Fantasy (Open) Willow Witches and The Faceless

[C.DEX]

Abel nodded to Thamos, a smile creeping up behind his own mask as his gift had been well received. Sometimes that had happened, and sometimes it hadn't. Sometimes the proffering of such a useless trinket would spur anger in another, even if it was all that he had had. But there it was; the glimmer of excitement for the small laps of beauty in a dreary world. He hadn't lost it yet. Perhaps Thamos would actually make a good friend, if that was what would come. But as he snapped his expression back from excitement to ... what was it? Abel couldn't read it, especially not through the eyeholes of the man's mask. A faint glimmer of his own disappointment had streaked the beginning of his words, only to disappear by the end of them.

"It's nothing, and it certainly isn't useful. But ... in a land where the fog lives, men steal one another's faces, and apparitions hang from the trees ... it's good to appreciate beauty, in what little forms it takes, now. The glint of a star iron helm, the craft of another." Abel said, acting as if his words were part of the gift itself. If he were honest, they were. Men needed hope. "It exists. Perhaps I'll find this fog to be a thing of beauty if I see that it truly does protect me, instead of just wet my nose and ache my bones." he said, with a laugh.

A flicker of a thought passed by Abel, one that he had quite literally dismissed with the wave of a hand. Paranoid thoughts had no use, here. This was a man that had fed him - simply for taking his name. There was no reason, of course, to think anything ill of him, and the wise wanderer had punished himself internally for the thought. If Thamos could see his face, he would see a wince pass it, but thankfully for Abel, he couldn't. So he settled back into appreciation. Appreciation for appreciation. It was apt.

"A ceremony, then? That's interesting. You rarely find a group of people not simply focusing on scraping by enough to come across one of those, unless perhaps it's a masking. It is that, per-"

His thoughts were interrupted suddenly. He had been so engrossed in the conversation that he hadn't noticed the massive figure appearing on the path. His words had cut off mid-sentence in 'response', his eyes trying to flicker to each part of it to assure that there had been no danger. After all, meeting one person in the wildnerness was lucky. Meeting two was a trap. But he wasn't immediately attacked, and no doubt the same thoughts had been running through Thamos' mind. Then, the deep, almost archaic grumbling had come from the man, instead of the blade of the axe he had been thumbing. It stilled Abel's nerves, even just slightly.

Seeing that it hadn't been a trap, Abel raised his hands defensively to John, showing him that he, in particular, had meant no harm at all.

"Ah ... We're ... certainly not skindancers." he said, unable to help himself. "Have you ever seen two skindancers talking merrily with each other outside of the prying eye? I would guess not. Yes, we're Faceless, and we mean no harm. I... presume you're coming from Haven?" he asked. "Are we that close, Thamos?" he asked, looking to his travelling companion.

Wearily, Abel reached out, proffering his hand to the massive man, unsure if he'd regret the action or not.

"Abel."

 

[The Gunrunner]

Bayan's axe and Mephit's dagger cross paths in the opposing directions of their targets - The blade of the axehead bites into the thug's shoulder, a sickening smack of metal through meat emitted in the defiling. The thrown dagger strikes Bayan's body, barely drawing his attention; The rivets of the chainmail hold true, resisting the piercing attempt from causing any serious harm - A pathetic *tink* is all that rewards the act. Boargof comes next, as Bayan is drawing his sword and uttering his command to the soil - The fire follows him in his run, and the man stops to use the momentum in a dedicated kick. The soil's name is uttered under command just before, cracking the ground beneath him as a boot is sent for the outrider's helmet. He makes an attempt to duck underneath, just enough to avoid a direct blow, but it hits nontheless - The interior of his helmet knocks his head to the side, but he works with the new momentum; rolling with the strike in a moment of improvisation, the curved blade moves along his body in the roll in an attempt to glide the edge along the underside of Boargof's leg.

Regardless of its effect, Bayan's dazed after the attempted cut - But not out of it. A hasty illusionary duplicate of himself appears to move opposite to Bayan's position with a step and swing, in attempted misdirection. In reality, his free hand grips the handle of his dagger with a determination - The blade flashes from behind the cloak and flies for one of the eyes of Boargof's helmet.
Yet something else draws the outrider's attention:
Jakis' movement hadn't taken his attention from Boargof at first, but his eyes change his focus the moment they detect the glowing white light of his rune. It breaks his focus for the dagger's swing, and degrades Boargof's illusion in its important final second - "Soil, make a barrier." It was a play with uncertain speed, but worth attempting. He was not one to merely gamble however, and his split mind adds figments to Lutolf's battle in the form of two separate versions: One drops the poleaxe as Lutolf seems to lose the battle, stumbling to the left while empty hands struggle to free the neck; the other roars in frustration, breaking from Loriel to hack at the roots with the axe-head while stepping to the right for room. Both attempts to falsify the target's location.

Lutolf keeps silent as Bayan puts his cards into play, his focus directed towards the dying creature to his front. He twists the poleaxe buried in the thing's flesh, giving the long blade-like spearhead a decent enough path of attack- before suddenly yanking it to the side, intent on cleaving a majority of his attacker's head from the remnants of his torso. His free arm simply moves towards his neck, providing a barrier of cloth; flesh; and metal between his throat, and the thorned roots.

As he swings, Lutolf orders a final command, calling his channeled magic to the front. A surge of cruel energy flies from the man's figure, leaking from the spaces in his armor like water cascading over a cliff's edge - It manifests itself quickly, becoming a rolling, moving wave of Lutolf anger, madness, and agonizing pain all clumped into one, awful force - and it's shifting straight towards the immobilized Jakis, Lutolf's voice echoing throughout the immediate area - "Embrace Agony!"

 

[Napoleone the Kiwi]

The air as Varys travels is crisp and chilled, though the box he carries seems to radiate a pleasant warmth, present even through the knapsack. This would help to ease the burden of the discomfort of travel, especially considering the terrain Varys was now traveling through was only growing more gruesome. Pockmarks and craters dotted the landscape, while mounds of corpses arose from the earth like a vile testament to the fall of the Faceless. However, something wasn't right, outside of the usual scenery's decrepit state. No, this was different. This was an itch, not a chill. There was an itch, slowly starting to creep up in the back of Varys' mind. No, not an itch in fact, rather a voice, cold and passionless, though young and masculine. A single phrase repeated itself. "Hierophant, reanimator, bringer of pain and pleasure, awakened."

The voice continued, keeping at a soft whisper, just loud enough to tickle the back of Varys' skull. And then it stopped. As soon as it had come, gone, leaving a void where it should have been. Certainly a strange phenomena, almost as strange as the corpses, now all watching Varys. Curious, had they always been starring in his direction? Though, not much time to ruminate on that prospect for Varys, as the sudden sounds of battle seem to be coming from the woods nearby. Campfire smoke rises from the trees in an imperfect column, and the sounds of clashing steel ring through the air. Crackling energy, burning ozone and fried hair, mingling with the putrid smell of these wastes. What could possibly be causing that?

[Mentioned: The Gunrunner @Fritz

I gave a start as the eerie silence of the Wastes following the strange, terrifying voice was broken. Too much noise. too much attention. Though I hadn't been on the road long, I knew enough to understand that drawing attention to yourself was foolish to put is mildly, dangerous. a more apt description. I kept Breygon moving at a trot, cautious to approach what was clearly a battle, if the ring of steel, too loud, resonated from out of the copse of trees ahead of me. Intervention may be necessary, but... I understood that wanderers on road wouldn't exactly be the gentlemen merchants or warlocks knights of The City, but to to imagine the cavalier casting of such magics out here, in their territory was hard to swallow.

Sure, I didn't have much experience with...the demons... but they were surely attracted to magic, or could at least detect it. They had the uncanny ability to show up just when a ward was at its weakest, or as the destruction of your family home and the death of everyone you know and lo- QUIET- showed, they seemed to merely be at the edge of every city at precisely the right time. Pondering the existence of the Skinwalkers, I came ever closer. A sharp metallic tang was in the air, a scent I despised being familiar with. Fresh blood. I began to think on the taste of it. The texture of the lifeblood that flowed through our veins, even that of the enemy, black as it was. The hint of iron, the flow of life in the body. Of the colour. Of the energy flowing through the body. Of that spark, the inner fire of life.

"Vermilion," A quiet thrum filled the air as I drew my spear, pointing the tip towards the tree closest to the clearing. The spear-tip took a reddish hue as cracks and sparks began to thrum in the air. "What does Hierophant even mean?" I muttered to myself, the thoughts of the events as I tracked the Wastes crawling into my mind as I dismounted Breygon, the horse nervously patting the ground as a crack of white lighting flashed through the treeline. The sheen of red over the spear-tip hardened and morphed into a a sharper jagged crystal, a bright Vermillion colour. "Dead people don't move. It's simply inconsiderate." As I neared the battle site, a roar boomed forth from one of the fighters. A tattered cloth fluttered at the figures neck beneath a thoroughly used Bold Iron helm, his armour was of an older make too, similarly tarnished. I gave a start at the scene, barely noticing the other fighters.

"Embrace Agony!"