wheezed with the grace of a tree bowing to the wind, every creak and groan threatening to fall. Drunk with fatigue, De Clermont paused to catch his breath by the obsidian columns that held this grand structure - this ungodly temple of grotesque abominations. He had seen the few beasts that roamed, black and scaled corruptions with beady eyes, Knights who had never once bled red but dressed in fine ebony plate.

From the air one breathed to the inexhaustible torches that lined the dark corridors, the vile taste of sacrilege permeated every crevice. A void in the map of human kindness, where this vehemently evil thing received only one redemption. There was love, a devotion, pure or twisted; it had cemented itself among the carcasses of this tomb like a mother and her calcified fetus.

Guillemot had tried to rest and regain his strength before heading further into the depths, although sleep abandoned him in the way petty lovers run circles around their devotees, reminding them of all their wrongs. Sweat soaked his gambeson, running down his back in cold rivulets while he pushed ever onward for some glimpse of daylight. He couldn’t tell you for how long he had been there, but he recalled the manner of how he arrived vividly. In the midst of prayer and preparation for the harpies ahead, he fell to the depths of the tomb with its flocks of crows and bitter Queen.

Pausing in the dimly lit hallway, De Clermont bowed his head against the near wall. It was merely a countdown to starvation, measured by jutting ribs under taut skin. Would he be quiet, or would he whine and weep like a child left to the elements. He had once believed he could change the world with thundering psalms and long-winded speeches until the reality of how the future was spun caught you unawares. It was better to end the spark of new life before it could grow to grieve. He thought, dreamily, whether he may end it for himself with the poetic gusto done unto others. How unfortunate death had been revealed to be anything but heroic.

Even Kings shit themselves with their last breaths.

Voices interrupted his bothersome inner monologue, distant but many. Human sounding, but one couldn’t be too sure. A trap? A hallucination born of exhaustion? He glanced back, recounting how far he’d come as a pilgrim for this diseased place of worship. No use in turning back.

The paladin moved to forcefully put weight on his leg, standing straighter with a hand on the hilt of his blade. Forward, pain radiated from his calf and shot through his thigh, half shuffling and half marching his way to the end of the hall. Beneath the helm his breathing grew ragged, somberly meditating on his wrongs as preparation to confess. If not in this life, the next. Closer, he began to see silhouettes, closer still he noted the grand library behind them. Over his shoulder he saw the flicker and by the time he’d swung about to see whether he could escape as easily as he’d arrived, the direction from which he’d emerged had mirrored itself. One could only guess where it would take an unlucky adventurer.

De Clermont clanked into view of the strange grouping, halting as he examined the merry band with disappointment. No beasts to fell, no armies to flatten the blasphemous palace of sand. They were tired, ragtag, jovial even. Fresh comrades with a mixture of faces and sorts, it grew stranger the longer he looked.

“People,” He softly noted, as if it were impossible he should run into more. The sight of them was to recall a measure of hope. Wearied, his posture like a bow-legged beggar, he waved to them half-heartedly.
“You’ll have to excuse or execute me. First fellows I’ve seen in days, the tunnels aren’t kind.” Upon better inspection, they all seemed dazed - new additions. Mayhaps part of the reason why he’d been guided this far. Not that he knew anything more, except for the creatures he had spied and narrowly escaped, injuries as price for curiosity.
“Tell me, did you pass through Medreen?” His question had not been aimed at anyone in particular, helmet providing no help to as where his gaze may have landed, “Small town, harpy problem." His breath hitching as he continued forth with abnormal gait, low voice hollowed from the rebound of metal.

 

[BasiliskVeranda]

ＦＬＥＴＣＨＥＲ⠀ ＮＩＬＥＳ⠀ ＣＡＭＢＲＩＡ

​

​

WITH: Everyone but the bromeos⠀WHERE:Library-ish
MOOD MUSIC: Mazzy Star - Into Dust
OOC: We breaking post order nao. Go nuts. I just wanted to respond as much as possible to give people something to work with. Feel free to pick and choose, he's just being a dingus.

"..'Devils Footstools' we called them," Gwyn had chimed in as Fletcher regaled Marsilia and the others on the mushrooms she was drawing power from, "Eat one too many, and you'll be scraping your very soul off the walls."

The blond thief arched a brow; he would've been a fool not to guess she was familiar with the deliriants, however he was pleased she had an understanding of their potency.

It meant he could possibly enjoy them with someone genial and hopefully not worry very much about them meeting an untimely death in pursuit of pleasure. He'd have liked to say he hadn't watched someone choke on their own insides and roll their eyes up into their skull for just such a reason, but that would've been a lie.

Many pursued enjoyment at their own expense; he wasn't special in that regard, but 'Devils Footstools' he did not wield lightly.

"The devil is always in the details, is he not?" the blond mused, casting a cheeky glance to the dashing dark haired rogue, the corner of his mouth flicking upwards in his token Cheshire grin.

His smile was always a thinly veiled dare, as if to ask the other to meet it with a flush hand. She already had, physically, but the game of loose leaf smiles was something particular to performance. Perhaps she'd call his hand with something metaphorical or intoxicating.

He'd be right on one of those counts; a sorry—if brilliant—move. One they would definitely not regret, in ways they wouldn't yet understand.

The cat costumed Valoria hadn't answered his obnoxious verbal prodding. Perhaps she preferred to clean her bits, which the blond chuckled at, finding her scraping a sandpaper tongue over her tiny foot. Perhaps she was bored. Perhaps she wasn't Valoria at all. Perhaps, more likely, she was tired of all their shit and munching on her toes was a better use of her time.

That was a more likely assessment.

He couldn't say he didn't find her little gnawing endearing. Cats were particularly pleasant creatures for the thief, despite their barbs and tiny fangs.

"..Pleasantly un-punched. I can see you're well," the dark haired rogue leaned his way, taking to the bookshelf he'd found himself propped up against, "But I'll be holding you accountable soon enough, you needn't worry." He swore he'd caught a wink from the powerful woman, now healed just as he was, warranting a thankful look Marsilia's way.

This one in particular, he didn't want to lose to cruel fate. Despite her injuries not being wholly detrimental, he found the prospect of her in pain a flavor of unsettling he didn't reserve for accomplices such as his one-time drinking partner.

Who was still in the thickets of a pain he had no hope of solving, though the mangle-speeched elf in their midst would soon attend to. This was a different shade of worry, though a worry nonetheless.

"I'll hold you to that," he said in hushed tones, edging his lips to the shell of her ear. Fletch pulled away to cast a glimmer of a smile, "But no funny business, darling. One punch is all you get," he raised a finger to exemplify his point, "lest I tumble you to the sands and take to ineffectual fisticuffs."

"On second thought, I might enjoy that as well," he chuckled low in the chest, pausing. With open palm, playing her flush hand expertly, she presented an offering: Devil's Footstools, Tandy's Marbles, deliriants for connoisseurs. They were not to be truffled with; the wordplay of thought caught his smile and bade it sharper.

He plucked one free and popped it into his mouth. Bitter and mealy as it was, he'd take anything he could get right now to stymie this hellscape of sand and screaming things. Screaming things he hoped they wouldn't run into, but inevitably would, as was their fate to face misfortune at every inopportune moment.

"..Just to make our inevitable deaths a little more interesting."
"Much more interesting, thank you," the thief managed as he chewed, "at least it will distract from the prospect of sand in places disconcerting."

Time would pull them forwards soon enough, and the brightly colored woman would no doubt be the most ravishing, aura-stricken red he'd possibly have ever seen. Things unfunny would grow hilarious, funny things would turn into cacophonies of visual spellwork that he'd be doubled over about. Faces would melt, and perhaps grow fearsome, but the blond would still find this entertaining.

Veldspar was resting, but his silence felt curiously fearful. Fletcher felt in his bones he didn't enjoy the intoxicants for reasons he didn't know. Perhaps it was very unfamiliar for the demon—did they not have drugs where he hailed from? Did he not hail from here at all?

Perhaps he just couldn't handle it, while the blond was capable of sitting in the void completely unhinged from reality, laughing until he made no sounds at all. The soft chuckling had already begun; his stomach had been rather empty after all was said and done.

"You know," he tried his best to stifle his goofy expression, "you have quite loud eyes. I feel they're trying to tell me something, but the drugs are getting in the way of it. Maybe," the thief narrowed an eye at the mushrooms in Gwyn's grasp, "Oh, indeed this is the strong sort. Better one than two, I'd say."

His laughter would not last, as Daealla who had borrowed one of his blades would soon conjure a nightmarish sight.

"Can you remove the metal arm drapes?"
"Oh dear," the blond said, second guessing his suggestion at just one mushroom, "on second thought, another if it pleases you. This one's phonetics are too rich an opportunity." Even as he said this, Fletcher cast a glance at Shia that spelled in no uncertain terms his concern. Concern for what the elf may do, concern for his injuries, and the overall brotherly overbearing sort.

"Ah, godspeed my friend—"

Daealla popped his arm back into place and the blond winced, sympathetic pain egged on by the mushrooms causing him to clutch his own arm. They had all truly done a number on themselves, hadn't they? Speaking of which—they were missing a few companions...

"Connor's alive," Shia had managed after veritably collapsing into the sand. Out of fatigue or emotional exhaustion or both, he couldn't say. "Spotted him in the library. No sign of our other companions."

"...what of the barking one?" Fletcher had begun his descent into viewing prismatic hues and shotputting fits of chuckles, pantomiming the motions of the animal in question. "Apologies—" he tried his best to act accordingly, but Shia's body had become an acordian in his eyes, and his words started to garble in the air not unlike Daealla's, floating like little gems of ancient glyphs.

"Those ... aren't poisonous, are they?"

The elf had returned with something red and expansive floating in her hands. Something red and expansive that spoke to—Blood, little bird. I can smell it, and the call to a power she's careless to. At the moment.

What the shit does that mean?

Eh, your hysterical delirium agonizes me so. I'm going to retire again. No, no...enjoy the menagerie with me. The beast reeled in his veins and Fletcher felt as if he were turning away to ignore him. Oh, you're no fun. And you're too much, heathen.

"Shit hole? Is that what this place is called? Gohtar, your kin say this place is called 'Shit hole'—this is why the desert was bleeding, no?"

"Bleeding?" Oh, that was a dreadful word to say. Now Fletcher had begun imagining, in his mushroom begotten antics, the sands were indeed bleeding. And they were, right before his eyes. His hands came to his face and he gawked, yet it wasn't much of an expression. Soon it twisted into deep chuckling, that of which he tried to stop but came like a flood.

"Gohtar," she spoke in foreign words, foreign words that floated about in golden syllables that spoke of ancient things, and twisting phrases, "I can make your pain less now!"

"How? I warn you, I better not have to put that in my mouth. I'd rather eat grubs." Grubs. Fletcher didn't like them; he had a natural aversion to those, leeches, ticks, mosquitoes, scarabs, and things that dug into the skin. They didn't pay room and board for his flesh; on that merit, did the demon? The blond crossed his arms, high and irritated at the thing inside of his body for no discernible reason except for his thoughts were spinning out like a spool into the air and casting ridiculous notions.

The blond was eager to catch them, and may have struck out a hand to lacerate the air—he paused in mid swoop.

"Wait. Have you used my dagger for what I asked you not to?" he asked Daealla incredulously, then laughed at his own incredulousness.
"Oh yes, a fine poison at that," the blond noted with a 'hmm' sound sent Gwyn's way, the wayward question Shia had asked dissolving out into reds to meet his ears finally. Shia spoke in tones of russet it seemed; red like his hair, but a bit darker.

It interested the blond, yet his one-time drinking partner hadn't said much more for a spell. Gwyn spoke in blues to him, he'd soon find. Blue, his favorite color, deep and rolling like the ocean.

A newcomer would speak in gray, a disarming sort. Veldspar curled around his muscles at his speech, a curious ministration, as Fletcher would only be startled. The metal clanking had resounded like a warm drum.

“People. You’ll have to excuse or execute me. First fellows I’ve seen in days, the tunnels aren’t kind.” They were accruing more of them. Like pack animals hinging together, seeking one another, or perhaps horses dying of thirst in this vast underground desert. Cloying together for that last scrap of invaluable liquid.

“Tell me, did you pass through Medreen? Small town, harpy problem." The man in question asked, cloistered in metal not unlike Kaykavus, but seeming a different sort of bird. Kaykavus felt brittle yet unyielding. This man seemed imprisoned in the suit, and certainly soon it became a vast shroud before Fletcher's eyes.

"Agh, now the visions grow malignant," he paused, reasoning with what reason he had this would be taken as an offense, "Apologies, mushrooms, slight constitution," as if that explanation was perfect, simple, and descriptive.

"Yes," was all he said, not giving much, but attempting to raise his palm in a swivel from elbow to wrist, his other arm crossed against his chest.

"Well. Yes," he tried again, breaking out into a fit of chuckling that only was partially solved by placing his hand on Gwyn's shoulder, "Yes."

"Apologies...yes. Ser. Hah. Sit, sit for a spell. You look encumbered so," the blond managed in between thin, breathless laughs. "Oh, this was a mistake, darling. Perhaps—" he snorted, "Perhaps Daealla has a panacea...that doesn't involve using my knife to stab hers—" Fletcher had no more words, and he must have appeared mad.

This had been a dreadful, wonderful, bountiful mistake. He was absolutely useless as the air swam with shapes inhuman and the sand seemed to lap at their heels like water.

He picked up his foot as the yellow grains cascaded past his ankles. It was beautiful and surreal. He hoped Gwyn could see the same, because it was indeed a lovely painting. A lovely painting now trickling up his calves like stardust seeking the sky above.

Lovely.

 

[mothspit]

GWYNDILIN ABERNATHY

​

​

WITH: BasiliskVeranda Whisker + anyone else i forgot to tag WHERE: librarby MOOD MUSIC: Gorillaz - Humility OOC: uwu

"I'll hold you to that," Fletcher whispered back, his lips a hairs breath away from her ear, only to pull away again with a smile and belated chuckles, "But no funny business, darling. One punch is all you get,"

"Only one? Very well." Gwyn's lips formed a small, amused pout; He had no problem spelling out his interests, of which it seemed he had a pension for either humility, or pain. In both regards, she was very much familiar with. In fact, the more she pondered it for a moment, it had been quite some time since she traveled with this many people, let alone do drugs with them. Longer still since she shared more than bread with another person. By choice, she confidently assures herself-- Certainly not her irritability or inability to maintain her urges. Nope.

"lest I tumble you to the sands and take to ineffectual fisticuffs. On second thought, I might enjoy that as well."

"Do you think you could?" She chuckled finally, hands firmly planting on either hip. The question wasn't a provocation necessarily-- It would only be a matter of minutes before the mushrooms effects took over her mind, as well, and tumbling through the sand would prove to be much more difficult than if they shared a sober mind. When colors blur, senses shift, and reality suddenly becomes a lot more entertaining. How long had it been since she engaged in any sort of playful romp through the dirt? And was that all it would be, or did the prospect of getting physical excite the thief in more ways than one? "I'd have you under my heel in seconds, darling," She smirked, "Though It'd be no surprise if you enjoyed that, too."

He had, luckily, accepted her offer, stifling down one of the mushrooms without hesitation.

"At least it will distract from the prospect of sand in places disconcerting."

"Eugh, you needn't mention. I can feel the chaffing setting in now.."

"You know," Fletcher called her attention again, "you have quite loud eyes."

"..Do I now?" She chuckled again, slightly more nervous. Is it that obvious?

"I feel they're trying to tell me something, but the drugs are getting in the way of it.

Maybe," He eyed the mushrooms, "Oh, indeed this is the strong sort. Better one than two, I'd say."

She was inclined to agree; At least, until the elf woman drew near, something akin to blood suspended in her grasp. She seemed to be helping Shia with his injuries, his arm popping back into place soon after. Fletcher winced and clutched his own arm sympathetically, and Gwyn too couldn't help but grimace. "on second thought, another if it pleases you. This one's phonetics are too rich an opportunity." He requested plainly. Stifling a small laugh, she thrust another fungi into his palms. Though, she was never known to be outdone in the intoxication regard, soon tossing another for herself into the air to catch with her open jaw. This would certainly be an interesting night.

Gwyn used the brief gap in the conversation to.. stare aimlessly across the space, the first vestiges of intoxication making themselves known. The intricate texture of cracked stone pillars began to twist and melt, as if it were a candlestick left in the open sun. Fletchers blond locks shone a brilliant, sparkling gold, flowing in a nonexistent breeze. The rogue woman blinked, unsure at first if this were the result of the mushrooms, or the demon in his skull conjuring some sort of image. When her eyes landed on their half-formed party, the red-skinned woman looked physically warm to the touch; Waves of energy radiating off of her as if she were... a pie. Yes, that was it; A delicious cherry pie, cooling on a windowsill. Morbid though it was, suddenly Gwyn found herself wondering if, in fact, her skin tasted as red as it looked. It had been some time since they ate, hadn't it?

"Those ... aren't poisonous, are they?"

A wave of realization struck Gwyn like a punch to the tit, warranting an audible gasp from her and she began fumbling about her person; Patting pockets and sleeves, searching various nooks and crannies of her garb until the desired item was located-- A wrap of cloth, containing a few solemn strips of dried goat jerky. It was her usual traveling snack, and while her hunger had been mostly ignored through this whole endeavor, drugs had a way of intensifying the feeling. Shia's question had all but flew over her head entirely with this revelation, her teeth tearing off a bite to savor the salty goodness.

"Oh yes, a fine poison at that," Fletcher responded after some time, passing a 'hmm' sound in her direction.

Her eyes abruptly snapped up to meet both men's, having been transfixed by the pure flavor of the jerky like it was mana from the heavens. She swallowed a mouthful of the stuff and began nodding her head incessantly, "Yes, yes, very deadly, you know. Better to go out on our own terms, eh? Care to join us my gingered friend?"

Suddenly, another new companion clanked into view from the shadows-- At first, the sight of the patterned helmet sent her reeling, having contorted into a type of.. hollow, ornate face.. that sent chills up her spine. Though Fletcher, incorrigible as ever, offered little words to answer his questions.

"Agh, now the visions grow malignant. Apologies, mushrooms, slight constitution,"

"..Right," She attempted, "Erm, there were.. crows. And no sweetrolls." Shit, what'd he ask again?

"Yes." Said Fletcher, though whether he was agreeing with her to attempting to answer, she didn't know.

"Indeed," Gwyn said back, nodding confidently.

"Well. Yes." He began giggling now, his hand gripping her shoulder in an attempt to regain his composure. But Gwyn couldn't help herself, his expression as he tried to hold back the laughter only sending her further down into a hysterical fit. It was a low giggle at first, her drug-induced smile lighting up as, for one last time, he said, "Yes."

A pause. Gwyn sucked in both lips, trying to contain the amusement within, only to have it come spilling from her mouth in a hearty, echoing laugh. Her expression an incredulous mixture that said 'It's not even that funny.' And yet, it was.

"Apologies...yes. Ser. Hah. Sit, sit for a spell. You look encumbered so," Fletcher spoke between laughs, "Oh, this was a mistake, darling. Perhaps—" he snorted, "Perhaps Daealla has a panacea...that doesn't involve using my knife to stab hers—"

"How rude, he does not look like a cucumber!" Gwyn scolded playfully, gesturing flippantly in thief's direction, and then back to the armored man in question.

Unable to contain the ebb and flow of technicolor hues and melting textures that encapsulated most of her vision, Gwyn allowed herself to collapse into the dirt, hitting the ground with both knees, and began running her hands through the dune, feeling the coarse texture between her digits. Shifting and folding like water, her hands rising from it's depths like sea serpents. She picked up handfuls of it, letting it fall from her fist and into her open palm, the sight evoking a kind of temporary peace reminiscent to watching an hourglass.

"If only we had some water," She muttered, a wistful look of nostalgia overtaking her expression, "Been ages since I made a sandcastle."

Fletcher close nearby, he too was entranced by the change in reality, clutching his own foot in the sand by her side, his hair still shining. She smiled up at him; A proper smile, beaming and pleasant, if only perhaps at the behest of the mushrooms, and not the crude half-smirks or scowls she was most commonly known for.

Lovely, indeed.

 

[Gilzar]

[class=biggie] width: 100%; max-width:1200px; margin: 0 auto; text-align: center; clear:both; font-size:12px; color: #fff; font-weight:100; background: #000 [/class] [class=whut] background: #000;[/class] [class=handsomedevil] background: #262626; text-align: left; width:32%; float:left; color: #fff; font-weight:100; [/class] [class=speakeasy] letter-spacing: 3px; word-spacing: 2px; border-bottom: solid 10px #47302e; font-size:14px; background: #262626; padding:10px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #fff; font-weight:100; [/class] [class=speaks] color: #fff; padding:15px; text-align: left; float:right; width:65%; background: #262626; font-size:14px; line-height:1.4; letter-spacing:1px; padding:20px; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=handsomedevil maxWidth="800px"] margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=whut maxWidth="800px"] margin: 0 auto; padding: 0px; width:97%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=biggie maxWidth="800px"] padding: 0px; margin: 0 auto; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=speaks maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box[/class] [class name=speakeasy maxWidth="800px"]margin: 0 auto; padding: 10px; width:100%; box-sizing: border-box;[/class]
[div class=whut]
[div class=biggie]
[div class=speakeasy]
[/div]

[div class=handsomedevil]



Location: The Crow's Tomb

With: Everyone, but mentions mothspit BasiliskVeranda Hell0NHighWater BELIAL.

OOC: If I forgot or misread anything/forgot to mention anyone, please let me know!

[/div][div class=speaks]

Marsilia Sommer

Both Fletcher and Gwyndilin were healed to the best of Marsilia's abilities given current resources...though with the most curious of affects. It appeared, though only through verbal confirmation, that the hallucinatory affects of the mushrooms had transferred through the spell and into the both of them. Marsilia held over hand over her mouth to cover her light chuckles at the sight of the two of them wandering down toward the others, in an altered state of reality. That wasn't her intention...but at least for the moment it wasn't a bad thing. Rather than follow, she took the moment to sit down in the sand and take out her journal. Hastily, she flipped to her botany sections, where she had a detailed sketch of the mushrooms to which Fletcher referred to as 'Tandy's Marble's'. Taking out an ink and quill, she quickly wrote the following.

The red spotted fungi drawn above apparently goes under the common name 'Tandy's Marble's'. I've already detailed how these mushrooms cannot be orally consumed as they are likely toxic. They should only be used with healing spells that use their life force to heal or certain potions. However, it would appear that these mushrooms have a curious effect when used with a novice healing spell.

When using the mushrooms in a healing spell on two humanoid individuals, they appear to have sustained hallucinatory effects from the mushrooms. This is most curious given that a novice healing spell normally will be unaffected by the toxins of a plant. Note that this is purely observation, and has yet to be reproduced and experimented with in a controlled environment. My hypothesis is that either these Tandy Marble's mushrooms are so potent that a part of their essence is still seeping into the spell, or that they may be somewhat magical in nature themselves. Afterall, it is somewhat strange how such brightly colored fungus can grow in such an isolated underground area with very little moisture.

In the future I'd like to experiment with the effects of these mushrooms. Perhaps when ground up in small amounts, they could be used as a pain anesthetic, or incorporated into my spells to reduce pain, or elevate the senses.

Marsillia then shut her journal, and tucked it away along with her ink and quill. She would have to do more journaling later, as so much had gone on in these last few moments that things were getting hard to keep up with. It seemed that every few minutes, someone else came into the library. It was almost shocking about how fast this place had went from devoid of human life to seemingly overflowing with it.

Ahead of her, Fletcher and Gwyndilin had gone down to meet the others. They had concerns over the mushrooms, no doubt, and Marsilia should probably clear the air on their concerns. She looked over at the cat, and nodded. "Looks like we're needed down there...who knows who else could be hurt or with questions."

Marsilia then proceeded to trudge through the sand twoard the rest of the group, catching up with everyone after only a few moments. She then addressed Fletcher and Gwyn, hoping to quell their concerns about the matter.

"You need not worry. The hallucinations are an unintended side affect, but my spell should have filtered out any seriously harmful toxins from those mushrooms. Now, does anyone else need medical attentio-"

Marsilia paused without warning as her eyes caught the sight of Daealla. Her eyes widened, and mouth gaped open slightly at the sight of this pointed eared stranger. Was this....no....it couldn't be?! Was this an elf, the ancient race that walked these lands so long ago before being driven to extinction? She had read many a few tomes about the elves, some with sketches of what the elves may had looked like back in the day...but she'd never imagine to ever see one in her own life. Was this really a remnant of the earthly race?

She took a moment to give Daealla a good look over. From this distance, it didn't look like she was wearing an outfit of some sort. Plus, the girl was speaking in perfect elven! Marsilia was by no means an expert on elven culture, but a few words seemed to be familiar form the books she had read detailing this mysterious race. What was surprising though was the bit of English she had heard the elf speak...so it could communicate with them? Her surprise though, was dulled for a moment at the sight of blood magic. Marsilia's eyes tightened slightly, and her lips stiffened together at the sight of one of the most dreaded forms of magic in the order of mages. Though she didn't approve, she had further questions.

Marsilia relaxed her eyes to the floor for a second, thinking what to say. After a moment, she looked back up to Daealla.

"Are you an elf?"


[/div]
[/div]
[div class=biggie]
[div class=speakeasy]
[/div][/div]

[/div]

 

[BELIAL.]

Location: Tomb of Crows
Interactions: Marsilia, Guille, et al
Mentions: idalie BasiliskVeranda Lingua Frankly Not Whisker Gilzar Hell0NHighWater mothspit

Valoria​

Right. Well, things had been far too lackadaisical for Valoria. Watching, annoyed, with a flick of her tail had sent Lori into a bit of a spin. She was willing to wait for the others to gather their senses again, perhaps to find the lost numbers, and then to get a move on again. The opposite had happened, much to the woman's chagrin, and her patience had been wearing thin. It was amusing to see Fletcher catch on at some point, although she couldn't speak to him (but could to the woman, Marsilia), and then Gwyn slowly after. But then there was commotion down at the lower level, another distraction, and Lori was finding herself wondering how easy it would be to just slip away.

But to go alone, in these unknown tombs, would be a suicide. Lori knew how limited her abilities truly were, the woman resorting to her own brute force to do a lot of the heavy-lifting in battle (despite having a lacking ability in that department as well). But things with the others hadn't gotten dangerously side-tracked. Marsilia had given Gwyn and Fletch some... mushrooms of the sort, to heal them, and as a result they were far off in a fantasy land far from here. Not to mention the sudden appearance of a... red woman. Something shat from a hellspawn, no doubt, and adorned with ornamental horns to boot. Along with the woman was a pointy eared girl, chittering in a gibberish language.

The cat, looking up to Marsilia as she spoke, simply waved her little head. All of this was stumbling quickly out of control. Didn't they venture into the godforsaken woods to kill the harpy? Yet here they were, wasting time. Others of the group were nowhere to be found, so Lori was quick to assume either they were dead or somehow had evaded the fall. What if they were reaping the rewards, fresh and steaming harpy head in hand?

A man in metal stumbled up to the group, hobbled and injured, asking about the harpies. Finally.

Lori growled, letting a wave of change wash over her. In a flurry of motion and sand, she found the layer over her skin that had contorted and reshaped the woman into a cat quickly melting away. Her full height sprouted, her skirts flourished and the very human frown on her face showed her very human emotions.

"Worry not traveler," Lori purred, pressing her hands to her hips. "We have only arrived in these tombs, but we also came through Medreen to solve that harpy problem. I'm assuming you ran into a similar problem..." She gestured about, and then looked back at the others.

"You seem formidable, and unlike these louts I intend to find my way out immediately. If you join us, perhaps we can find some treasure in here worth more than the mere pence Devon was willing to pay."

 

[Hell0NHighWater]

↽LOCATION⇁ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽MUSIC TO SET THE MOOD⇁
=The Crow Tomb= ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎Azam Ali - Spring Arrives
Library
↽INTERACTIONS⇁ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽OOC⇁
Whisker | Gilzar ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎More people are mentioned
| BasiliskVeranda | mothspit ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎I'm lazy ples forgive me
idalie | BELIAL.

⫷ Daealla Sylrell ⫸​

"How?" Gohtar demanded, which was something he seemed to do a lot, "I warn you, I better not have to put that in my mouth. I'd rather eat grubs."

Daealla's head tilted to the side as a flash of inquisitive excitement entered her gaze, "You eat grubs?"
She moved closer to his side, rolling the ball of blood as if she were kneading out a ball of floating dough. The side of her mouth twitched as she spoke "This is called magic, Gohtar. Surely you know it, yes?"

Without waiting for his response, she tore a piece of the blood away from it's tightly woven ball and smeared it across her palms, "Please stay." With the lines of her hands etched in tacky, wet, crimson, Dae settled them on his shoulder before he could protest.

Fletcher spoke suddenly, jarring her concentration, "Wait. Have you used my dagger for what I asked you not to?"
"I have not lost tiny stab or my fingers." She responded blandly, gaze riveted to the warrior's shoulder. Not hearing any rebuttal, she focused on the task at hand.
Dae took in a deep breath, held it, and released.
Took a breath. Held it. Released.
Her eyes dipped closed and she mumbled a string of elvhen words under her breath.

In the darkness she could feel the steady beat of his heart, the veins, arteries, muscles, and bones; almost as if they were her own. A soft, warming, glow emanated from her hands. Daealla winced momentarily, relieving his pain by taking it for herself. She bit past the stinging ache in her shoulder, knowing that it would not last for very long after she was done.

When the spell was completed, Dae allowed her hands fall away from his shoulder. The blood on her palms and his shirt dried instantly, turned to brittle flakes, and drifted away into nothing. "Be careful, Gohtar, I can only heal you couple times before I charge you." She smiled innocently, gathering the rest of her magically charged blood into a flask-like container.

The sound of clanking metal drew her attention to another metaled giant stomping through the sand. Her first instinct was to push herself behind Gohtar, peaking cautiously over his shoulder. "Gohtar," She whispered, "Do you know that one?"

Unable to contain her curiosity any longer Daealla crept forward slowly, trying her best not to attract any attention.

“Tell me, did you pass through Medreen?”

She gave the new metaled man a skeptic look, tip-toeing over to where the blonde man stood with another woman she did not know the name of. Medreen? She did not know any town by that name.
Fletcher gave some sort of affirmative answer in between fits of laughter, but she had stopped listening. Her thoughts were elsewhere and her head felt like it was spinning. "—Daealla has a panacea...that doesn't involve using my knife to stab hers—"
Hearing her name, she poked her head out hesitantly, eyeing the three of them, "Panaseea? What is this?"
The woman on the other side of Fletcher spoke next, but somehow only furthered her confusion, "How rude, he does not look like a cucumber!"
"What is cue-cum-ber?"

She stood there dumbly for a moment before something in the air shifted. Her whole body stiffened in response. A hint of a deeper magic called from a short distance away. It wasn’t only more dense, it was ripe, like if it were coming from well-decayed flesh mingling with the earth. Terrifying, unintentional, human magic.
Daealla felt her mouth go dry, a bit of fear kicking harshly in her gut.
There was a low growl, a flurry of sand, and a wave as a woman had manifested herself before them. She blinked, head tilting slightly to the side as she processed what she had just witnessed. A part of her felt as if she had seen that before, but couldn't quite remember where.

"Are you an elf?"

"AH!" She jumped at the new voice, turning with wide eyes, hands picking anxiously at the sleeves of her robe. The corner of her mouth drooped into a slight frown, lifted into a slight smile, and drooped again. Why would this human ask that? Why had they all given her such strange looks? Had they never seen one of the Elvhen before?
Her mouth suddenly felt a bit tacky and her hands began to shake.

Shoving her hands into the folds of her arms, she attempted to keep the panic out of her voice, "Amin hiraetha, yes, I am—um—elf." She managed as small smile even as the word felt strange in her mouth. Clearing her throat Dae gave the woman a genuine smile, "And you are Shemlen, yes? Is the war over? Do you know why is there sand? Where is Medreen? Where—where am I? Can—" She cleared her throat to try and hide the crack in her voice, "Can you please explain?"

⇢TRANSLATIONS⇠

Amin hiraetha ➤ I'm sorry
Gohtar ➤ The name she now calls Shia, means warrior

[/color]

 

[idalie]

Location: Tomb of Crows
Interactions: BELIAL.
Mentions: BasiliskVeranda mothspit Hell0NHighWater Lingua Frankly Not

Guillemot de Clermont​

Slowing his laboured breaths as a show of strength, Guillemot shifted closer. The two individuals who were rambling between themselves began to sour his initial relief. Drug induced loonacy, whether or not purposefully done, only gave him bad omen. They had collected in that library like water on a broad leaf, each droplet following a vein to the middle where it became trapped. Had they not realised? Did they take it for the pain? Pain which would better keep their minds sharp. Speaking in riddles of visions and warped observations, useless to his cause. At the least, this was the first interaction with the living which hadn’t devolved into conflict. He hoped it would stay that way, such a fragile thing to desire.

Between the awful red skinned creature and strange magic being used, whatever feelings of safety Guille may have still retained began to wear off. Grinding his teeth with indecision as to whether he should continue the journey alone, his thoughts became disrupted. The air, crackling and spitting with a heavy energy that manifested itself in the small feline, one which he hadn’t noticed until that point. From cat into woman, he was joined by others in the surprise but not all shared his reluctance. Magic was a strange, arcane thing. He meditated on religious power, on the skills of blessed men, anything outside of that was to be criticised and carefully watched.

A shame she was the only one who spoke sense and directly toward him at that. He scrutinised her, through the mere slot of light which allowed him before he mustered some kind of reply, “Similar problem indeed,” Guille grumbled, wondering whether Devon had known of this hiccup and had simply decided against sharing it.

“Join you?” Scanning the room a second time, it was almost grudging the way he slowly nodded, “I do suppose we could give each other a hand, as long as it means getting out.” De Clermont leant himself against a bookshelf, to compose himself. The ebbing of what adrenaline was left in his system and the pain that burned through his joint remained the only concerns. “I would humbly ask for only two things, water, and a strong pair of hands to put my knee right. I twisted the cap coming down, and haven't had the luck to push it back.”

He would say nothing of his chest, a dull ache he could ignore with some guesswork of a bruised rib. It wasn’t like he bounced well, especially not as destiny condemned him to grow older. Harsh thoughts that left the paladin a little less thankful for his so-far long life. The small magic-user with pointed ears and strange foreign speak was only further under suspicion as a little ways off she proclaimed to be an elf. It rang a bell in the back of his mind but, his mother had only spoken of fae. Tricksters. Brow furrowing, he turned back to the shifter.

“You were all going to share the bounty on those harpies then? Lot of trust to hold for strangers.”

 

[BasiliskVeranda]

ＦＬＥＴＣＨＥＲ⠀ ＮＩＬＥＳ⠀ ＣＡＭＢＲＩＡ

​

​

INTERACTING: mothspit Hell0NHighWater idalie
MENTIONS: BELIAL. Gilzar Whisker ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ WHERE: Sand dunes, Library-adjacent⠀ ⠀
MOOD MUSIC: RHCP - Zephyr⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ OOC: this is the only song i could've written to lmao⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

"Do you think you could?" Gwyn had asked of the pale thief before they'd gone on their lavish romp with psychedelics, while possibly all of their surrounding party members grew more and more annoyed with them as the moments ticked on. She stood with her hand on her hip; the question not so much a dare as it was realism painted in words. No, he probably couldn't, and that was the fun part.

"I'd have you under my heel in seconds, darling. Though It'd be no surprise if you enjoyed that, too." For this, Fletcher laughed, something musical that ended on a spire of a sigh. He clicked his tongue to his teeth, as if to chide her for her very apt assessment.

"I'd be more than happy to be beneath your heel, darling," he paused, shooting his endearing companion a mischievous grin, "Seems you've figured out my games. I was hoping someone would. The Gods know our world is far too grim to not enjoy a bit of foolishness, and that's my flavor of it."

"You need not worry. The hallucinations are an unintended side affect, but my spell should have filtered out any seriously harmful toxins from those mushrooms. Now, does anyone else need medical attentio-" Marsilia had started up, only to be drawn to Daealla's ministrations. Fletcher glimmered over her features curiously, then keened his head to look at the elf in their midst.

"Blood magic," the beast in Fletcher's body used his mouth to speak those two dark, heavy words. It was fond of that, but wary, it seemed.

Conversations passed like grains of sand, with the pair of them ebbing in and out of laughter. Gwyn's loud eyes, Fletcher's impossible laugh that was now silent because he'd run out of air. Veldspar was awake and a bit more potent than he had been before; no longer a black fistful of sludge, but a coiling of obsidian serpents in the veins. Fletcher could feel him pulling and prodding, trying to find his way back to every tendon, ligament and muscle. It was an odd internal sensation, but he couldn't say he was disquieted.

Not much would disquiet him in his current state. Furthermore, the demon when weakened had felt like a missing piece. Perhaps he'd always meant to have a passenger. Perhaps he didn't fear him, like he didn't fear losing his mind to these mushrooms, or fear the woman who could probably dislocate his jaw without much effort. Nor did he fear this place; Veldspar seemed to fear it more than he.

Fear, the mind killer. He had lacked it since he arose from his dirt nap; both a boon and a cataclysm. He'd have to be more careful from now on, certainly, so he didn't need to rely on Marsi, Vel, and Daealla to resuscitate him due to a paper cut. Fletcher couldn't court death anymore.

Bright blue eyes flickered to Gwyn as she seemed quite taken by the images he had no doubt she was witnessing. Time bent and shifted; the grains of sand lapped his ankles and up to his calves. They dipped around to cascade up his chest, and he raised his hands slightly at the sight. That same luminous sand had taken to slinking around the lot of them, but around Gwyn his mind had made the sand dark like her hair. Raven-night, and blues, and oceans. His favorite colors were of twilight; oh what a sorry sort he was, hasty emotions bleeding out in mental pictures.

The unreal was made real and he knew then that he couldn't court death for what ails he forgot but his mind bade remember.

He liked being around this one too much.

As if on queue, Gwyn fumbled for something, and began her ungraceful descent into jerky gnashing. Fletcher snorted, finding it charming.

"Yes, yes, very deadly, you know. Better to go out on our own terms, eh? Care to join us my gingered friend?"
"I think in any other circumstance, he just might," Fletcher added, crossing his arms, now transfixed by the vision of sand trickling up his arms. Devoured in the drug-induced hallucination of it all, but somehow perfectly fine to sit in the void. Hmph, Veldspar made a mental sound of distaste and almost displeasure. Fletcher snorted again.

"If I remember correctly, which 'correctly' is decisively not ever correct as my memory is faulty by design, we did have quite the adventure in Braelton. But it's possible I'm misremembering," he offered, raising a hand as he witnessed the air above him bleed down to meet his fingers in dripping prismatic metallics.

Their new, metal-encased, encumbered companion now received an explanation from Gwyn, which was not quite an explanation at all. The two of them couldn't rightly articulate, which was to be expected.

"Panaseea? What is this?" The blond chuckled, struggling to answer Daealla in words that made any sense.

"..Right. Erm, there were.. crows. And no sweetrolls." Fletcher stifled a smirk, honestly attempting to be serious but failing at it as he coaxed the imaginary liquids from his hands, spreading like quicksilver into the air. Now the pair took to laughing, as his companion was trying to hold the cacophony behind her teeth, and wasn't doing a very good job at it.

"How rude, he does not look like a cucumber!"
"My mistake, pet," gestured the blond, finding this impossibly hilarious, "No. Not a cucumber."

"What is cue-cum-ber?" the elf continued on with her questions. It was apparent there was a language barrier here, and he attempted despite being higher than the sea of stars above, to explain.

"They're a mild...mild flavored, long, green fruit mistakenly called vegetables...I'm certain you've had them?" Fletcher responded, trying to figure out what else they might be called, how else to explain them, or if Veldspar knew any elvish. Apparently, if he did, he wasn't sharing.

"If only we had some water. Been ages since I made a sandcastle." The blond found this to be an impossible statement on several accounts. First of all, they would need the water for drink, as the dancing sands didn't seem to carry much. Secondly, he also couldn't recall making sandcastles, and that impossible idea conjured impossible shapes betwixt sand and air of painful times he'd forgotten.

He joined his equally delirious companion to slowly sink to the sands, far less graceful than he'd have liked to be. Bright blue eyes glimmered over her features as she smiled; she was beautiful. Strong of brow, sharp of features, and eyes like deep-earth rivers. It was a dangerous thing to think, in a sand trap, high on mushrooms, with frightful beasts quite certainly stalking this tomb.

"You know...I never really made them," he said, voice quiet but seemingly far too loud for his ears, "I can't recall much before," sand fettered through his fingers in wisps of mercurial glass. He paused, unsure if he should say more, but the words came out in starts and stops all the same.

"...there was a time that I was not living. And now I am. With a passenger to thank for breathing once more," Fletcher's cautious gaze took in Gwyn's reaction, hoping the drugs would make her find his confession humorous and not malignant, "I think my life was much less fun before all this."

The blond moved abruptly to sweep sand from Gwyn's cheek but stopped himself. He sat back to look over the shifting landscape, eyes distant for a moment, arms crossed. He was feeling too much; too much from before, too much from these mushrooms, and too much to look on all of it in unison. His arms were all that kept him steady in this void of before, of now, of sounds, of her, of the sand, of things forgotten, of beautiful daymares and Veldspar writhing at his stupidity.

The cat had become Valoria once more, and that too was too much. But what was much too much, much more than any of that, was the sound of chattering. He could hear it in the distance like a plague, coming on as if a swarm of locusts, ten million gnashing things. Sadly for Fletcher, this was not a hallucination, but the machinations of sentient, scarab-like insects who had sussed out their location.

"...everyone—"

"You seem formidable, and unlike these louts I intend to find my way out immediately. If you join us, perhaps we can find some treasure in here worth more than the mere pence Devon was willing to pay." The blond caught the cat tail's end of Valoria's utterings, squinting in her general direction.

"Do you—"

“You were all going to share the bounty on those harpies then? Lot of trust to hold for strangers.”

Fletcher struggled to get a word in, and struggled to stand in the sands that were trying to encase his legs; a hallucination. But that sound was not a hallucination, yet he could not be certain. Peering from beneath a hand to stare across the dunes, he saw nothing of note except shifting air in prisms and yellow rust and stardust.

"Curious."

Foolish; we have been spotted, little bird. We move, now—

"No, I'd much like to stay here and make a sandcastle, I think," the blond paused, looking at Gwyn and the others with an awkward expression, "apologies. It is paranoid, and insistent we move on."

I am not paranoid, you insolent brat!

 

[mothspit]

GWYNDILIN ABERNATHY

​

​

WITH: Fletcher/Shia + co.⠀WHERE: sandy librarby MOOD MUSIC: Will Wood & The Tapeworms - Mr. Capgras Encounters A Secondhand Vanity ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ OOC: uwu⠀

"I'd be more than happy to be beneath your heel, darling," he paused, his grin full of snark, "Seems you've figured out my games. I was hoping someone would. The Gods know our world is far too grim to not enjoy a bit of foolishness, and that's my flavor of it."

Gwyn chuckled back, the very sound of his voice reaching her ears in the form of colorful wisps. Bobbing and floating in the waters of an all-encompassing cosmic ocean. Like planets colliding, her own response came with explosive tendrils of texture and color; Pooling from her mouth as if she had swallowed some sort of sea creature. It permeated through the space between them, snaking up Fletchers calves, coiling around him like a jungle snake about to devour him whole. A meager representation of some rather equally colorful thoughts, she internally assumed, what with him confirming his particular brand of entertainment.

"How kindred, you and I." The rogue woman mused coyly. She wouldn't say it here-- Not where ears apart from their own might be listening-- But with one hand, she began thumbing a spool of rope, currently acting as a belt for her simple commoner pants; The implications of which, hopefully, would not be lost on Fletcher. Of course, she never set out on any endeavor without it, but rarer still it was used for it's.. intended purposes.

"I think in any other circumstance, he just might. If I remember correctly, which 'correctly' is decisively not ever correct as my memory is faulty by design, we did have quite the adventure in Braelton. But it's possible I'm misremembering,"

"Oh, so you've met before? Now isn't that scandalous," She couldn't help but laugh, "Shia? Have you any thoughts to share?" Her head swiveled in the nobleman's direction, eyes following a neon, orange-hued trail leading up to the man's feet. He wasn't an unattractive sort by any means, and those not versed in the arts of seduction or romance-- Shia himself, she confidently guessed-- Might mistake the look in her eye for a capricious, lustful hunger. Merely to put some playful pressure on the poor man, since it clear this was not his usual world.

Like before, some dialogue passed between the more sober of their party, none of which she could decipher as anything woefully detrimental-- It seemed in this intoxicated state, she all but forgot the original task at hand; Drugs bringing cravings, impulsion and memories that took precedent. When she next looked away, back to her palms, and her knelt posture in the sand, a thought occurred to her. One that cut through the colors and dancing textures abruptly, smothering the swelling euphoria in it's crib-- Not from fear, but from confusion. It was simple. Succinct.

Where is that sound coming from?

There was certainly some sort of sound, wasn't there? A type of chittering, skittering, scuttling that she couldn't quite place. She scarcely seemed to notice it at first, and even now, questioned it's reality. Just as she might have asked others, looking over to Fletcher to beg his opinion, did the thought leave as quickly as it came-- Her attention now fixated on the velvet tones of Fletcher's voice, who had collapsed beside her in the sand.

"You know...I never really made them," he said quietly, his voice hushed so that only the two of them might hear, "I can't recall much before."

Never made a sandcastle? Gwyn thought the notion preposterous. You hadn't lived until you made at least one sandcastle. She might have protested such, but just as she moved to do so, she could see the blonde thief still had more to say. His eyes somber and yet, like stone. Drugs had a funny way of bringing out certain emotions in people-- Sometimes the very same emotions you took drugs to forget. But if there was one thing Gwyn could understand, especially in a mushroom stupor, you could not stop the baring of your soul, not matter when it struck. And she would not deny him that. She would listen, offering him a thoughtful moment of silence before he continued.

"...there was a time that I was not living. And now I am. With a passenger to thank for breathing once more,"

To this, Gwyn seemed to falter, her cheeks suddenly turning ripe with a full, neon blush. The way he spoke.. Was he talking about her? Or the creature he harbored? She couldn't tell; Undoubtedly interpreting his literal proclamation in a vastly different way than what he intended. The latter, she assured herself internally, of course. But a time where she was not living.. Hell, couldn't that be now, too? Covering pain with wine, women, and other wonderful vices? It was a feeling all too relatable.

"..What's it mean to live, anyway?" She offered with a nervous chuckle and a roll of her wrist, attempting to lighten his temperament, if only slightly, "I, for one, revel in my own self-loathing. Like a normal person."

The snake that had wrapped itself around Fletcher dissipated now; His glittering locks began growing at an exponential rate, pooling before them like a golden riverbed, reflecting a miraculous, nonexistent light. Had he not noticed..?

It nipped at the edges of her boots, inching up her frame with every word he spoke, like vines overtaking a wooden fence.

"I think my life was much less fun before all this."

He reached out to touch her-- Caress her cheek, from what she gathered-- Only to stop, drawing into himself. Gwyn inhaled a shuddering breath, as if she hadn't been breathing when he came closer; Perhaps it were the blond tendrils ensnaring her by the neck. Either way, she could see that Fletcher, in a moment so brief, eyes returning to the sandy landscape ahead of them, was not there. Hazy and someplace far away. She didn't blame him. Whether it be the mushrooms workings or her own, Gwyn felt her earlier proclamation proved more accurate by the minute-- Kindred spirits they were. Though she was not as versed in consoling the burdened, I can hardly console my damn self, it only took a well-trained eye to see he was in pain.

And it was seeping through his cracks.

Slowly, she reached out with a palm, ringed with golden locks, to place on his knee; Fingers curling in the fabric of his pants with a comforting squeeze.

"..Mine, too."

It was all she said, but her loud eyes looked to his, brimming with solemn solidarity. Hoping to say all the things she was not equipped to say herself. Willing enough to share a small piece of her misery if it brought him recourse in his own.

In the next moment, conversation was to be had with Valoria and the armored newcomer, with Fletcher attempting to interject to no avail. Gwyn, for the most part, drowned out the sound, only remaining semi-coherent for the moment the blond in question shared a small piece of his soul with her. The intoxication would take over just as swift, batting at the air for some unknown reason, only again perking up at the sound of him speaking, particularly to what he suggested..

"No, I'd much like to stay here and make a sandcastle, I think," He said, passing a look between them all.

"A wonderful idea!" She haphazardly sprang to her feet, brushing off patches of sand-- And hair, the latter of which only she could see-- And casually draped an arm across Fletcher's shoulders, flashing the group a wide grin, "If only I had thought of it. Who will join us?"

"apologies. It is paranoid, and insistent we move on."

"Well it can piss off," She scoffed, being sure the words 'piss off' were spoken into Fletchers ear so Veldspar would be sure to hear her clearly, "The night is young, and there's a sandcastle what needs making."