Cursed Earth | IC Thread

ze_kraken

Professional Squid
Original poster
LURKER MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
  2. One post per week
Online Availability
16:00-20:00 US Central
Writing Levels
  1. Adept
  2. Advanced
  3. Prestige
Preferred Character Gender
  1. No Preferences
Genres
Cyberpunk, Sci-fi, Fantasy, and other low-tech/fantasy.
Alfa Slab One
Eczar
Ramabhadra

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 Background Music




THE HOLLOWS


Spring
had not come early to the Hollows. Winter and its bitter cold had clung to the land long into the month of Aniel. When Aniel gave way to Selat, finally the thaw had come and with it a manner of curious and adventurous folk. Not that this was a new development for the inhabitants of the Hollows - every spring, as soon as the thaw came and the Crags were safe to traverse, so too came those with a proclivity for adventuring and treasure seeking.

With the adventurers, the sellswords, the merchants, and the brigands also came the bodies from the Crags, trailing from the west along the Fangtooth River. Another grim reminder that though winter had come and passed, the Crags were never welcoming nor warm. A whole manner of corpses had floated down this spring. Men, dwarf, orc - the Crags had taken them all. Just as varied as the folk that came through the Hollows seeking gold and treasure were the ways the Crags sent them back. Some had died of frostbite, their fingers black and hard as iron. Others were rent to pieces by spear and blade. The townsfolk referred to it in jest as the "Hero's Return", disposing of the bodies in an unmarked grave that served as a solemn reminder of the danger every would-be adventurer faced when venturing deep within the Crags.Not that such a reminder stopped new corpses when next the thaw came.

Life in the Hollows itself went on, however, without disturbance. People came and people went, and though a great deal of strangers had come to win their glory atop the Crags, none thought too much of it. It was just another spring thaw for the townsfolk of the Hollows, and another Hero's Return for the many unfortunate souls that had perished...



Nathyen Rowe squinted at the mile marker in the misty morning from atop his pale grey destrier, the mount looking as beleaguered and travel-worn as its rider as it trotted in place to decelerate to a stop. Nathyen could just barely make out "the Hollows" scrawled into the wooden sign post, along with "25 miles" right beside it. The man sighed, patting his horse, leaning forward in his saddle with a creak of leather to pet the horse's cheek.

"Almost there, boy," he muttered softly. "Give me one more day, alright?"

As if to respond to its rider's reassurances, the horse flicked its tail and whinnied. Nathyen urged the horse into a trot once more, leaving the sign post to recede into the mist along the trail behind him. It would be another few hours still before the sun peeked its head over the edge of the mountains and burned the mist away.

Hours passed in silence as Nathyen rode along the trail into the Hollows, accompanied only by the soft trot trot trot of iron-shod horseshoes in damp earth and the trilling of birds in the woods alongside him. Nathyen wondered, how long had it been since he had heard a bird's call? They were rare in the mainland, and their chirps and squacks and caws put him at ease even if his empty stomach did not. It had haunted him along the road to the Hollows, gnawing at his patience and sapping his strength. Birds were pleasant, but hot stew would be better, Nathyen mused to himself.

Soon, he told himself. Soon, he would be in a warm bed with a full stomach and a belly full of mead.

Soon had not been a close approximation. By the time Nathyen had entered the main road to the Hollows, the sun had already set once more, leaving him only the lights of the stars to wander by. Night always left Nathyen feeling uneasy. They liked to prowl at night, that much was known. He had spotted some stalking him along the road into the Crags, wondering why they had never attacked. Perhaps one lone man dressed in plain mail and leather, carrying naught but a sword, shield, and pack was worth too much effort for so little payoff. Perhaps they had been waiting for him to lead them to a village or hideout. Yet when he went down to bed at the mouth of the Crags where the Fangtooth broke off into a myriad of streams and ponds, they had stopped.

No matter. He was here, and he was hungry. In short order, Nathyen left his horse with the town stable boy and followed the boy's instructions to the town inn. The Cat and Rooster it was called, a charming inn that towered over the other structures in the village and to which all roads within the village led. Nathyen trod inside and sat by the hearth after procuring an ale and a bowl of stew from a tavern girl, relishing in the crackling fire that began to eat away at a chill that Nathyen had not even felt build up within him along the road. The weight of stew in his stomach felt better than anything he had felt in months, and the taste of ale - piss-thin though it was - was sweeter than anything he had ever tasted.

All around Nathyen sat similar characters, a host of grizzled and travel-weary men and women, trading stories and tales. Some sang in low voices, others preferred to tend to their drinks in silence...

GM NOTES:

@Jamaicanbobslayer @Steel @Elle Joyner @Ellion @Pupperr

WELCOME TO THE CURSED LANDS

There are a few things to note about the mechanics of this RP.

First, all GM posts either do one of two things - 1) they will either present a new circumstance or advance the timeline in a meaningful way or 2) they will respond to a character's actions should they warrant, require, or want a response.

Below each in-character, prose-formatted post will be a number of interactive features in the scene as well as the outcome of your character interacting with that feature. The details of that interaction and the specific outcome, however, will be up to you as the player and writer of your character. Interactive elements marked in red are actions that are not guaranteed to be successful and will be settled with a GM post outlining the outcome. Otherwise, the degree of success or failure is determined by you.

Lastly, just because an action is not outlined in the interactive elements below does not mean you cannot take it! Be creative and take initiative if you so choose!

INTERACTIVE ELEMENTS


Speaking with Nathyen:
Nathyen is seated by the hearth in the Cat and Rooster after the sun has set, willing to speak to any that approach him and speak amicably as well. He is curious in learning why others have come and will explain, if asked why he has come to the Hollows, that he seeks a weapon known as Scarnesbane, a legendary weapon forged in the Age of Heroes. Scarnesbane is described as a hammer of inexplicable power, having been used to slay the Mother of Drakes by the Dwarven hero Ormund.


Consulting the Bartender:
The bartender, Sigurnd, is a large, affable man with a thick gut and a bushy blonde beard. His head is shaved, arms docked with a number of scars. He will gladly speak with anyone that comes to the bar, and throw in a boast about his time as an adventurer himself. If asked about what to seek in the Crags, he will mention that of late raiders and brigands have come down from the Crags in the night to steal grains and other goods. Their leader, the orc Maud, has been said to wield a sword of unbelievable craftsmanship. They were last seen in the former dwarven watch tower overlooking the Fangtooth about fifteen miles north of the village.


Wandering the Fangtooth:
If you wander the Hollows long enough, you will learn that the townsfolk keep referring to those making the "Hero's Return" and how a number of bodies have been spotted floating down the river. Investigating this for yourself will lead you to discover the body of a human woman, possessing a number of slash wounds that have been burned closed. Trademark injuries inflicted by demons. Asking around town, either in the shops or the Cat and Rooster, will reveal that townsfolk have reported sightings of demons and worse creatures further up river to the west.

Additionally or alternatively, you may loot a number of gold coins, arrows, daggers, and so on from corpses that have washed up and have yet to be laid to rest.


Exploring the Hollows:
The town of the Hollows has a blacksmith, brewery, and a number of other shops. You may replenish your supplies, purchase any reasonable gear such as rope, candles, torches, and so on. The blacksmith specializes in tools for carpenters and farmers, but has a handful of arrows and a pair of crudely forged swords for sale as well. The stable is selling horses for a high price, though all the beasts look malnourished and weak even for a horse raised in the Cursed Lands.


 
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 Background Music




BLANC ORIZ'ZON


" Execution
will be her sentence, Blanc. After what felt like our own little war, it's finally official... on the first day of Aniel marks the end of our arson issue."

A curled bundle of parchment forms were dumped onto the table in front of the lumbering orc. Standing in the shadow of a crescent axe at her side, she avoided the gaze of both the guard captain and the papers in front of her.

"You ought to be excited."

" . . . . . "

"...What is it, Oriz'zon," the captain spat, picking at a browning scab on his upper lip, "you're to tell me you've lost the stomach for it?" He folded his arms, and when no reply came, he snatched the parchment back off the table, forcefully thrusting them into the woman's chest.

Something in the orc stirred, her upper lip curling into a growl as she replied curtly.

"She's 12. Sir."

"...Don't think brats like that are capable of crime? That it? All it'd take is a small walk down the Rotways to prove 'gainst that."

"No... all I'm saying... is that I find the charges unlikely."

The captain raised an eyebrow, paused, and then guffawed at the statement. And not in a friendly manner. Then, there was a silence.

"...Well, well, well. Lookkit' our orc genius over here," he uttered with mocking sarcasm, "maybe I should have you switch positions. With top class evidence and claims like that."

"Sir," she snorted, the vein on her head a sign of wavering patience, "I think you can understand my hesitance. That girl cried innocence and confusion all the way to her cell. ...I even heard her on the way here. You've signed her death. But you're still not the one who has to bring down the axe."

"You're not the one who GODSDAMNED QUESTIONS IT, that's for certain!" the captain began to raise his voice, turning back with teeth bared. His patience lost, he jabbed forth a finger, "You knew what you were signing up for with this position. And a damn fine position you're in right now, too. I got no idea why you've suddenly decided to... look down on your duties... but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt," he paced, tapping the side of his skull, "...cold might be freezing your brain. Clearly is, thinking you can just saunter in my office with ax' over shoulder. Godsdamned joke is what I'm looking right now. Not my executioner."

" . . . . . "

The captain paused, and paced, having to tilt his head up slightly to look the orc right in the eye. As Blanc looked back, she could see the dried blood where he'd been picking at the disgusting scab.

"Refusing to carry out this duty is not an option. Otherwise, you'll be breaking your spine in the mines. ...We understood?"

"...Yes," she thought on the response for a while. Perhaps it was fear of his threat that'd made the response come out so quickly, "Yes, Sir."


That brown scab had been on Blanc Oriz'zon's mind for the past hour now. Even as she stared herself down in the river's reflection, it didn't wash the image out of her mind. That ugly, fucking disgusting scab. ...And that thing on that captain's face, too.

< ... Last ten miles . >

Taking a scoopful of water, Blanc washed the dried blood and curled sinew off her fingers, a freshly skinned rabbit laying next to her at the river's coast. Careful to pick each and every piece of brown-red blood off her fingers, only when her hands were absolutely clean did she move onto her face.

< Lunch. Refill Lucie. Then, it's time to see if rumors were just rumors. >

Fumbling in an open pack at her side, Blanc took a chestnut-sized gem in her palm, pitch as night. Atop it was a small parchment label: 'Lucie'. She held it tightly, remaining still as she continued to watch her reflection in the water. By now, she was used to the spectacle of the color and vision leaving her right eye in crimson, ember-like strands, until the gem in her left hand glowed fully white.

One more fire, then it was back on the road.

Creak.

As the door of the Cat and Rooster swung open, most heads that turned didn't like what they saw. An armored adventurer toting around weapons worth more than their lives was little out of the ordinary, but something about the way Blanc stood, and paused to meet the gazes that met her had always lead into sour whisperings.

Ignoring the insults behind her back that she could easily here, Blanc slid some coppers from a pelt, a mug of ale soon finding its way into her hands. Bitter. Shitty. But damn, if it didn't feel like the best coppers ever spent right now. If it weren't for the rabbit earlier, the stew might've been as tempting. For a good while, Blanc took her time to enjoy the warmth of the fire and drink her fill before she made preperations t--

< P o k e . >

A finger tapping against metal caused Blanc's head to whirl around. Looking down, a stocky dwarf - leather armor, adventuring sort - had been caught red handed with his finger against the blade of the crescent axe at his back. More confused than anything, Blanc swatted away the dwarf's hand with the back of her hand and scowled.

"Get your hands off Ascia."
"...Ohoh, well," the dwarf put up his hands in apology, "forgive me lass. But the craftsmanship on that really is somethin'. Had to check if it were the real deal."
"...Sorry to disappoint you. It's only bronze. Fool's weapon," after the dwarf had apologized, she'd eventually let down her guard and relaxed somewhat, "it's no artifact. I just like to name my things."
"As I suspected... heh. Funny to think y'might give a bandit a heart attack one day," the dwarf folded his arms, and Blanc actually gave a mild chuckle, slightly turning his head to face him. The stranger took a stool, ordering an ale himself, "...y'know... funny you mention an artifact weapon."
"...?"
"Ohohh. You must've been well into your drink to not catch the talk of this place. Haven't you heard? Some mad feck' clearly well off his rocker is lookin' for it. ' Scarnesbane ' ..." The dwarf leaned in, "...aye, don't blame ye' for lookin' clueless. Name's been lost in legend for years now. But... if it's anything close t'what the tales say, findin' it would bathe anyone in gold. Thing could probably smash a demon skull like a rotten peach."

Scarnesbane. It certainly had a name that omitted enough power for Blanc to be - at least - interested. And, generally used to scum, she could tell the dwarf was more of the conversational sort. Thinking for a while, Blanc's head turned, slowly towards the other tables of the inn.

"...Where's this artifact hunter you speak of, then?"

The dwarf pointed, over towards the hearth, where a lone figure sat enjoying ale and stew.

"Over there, lass. Scared off a few already... myself included," he gave a chuckle through his hefty beard as he tapped the counter for another, "watch yourself, you hear?"

Not needing the warning, Blanc had already left her drink quater-full, and was approaching the man by the hearth.

"How many drinks?" she asked. There was a short and somewhat awkward pause, before she clarified, the flames flickering, "you've got my attention with this weapon you speak of," her tone was confident and stoic, yet surprisingly relaxed despite her looming nature, "It could just be the thing I'm looking for. But... a good artifact hunter doesn't spill their information for free."

"
So... how many drinks?"


 
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Arianell Oresh
INTERACTIONS | None || MENTIONS | @Jamaicanbobslayer , @ze_kraken




The Hollows
"It's not right..." A howl of wind whipped across her cheeks, and tugging her scarf up, Aria pressed it into her flushed skin. Her eyes had not moved from the pile of bodies being rolled into the massive hole in the ground. Opposite the gaping cavity, a mound of dirt was being hefted inside by men with shovels. Women stood, robes lashing around them, their mournful song muffled by the mistral. Hooked over their arms, they held baskets of eucalyptus, which they picked from now and again to toss in with the corpses. To ward off curious predators... A sick thought, animals digging at those poor souls, disgraced enough in death as it was.

"...Tossed into a hole like spoiled swine. It's not right."

"Way they been washin' down the river, like that? Best they can do, just to keep up." Sliding his sword into its sheath again, Theod rose from where he'd sat to sharpen his blade, "Come on, kid... staring at it won't make it any easier for them, either."

It had been three days since she and Theod had crossed into the Hollows, and their journey had led them to the Crags. Not far from where the mass grave was being dug, was the Cat and Rooster, where the pair were staying. Of the fifteen men she had left with, Theod was the only one brave enough to bear the passage. It was of little surprise, given the weight of nobility the man carried. Nearly fifty, graying at the temples and bent at the spine, yet with each step he bore a sense of honor the likes of a seasoned general. He lost two sons and his wife to Raiders, and was the first to take Aria beneath his wing, and when it became apparent the village militia was intending to turn back, it had been Theod to propose they journey on. Aria’s agreement was not the paving ground for a staggering show of courage, and so alone, they had proceeded.

Asking around, Theod had already discovered that westward, there were sightings of demons and, more significantly, worse than that. Unfortunately, while the man was a formidable force with a weapon, and Aria herself had some promising skill, the two of them facing anything on their own was reckless.

“Come along, Arin. Some food’ll do you right, again.” Gesturing down the path, Theod started for the inn and with a small jump in her step, Aria fell in line behind him. It was a short while later that they arrived, and from out of the cold, they were met with the warmth of a stoked fire, fresh bread and the evening fare. Two chairs at a table near the fire scraped back and Aria took one as Theod crashed down into another, shooing away a small grey cat, who with a mewl of protest patterned over to the fireplace hearth. For a moment, Theod's eyes strayed around the room and Aria knew all too well for what he was looking. Predictably, like the sun cresting the horizon, his gaze twitched to her, “How many?”

“Four… The one we came through, the stables, one to the rear of the kitchen, and a window near the storeroom.” Pausing, her eyes moved to the staircase that lead to the upper floors and the guest rooms, “Unless you count the trellis above the stable roof. It’s risky, particularly in this weather, but… it’s an exit in a pinch.”

“There’s a lad.” With a chuckle, Theod rolled his wrist overhead, calling a serving girl forward. She was a young creature, no older than fourteen if one had to guess, with a full face awash with rich burgundy freckles, a flaming curtain wildly traversing nearly the length of a willowy torso. Her smile was pleasant, despite the wide gap between her front-most teeth, mint-green irises catching amber in the dancing light of the fire.

"What can I get you, Sire." She asked, in a voice that, while soft enough, promised the scalding heat of fire were one to cross her.

"Two bowls, hot as you can make 'em, lass."

"Lukewarm it is, then. Ya want bread?"

"Is it fresh?" Theod asked, the ghost of a smile touching his weathered mouth.

"If by fresh you mean it was made today, yeah. Peas were dried out, but best we can do 'round these parts. Ain't nobody willin' to venture too far from the village with those things up river…"

"It'll do. And two tankards of honey mead."

"Aye, Sire. Won't be a moment… You should know, Sire. You've made quite an enemy. Threadbare's favorite seat, that one. You'll want his forgiveness before tonight if you want a dry cot." Turning in a flurry of crimson, the girl disappeared through the crowd, towards the kitchen. Unspooling from the hearth, the grey cat's orange gaze followed in her wake.

"Fine lass, that… Not an easy life, this side of the border. Spirit like that, she just might survive." An orc woman crossed the space between the bar and fireplace, and Theod's eyes followed her, "Lad… go see if you can't mend diplomacy with the master of the mantle, would you?"

Brow lifting, Aria shifted uncomfortably, "Sir?"

"Old Threadbare. Don't imagine it's a short-lived scorn and I'm not lookin' to sleep in a puddle tonight. Do an old man a service, yeah?"

Rolling her eyes, Aria pushed back her chair and smiling dryly at the older soldier, she moved to the edge of the fireplace, sinking down a few feet from the fussy feline.

"Vindictive little devil, aren't you. Well, come here then, if it's an apology you're after." Stretching, Threadbare rose onto his fours, and with a deep yawn, he twisted in a circle, flopping onto the hearth with his back-end to Aria.

"Self righteous furball." Hand outstretched, Aria stroked along the cat's spine nonetheless, as the conversation from the nearest table caught her ear. Weapon? Artifact?

Curious...
 
 Background Music




THE CAT AND ROOSTER


Soup
dribbled from Nathyen's beard as he glanced up at the newcomer from his seat by the hearth. An orc - and a woman at that, but a gruff and tough one to be sure. She was not from the Hollows, Nathyen wagered as he wiped the grease and leftover soup from his beard with the back of his hand. He knew of no orcs this far north, and this one looked particularly traveled.

"Ah, you think I'm one to give up my secrets so easy, do 'ya?" Nathyen boomed, chuckling as he slurped down another spoonful of stew. "But I'm not one to turn down a free drink."

Nathyen waved down a serving girl, asking for another drink before turning her attention back to the orc before him. He leaned up in his chair, placing his stew, spoon, and mead on the table between his seat and the one to the left of him. He beckoned to the empty chair, looking expectantly at the woman as he continued.

"Come, come, sit my friend. It is clear you are not one from this sorry village, and I wager you must be tired from your own journey. Besides, one should always take any chance to warm by the hearth."

The serving girl returned with the drink, which Nathyen took graciously, raising his cup to his new-found companion in a toast of sorts before he took a swig, wiping the ensuing foam from his beard as unceremoniously as he had the stew just minutes ago.

"Ah, that's the stuff," he sighed, smacking his lips appreciably. "Now about this artifact... Yes, it's a rather interesting one. While traveling across the old Kingsroad, I came across a traveling merchant - he had a couple of scrapped texts and maps from the old world, well after the elves' time but before they came. He didn't know the value of what he had, and, well, not that he was the one to venture out on his own with his sword in hand. Rather portly fellow."

As if to emphasize his point, Nathyen cast one hand before his stomach and extended his gut, chuckling.

"But, you did not buy me this drink to hear about old dusty tomes or fat men! No, no. So, as it so happens - these scrolls and maps reveal to me that there is a dwarven ruin in these here mountains. Aye, there's plenty of them - just about that watch tower north of here there used to be a dwarven hold, but now it's just the mines and the homesteads."

Nathyen paused to take another sip before continuing, leaning in, lowering his voice.

"And it is said that Ormund the Eight Fingered established the Dwarven hold here after slaying the Mother of Drakes in these very mountains. Though I've no doubt his treasures have long since been ransacked, his hammer - Scarnesbane - was said to be sealed in his tomb. This tomb is deep in the old catacombs of Gol Badhir. No one's been there for a century by my reckoning, afraid that his ghost has laid a curse on it. I'm not one to believe in curses - sure, orcs can cripple 'emselves, and humans can do pretty parlor tricks, but dwarves have no such magics. I'm going to crack open Gol Badhir and see if Scarnesbane is still there, just waiting to be plucked from 'ole Ormund's bones. A hammer like that, heard its forged from Voclite steel and lined in jewels and can cleave open a man in full plate like he was just wearing his ma's knitted tunic."

The man paused again, looking the orc woman over.

"Not that I'm one so obviously gifted in strength as you, might be we can come to some arrangement. What's your name, stranger?"

 
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BLANC ORIZ'ZON



[ @ze_kraken ] "...Blanc."

The orc was clearly deep thought as she huddled forward in the amber light.

"And to clarify. You pronounce it like 'bl-ah-nk'. Not 'bl-a-nk'," she took a large mouthful of ale, whilst being careful not to get any froth around her mouth. She hid it in the moment out of politeness, but messy eaters or drinkers somewhat disgusted her, "...a secret of my own for you. After all that," she gestured to him as if to imply all the information, "my sister used to have a nickname for me."

She looked at the stranger, deadpan.

" ' Blankie. ' "

Her mouth snarled at the very thought of it, but also gave the shadow of a smile. Eventually, she even gave a chuckle, the sudden tension in the air broken. It was clear Blanc liked the stranger, despite the flecks of soup in his beard somehow reminding her of that brown scab.

"For some reason I never felt the cold as much. So she'd always leech my heat when we were young," she finished the ale, "the nickname has always embarrassed me. Only when she left home, did the name leave for good. So keep it to Bl-ah-nk. Or else."

The threat was intended to be a joke, but Blanc always had a problem with making her tone suggest otherwise.

Noticing the fire was starting to die down a little, she bent down to put another log in, noticing a cat laying near the hearth.

"...Hi, fluffy," she muttered under her breath. She paused in temptation to try and pet the cat, but it seemed the type not interested in strangers. Moving her hand towards some firewood, she placed it into the hearth and turned back to the stranger.

"Anyway."

She thought about things for a while, stroking the handle of her axe Ascia, the feel of the polished bronze handle always helping her think.

"One drink for all the information I needed was a good deal. From where I come from, strangers would ask for gold pieces," she sneered a little, her mouth returning to a neutral expression as she was briefly distracted by watching the cat, "as such. I agree. I think we can come to an arrangement, stranger. Here's what I'm thinking."

Leaning back, she crossed her legs, an oddly feminine gesture from the otherwise hulking orc.

"I can get you past that door."

A pause as she opened a leather pouch around her belt.

"And yes. I'm implying brute force. But it's brute force only my kind are capable of," she briefly flashed a pair of marquise-cut gems, which were both currently glowing white, blood red embers flickering within.

"I'll deal with anything that tries to stop us," she said it plainly and with a hardened tone, as if it were a simple fact, "all I need you to do in return is lead the way. We can discuss how to split things when we get there... but it seems fair you get the majority in this arrangement."

...

Her eyes glanced once more to the cat, and hten shifted the right for a moment; the side where her vision actually worked. A nearby human woman seemed to have suddenly got Blanc's attention. [ @Elle Joyner ]

"I noticed this is your cat. It's a nice cat. I'd pet it. But it seems the type that doesn't like to be moved."

...

"More to the point. I noticed you were listening in," despite the woman's words being dead serious, her facial and body language at least suggested some amicability, "...is it because you're looking for work? Not to put words in your mouth sir..." she nodded her head in the direction of Nathyen, then looked back to the silver-haired woman, "...but a journey to a cursed tomb sounds unwise for but a duo to conquer. I had a nice view of the river on the way here."


 
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Niowyn of the Ta'Lassa Tribe




A cloaked figure stood at the edge of the Fangtooth River, blue eyes peering at the lifeless bodies bobbing in the water like a buoy at sea. The villagers called it a ‘Heroes Return’ – a mocking of the once hopeful adventurers who traversed into The Crags looking for riches. It was wrong; water was supposed to carry life, not death. Niowyn knelt at the river’s edge and scooped a handful of water into the cup she made with her hand. Holding her hand high, she tilted it to watch the water spill over her hand and trickle from it. The water sparkled in the sunlight. Niowyn’s eyes fluttered closed and she mouthed a small prayer for the nameless dead.

It wasn’t long before a few villagers had gathered with their shovels to prepare a grave… although it wasn’t a grave at all, it was a pit. There were several other mounds scattered along the Fangtooth River as if to represent the passage of time; one for each thaw. Standing from her place Niowyn moved away from the river and watched in silence as the bodies were pulled from the water and placed in a pile like a sack of potatoes awaiting their forever resting place below the earth. Others gathered, women carrying baskets of eucalyptus to add to the pit, and a couple that looked just as out of place as she likely did, travelers maybe? As the bodies began to be rolled into the pit with the push of a foot, Niowyn left.

Niowyn walked up the river a ways, not yet ready to retire to the local inn. Darkness loomed above; swollen clouds painted the sky ready to rain upon the ground. Niowyn had always liked the rain, there was something strangely peaceful about it. Hugging herself against the cold wind nipping at her, she noticed a figure on the rocks in the distance and as she came closer, she realized it was another body. Niowyn approached the lifeless body and knelt beside it once she was close enough. It was a human woman – her skin was pale and wrinkled from being in the water for so long. Her eyes were still open and looked as though they were frozen in fear from the moment of her death. Niowyn ran her hand along the cauterized slash marks that littered the woman’s body; a demon’s work. Her heart ached for the woman… no one should have to die like that. ”I’m sorry…” she whispered as she closed the woman’s eyes gently.

~~~​

The sun had set by the time Niowyn had made her way to The Cat and Rooster and it had been raining for some time. Her feet sunk into the mud with each step and before pushing open the door to the inn, she looked down at her dirtied shoes and wondered if she should invest in a pair of boots for her travels. Niowyn grinned to herself, opened the door, and was welcomed with a rush of warm air that carried hints of spices and meat. Her stomach growled at the scent and she found herself at the far end of the bar, closest to a fire. Niowyn removed her water saturated cloak and fanned it over the back of a tall chair in hopes to dry it out. She placed her pack and gourd on the ground next to her and popped up on a chair, eagerly waiting to be helped.

The bartender made his way to her, he was a burly man with a thick red beard and if it wasn’t for his height, she would’ve assumed he was a dwarf. ”Aye, not from around here are you lass?” he looked over the bar, although hopeless to see anything, had obviously watched her come in with a gourd on her back and knew it was sitting at Niowyn’s feet. ”What will it be for ya?”

He even spoke like a dwarf…

”And what gave that away?” Niowyn smiled at the bartender and pushed a closed fist facedown across the bar, her hand opened to reveal a few small coins. ”I’m hoping for a bowl of stew and a drink. Will this be enough?”

The bartender cocked an eyebrow and picked up a coin, he examined it and with determination, nodded at Niowyn in approval of the transaction. Niowyn looked around the inn; it was the center building in town where all the roads lead to. It was the most exciting thing in The Hollows, which explained its business. There were people from all walks of life in The Cat and Rooster; men, women, humans, orcs, and dwarves. Her eye caught the strange couple she noticed at the river earlier and she watched as the smaller one made her way over to the cat. Niowyn smiled at the gesture and turned back around in her chair when the bartender returned with her meal. ”Here you are, lass. A bowl of The Hollow’s finest and a cup of shit!”

Niowyn couldn’t help a grin, picked up her beverage and tipped the glass toward the bartender in thanks before taking a swig. He was right, it wasn’t good. Hoping the stew would be better, she began her meal and was pleasantly surprised. Niowyn was thankful for the warmth it brought as she filled her belly. ”Excuse me, I’d like to ask you about something I heard in town earlier. Something about demons, would you know anything about that?"

The bartender’s face told Niowyn he was surprised she didn’t know already and more; she had confirmed that she wasn’t from around there. It didn’t seem to bother the bartender though as he appeared to enjoy the opportunity to share with someone. ”Aye, lass. For the last few moons, there has been more and more demons about but there’s more…” The Bartender leaned in as if he was about to tell Niowyn a great secret, his eyes shifted back and forth to confirm that no one else was listening. ”There’s something dark lurking about, something dark and ugly and far worse than demons…”

”And what is it? Have you seen it?” she asked curiously. The bartender retracted from Niowyn and picked up a mug, he rubbed the mug with a tattered cloth and shook his head. ”Nay, lass. It kills everything in its path, it leaves no survivors.” Niowyn polished off her drink and declined the bartender’s offer for another. ”If this thing leaves no survivors, how do you know about it?” she asked with a playful tone.

Before the bartender could answer he question she was on the next one. ”I didn’t come here for demons though. The Hollows is so close to the Crags, would you know anything about the land of old?”

”Aye lass, there’s many a rumor about the old world in the Crags. Why do you think people venture from so far to take their stab at it? The river aint full of bodies for no reason.” The Bartender then gestured to the corner of the inn. Niowyn looked over her shoulder to see a human man sitting with an orc woman and the smaller female of the odd couple with the cat sitting nearby. ”My girl’s have said that there group has been chattering about an artifact, though. Like all travelers, I bet they will be floating down river next thaw with the rest of ‘em.”

An artifact? I wonder…



Location: The Hollows; Fangooth River and The Cat and Rooster | M: Nathyen @ze_kraken, Blanc @Jamaicanbobslayer, and Aria @Elle Joyner

 
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Oryn




The gravel crunched under the hooves of his horse. For the past few weeks, he’d been roaming the countryside and the roads, travelling aimlessly between towns. He was tired and cold right down to the bones. Oryn wrapped himself in his cloak a little tighter and grumbled. It had been a while since he’d had a warm meal and some wine. A few days ago he’d even dreamed off sitting by a fire with warm food in his stomach. He’d woken up eager to move on. Now, so close to the Hollows, it seemed his dream might soon become reality. He looked up from under his hood, squinted against the sunlight and relaxed in the saddle. While the sun did its best to warm him, there was a chill in the air that he couldn’t quite shake. Perhaps he was hungry. Perhaps he’d been on the road too long. Whatever it was, he wanted to chase it from his body and mind as soon as possible. And for that he would need warm food and something to drink. Perhaps even a bath.​
The sun was considerably lower in the sky when he reached the Fangtooth. The hooves of his horse made wet sucking sounds when it pulled them from the mud to take a step. Spring was here. Frost was releasing its hold on the land, waters ran, things bloomed anew and the days grew steadily longer. A gentle breeze would occasionally rise to caress the skin on his face. Oryn raised his face to meet it and sucked in a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes. What was supposed to have calmed and refreshed him instead surprised and resulted in a wrinkled nose and a confused expression. There was something sweet in the air. Sweet and cloying and powerful. Oryn spurred his horse onwards, soon hearing voices from up ahead. He approached gathered townspeople. Some were digging and some were resting. The scent grew more powerful here. Death. Decay and rot.​
“Greetings, stranger.”​
Oryn nodded in return, pulled the hood of his head and touched two fingers to his brow. He looked at the man who had spoken and then at the pit behind him. He didn’t need to dismount and approach to know what they were digging for. “What’s this?”​
“Adventurer’s of yore.” Came the reply. He was an older man. Graying beard and only a little hair on his head. He was leaning on a shovel, his free hand at his side. By the way he spoke, it appeared that this was nothing new. But when he noticed Oryn’s expression, he continued. “Happens every year. They go up into the Crags, die one way or another. Demons get them or the frost.” He shook his head and sighed. “When the thaw comes, the waters carry them down the Fangtooth for us to bury.” He gestured unceremoniously toward the pit behind him and shrugged.​
By the looks of it, they had been at it all day. Most of the villagers working here wore wreaths of spices around their necks to mask the smell of the dead. They might have been frozen during winter, but now that everything was thawing and the sun regained its strength, it seemed that they rotted even faster. Oryn let out a sharp breath through his nose. “Grim work.” He said and shook his head. He looked at the sun. It seemed to be fighting harder to stay in the sky. It’s light was fading and the rays it sent out were a deeper red now.​
“Aye.” The man wrenched his shovel from the ground and nodded. “Grim work.” He repeated. Then he cleared his throat. “Stay out of the Crags, stranger.” The smile he added gave the impression that this was friendly advice, but he’d seen too many adventurer’s meet their demise in the Crags to care whether or not Oryn took it.​
Oryn’s horse shifted impatiently beneath him. He touched two fingers to his brow once more in farewell and watched as the man walked back to the pit. He gave a low chuckle before he edged his horse on. He’d be in Hollows as the sun dipped below the horizon.​



He stepped through the door to the Cat and Rooster. Oryn was carrying his sword, in its scabbard, in his hand. His horse was stabled and taken care of. His boots were heavy against the wooden floors of the inn as he walked across it. It was warm and comfortable inside. People were talking, some were playing card games, some were drinking and some were eating. All the things you’d expect people to do in an inn. He approached a vacant chair at a table as close to the fire as he could get, without encroaching on other people’s personal space. He placed his sword on the table with a thunk and put his feet up on another chair that he dragged across the floor. Oryn leaned back in the seat and waved at a serving girl.​

“Welcome to the Cat and Rooster, sir.”​
“Thank you.”​
“What might I-”​
“Stew and mulled wine, girl. Quick as you can.” Oryn’s words were firm and direct, but his expression was friendly. He offered the girl a warm, albeit slightly weary smile after which she nodded and left him. Looking around at the frequenters of the inn, it struck him that no matter how harsh the terms for survival were, people always seemed to find a way to brew ale and make wine. Neither were of praiseworthy quality, in the Cursed Lands, but still it was readily available in most towns. Oryn, like so many others, had never had a bottle of quality wine or ale. So he was used to drinking whatever watered down beverage he was served as he went. That was also why mulled wine was a particular favourite of his. It warmed him on a day like this, from the inside out, and the spices masked the fact that it was - most likely - watered down.​
Blue eyes wandered the inn, focusing on a few people as they caught his attention. There were a few drunkards, a few pretty girls and an inappropriately fat man sitting in a corner. But most interesting was the orc woman and a human man in conversation. There was another woman as well, petting a cat. His eyes lingered on them for a while, wondering where they had come from and what they were talking about. They had a certain look about them. They weren’t townsfolk. They weren’t guards either. Perhaps they were mercenaries? Oryn made a face. No, they weren’t mercenaries.​
“Here you go, sir.” The young girl placed a generous bowl of stew on the table in front of him along with a cup of hot wine. The scent flowed into his nostrils and washed all memory of the smell of the dead from the pit away. She waited, holding her serving tray down in front of her. Oryn produced a coin to pay her and thanked the girl. Eagerly, he turned to his meal, his prize. This was what he had been longing for, for days now. But even though the stew was good and filling and the wine was warming him, he couldn’t help but keep an eye on the out-of-place three gathered at a table not far from him. Ah, but there was also a fourth. She was clad in... Well, what was that exactly? Oryn had never seen garments like hers. She carried with her a strange object. She most definitely was not from Hollows.​





 
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 Background Music



THE CAT AND ROOSTER


With an irritated mewl,

Threadbare shifted positions as Aria’s hand froze over the feline’s outstretched form. With a quick side glance towards her companion, she caught sight of the slight tilt to the side of his mouth and she could’ve picked up the damned cat and hurled him at Theod. There was no telling, really, what the man was planning, or even if he was planning anything at all, but so rare were real coincidences, and the orc woman had not missed her intrusion in the slightest.

“He isn’t mine…” She answered, with an edge of defensiveness she didn’t entirely mean, though her hand almost simultaneously returned to assuaging the cat’s need for attention, “My partner and I… we stole his seat, and apparently that’s frowned on, around here…”

Apologizing to a cat. What in the world had Theod been thinking, “As it is, I wasn’t meaning to… listen in. Did… did you say cursed tomb? We came looking to help… but it hasn’t entirely been clear where our services might best be utilized. What sort of work would this entail?”

“Ah yes I don’t intend to be one of those unlucky bastards floating down the river,” the bearded man agreed, nodding to the orc. “So fortunate you were listening in, or rather, that your companion was so rude as to unseat this poor ‘lil fellow.”

He paused then, stroking his bushy beard with gloved fingers before seeming to remember what exactly was being discussed.

“But, I reckon that this tomb is ‘bout a four, five day march west in the direction of the Fangtooth. Might be six if the weather’s not been kind and there’s still ice on the passes. Ormund was buried deep in the central fort, which has been overrun by a whole manner of nasty folk but the fort itself is still in good enough shape from what I’ve read. Might be those old dwarven locks are enough for a humble ‘ole locksmith like me to crack, but I’m no fighter and I’m certainly no wizard. If you lot can get me to the tomb, I can open it and we can split what treasures might be there.”

"It’s a deal on my part. Our axe is yours," the orc murmured, her one good eye staying trained on the cat. She put another log on the hearth to stoke it, with a pop and a crack of embers, "so long as you have good stories for the journey," she placed down her mug, now empty of everything apart from the foam systematically avoided at the top, "we like stories."

Her eyes trained back to Aria and all the rest gathered, waiting on their decisions.

"So?"

“If it’s fighters you need…”Looking to Theod, a brow quirked up before Aria’s eyes shifted back to the pair at the table, “I suppose we could lend a hand. Myself, I’ve got no need for treasure… And I don’t imagine my partner will hear of it, either. Not out here for that sort of thing.”

Pushing upright, Aria rolled her shoulders into a shrug, “We can get you to the tomb… I’ve no doubt.”

"Magic?" Blanc briefly asked Aria as she appraised her.

“Magic?” Aria chuckled lightly, giving a shake of her head, “Only if you consider putting up with my partner’s mischief any sort of magic. But I know my way around a blade, well enough.”

"Hrm..."

“Apologies for snooping… But, if it’s magic you need,” chimed a serving girl coming to take the empty drinking glasses from the bearded man. “There’s a strange woman who came in, looks like one who might use magic judging by the gourd.”

She paused then, eyeing the group.

“I wouldn’t know, though,” she added. “She’s a bit strange even for the Hollows this time of year, might be she’s just eccentric.”

The serving girl dropped another mug by the bearded man who took it, nodding his thanks and passing her a coin.

“Ah, thank you, love,” the bearded man said, turning his attention back to the orc and the pair of humans. “Aye, might be she’s a good one to bring in to this ‘lil scheme of ours.”

"Best to," Blanc agreed, "...getting stuck because of some inscription would be a pain in the ass," not wasting any time, she stood up to her full height, clicking her jaw. As she took her first step, however, she noticed that she was standing on something…

...Furry? A tail? ...Fuck.

< HSSSS…!! >

The next thing Blanc knew, a cat was clinging onto her side, claws deep enough in her to actually draw a little blood. Lifting up her foot, she didn’t seem to react to the pain at all, giving a mere grunt of annoyance as the cat remained attached to her like a leech.

"I take it back," she murmured, "this cat’s a fucking bastard."

The shrieking of a cat being thrown across the tavern caused a brief silence, but it didn’t take long for things to get back to how they were. Rolling her shoulder, Blanc put a crude wrapping around the clawmark and continued to approach the woman as if nothing had ever happened.

"You," she called out. Though she loomed over the girl, the small wave she made and the fact she’d been damaged by a cat made the orc’s stature and gleaming axe less intimidating, "sorry to take up your time. But if you’re in need of work, we’re in need of a skilled magic user. I was told you were just the part."

The sound of the cat’s shriek cut through the bustling of the inn like a hot knife through butter. Niowyn turned on her chair, as most of the other patrons did, to find the source of the horrendous noise. The orc from the corner table came into view with a stoic expression - no reaction? impressive. Niowyn cringed when the woman flung the cat across the tavern, which seemed to signal the rest of the patrons to go back to doing whatever it was they were doing; maybe a slight reaction after all.

“Well, I’m not really in need of work but it just so happens to be that a little birdy told me that you and your, uh… comrades, were going to track down an artifact? I’m more interested in the history than anything.” Niowyn’s smile turned up in one corner of her mouth to sport a grin. “But I won’t object to being paid either.”

The woman cocked her head to the side and looked at the poorly put together bandage the orc had used to cover the wound from the cat. “It seems as though the mighty cat of this inn has bested you, orc. Would you like me to heal that for you? Consider it a trial of my skilled magic

"...Heal it?" She lifted an eyebrow somewhat doubtfully, clearly new to the concept, “show me,” she unwrapped the bandage and presented the wound.

With a smile Niowyn stood from her seat and approached the orc. She opened her hand, palm facing up and a stream of water emerged from the gourd, twirling in the air for a moment before forming a small sphere in Niowyn’s hand. Her eyes took a blue glow before she closed them and mouthed a few muffled words. The water in Niowyn’s hand took on a golden light and she placed her hand over Blanc’s wound. After a few moments, Niowyn removed her hand and revealed that the orc’s skin was intact as though the cat had never scratched her.

“And there you have it, healed!”

"........"

Blanc looked up from her wound after a long few moments, gently prodding at the freshly repaired skin with - at first, a skeptical - but then an unreadable frown.

"...You’re coming with us," she stated. It sounded like a threat at first, but she soon clarified before the tension grew uncomfortable, "even if it means you’re having some of my share. Because I like you, and that was invaluable," she nodded towards the hearth, "come on."

“Aye, plenty of time to flip through some of those musty tomes if you can do that, lass,” the bearded man interjected, looking from the rim of his drinking mug bewildered as a little bit of the foam dripped down into his beard. “And I best not argue with an orc, so you’re more than welcome to join this merry crew.”

Eyes slightly wide, watching the feline sore like a small, unwitting bird across the tavern, landing with a less than graceful thump on a nearby bench that had been piled (thankfully) with furs and blankets, Aria turned just in time to see the other woman appear, and consequently, the scratches disappear from the orc’s leg.

“...Well. That’s not something you’ll see on a farm…” She muttered, glancing over to Theod, who was still flashing an irritatingly smug smile her way, “At any rate, seems you’ve got yourself a crew, Sire. If it suits you, anyway.”

“Do I look like a sire to ‘ya? ‘Ya can call me Nathyen, I’m no pretender knight” the bearded man guffawed, slapping his mug upon a nearby table, sending froth and ale spilling out onto its wooden surface. “Gods I’m getting drunk. Right, so an orc, a healer, a warrioress and her companion, and a locksmith.”

Nathyen giggled again, taking another swig from his mug.

“Right, then, we should leave soon before the others catch on to what might be lurking in Gol Badhir. Weather permittin’, we leave by the end ‘o the week. Any objections?”

When none came, Nathyen cleared his throat and nodded.

“Aye, so it is. I’m staying in this very inn, so if ‘ya have need of me you know where to find me. Otherwise, it is late, I am tired and nearing drunk, so I bid you fine lot a good evening.”



Nathyen awoke the next morning to a stiff back and sore joints. Grunting and complaining, he eased himself out of bed and donned a plain woolen tunic and britches, tucking on a pair of well-worn, bordering destroyed, leather boots. Over the tunic he clasped a plain, undyed traveler's cloak of roughspun cloth that was a muddy brown and frayed at the edges. He clasped his sword at his belt and went to break his fast downstairs by the hearth once more.

Nathyen sat by a handful of other travelers, sharing stories and jests over breakfast and indulging in a bit of self-inflation as he recounted past deeds of glory and sorrow. With a belly full of bread and butter and watered-down ale, Nathyen left the Cat and Rooster, pulling the hood of his cloak over his mane of bushy brown hair.

Mist filled the town, and the pale pink fingers of dawn had barely just begun to grip over the edge of the Crags. The ground was wet under his feet at Nathyen trod through the Hollows, boots sloshing and crunching in the wet gravel, mud clinging to his boots. The locksmith paid a visit to his horse, paid the stable boy, and ventured back into the town. It was eerily quiet, even for morning in a small village in an isolated reach of the Cursed Lands.

"Most dare not step out when the mists are about," one of the men this morning had told Nathyen. "They believe it is a bad omen."

He had struggled not to laugh at such a claim, but he now saw the truth to the man's words as he stepped through yet another empty trail. Nathyen passed a number of fellow travelers wandering the mist as he went, bidding them luck in their travels as they headed west or north towards the Crags. How many of them would return this time next year, he wondered, as he watched their backs go. Some rode on horse, others went on foot. There were lone warriors and mages, groups of fighters and bands of bards.

All carried with them the sense of excitement and purpose that tended to befall adventurers, Nathyen noticed. Would it be enough, though? He cast those thoughts aside as he finally found his quarry: a sign post. Chuckling to himself - the mist had concealed the fact that the signpost was not ten paces from the doors of the Cat and Rooster - Nathyen went about hammering a notice to the post.

"Men and women wanted.

Venturing to Gol Badhir, seeking treasure of Ormund Eight Fingers.

Supplies and gear to be brought by each.

Seek Nathyen in the Cat and Rooster for more details."

Simple, he thought, as he stood back and admired it, but any seasoned traveler would know of Gol Badhir if they had come this far for the Hollows. There was little else worth seeking this far north, and the dwarven hold was where the treasure was. Nathyen wagered only 1 man in 10 that left the Hollows did so blindly without knowing the legends of the old kingdom of the great thane Ormund.

Nathyen stepped away from the sign and ventured back into town as the mist began to dissipate and the pale fingers of dawn became the hazy orange-yellow halo of daylight proper. He would need supplies, for his stores had long since been depleted on the road to the Hollows...

GM NOTES:

Mentioned IC: @Elle Joyner @Jamaicanbobslayer @Pupperr
Others: @Morgan @Ellion @Steel

THE TIME FOR ADVENTURE IS APPROACHING!

Travelers are gathering behind Nathyen to venture for Scarnesbane, but other information has yet to be gleamed from the first GM post that is still eligible for interaction. Below are additional interactive elements introduced now for players to use in their posts. By this coming Friday (3/13) the goal is to have all players with their characters pointed in a direction that takes them out of the Hollows (either to join Nathyen, seek out Maud, or investigate demon sightings).

INTERACTIVE ELEMENTS


Search for Rumors:
With so many adventurers in town, rumors spread like wildfire. You may seek out additional rumors about Ormund, Gol Badhir, or sightings of demon which yields, respectively, the following insights: 1) Ormund's tomb has not been breached since his death over 400 years ago, and many suspect it to be haunted by his ghost and the ghost of his clansmen. Of particular note, it is believed that the remaining dwarven family in the Crags is descended from Ormund. 2) Gol Badhir is comprised of 15 fortresses interconnected throughout the Crags, threaded with a series of tunnels and mines. Of these only 4 are still remotely safe to enter, the others having collapsed or been overtaken by feral and vicious creatures. Gol Badhir's central fortress has been inhabited by stone trolls, and the last one to venture that way was found half-eaten when he made his Hero's Return. 3) Demons have been spotted wandering the fringes of the Crags, tailing travelers and killing lone wanderers. People do not go out during the mists, for demons have always preferred to hunt when the mists are heavy, and it is advised that all refrain from traveling alone.


Seek out Nathyen:
Nathyen has set himself up in the Cat and Rooster after posting his notice to fellow adventurers. Additionally, word about him has spread throughout the village along with mutterings of "Scarnesbane", prompting great interest. Speaking to him will add your character to the party that has formed to ventured out to Ormund's tomb.


Gathering Supplies:
In preparation for the upcoming adventure, your character may venture the Hollows and purchase supplies from the various shops. There is salted rations available for purchase as well as tents, bedrolls, warmer tunics and cloaks as well as a handful of other odds and ends. Update your character's inventory with the relevant items purchased.



 
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2beaaa77eb14470b844623ffd79ee77f.jpg


Arianell Oresh
INTERACTIONS | Nathyen @ze_kraken



The Hollows
"You can't be serious!" The bellow echoed in the small, hollow stables, Aria's hand frozen mid-stroke against the hide of a stone grey mare. Leaning against the paddock gate, Theod was still grinning, and she wanted nothing more than to hurl the brush at his head, "The entire reason I came here with you was because you yourself said it was suicide to venture this far North on your own, and now you're telling me you want me to go off... on my own? Are you completely mad, or did you just bring me out here to kill me?"

Laughing, infuriatingly, Theod shook his head, "Lad... I've known you how long, now? Two years... Maybe longer? Long enough to figure out callin' you lad's about as logical as sendin' you to apologize to a cat, anyway. But point is, you don't spend that amount of time with a person without growing to care for 'em. I won't insult my own intelligence by suggestin' you're like a son to me, cause we both know that's a load... But you've been my only family out here, and the last thing I wanna do is send you off to your end." Straightening, he rolled his shoulders, smacking his palms on the wooden gate rail hard enough to send a plume of dust motes in the air, "But that doesn't change the facts... This isn't my journey, anymore. I could slay the last of those monsters with my bare hands and it won't bring back those they took from me. Same as you know it won’t bring your brothers back. What you need, Lad, is purpose. And you won’t find it on some senseless hunt for vengeance.”

Opening the gate, Theod stepped inside, his hands clapping down on her shoulders. Aria couldn’t quite bring herself to meet his eyes, her own oddly misty. When he stepped away, her hand absently returned to brushing the horse’s coat. The mare gave a wicker of annoyance as her ministrations became less delicate in her own rising irritation.

“You’ll find purpose, Arin. With these people. I don’t know how I know it, but I just… I feel it, in my bones. This is meant for you, and me? Well… I’d slow you down in the worst of ways.”

“...H-how do you--”

“You care too much ‘bout my sorry old hide." She opened her mouth to protest, but Theod brushed it off with a wave of his hands, "It’s not a bad thing, Lad, but it’ll catch you at the wrong time, and you’re bound for distraction. You don’t need me. Not anymore. I’d wager you didn’t before… ‘cept for that terrible footwork.”

Frowning, though not without an edge of amusement, Aria finally glanced up at the older man, “...Way I remember it, my footwork knocked you on your stubborn backside a time or two or ten, no problem.”

“Ha! Ten? Bit of an exaggeration, that one. But that’s besides the point. You can do this, Arin… I know you can.”

“...Aria. Well, Arianell...” The word escaped in barely a whisper, the first time she’d used her proper name in far too long. It had been a necessity at the start - her guise. But over time she’d come to find more and more women entering the fray against the monstrosities. Women, as it turned out, were a bit tired of relying on others to protect them. Those that couldn’t wield a weapon, after all, were not spared the wrath of one...

“...Come again?” Theod’s brow rose, though there was a knowing glint in his steely gaze.

Lip pursed, Aria sighed, as she focused her full attention on the brush in her hand, “My name is Aria. Might as well know, since I’ll be dead in a week.”

Laughing again, heartily, Theod clapped her on the back, “...Lad, you’ll outlive us all. Out of spite, no doubt. Now… Quit menacing that poor beast’s coat and get movin’... they’re not likely to--”

He paused as rather suddenly, Aria shifted her weight and spun on her heels, her arms looping around the older man’s waist. For a moment, he said nothing, before a soft chuckle escaped, a hand patting her shoulder, “We’ll meet again, Lad. I know it. If not here… well… Onward.”

“Onward…” A sigh escaped and releasing him, Aria hastily wiped at her cheeks, smudging dirt along the bridge of her nose, “You’ll be alright?”

“...Aye, Lad. I’ll be fine. Go on…”

Passing the brush into Theod’s hand, Aria took a breath. Then shouldering her pack, she turned and without looking back, slipped out the exit of the stables. It was a short walk back to the front entrance of the tavern, and slipping inside, the young woman crossed the room to find the bearded man from the night prior, clearing her throat as she approached his table.

“...Seems it’s just me." She paused, glancing down at an odd sensation brushing against her ankles and with a grimace, she gingerly nudged Threadbare away from her foot, "Ready at your call, Sire.”
 




Oryn



He opened his eyes slowly. It was more out of habit rather than the threat of sunlight assailing his vision. Oryn hadn’t woken after sunrise for years. It was set so deep within him now that he wasn’t sure he could if he tried. Perhaps if he drank himself into a stupor, he might sleep through the day? No, he didn’t intend to do that. Oryn always woke minutes before the sun rose in the sky. There had to be something inside him that kept time, so his mind and body knew when to wake. Perhaps it was the same mechanism that caused his sleep to be so uneasy, whenever the moon was full. He sighed and ran a hand over his face. Whatever caused it, he was awake now and he wasn’t going back to sleep.
The food and warmth of the night before had filled him up and warmed him. Oryn had spent most of the evening observing the guests of the Cat and Rooster, though his attention had mainly been focused on a specific band of adventurers. Two women and two men. He’d thought it strange at first. In his years he hadn’t encountered very many women fighting, but he knew that more and more took up a blade or tried their hands at magic. Oryn knew not to underestimate them, however. He was the unfortunate owner of a nasty scar on the neck, where a ferocious female had stabbed at him. Eventually, he had not acted on his deliberations on whether or not to join the adventurers.
In truth, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was there for. Something inside him was tired of wandering the roads, lending his blade to escort others back and forth between settlements. He had enough faith in his skills with a blade, but this had been his occupation all his life. Oryn didn’t mind fighting. It was all he knew and what he was best at. But he lusted for true purpose and a sense of achievement. Saving the lives of merchants wouldn’t give him that. Maybe here in the far north of the Cursed Lands, legends could still be forged.
He groaned and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, deciding that it was too early for thoughts of glory. Skilled as he was, Oryn was very aware that he could easily end up floating down the Fangtooth himself. Time would tell. He shook his head and took a few deep breaths, stood and dressed himself. He donned first his trousers, socks and boots. Then his rough gray shirt, surcoat, belt, armor and his cloak. Oryn’s gear was in decent condition. During his travels, there was little else to do in front of the fire than mend armor and clothes. So in his mind he considered one last time, if there was anything he would need for further travels. Nothing came to mind. Before heading out the door, Oryn strapped his sword to his belt. It was comfortable to feel its weight there again. It always felt a little strange whenever it wasn’t there.
Outside, the first rays of sunlight struggled to pierce the veil of mist that shrouded the Hollows. Oryn paid no mind, but headed straight for the stables. He paid what he owed and saw to his horse. Dale was a strong, bay colored horse. He wasn’t particularly fast, but he was good-natured and reliable. Oryn found some brushes and began taking care of him. He fed him and talked to him. Though some people might find it strange, Oryn had not shadow of a doubt that the animal understood him sometimes. The way he’d shake his head, nudge his shoulders or stop his hoof in the ground would be his way of answering and Oryn understood.
After a while, he left the stables and went to wander the streets of Hollows. The air was cool and refreshing. A few people were stirring and moving about the village. Oryn stopped at three different merchants and got the supplies he needed. They were small things, but important things. It didn’t take him long to get back to his room, put them in his pack and head back out. The sun had forced the mists to relinquish their hold on the village. Oryn turned in the direction of the Cat and Rooster. It was high time he ate.
Inside it wasn’t as tightly packed as the evening before, but the fire was still going and the innkeeper as well as a few servant girls were milling about. Oryn approached the bar and ordered some bread, sausage and ale for himself. They were remarkably fast in serving him and he felt his stomach grumble at the sight of a fresh plate of food. He thanked the barkeep, paid him and turned to find a table. But as he did, his eyes caught sight of someone familiar. Looking down at his plate of food and then back to them, he shrugged and decided to approach.
Oryn set down his plate and tankard of ale on the table, sat down and looked at the bearded man and the definitely not bearded woman. He gave them each a nod, took a bite of bread and a swig of ale. “Good morning.” He began, smiled and gestured toward the door with the bread in his hand. “Say, might one of you have anything to do with that note on the sign post outside?” Oryn raised an eyebrow, took another bite of bread and chewed.
Even though he had rarely concerned himself with legends and myths, even he had heard of Ormund Eight Fingers. Whether there was any truth to the legend of his treasure or not, well, perhaps he was soon to find out?



 
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MENTIONS:
Nathyen @ze_kraken | Arianell @Elle Joyner | Oryn @Morgan


Drip. Drip. Drip...

"Hmm... Hm-hmh... Ha-hah~! Oh..."

The morning was serene as a slumbering calf; a certain soft melancholy that hangs in the air after a night of cold, hard rain. Daggers of mellow, peach light filters through the dead branches overhead and bounce wildly in the quivering reflection of ankle-deep puddle water. On that lonesome stretch of twisting road, a shrill orchestra of warbling birds and chittering insects was broken by nought but the 'hums' and 'hahs' of a baritone voice.

The knight's armour made nary a 'clink', but for the rustling of smooth fabric against metal - though his musings seemed to be causing quite a ruckus amongst the local rabbit population. A particularly large, grey specimen tumbled past a stout, rain-soaked wooden post - upon it engraved that all-telling marking of mankind's inhabitance.


THE HOLLOWS

20 Miles.



The sound of boot crunching through gravel quickly became the squelching of viscous mud, as the knight crested the tumbling old hill overlooking a small and shabby town of steepled roofs and softly-belching chimneys. The morning's light licked across his vivid surcoat, setting him ablaze with colour not unlike some legendary hero; or rather an exotic bird - he mused, with a deep-bellied chuckle.

With only a short pause to examine the view and take a breath, the knight took off at a stride - with all the look of a man bearing purpose. His oversized sword swung precariously at the hip with each step, though not once did it touch the ground nor clatter loathsomely against his leather pack. To those with sharp eyes and broad wits, they might note this as a gait well-practised - that of a dying breed of men and women that were taught how to walk and talk and act. A nobleman, if you would.

The knight kept pace alongside the tumult of bloated corpses drifting downstream alongside him, raising a cheery hand towards the living adventurers that passed him the other way. He hummed and strode onwards - showing no sign of remark towards the expressions of surprise and uncertainty and confusion sent his way.



The chipped sign of the Cat and Rooster swung incessantly with some unseen wind, its hinges complaining in shrieking voice. Vardis smiled under his mask, and pushed the old door inwards before striding into its warm, musky interior with raised arms.

"Hm-hoh! Morning, Sigurnd!" The words bellowed forth in a strange combination of warm friendliness, yet with the calculated precision of a formal dialect.


The barkeep's eyes were so wide they seemed almost to pop from his head. He paused his polishing to stare at the knight, his eyes flitting down towards his breastplate and staying there.

"Gods above, Vardis. Ye aren't plannin' on bleedin' out on my rugs, are ye?"


Drip... Drip... Drip.

Vardis glanced down to his side; the fabric of his surcoat steeped in a deep, red dye. The liquid seeped down his cuisse in rivulets, and plopped steadily into a gathering pool of blood on the cobbled floor below.

"Hm-... H-hmh~..."


Starting as a quiet chuckle, Vardis' laughter escalated into a full bout of laughter as he gently lifted the fabric - revealing a pair of pale, severed hands hanging in twine from his waist.

"HOH! Not this time, I'm afraid!" The knight paused for a moment, all eyes turned towards him with a colourful array of expressions. "I had the pleasure of running into the orc's brigands on the road to Gol Badhir. Nasty fellows."


The denizens of the establishment seemed to visibly defuse at that bellowed statement, with the exception of the barkeep - who clicked his tongue with an odd combination of relief and frustration. He sighed.

"Fine, then. A bet's a bet, even though you're back damned early." Sigurnd took a long, sleek bottle from beneath the bar and unstoppered it with a soft 'pop' - pouring a dark, thick liquid into a thimble-sized glass and sliding it towards the knight. He paused, peering at the knight with a squint of suspicion.

"I don't see no fancy hammer. Nor do I see that lass ye set off with. Is she--"

"Dead. Yes, I'm afraid so." Vardis spoke the words clearly and without hesitation, as if simply stating a fact.


The barkeep sighed with a semi-sadness, as if he had expected as much since long ago.

"Well... That's another dozen on Maud's bounty. Those aren't his, are they?" He nodded to the hands on Vardis' belt, to which he replies with a curt shake of the head.

"Damn shame, that. Losin' customers, eh..." Sigurnd turned and grumbled his grievances, returning to polishing and leaving the knight to his drink.

Leaning against the bar, Vardis lifted the very bottom of his masked helmet upwards - allowing naught but a sliver of pale lips to be exposed to the light. He swilled the shot of dark liquid in his hand for a few moments, thinking. His inner voices echoed throughout the inside of his head; some extolling facts, reconciling with memories. Others, battling self-doubt and reasoning away worries and fears.

He had failed his duty.


Yet again, he had failed himself, his charge, his ancestors - the entire Northern Lands.

This was his Eighth Duty. The next would be his Ninth.

He paused, at that, and smiled.


'Nine is my lucky number,' he thought, hopefully. 'Next time, it will work.'

Vardis was torn from his musings by cue of a man loudly clearing his throat, and then a tap on the shoulder.

The knight tipped the glass up to his lips and swallowed down that slug of potent, syrupy fluid with barely a grimace - turning to face his appraiser. A scruffy traveller-type clad in leathers and beard hair presented himself, grinning that adventurer's weatherbeaten grin; a militiaman and a thug to boot, too.

"So... Heard ya say Gol Badhir, fella," Nathyen spoke with a sound confidence.


Vardis smiled pleasantly before tipping his masked helmet back down to cover his face.

"I'm listening."


 
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Niowyn of the Ta'Lassa Tribe



Sunlight peaked through the curtains and danced on the walls of Niowyn’s room in the Cat and Rooster. The woman pulled herself from the bed and wondered when morning had come. Crossing the room to the window, she moved the curtain and opened it. Niowyn hugged herself as the morning breeze swept across her. It wouldn’t be long before she embarked on a journey to learn more about the history of the world of old but at least she would have the company of others. Smirking, she thought back to the night before with the orc and the cat. Niowyn closed the window but left the curtains drawn. There was a small water basin in her room that she used to clean her face and hands before pulling on the top layers of her clothing and wrapping herself in her cloak. Niowyn looked at the gourd in the corner by the door and decided against bringing it with her – she would only be gone long enough to pick up a few things and have a meal.

The streets of The Hollows were empty compared to her home and she wondered if it was because of the nature of the town or if it was because of how early it was. Regardless, there were a few people out and about and it was easy to tell who was a local and who wasn’t. Niowyn approached a stand that was set up on the side of the street selling salted meats. There was a man at the stand already, he was an ordinary man but when Niowyn caught a better glimpse of him, she noticed how blue his eyes were. She smiled at him before he left and came to the conclusion, he was likely not a local. Purchasing some salted meat, she moved along, watching her feet sink into the damp ground with each step. Her current footwear wouldn’t last a journey into The Crags and she would need a pair of boots. Her last stop was a shop that sold garments and she picked up a pair of boots made from animal hide.

Niowyn returned to her room, packed up her new supplies, and put on her new boots. Throwing her old shoes out as she exited her room, Niowyn headed downstairs for a meal. Niowyn recognized the woman of the odd pair and the bearded man from the night before. She also recognized the blue-eyed man she had momentarily crossed paths with when shopping but there were a couple new faces as well. She crossed the floor toward Nathyen and Aria, “I don’t believe we were ever properly introduced. My name is Niowyn, from the Ta’Lassa Tribe. I wanted to thank you for letting me join you on this journey.”


Location: The Hollows - Cat and Rooster | M: Oryn @Morgan | I: Nathyen @ze_kraken and Aria @Elle Joyner

 




BLANC ORIZ'ZON



Still rubbing at the repaired skin at her side, the orc's heavy leather boots trudged clear imprints in the muddy road behind her, flicking a helpful farmer a copper for showing her the way to a general store. Resupply was to be needed for such a journey, and she had no intention of being stopped by a mere obstacle, or piece of terrain.

The orc was a well-traveled woman when it came to the wilds, but the opposite when it came to the scattered towns of the North. And very quickly, she was reminded why.

< Stop staring at me. >

She didn't say it out loud, but she willed it as almost every eye appraised her.

It wasn't hateful, racist gazes that bothered her. In places like this, such gazes didn't really seem to exist. Nor was it the surprised gazes that a woman had taken up arms. Again, such gazes did not exist; the sensible knew an orc's gender did little to separate their ferocity.

It was the gazes of people who assumed they knew who she was.

A big brute with an axe, and a scary glare. Someone who you'd want hired on your caravan, but someone you'd otherwise avoid. A thug. A mercenary. An executioner. Each and every one of those damned stares came with a label that Blanc could clearly read, and not a single one of those labels was one she wanted.

< ...You're wrong. That isn't me. >

She closed her eyes as she walked, actually starting to sweat a little.

< Stop staring at me. >


As she willed it once more, she was surprised - as she opened her eyes - when all those stares stopped. It was because they were all staring at somebody else. And soon, Blanc was as well, as the occasional whisper of recognition followed the figure. [ @Steel ]

It was a knight, but not the ragtag kind. Colorful fabrics and polished steel. Marks of battle, but not marks of a man easily beaten. His walk was of something Blanc thought she recognized, but at the same time, she hadn't seen it before. Piecing it together, she soon realized that it was almost exactly how she'd imagined the walk of a hero from one of her old story books.

And as she put it together, she could hear the whispers praising the man.

< ...A hero, then. Someone with a real reputation. >

Blanc stared at that steel sheen of the knight's armour. Confusedly, and very soon, enviously. Who had the luck to wear a suit of armour that could be effortlessly traded for many acres of land? And more importantly, who had the luck to recieve the labels of a hero?

...She found herself wanting to be like that mysterious knight, until she realized, as she finally noticed the bloody orc hands underneath his cloak.

< ...I suppose in the end, I stare and judge as much as anybody else. >

She glanced back ahead.

< I don't want to be like him. I'll find my own way. My own--



--Polish."

"Polish, did you say?" A haggard storekeeper squinted and lifted her eyebrow. Blanc gave a simple nod.

After a pause, the mousy-haired woman shrugged, taking a small stool to lean back into the depths of some of the bottled shelves, "not what I were expecting... but all-above knows that breastplate of yours could need some. Would say it's beyond saving, but... if you care that much, I'm sure you could give it some elbow grease, or--," she quickly corrected herself as she got a hand on the bottle, "--young lady."

< ...Fuck off, you old crone. >
Blanc thought, internally. Her tone was condescending, and pissed her off. But externally came a quiet, "thank you," as the bottle was passed.

"So, a bottle of polish, climbing pitons, iron hooks, a fur tent... a fur bedroll... knife, those whetstones you wanted, sewing thread..." she continued to go through the list, until she soon ended, "...and this bolt of red cloth. That comes to--"

Blanc had already put the right amount of money on the counter.

"--...Oh, er, quite hasty, aren't you?" the woman chuckled, and Blanc gave an emotionless stare in return, "here, let me just add everything together, that's..."

By the time the storekeeper had counted both the coins and the price of all the items, Blanc had already taken them and left without a word, back on route to the inn.

The woman blinked, twice, confusedly, left in a bit of a stunned silence.

"...Well I never..."


 
 Background Music



THE ROAD NORTH


Nathyen
blinked at the stern-looking young boy from the night before, wondering perhaps if "boy" was accurate even as his lips tugged up in a smile that swiftly broke into laughter.

"You go around callin' everyone 'sire', do 'ya?" He chuckled. "Gods be good, I hope you're as prim and proper with that sword of yours as you are with 'yer courtesies."

Nathyen waved the comment aside as his laughter settled down, greeting the strange-looking woman in the flowing robes with the gourd as she approached. He had encountered a host of strange folk on the road to the Hollows and wandering the Cursed Lands, but none quite so eccentric as her, he reflected. She looked as if she had walked out of fire-lit tales of shamans and curses and hexes, the kinds his mother had used to scare him as a boy.

As if eight foot tall demons were not enough to scare any trouble-maker, he mused.

"Aye, the name's Nathyen," he replied to the blue-robed woman, casting a sideways glance at his other companion. "And just Nathyen. 'Sides, no need to thank me, lass, more 'an happy to have any mage aboard. We'll give it the rest 'o the day and depart on the morrow at dawn."

A stranger caught Nathyen's attention, an armored man speaking at the bar. By the look of his weapons, and the way he carried himself - sure of himself, even if there was something off about his movements. Upon further inspection, Nathyen noted that his brightly colored fabrics were sadly travel-worn, his armor dented. This was no pretender knight, though he guessed that the young boy would go around calling him sire as well.

"Ah, give me a moment," he blurted out, catching a hint of dwarven words from the knight and the barkeep.

Nathyen rose and approached the stranger, leather boots echoing out on the creaking wooden floor. He clapped the stranger on the shoulder, smirking as he spoke.

"So... heard 'ya say Gol Badhir, 'fella," he said.

"I'm listening."

His voice sounded just like Nathyen thought a lord's voice might sound. Like the knight's movements, it was assured if just a hint of unsettling. If the eccentric woman in the blue robes had stepped out of a campfire story, this man had emerged from the lyrics of song. Even songs were not immune to the trials of the Cursed Land, Nathyen observed as he reexamined the man's armor. He was no summer knight, no. He was tested steel, only accentuated by the fresh wound.

"Might be 'yer companion mighta' died, and looks like you're a little worse for wear, but I've got a group headin' out to the fortress, might be there's something worth 'yer time if 'ya wanted to come along," Nathyen responded. "We leave at dawn on the morrow, that lot..."

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"...is the one I'm takin', might be 'ya want to get to know 'em."

Nathyen nodded to the man and the barkeep before heading back to the table just in time to be met upon by another stranger upon seating himself.

"...might one of you have anything to do with have anything to do with that note on the sign post outside?"

"That'd be me," Nathyen replied as he eased back into his seat. "'Yer welcome to join us, we depart at dawn...Might be you're one to come along, if 'ya so wish. The road is harsh, the land harsher, and I heard there are trolls in the fortress, so might be you'll be one to help, same as this one here."

He gestured to the young boy.

"Though might want to tell him 'yer name quick, stranger," he snorted. "Elsewise might be too many sires on this road."



Dawn came later than it should. The mountains and the mist warped Nathyen's sense of time, leaving the lingering suspicion that "dawn" might mean something vastly different to those in the Hollows than elsewhere in the world. The mists had started to abate as the sun began to peak over the ridge of the Crags, and Nathyen stood at the northern gate of the town, horse burdened with saddlebags stuffed with food, water skins, drinking horns, personal basics.

His companions came in staggered, the warped meaning of "dawn" holding true as each emerged at differing times from the mists. Though he could not place it, Nathyen felt a chill down his spine as he waited for them all in the fading mists. He swore he could hear something lurking overhead, a distinct flapping of wings, but cast it aside. Perhaps birds, or better yet some watchmen further down the wooden town walls.

Once all had gathered, Nathyen cleared his throat and spoke up.

"Right," he began, pausing as if to collect his thoughts. "Gaugin' the weather, might be spring is still spring further up in the Crags. Should be five, six days to Gol Badhir's entrance. Once we're inside, might be a day or two inside - the place is mammoth. If any 'o 'ya don't want to go, now's 'yer chance to say so. Otherwise, let's go."

Without waiting, he spun around, gripping his horse's reigns and walking along side it out of the town, leather boots crunching in damp gravel alongside the heavier, more rugged stamping of iron-shod horse shoes.

"See 'ya next spring!" Jeered one of the guards as they left, chuckling alongside his companions overlooking the gate. "Hope you lot got gold on you when I drag you from the river!"

"Be sure, then, to tell 'ya girl's bastard who his 'pa is," Nathyen quipped back.

Onwards they went, into the expanse of the Crags north of the Hollows. Hours passed as they went, the sun burning away the last remnants of the mist and giving way to the dim but ever-present rushing of the Fangtooth to the west, countless pines, and blue-black tinged mountains. The Crags loomed over Nathyen and his company as they went along, foreboding even in the light of day. Perhaps it was how many lives they had claimed, or that off-putting color. Nathyen had seen grey slate turn blue in the light of the sun and sky, but never had he seen a mountain range quite so inky black. It reminded him of the armor they wore, seemingly drinking in all light that shone on its surface.

He cast the thought aside. They were mountains, not demons. They were rocks, not monsters. Natural, knowable, and without swords, though he was sure the Crags could kill him just the same as a demon's sword.

As they ventured further north, the Fangtooth's bend straightened back out and its rushing water receded into nothingness, leaving them only with the calls of the birds, the branches of trees crackling in the wind, and their own footsteps and idle chatter. The sun hung high in the air above them, though the air was still chilled. Spring, much like time, felt more like a suggestion than an actuality this far north.

Might be the sunlight just stops, Nathyen mused. Might be that's why they're so black, and why I'm so damn cold.

He tugged his fur-lined cloak tighter to his body, wishing his leather were fur as well as a gust of wind blew down the trail. His hair bristled up until it subsided, and Nathyen cursed the sun for not being warmer as further yet they pressed on.

By the time began to sink back into the mountains - earlier than Nathyen would have thought, just like dawn had come later than he would have thought - the group had begun to make camp in a clearing off the main trail north nestled in a group of pines. Nathyen went about making a fire as tents were pitched and horses were stationed, either on fallen logs or low-hanging branches. Their progress had been good, perhaps five days was an accurate estimate. Nathyen reveled at the thought, wishing for warmer days on the morrow...


GM NOTES:

Mentioned IC: @Elle Joyner @Pupperr @Morgan @Steel
Other: @Jamaicanbobslayer

THE ROAD NORTH IS A HARSH ONE

The journey has begun and the party is beginning to heard north to Gol Badhir. Though this GM post covers a large stretch of time, this is a good time for collabs and covering your own character's personal reflections on the road. Your posts may end with the gathering at the camp and events that happen that evening - the next GM post will take the group further up the road.

Watches should be set for the night to come, for though sleep is vital, safety even more so...

INTERACTIVE ELEMENTS

There are no interactive elements for this post. If your character is set to keep the first or second watch, send me a PM here or on Discord for further details.

 

2beaaa77eb14470b844623ffd79ee77f.jpg


Arianell Oresh
INTERACTIONS | Nathyen @ze_kraken || MENTIONS | @Jamaicanbobslayer, @Pupperr, @Steel, @Morgan



The Hollows
As she was addressed by the bearded man, Aria's cheeks colored lightly at his words. She recalled in their previous conversation having been told by the man that he was 'no sire', but she had spent the better part of two years being reminded by all manner of men that her's was a low place. If she ever wanted anything akin to the respect men like Theod seemed to demand by mere presence, she could not hope to climb without first offering the same respect, in turn. Some, however, and all the more since she had come to the Hollows, seemed to find propriety a wasted art form, and maybe there was some point to that. In these parts, a king was no more revered than a farm girl by the monsters that would relish in slaying either.

She knew it ought not to strike her as so unusual, but home was not so far from her heart that she'd forgotten everything she had been raised by and her father would still wail on her something fierce if he caught her loosing her tongue in any way he thought was inappropriate. Theod would be pleased, however, that he'd rubbed off on her a bit...

As another figure appeared, Aria stepped back a little to allow the strange woman her place in the conversation. Threadbare had begun his stroping around her ankles again, and bending down, despite herself, Aria scritched the cat between his haunches, "Can't come with us, old man..." She murmured, "They'll need you here, I trust..."

Looking up, she watched as Nathyen excused himself, her eyes following him to the man at the bar. The wardrobe was what struck her initially - the oddly colorful outfit in so drab an establishment stood out even without intention. She had seen men of established station, nobility, as it were, and they had a tendency to carry themselves a certain way - Peacocks... Theod would say, Bleeding peacocks, with their fancy robes and frilly ways... - But while she didn't doubt that he was, indeed, well off enough to afford such a remarkable attire, there was something that spoke to the man's formidability, as well. Maybe it was the sternness of his posture, or the mask that obscured his features... or maybe it was the dangling, severed hands hanging from his waist...

Either way, it hardly surprised her that their new guide seemed eager to bring the man along. And shortly thereafter, another joined... This, decidedly, had blossomed into a ragtag but capable bunch, but Aria still felt a twinge of fear needling at the back of her neck... One that did not fade with the remainder of the morning's activities.

By 'dawn', they departed, and shouldering her pack, Aria kept close to the middle of the group, her eyes peeled for any indication of trouble as her hand rarely left her side, where the hilt of her sword rested. They traveled swiftly, and without incident for some time, Aria's focus never leaving the trail, and later as they paused for camp, she was quick to volunteer first watch...

Eager, would be Theod's accustastion. And perhaps it wouldn't be so wildly presumptuous of him. There would always be a part of her that was anxious to please - a part of her that needed to prove she had made the right decision in leaving home, leaving her father and her sisters... A part of her that so desperately wanted to honor the sacrifices her brothers had made... to show that she wasn't like the one who had failed them.

Sitting by the small flecks that remained of the fire later that evening, her sword resting open beside her on a log, her mind reflected back to Theod's conversation with her that morning. She had introduced herself by her proper name to her travelers, and while it undoubtedly came as a certain small surprise to some when she left the facade of boyish youth behind her at the Inn, it was also something of a relief. For so long now, the gruff exterior she had to paint had been a necessity. The soldiers she traveled with prior to the Hollows would not have hesitated to send her home again, had they known she was of the fairer sex, but this crew of unusual companions didn't seem to think twice of it.

Yet the trepidation lingered in her mind, and her uncertainty clung to her still, like a damp blanket, as her gaze remained trained on the path ahead. It was a snap of a twig, subtle, but not so subtle that she missed it, that drew her attention fully, and rising from the quagmire of her thoughts, her eyes narrowed as she squinted through the darkness, towards the wooded treeline ahead. Movement... barely distinguishable from the rustling bows of the canopy over head... roughly twenty-five yards from where they were camped. Swiftly, her foot shuffled and sand was dumped onto the remaining embers of the fire, as her fingers curled around the hilt of her blade. Silently, she waited...

All signs of movement vanished as Aria peered into the darkness. She heard hushed whispers, but it was unclear if they came from the leaves in the wind or from muttering voices. A twig snapped again. A branch snapped. She could just make out the outline of a silhouette in the woods, tall and wide, the edges of gleaming steel caught in the moonlight around its shoulders. Then came eyes - small, squinty eyes that reflected the light back at Aria just as the steel had. The eyes blinked, and Aria could swear she heard faint breathing and could just barely catch the faint traces of fog slipping out from parted lips.

With another rustling among the trees and a flurry of snapping branches the silhouette vanished back from where it came and the treeline once again became inert…

Waiting a beat, Aria remained frozen in place until she was certain the figure would not return, then standing, she gingerly approached the small ring of tents, where Nathyen had set his own. Bending down, she crouched at the edge of the opening, and reaching out, gave his foot a tap, her voice barely a whisper, “...Wake up… Might be trouble.”

Nathyen stirred in the tent, foot jolting as the locksmith clambered out the other side. He looked around, confusion plain on his face as he peered around. Finally his eyes fixated on Aria, and recognition flickered in his eyes as he came-to.

He knelt and fetched his sword from his tent, steel flashing in the darkness. He clutched the blade in both hands, adopting a ready stance as he nodded to Aria.

"Where's the trouble," he whispered, casting a glance to where Blanc slept just ten paces away from his tent. "And why didn't 'ya wake the orc first?"

Following the man’s gaze, Aria grimaced slightly. It might’ve been the better option, given several obvious and maybe less than obvious factors… and it was a fair question, but…

“...Was a bit afraid she’d break my neck for it.” Eyes returning to the treeline, she gestured to where the figure had been, “...Saw him moving there, in the trees. Only saw one, human or orc from the look of him, but I could hear what sounded like whispers. Might’ve been more. Should we wake the rest?”

"Not yet," Nathyen muttered, taking a cautious step towards the treeline between the camp and the trail.

The trees remained motionless as Nathyen approached, and Aria noticed that his feet were only clad in woolen stockings. He glanced around the trees and gestured for Aria to follow behind.

"Behind me," he said. "Keep close, we'll take a quick look and I'll take next watch, too. We'll have to double up."

“Yes Si---uh…” Rubbing the back of her neck, Aria followed behind, sword hand tight at her side, prepared to rise to any indication of trouble. A quick foray into the trees however made it fairly clear whoever their intruder was, he had made swift work of his exit, “Aye. I can stay up another round…”

It wasn’t likely she’d sleep much with the notion of strangers in her brain, “I’m good to wait, if you want to…” Subtly, she nodded down to the state of his feet.

Nathyen gazed down at his feet and laughed softly, peering around camp.

"Ah well, good enough no one else had to see it, too," he replied, turning to fetch his boots from the tent. "I'll take next watch, you get rest and I'll just tell the next one what happened. No need to going alertin' everyone quite yet 'cus some stranger thought this looked like a nice clearing."

“Seen far worse in Theod’s ranks...” Aria noted with a small wince, “And not always without them meaning…” Chuckling dryly, she nodded, “Give a yell if they come back. That’s not to say you can’t handle-- just if there’s any disturbance or… well, trouble or-- Ah…”

"I'll wake the orc first," Nathyen remarked dryly. "Then you, you look like you're better with that blade than I am. Goodnight, hopefully we won't speak 'gain 'til the sun is out."

“Likewise…S--Nathyen.” Sword sliding into the scabbard at her side, Aria gave a curt bob of her head again before turning on her heels and disappearing into her own tent, offering half a wave of her hand as the flap closed behind her, “Goodnight.”

Inside, sliding the belt latch of her scabbard free and dropping it down beside her, Aria sank onto her bedroll, but she did not lay down, her eyes trained on the steel blade peeking out of the sheath.

"How does it feel, Sire?" She asked, as Theod swept her blade aside with a downward strike, the mechanical motions of the man second nature, while she clattered forward, nearly desperate to land a mark, "When you really kill one of those things??"

"...How does it feel?" Frowning, he parried another swipe and rolling his eyes, held up a hand to still her, shaking his head, "Take a break, Lad. Sit."

Curling her knees beneath her, Aria sank obediently to the ground and a moment passed before Theod took a crouch, elbows braced on his knees, "I know what you want to hear. That it's a thrilling sensation... And I admit, slaking the thirst for vengeance can, at first, be quite satisfying. The trouble is, a death is a death, Arin. And whether or not you have a legitimate reason for doing what you do, you will feel it. It will weigh on you. The first time you kill, the first blotch of blood on your hands... it will feel like a stone, dropped into your stomach. And it doesn't get better. It doesn't get easier. Every time after, another stone will drop, until there is such a heaviness inside of you that it will take all your strength and courage to keep upright. And that is entirely how it should feel. Some men like to think that anyone can be a soldier, Lad... but I've the mind quite the opposite, in fact. I've no doubt you'll be a remarkable addition to our ranks here, if you can ever get that footwork down... but not because you've the talent or bravery or drive. But because I can see it in your eyes... the uncertainty. The uneasiness. You want it, I know that. To avenge your brothers... but there's a still small part of you that wonders if what you're doing is right. If there's a balance in that manner of justice. And that is exactly why you'll make a fine solider. But by the gods, Lad... you call me sire again and I'll take a belt to you..."


Hand brushing the hilt, she pushed it fully into the scabbard, and dropping back to her bedroll, her fingers curved around the end of the blade, tucked beneath the pillow... In two years she'd never needed to find out whether Theod was right or not. But something told her here in the Hollows that luck, good or bad, would run out soon enough.
 
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ARIA & BLANC



Earlier that day…
[ @Jamaicanbobslayer & @Elle Joyner ]


Of all the routes to take across these mountains, Blanc knew better than anyone that this was the most troublesome.

But, knowing the lay of the land better than most, the orc at least had the pleasure of telling the white lie that ‘the way ahead would be easy’. The more she overworked her already drained muscles and made things look effortless, the harder the others would work. She didn’t raise spirits by making conversation, she just kept everyone working hard by working hard.

People’s minds were strange like that. They copied; bounced off each other… Blanc always took the time to notice those little things about people.

For a short 30 minutes atop a crumbly grey stone cliff, the group had taken a short break. Carefully and politely chewing on a strip of smoked rabbit, Blanc took a moment to take in the misty view - the reward for scaling the peak.

< ...The view was beautiful. First five times. All I can think of is the better view South. >

As her eye drifted away from the edge, she found herself looking between the group.

< They are still going strong. ...Good. >

Her red eye slowly and finally settled on Aria, deadpan.

“...”

Something about Aria clearly bothered the orc in the moment. And the glare had long since become awkward and unnerving before she finally spoke.

You. Miss, she spoke up,does something bother you?

Aria's focus had been so thoroughly fixed on the path ahead, she nearly jumped when the orc woman turned to address her. Fingers curling briefly around the hilt of her blade, she twisted towards the taller female and looking up, frowned slightly, "A lot of things bother me… you might need to be a bit more specific?"

The orc’s half-gaze relaxed for a moment, as she thought for a second, then continued.

You don’t particularly seem to be enjoying the company.

There was a harsh whip of wind, that sent Blanc’s wisp of her out of place. She took a moment to correct it, before returning her gaze out back towards the view.

Not that I’d expect you to warm instantly to strangers, she added, eventually, ...your gaze just seems to be… wishing someone else were here, too.

She pulled out a small canteen, and took a sip. Whatever was inside it caused Blanc’s body to briefly tense up in disgust, before she eventually recovered.

I know that feel.

For a moment, Aria was quiet as she contemplated the Orc's words. There was some truth to them… both in that present company was a bit jarring and that she greatly wished Theod had accompanied her. But she was also all too well aware there was more complexity to those feelings…

And Blanc was a stranger… one with whom Aria had very little interaction. To delve into the depths of her fears, her regrets, her quiet fury…

"The man I was traveling with decided it was best for me to make this journey alone. It had been a long while since I was by myself. I suppose it's just… strange."

You should work to build those bridges with this company, then. When you do that, you’ll notice you’re not actually by yourself, the orc’s tone didn’t carry that of someone wishing to make a friend, but rather the blunt and stoic words of an instructor, come. We’ll start with me.

She gestured her head back, as if beckoning her to share the view.

I’m Blanc. Blanc Oriz’zon. You pronounce it like ‘Bl-ah-nk Or-ee-zun’. Not like ‘Blank Horizon’. You may have already heard, but I wanted to tell you myself.

She looked Aria in the eye as she talked, before looking out to the horizon.

When you look at this view up here, what stands out the most?

"Aria…" She answered plainly, "The rest doesn't much matter. Left that all behind when I crossed the border."

Rubbing the back of her neck, she shrugged as her head canted upwards, "Hard to say. Bit grim out here. Feels like we're headed towards… something. Not sure it's good."

Yeah. I barely see shit all either anymore, Blanc replied, but peaks like these are great for games. Watch.

She kicked a small rock down off the sloped incline.

Sixteen, she said, seemingly randomly. Then, she put up a hand, quiet. Now listen.

< Tap, tap… tap, CRK… tap, tap, tap… tap… crumble, tap, tap, tap… tap, tap--... >

--thirteen, fourteen… Blanc paused, seemingly counting each tap as it went down the slope. When no more came, she gave an annoyed grunt underneath her breath,...close. Two off.

She then relaxed somewhat, her face going back to its stoic usual self.

It won’t be good. Or bad. Just a job. There’ll be battles. But we’re more than equipped, Blanc muttered, don’t like the success rate of these things bother you. You’ve seen that blademaster in full plate, of all things. The healer. And you yourself seem better equipped than anyone I’ve ever seen. In person, at least. It will be easy coin. So long as nobody is complacent.

"It's not competency I'm worried about." Aria watched as the rock finished it's tumble, before returning her eyes to the road, "Definitely not the coin. Just… You think it matters? In the end? How many monsters we put an end to? Doesn't bring anyone back…"

No. That isn’t what matters. One who seeks the biggest tally offers only temporary relief, Blanc replied near instantaneously, what matters is making a discovery. And to make big discoveries, you need to make big coin, for the best equipment.

...

Otherwise… we’re just stuck. Making tallies. Listening to rocks.

Blinking, Aria paused for a beat, before giving a hop to catch her pace again, "That was either nonsense… or oddly profound. My… my father's farm is all we've ever had. It would be… helpful to…"

With a soft hum, she shook her head, "Do you really think it's there? This blade? The treasure?"

I don’t know. No way to know, Blanc responded, not mincing words, and there’s always a small chance we’re being lured off somewhere quiet. Our equipment combined might be on par in value of some abandoned treasure.

Her words seemed to be from experience. She glanced at some of the others in the party for a moment, before looking back. The looks weren’t distrustful, just neutral and wary.

I always expect nothing to come of journies like this. It makes the successful ones all the sweeter.

"Theod… the man I was traveling with… he always said I was never very good at deception. I spent the better part of two years pretending I wasn't a woman, so I'm not sure he's entirely accurate… but then, he also recently suggested he's known the whole time."

Shoulders bouncing in a shrug, armor clattering somewhat, she looked up at Blanc again, "I suppose anyone could be dishonest… it just doesn't seem like that's the case here. Though maybe I'm just as bad at detecting a lie…"

Small chance,” Blanc repeated, her voice a little more gentle,don’t be paranoid. But people can surprise you. Randomly. Disappointingly, more often than not.

She looked down to the rocks.

I was once offered big money to escort a trade caravan. Wool, they said it was. Should’ve known the price for hiring one person on such an empty road was too high, Blanc muttered,first night, and under the wagon’s cover was their weapons. No fucking wool at all.

She took a moment to calm, then pointed to the scar on the bridge of her nose.

That’s when I realized for sure; people are often disappointing.

"And yet… they can surprise you in good ways, too." For the first time since leaving the Cat and Rooster, Aria flashed a brief, gentle smile, "Maybe not so disappointing as they are… complicated. Many might say what I did… my deception was wrong, and I suppose in a sense it was. But I don't regret it and I wouldn't change it. And you… well. I'd be lying if I said you weren't just a bit intimidating. But here we are, having a perfectly civil conversation. Before she died, my mother would tell me… Small minds make a big picture. It may be clear, but you miss the details."

Hm.

Blanc gave a light grunt under her breath in thought at the statement, her gaze leaving Aria’s after a short while.

Surprise me in the coming days then. The first battle is usually enough to cement trust.

Though Blanc did not smile, she gave a humored snort after a pause.

And it is funny you spent so long dressing to be a man.



I’m sure I have spent as long dressing as to not be mistaken as one.

"I'll certainly do my best…" A light laugh escaped as Aria took in the Orc's next comment, before she bent down to pluck up a rock. Eyeing the drop off, she studied the rock for a moment, seemed to be calculating something in silence, then with a flick of her wrist, she released it towards the edge.

"Twenty-three…" and as it trickled down into the rock crag, she counted each tick.

When twenty-two taps came, Blanc gave the lightest of smiles.

Natural.

Finishing the liquid in her canteen, the break had come to a close.

"Come on, everyone. Time to get moving."
 


Niowyn and Oryn



Earlier that day...

Dale, his horse, seemed restless. He reared his head when he saw Oryn approach, making a few noises that were clearly meant to tell him that he was not impressed with having been locked up in the stables. Oryn leaned against the post of the stall, crossed his arms over his chest and watched his trusty companion. Both of them were silent for a moment but then the horse reared its head again and whinnied. “Alright, alright.” Oryn stepped inside and patted the horse on the neck. “I don’t know what you’re so bothered by. It’s warm in here, you have food and water. You’re not hauling my ass around…” The two of them stared at each other, a smile playing at Oryn’s lips. He patted the animal’s flank and shook his head before proceeding to readying the horse for travel.

Outside it seemed spring was late. Oryn was dressed for the road, and so he was warm enough. For now, at least. He led Dale toward their gathering point and listened as Nathyen spoke. It was brief, not that he minded. It would be good to get on the road. Their horses were carrying their supplies and equipment and it was good to see that everyone seemed well-prepared. To his delight, there was no grand speech of glory and honor. Oryn had seen too many would-be knights use those two words exactly, only to bleed out in the dirt. He’d put some of them there himself. He blinked, sighed and headed out with the others.

It didn’t take them long to find a good pace. Dale seemed happy to be moving again. None of his companions seemed particularly talkative, however, so Oryn soon found himself restless and left with his own thoughts. He sighed as he sat in his saddle and scratched his chin. Perhaps the sun was hiding somewhere up in the Crags. It seemed that the further they went the more it overpowered the mists, though there was still a chill to the air. His eyes studied the backs of those riding in front of him. They were a varied group, but perhaps that was a good thing.

The air carried a harsher bite as the group continued further into the Crags. Niowyn stopped on the side of the dirt path momentarily, allowing her companions to walk by her while she pulled her heavy cloak from her belongings and wrapped it around herself. The woman looked at the animal hide boots on her feet and silently thanked them for keeping her warm; purchasing them had been smart. With the cold wind and harsh elements of the Crags, she wondered if she should’ve bought a tent as well. Niowyn had always created her own shelter and it was a custom for her people to sleep off the ground in hammocks when travelling for hunting - ‘take only what you need, you must be quick and light. - a teaching cemented into her memory from her mother. But now she wondered if that teaching would hold up in such a place. It was likely that her companions were all smart enough to pack a tent, maybe one of them would take pity on her if it became too cold and share, but the likelihood of that happening was slim to none with the present non-communicative batch. It would be a long journey and be best to get to know the others.

With a quick jog, Niowyn caught up with the group and joined the tail end of the train. A couple of her comrades had horses but there were others on foot as well, herself included. Along with her fashionable new boots, maybe a horse would have been a smart purchase as well. That is if she could have afforded it. Horses were not cheap and there was a reason she didn’t leave Ta’Lassa with one. In front of her was the man with blue eyes she noticed at the market and his horse. With a light skip to join his side, she looked up at him with a welcoming smile. “It’s recently occurred to me that, although we are traveling together, we don’t even know each other’s names. I am Niowyn, from the Ta’Lassa Tribe. I saw you at the market just yesterday! I had a feeling you weren’t from The Hollows - the foreigners are really quite easy to pick out from the locals. Your horse is beautiful, you’ll have to tell me his name, too, if you would be so kind."

“Hm?”

Oryn turned his face to look at the curious woman, with curious equipment who had caught up to him. She had paused moments prior to get her cloak out and wrap it around herself. It was cold. His face was serious at first, but then a smirk slowly pulled at the corner of his mouth. Her rapid-fire questions caught him off guard and it was all he could do to keep up. He pulled his horse to a halt, swung himself from the saddle and landed on the ground with a thud. Oryn took the reins and led the horse forward, setting a pace that was easier for her to keep.

“A tribeswoman? He began. Her appearance gave that away, although Oryn hadn’t been sure. She was a refreshing sight to behold. Everyone up here wore monotone clothing, leather and mail. The only one to surpass her on spectacular attire would be the knight clad in a resplendent raiment. Oryn had not caught the name, but he had spent some time studying the man on their journey so far. The woman next to him was less colorful, but she still stood out. “It’s nice to meet you, Niowyn of the Ta’Lassa Tribe.”

He had never met anyone from a tribe. And Oryn had met a lot of different people. Through his journeys and jobs, he had met men and women from all corners of the Cursed Lands, but never a tribesman. Or woman. “You’re right. I’m not from the Hollows.” He picked that particular topic to reply to, but didn’t follow up with an explanation of where he came from. Where he was born was of little importance and made for a devastatingly tedious story in his mind, though he had nothing against telling her. I’m from everywhere. sounded much too pretentious so he wasn’t going to say that either. “I guess I’ll take it as a compliment that you didn’t think I was from there, although the townsfolk back there are charming in their own way.” Oryn chuckled briefly to clarify his joke. It was a coarse, deep sound.

“I’m Oryn, this is Dale.” He nodded to his horse and patted him on the neck. A moment passed in silence and Oryn glanced at Niowyn. “I have never met a tribeswoman before, or even heard of the Ta’Lassa.” He said, tilting his head as he watched her. She had blue eyes like him, and black hair but nothing about her features gave him any clue as to where in the Cursed Lands she was from.

“Oh come on now, they weren’t so bad, were they?” Niowyn quipped, a grin on her face replacing the smile to join in on the joke. “You’re right though, all people have their own charm.” Niowyn readjusted the gord on her back with a tug of the straps on her shoulders and decided against asking Oryn more about where he was from. He had evaded the question for a reason and she would respect that. At least for now.

With a smile, Niowyn extended her hand to solidify their introduction. Back home, people didn’t shake hands to greet each other upon their first meet, but it was a custom she had learned along her journey thus far and with people like Oryn, it seemed appropriate. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Oryn. Although I think I prefer your friend.” Niowyn’s playful grin returned as she nodded in the direction of Dale before chuckling softly while covering her face with her hand. In seconds her expression changed as she turned to look at their feet carrying them down the path. Her hands found each other, rubbing one and other with comfort. “Just Niowyn is fine.”

“I’ve introduced myself from the Ta’Lassa Tribe…” she stopped, contemplating sharing the information with Oryn or not. But trust and honesty was an important part of her teachings. Sharing the knowledge of her peoples was the only way to return her home to what it once was. “because I’m hoping that someone will know who we are. I suppose you are not one of them.” Niowyn looked back at Oryn, a small sadness in her eyes but the happiness returned shortly. “I’m surprised you haven’t met any tribespeople before being a traveler. Although we don’t think of ourselves that way. You see, we are just people like you.”

“The Ta’Lassa trust in the spirits. We are a long line of people gifted with a voice to speak to water.” Niowyn outstretched her hand slightly in front of her as her eyes illuminated a blue glow. A small stream of water trickled out of the gourd on her back and danced around her hand before forming a small puddle that she offered to Dale for a drink.

Oryn extended his own hand and took hers in a firm grasp, accompanied by a nod. Her little joke made him laugh. A laugh that clearly revealed that he enjoyed her humor and that sort of teasing. He nodded again and shrugged. “Can’t say I blame you. He makes for far better company as well.” Oryn said and offered her a wink before he looked down at his feet as they trod along the path. Dale made a noise as if he appreciated the joke just as much. Oryn shook his head and looked back up at Niowyn.

The glimmer of something sad in her blue eyes intrigued him. It was only there briefly before a lighter expression returned to her features. He wondered what was the cause of that. The Cursed Lands had been the hotbed for so many gruesome histories that he dared not venture a guess. Oryn shook his head. He wasn’t one of them. But hearing her words made him consider if he had actually met them without even knowing. He was about to ask about her gift, but before him she demonstrated exactly what she meant. Oryn watched with a bright smile, focusing on the stream of water, then on her eyes that glowed faintly blue and then back to the water. Dale didn’t seem the least bit fazed by the display of magic, drank from the puddle of water. Oryn laughed again.

Just people like me?” He repeated her words and raised an eyebrow. He shook his head and scratched the scar on his cheek. Oryn’s decidedly average knowledge of magic was hardly as impressive as the gift to manipulate water. But it was all he knew. “How many of you are there?” Oryn asked, his face suddenly a little more serious. Having never heard of the Ta’Lassa tribe, he wondered how many water-speakers there were.

Niowyn looked sheepishly at Oryn from the side, a strange response to his wink from her usual playful responses thus far. His laughter was somewhat infectious and his teasing tone was welcomed. Teasing and humour was a regular custom in her tribe and it was comforting to have a piece of home with her. “Well, maybe not just like you. But we bleed all the same.” she retorted, with a quick smile and her try at a wink.

“How many are there?” she repeated curiously, rubbing her chin with thought. The sadness returned to her eyes as she reminded herself of how her once great people had dwindled in numbers. Niowyn shook her head slightly, as if to knock herself from the thought and looked back to Oryn with a neutral expression. “Less than a 100…” her voice trailed for a few moments before she perked up again. “But we have existed for generations."

There was a moment of silence before Niowyn spoke again. "Enough about me though, tell me something about yourself."

Bleed all the same. He thought to himself. That was one thing he knew to be true for orcs, humans and dwarves. They all bled and died if you cut them. The demonspawn that roamed their world with them could also be killed, but they were a different enemy altogether.

“And I’m sure you’ll exist for generations to come.” He said in a reassuring manor. The sadness this topic brought her was not lost on him. But he was not going to ask her
about it. He didn’t know her. It was likely a very personal thing. Oryn had never belonged anywhere and so didn’t care how many there were, like him. He belonged no where. But if there were less than a hundred of her people left, he supposed he could understand why that would make her sad.

He seemed to consider his words for a few moments before he started talking. That’s how it always went, when someone asked Oryn to tell them about himself. It made him uncomfortable in the strangest way. He chuckled and shrugged. “Well, that thought you had when you first saw me…” He paused for effect, looked at her and nodded. “That’s it.” Oryn bobbed his head from side to side. A sigh. “There’s not much to say, really. I was born and raised in a shithole, someone thought it was a good idea to give me a sword so I could spend my time on that, instead of stealing.” He glanced at her. “Been the tool of my trade all my life.” He patted the hilt of the sword that poked out from under his cloak. Oryn looked at Niowyn. “I told you, Dale makes for much better company.” A smirk tugged at his lips and his hand patted the horse’s neck.

Niowyn cocked her head and listened as Oryn shared some of his story with her. She didn't expect him to reveal anything intimate but he barely offered any surface details at that. It was an interesting difference between her people and the rest of the world; a people shrouded in distrust and mystery. It was clear that Oryn didn't trust her, but she didn't hold it against him. He had said it earlier, she was a tribeswoman, and tribes people were unlikely strangers. A tribesperson would likely be harder to trust than someone that was like him. Regardless, she smiled and with a few quick steps she twirled in front of Oryn to stand on the other side of Dale and scratched his nose. "I don't know, Dale is pretty great, but you don't seem too bad either."

The company began to slow as Nathyen lead them into a clearing off the main trail. The sun was beginning to hide behind the cliffs and travel at night was dangerous. The group would need time to make camp. "Well I suppose this is our humble abode for the night! I hope you can make a fire, Oryn." She teased while grinning at him.

Their conversation had made the journey pass much faster. Niowyn had saved him from hours of boredom in his saddle. He appreciated that. Perhaps over the next few days, he’d get to know everyone better. It would take them some days still to get to Gol Badhir. It was good to know that he could talk to Niowyn, at least. She seemed gentle, though he made a point of not underestimating anyone.

“A fire? That I can do.”


L: The Traveler's Path | M: N/A | I: Oryn @Morgan

 
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 Background Music



GLIMPSE OF GOL BADHIR


Nathyen
finished lacing his boots before taking to rousing the others from sleep. Though the night was calm and rich with the din of crickets and the hoot of owls, he felt a sharp unease as he stood, feet properly clad. He had told the girl - Aria, he reminded himself - that they had nothing to fear, but seldom did well-intentioned strangers so bumbling around in the night. His only solace was that at least it had not been red eyes that peered back at him through the trees.

With sheathed sword brandished in one hand, Nathyen went first to wake the mage, gently jostling her shoulder, keeping an eye on the treeline facing the road. He heard no disturbances - no hushed whispers, no tramp of boots. He shuddered as he glimpsed the outline of the crags around them in the moonlight, wondering perhaps what horrors they had in store for them. He cast the thoughts aside as the woman stirred.

“Oie, time for your watch,” he muttered. “Be good to keep a sharp eye, Aria heard something earlier.”

Niowyn turned in her hammock toward Nathyen at the gentle shake of her shoulder. Her eyes felt heavier than usual but she managed to force them open; why was it that she volunteered to take a watch? Niowyn peeled her thick animal hide blanket off and planted her feet on the ground. The woman was still wearing her boots; she never removed her footwear when traveling in case she needed to leave in a hurry… or defend herself.

“She heard something?” Niowyn asked, not expecting an answer. “Did she say what it sounded like?” She didn’t expect those who weren’t accustomed to sleeping among the wild to pay close attention to how something sounds rather than just listen for sounds, but often the way something sounded was an important clue to how big the potential threat was.

Besides their own voices, the camp was as dead as the night. There wasn’t even a sound of a crackling fire. Niowyn moved toward the center of the camp to find a lifeless pit, covered in smoldering coals and ash. “Is it people or beasts that we are concerned about?” she asked, looking toward Nathyen, “The latter, we should relight the fire. The light will keep them away. IF it is people, there is the option of creating a wall around us so that we can still light the fire for warmth.”

A crackle of leaves, and a soft snapping of wood rang out from the withered treeline of the clearing. The moonlight shimmered from above, setting odd, amorphous shapes of light spinning through the canopy and dancing across the dark and sodden floor below - and reflecting delicately from a suit of polished armour. From the brush strode Vardis, a soft ‘hum’ and a reassuringly raised gauntlet to set the other travellers at ease. His oversized sword hung firmly gripped by his side, and the light played delicately across the lower half of a hauntingly pale and smooth face; quickly removed from sight by the hasty tugging of that obscuring mask.

Mmh… Do not be alarmed, you two - at least, for the time being. Whatever stalks our cosy rest does not dwell within a hundred paces, yet.” The man spoke his words with a soft elegance, and a low, hushed crone that one would remark as both calming, yet utterly at odds with the small glimpse of facial features spied not moments ago. He gripped the sword halfway up the shaft, planting it firmly under his armpit as he folded his arms and leaned himself against a tree trunk with a soft sigh of relief. As he moved, the light shimmered upon his two glistening eyes - which spun towards Niowyn with an unreadable gaze.

“It was heavy. With a slight limp in the left leg,” he spoke surely. “Either a bipedal beast, or a man weighed with gear - perhaps armour.” The knight paused for a moment. Despite the obscurity of his features, there is a feeling that he smiled, somehow. “You know the sort of questions to ask. Hm-hoh…! Just the kind of smarts I’d expect from a woman of the wilds.”

His eyes then pivot towards Naythen, standing cautiously with sword drawn. “Did the boy spot anything, or are we to wait with bated breath until dawn breaks?”

Nathyen’s eyes fixated on the knight before him, eyebrows cocked as he mulled over his words.

“Eyes, looked to be a person,” he replied, seeming to chew on each word before spitting it out. “Might’a been a beast, eyes don’t normally reflect the light like that, but I heard words. Soft ones, but words nonetheless.”

He crossed his arms as he examined the knight.

“And where were you off to, anyways?”

He stumbled on the last word, hesitating as if debating whether or not to add “sire” when addressing the man. Nathyen had met no lords, nor any who went about demanding to be addressed as such, but this man… This man was an exception. His movements were graceful and polished, if bordering a hair towards sauntering. His speech was refined in a way Nathyen had never seen, and ruefully he reflected on Aria’s insistence to refer to the locksmith as sire as well which brought a wry smile to his face.

“Aye, doesn’t matter, you didn’t come barrelin’ out of them woods to gut us with that two-handed meat cleaver of yours,” he added, waving the statement aside.

The knight regarded Nathyen with amusement for a few long moments, just on the verge of becoming awkward. He breathed in, as if considering his words carefully.

“...The winds, tonight, are strange. Strange enough to scupper my rest for the night.” He tapped his breastplate with the tip of his plated finger. “It’s a rare occasion that the air tastes potently of distant lands. Endless stretches of black sand, and rolling valleys of scintillating crystal. A bleaching sun that never sets.”

Hmmh...” The knight sighed, almost wearily - and a sharp eye might spot the glimmer of wonder within his deep and dark eyes. “Hoh, but that is of no regard to most. Certainly not when our minds would best stay on the task at hand.”

The knight turned his gaze back to the man before him, that strange sense of amusement returned. “You’d think me mad, though, wouldn’t you?”

“Aye, a bit mad, but not more ‘an anyone who wanders these parts,” Nathyen replied, seating himself by his small traveler’s tent. “We’d do well to keep our voices low, I don’t want stragglers on the morrow.”

He paused, eyeing the knight.

“Tell me, though, are there others like you?” The locksmith asked. “I’ve yet to meet any a tenth as noble as you.”

The knight watched Nathyen for a heartbeat, a soft sigh emitting from somewhere beneath that polished mask.

“There are, but not of my own kin. Scattered across this desolate place, rarer than gold - I’m afraid.” He gave a low chuckle, his eyes lining up with Nathyen’s own. “...And not all as reasonable as myself, you’ll find.”

Rarer than gold, now there was a quandary. Nathyen stroked his beard as he considered what the man had said before turning his attention back to the mage among them. The knight might be rarer than gold, but what did that make her? Knight or otherwise, Nathyen had heard tell of wandering warriors following some creed. He had never heard of willing nomads or tribes in the Cursed Lands - life on the road was brutish and short, and best avoided.

“Ah, fortunate it’s you among us, then, and not one of your fellows,” Nathyen addressed the knight’s comment before speaking to the woman. “Pardon the probing, I feel as though I ought to have settled as a bard some years past with all the stories I try to pry from others, but what of you, lass?”

Niowyn kept quiet as the two men exchanged their words, only listening as she crouched next to the empty pit where the fire once roared. The colourful knight had referred to her as wild, she wondered if that’s what people thought of her - some wild woman living in the woods? Niowyn knew that she didn’t look like most people but neither did he; she shot a quick glance toward the knight before returning her attention back to resurrecting the fire. It was only seconds before a spark emerged from the hot coals and birthed a small flame. Not bad for a wild woman, hmm?

Niowyn stood from her place, relishing in the warmth of the fire on her skin for one moment too long before turning to give her attention to Nathyen. “Well, I’m not as rare as gold as our colourful friend over here. Which reminds me, I must apologize, but I don’t believe we have been introduced.” Niowyn approached the knight and extended her hand to shake his. “I do believe shaking hands is customary for someone of your nobility and I am sorry to disappoint, but I am no wild woman. My name is Niowyn.”

“And as for just who I am…” she turned to look at Nathyen as if to answer him. “I believe I mentioned before we parted the Hollows, but I am from the Ta’Lassa tribe in the west, settled near Hali river. Even though our numbers have grown, it would seem that we have yet to reclaim our spot in history. Maybe we are as rare as gold.” Blue eyes wandered to look into the dark nothingness of the woods, there was something about it that made her feel at home. “And as for holding our breath all night, that won’t be necessary. It is easy enough for me to summon us protection. Unless you would prefer to hold your breath all night, that is.” Niowyn quipped, a grin upon her face.

The knight regarded Niowyn’s hand for a beat, before letting out another low, oddly reassuring chuckle. He took a moment to think as if to dredge some long-buried knowledge, before forming his hands into a series of jolty, robotic movements.

Hm-hmh~! Two can play at that game, my lady.” The man gave another chuckle, gently pushing the woman’s hand back downwards.

“My deepest apologies, Niowyn, if my words were too vexing. I meant it only as a compliment, believe me.” The knight lowered his head in a respectful nod. “I’ve read about your tribe, many years ago. When I say your people are one with the wilds - unless my book was incorrect - I mean only well. As you say, your people know well the powers that sleep within this world.”

“My name is Vardis. Lord Vardis Le’Trasque, of Larendel; though that title means remarkably less these days. Hm--... Hmh.” Vardis blinked at the woman, a brief flash of sadness deep within his gaze - and then a little confusion.

“...You say your people are rare, these days? That can’t be right. Though my tome was a century past, it wrote of hundreds - perhaps a thousand of your kin.”

A long drawn look found itself on Vardis. Niowyn’s lips moved but her voice refused to surface. Her heart was beating with excitement even though her body appeared to be frozen with shock. How was it possible that this man knew about her tribe? Even more, he had written word about her people. There was a part of her that didn’t believe him but how else did the man know the Ta’Lassa greeting? Although it was rough, it was definitely it. Willing her body to move, Niowyn replicated the greeting accompanied by a small shake of her head in disbelief.

The shock slowly slipped from her face and was replaced with bright eyes reminiscent of a young child. “You know it, our greeting. But how!?” with a tiny jump of her feet she realized her voice had escaped her and was much too loud for the hour. With a small step back toward Vardis, she leaned in toward him as if she was sharing a secret. “And you have a tome… you have written knowledge of the Ta’Lassa tribe? Where? How? I’ve been searching for any relic of our old world. Any clue. And you have it?”

Niowyn returned to an erect position, her hand scratching at her chin. And finally the last bit of what Vardis said began to sink in. That can’t be right. Her childlike excitement faded and her gaze filled with a sadness similar to Vardis’s. “Yes… your tome is right. There was thousands of us. But that was the time of the Spellweaver. The Ta’Lassa tribe vanished after the darkness swallowed the land. Our people didn’t re-emerge until some hundred years later but our numbers were nowhere near as great as they once were and it seemed as though the world had forgotten us.” Niowyn’s voice trailed, as if the memory was too painful to recite.

Vardis listens carefully to Niowyn’s words, before hanging his head in kind.

“...Then it seems we have far more in common than I would have liked.” He took a deep breath, bringing his gaze back up to meet hers. Though his eyes seem sad yet, his voice betrayed a hint of something else - perhaps even excitement.

“Though I haven’t returned in years, the library of Castle Le’Trasque is stocked full of books and records not unlike that I have mentioned. You see, for generations we have collected knowledge of those wielding magic in these lands; your tribe included!” He paused, an unseen smile beneath his mask. “Assuming the servants I left there so long ago have not neglected their duties, they should be there yet.”

“I am curious though, if it isn’t to pry. Why would you be so eager to see this book? Has your tribe been unable to keep record of the past?” The knight asked with an intense curiosity evident in every syllable. He tilted his head slightly.

A comforting hand found Vardis’s shoulder and Niowyn met him with a warm smile. The history of her people pained her and it would seem the colourful knight was familiar with her feelings. It was an experience she would never wish upon anyone and it was a situation that had to be met with kindness.

“Hmmm” Niowyn withdrew her hand from Vardis’s shoulder and walked toward the fire, finding a seat on an old log that was pulled up next to it to eat a meal on before the group retired for the night. She watched as the flames danced in the night and thought to her mother’s teachings. All that she knew was passed from mouth to mouth. “When the great darkness swallowed the world and our tribe vanished, as did everything else. When our people re-emerged, the only knowledge they possessed were verbal traditions. We have lived through the oral word since” Niowyn paused for a moment before smirking. “It seems fitting for a people gifted with a voice to speak to the spirit. But we are missing so much… there are pieces carved out of our history that can only possibly be in relics of the old world. That’s why I’m here.”

“...I see.” The knight watched Niowyn by the fire for several long moments, before stepping towards her and taking a seat on the leg opposite. He cleared his throat, taking a breath of the smoky air, before facing her.

“I have a simple question, Niowyn. And then, a prospect.”

The man let the flames lick at the tips of his damp sabatons until they dried, pulling them away with the faintest mark of soot marring their otherwise polished metal.

“Do you wish this world was as it was before? Before the Spellweaver Piersym. A time when your tribe yet thrived.”

Niowyn looked up at the curious knight, her head cocked to the side at the question. It seemed simple on the surface but it was a question shrouded in complexity. Niowyn sighed before responding. “I wish for our history to be restored…”

“...And you should know, that is borderline impossible with the current state of this miserable place. Let me tell you--”

Nathyen interrupted by clearing his throat, giving Niowyn and Vardis a glance from behind his bush eyebrows.

"Aye that's enough talk of grand quests to restore the world order," he chided. "The night is still, and we should keep it so."



Night gave way to dawn, creeping along like a haggard man dragging himself over the top of the Crags and casting its ruddy pale orange glow into the valley below. After Nathyen had determined that his throat would not be cut in his sleep, he had begun to watch with interest the way that, even as the sun peaked its head over the tips of the crags, nary a mark did they make atop those stone peaks. It was as if the sun had not risen at all - even as the sun began to dissuade the mist from hanging low among the trees and began to warm his skin, the Crags were as black and cold as ever.

Solemnly, with little but the thrum of chirping birds, faint whisper of passing wind, and clattering of wood and iron and leather, Nathyen and his company went about packing up their encampment. Nathyen let in a sharp, cold rush of air that sent shocks through his veins as he took in a deep breath, casting a glance at Vardis as he exhaled: the air still tasted of cold, mountain air to him. Though the sun had barely risen, already today was warmer than the day before had been, for which Nathyen thanked whatever gods might be.

Though he spared the treeline a passing inspection as the company ventured onward, there was no lurking evidence that spoke to what had haunted the camp in the night. Strange, he thought, that there had been no boot prints save their own in the damp mud. No matter - when next they rested, they would simply need to find a place out of the view of passersby.

The stretch of road heading north was lonely as ever. Around them loomed tall pine and oak, growing sparser as they reached the foothills that led up to Gol Badhir. As the trees parted from either side of the road and began to drift apart, the expanse of the Crags became apparent. The road narrowed as the gently rolling hills became steep mountain sides lined in rough protrusions of black rock. Nathyen eyed the road with trepidation - though it was wide enough for two or three men to walk shoulder to shoulder, they would do well to take care that none among their number drifted too close to the sides of the road and risk tumbling down to a uncertain fate below.

Further up the trail, as it receded and blended into a winding stretch of faded brown dust and dirt against a backdrop of black rock, Nathyen could spot Gol Badhir's central fortress looming down at them. Though Nathyen was sure, in its own age, the fortress might have been quite a glory, the years had not been kind. Its stone gates fringed with gold had crumbled and begun to collapse, and the twin dwarven guardians standing proud beside its entrance had begun their descent into ruin. One missed its head, the other held aloft an empty hand where once a sword might have been.

The slope leading up to the fortress was gentle enough, but its size was deceiving - they were still a few days away at least, and their current stretch of trail alone would take roughly a day to cross by his count. He spared a moment to admire the fortress and examine his map, tucked safely away in his horse's saddlebags. If the map was correct, and the passageway up had not been blocked or eroded away, they could take this trail all the way through to the fortress. He tucked the map away and looked up at the sky - it was barely past noon judging by the placement of the sun. That was good, he thought as he proceeded further down the trail.

"Alright," Nathyen addressed his fellows. "Call it two, three days to scale the pass once we reach the base 'o the mountain, I wager the road'll get quite nasty from here on out, so we'll take a pause here 'fore we proceed. I'll do a bit 'o scouting up ahead, might be worth a look."

GM NOTES:

Mentioned IC: @Pupperr @Steel
Other: @Jamaicanbobslayer @Morgan @Elle Joyner

GOL BADHIR LOOMS

Gol Badhir looms ahead, and the road is about to become harsh and unforgiving. This is the last chance for respite for beginning to summit the mountain, and there are a number of places worth exploring around the trail for those with a curious mind...

INTERACTIVE ELEMENTS

Accompany Nathyen:
Those wishing to accompany Nathyen as he scouts the trail, let me know - this will be addressed in a follow-up collab or series of posts. The road ahead is dangerous, though...


Wander Down the Hill:
A foot path catches the attention of observant eyes, stretching left before the trail narrows and becomes lined in stone. Following this trail to its end will reveal a small pond, fed by flowing waters dripping from sources unknown after about a mile's walk down a rough, rugged and rocky path that fits only one person or perhaps a single file line. Resting in the pool is an immaculate short sword with flowing script etched into its hilt, foreign to you.

The surrounding pond is lined in faintly glowing flowers, which one might know as Mandrake's Tongue, which houses a potent poison for one learned in the ways of plant lore. On the way back up to where the horses are kept, you hear distant sounds of struggle...


 
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Arianell Oresh
COLLAB WITH | Nathyen @ze_kraken & @Jamaicanbobslayer MENTIONS | @Pupperr, @Steel, @Morgan



The Hollows
Boots crunching on wet gravel alerted Nathyen to a newcomer as he retrieved his sword from his horse’s saddle. He glanced over his shoulder to see Blanc approaching. He cast her a sideways glance, one bushy eyebrow cocked as he cleared his throat and spoke.

“Aye, thought I mighta’ been headin’ off alone,” he said with a shallow grin, patting his horse’s neck tenderly. “Had deft feet since I was a boy, and, well…”

Nathyen nodded towards the orc, chuckling softly.

“Not meanin’ to offend, but you’re not one I thought for sneakin’ about.”

She shrugged in response, patting grey dust against her face, chestplate and cloak. As she walked, she held the crescent axe behind her to stop it from jingling and clanking against her pauldrons.

“Good fighters need good footwork. I’ll be fine as well,” Blanc responded, “I’m making sure you don’t get snatched away. We both know how dangerous it is out here.”

She paused, and looked through a pouch at her side. She filtered through three gems, and pulled out one wrapped in paper marked ‘Lucie’.

“Let’s see what’s around… Lucie,” she whispered to the gem. A trail of white embers began to flake from the gem and near Blanc’s dead white eye, as she prepared orcish magic to restore and temporarily empower her sight when the time arose.

The pupiless eye began to pulse, the jelly-like whites shifting uncomfortably as if something was ready to protrude from it. Not wincing, Blanc continued to walk, as if all was normal.

"Well… That's unnerving." Aria quietly interjected, as she approached the pair. Sword already drawn, gingerly tapping against the side of her leather boot, her gaze shifted between orc and man, "I'll tag along as well, I think. Not keen on idling… And three pairs are better than two…" Even if it did appear one of those four eyes wasn't entirely what it seemed to be.

“Aye, might be two an’ a half,” Nathyen quipped, turning to Oryn, Vardis and Niowyn. “Right, then, off we go - you lot, keep by the horses and the gear, if ‘ya leave make sure you keep them well in sight. You two, follow me, and make sure ‘yer armor don’t clink too much. Might not seem like it matters much, but who knows what’s lerkin’ off the cliffsides.”

A brow rose, and Aria gave a small, terse nod, "Quickest way to give away a squad's position… I can manage. I'd offer to leave it behind, but I think we can all agree I'm not exactly intimidating without it…"

“That would depend on how fierce you fight,” Blanc replied, finishing taking off some of the unneeded sacs and armor plates that would make too much noise, “if you aren’t fierce when you fight? We have work to do.”

Blanc began to tread with the others, her eye trembling and ready to be empowered at the slightest sound.

“...So. Ormund still lurks somewhere around here,” Blanc said, her eye neutrally scanning off the cliff edges ever since Nathyen mentioned it, “at least, that’s what everyone always says about Gol Badhir. Ghosts.”

“Aye, so the legends go,” Nathyen agreed. “I’m not inclined to think there’s somethin’ after this - why would the gods let a dwarf go on hauntin’ folks and not others?”

The trio advanced further down the trail, their makeshift resting spot shrinking as the trail began to incline upwards. As they went, the ends of the trail tucked in until the three could just barely stand shoulder to shoulder with about an arm’s length of give on either end. The black rocks beneath their feet were porous and dotted with holes, the likes of which Nathyen had never seen before. When they shifted underfoot, they sounded hollow, and when Nathyen knelt to pick one up it was light as a feather. Rather than toss it down the hill, he pocketed it, berating himself for lagging behind Blanc and Aria over something so trivial.

Plink… clank…

Nathyen froze, hand jumping to the hilt of his sword - had it been Blanc playing at her stone-throwing game? He squinted, but her arms were swaying nonchalantly at her sides. He wheeled about, steel flashed and sunk squarely into the wooden shaft of a spear with a resounding thunk. The man clutching the spear let go the weapon after yanking it towards him, shifting Nathyen off balance as he attempted to wrench the blade free.

“Blanc! Arry’!” Nathyen cried out as the man clutched him by the scruff of his collar and locked him in place, arm tucked tightly around his collarbone to lock the locksmith in place.

Nathyen froze as he felt the cold kiss of steel along his throat, pricking it just enough to draw a trickling line of ruby red blood. The man smelled of unwashed flesh, sweat, and blood. He fought the urge to retch as he did his best to avoid struggling and dig the knife deeper into his throat. He watched as more figures began vaulting over the sides of the cliffs, halting Blanc and Aria in their tracks, weapons held aloft.

They looked to be ragged survivors, not brigands - some held spears without steel tips, others clutched woodsman axes unsteadily in both hands. Nathyen then noticed the way the hands of the man clutching him shook, almost as if he was nervous. The gathering of men and women in front of Nathyen’s companions parted and a large, broad-shouldered silhouette came into view, patchwork steel armor shining in the light of day, helm obscuring its face from Nathyen’s viewpoint.

Time, in conflict, had an inconsistency that was very rarely anything less than unsettling. A way of both speeding to a rapid rush and slowing to a crawl. As the man appeared behind Nathyen, Aria had already risen to action, sword aloft as she darted forward, but before she could contribute, the man had their guide in quite a predicament, and not a second passed before she and Blanc were surrounded as well.

One element of battle Theod had drilled into her brain was that sometimes, a fight simply could not be won and other options needed to be pursued, for hope of survival.

These were not monsters. These were men. Unclean, broken. Her mind roiled with thoughts of her own kin, lost in the Crags and without hesitation, she breathed out, lowering her weapon.

Her free hand stretched out to keep in front of Blanc, unwavering in its authority. Her gaze, meanwhile, swept among their assailants, studying their faces with intrigue, "Name your terms."

The leader of the group - the one clad in steel - spoke, his voice not too unlike two stones grinding against one another.

“Aye, seems you lot are headin’ up to the fortress up there, isn’t that so?” He asked, jerking a thumb behind him to Gol Badhir’s central fortress up atop the mountain. “And what, I wonder, might it be that you’re searching for there?”

He took a cautious step towards Aria, towering a good head and a half over her as his head tilted down to look at her. Recognition glimmered in Aria - those eyes, she had seen them before. The way the sun glinted off of them, reflecting its light back out from the shadow of his helm.

Aria met the man's gaze with an unrelenting stare, even as the realization struck, a brow twitching upwards, "...I don't imagine many venture into these parts for the fresh mountain air. Let us perhaps forgo the obvious and instead get to the point. Seeing as you outnumber us and have caught us unaware, you could easily have killed us by now if that was your intention. And if not now, certainly last night when you were spying on our camp. Instead, we are left unspoiled. I expect you've a reason for these mercies. Speak plainly. Lingering in these parts is unwise."

As she spoke, Blanc seemed to remain behind Aria’s arm, completely and unsettlingly unmoving, like a statue. Her hands were away from her weapon and gem pouch in the moment, and the expression on her face was hidden from the sun’s shadow. Patient, and quiet in the engagement, Blanc almost seemed to blend away for a moment.

It was clear the orc, as two red eyes now trailed across the bandits, was to be the alternative if negotiations did not work out.

The armored man removed his helm, baring two tusk-like teeth protruding from thin lips. His skin was a green so dark it looked almost black, long black hair tied back into a bun. Beneath his right eye, along his cheek, lay a jagged slash, the scar a milky white in stark contrast to his otherwise achromatic green flesh.

“This one’s got fire,” he chuckled, though it sounded more akin to bark being scraped from a tree. “You there, let go the little one - you already pricked his throat, no need to shed more blood.”

He gestured for his men to lower their weapons and waited as Nathyen was released.

“I heard tell that someone was headed up to the central fort, and I wanted to see who,” the orc continued. “I’m guessing your fellows from the other night are further down the trail towards town, but we’ll be done here by the time they come investigating the noise. I’m sure you lot have heard of me - I’m Maud, but you probably knew that. Not too many orcs around here.”

Maud took another step forward, addressing Blanc and Aria as Nathyen uneasily wandered back to join his companions. He crossed big, burly arms thick as tree trunks across his chest and humphed.

“This lot ain’t bandits - closest we came to banditry was raiding a supply chain that refused to give us goods we paid for and now the town sends hunters after us, guessin’ because I’m an orc and old habits die hard even these days. Look around ‘ya and you’ll see farmers, carpenters, woodsmen from ‘bout a few miles east of the Hollows. Their homes were put to the torch by the others and we’ve gone to hunting them down. Seems to me they’ve been taking a liking to the Crags, and I think it has something to do with this…”

Maud withdrew his sword slowly from its sheath, presenting it to the three. It was a slender blade, light seeming to refract into all directions as it gleamed off its silver edge. Its crossguard was adorned in a single jewel that likewise glittered green in the sun, and its hilt was decorated with golden runes that shone through on a fine leather wrapping.

“Volcite steel,” he explained. “Made by the elves long ago from the metal of fallen stars, according to legend. I don’t care what they made them for, but as it so happens our ancient friend Ormund was kinsmen with an elf, made that hammer of his and a cache full of these.”

As if to accentuate his point, he inclined the blade slightly.

“This lot and I have taken to killing them in the hills, and for whatever reason, these things make quick work of ‘em so I need more. You promise to get me more of them, and I’ll send ‘ya on your way and help you up the pass.”

"Hardly seems prudent on our part to say no." Aria answered, her eyes never leaving the blade as he held it out for inspection, "My father owns a farm… Not here, but where I come from. I know the burden those creatures can put upon one's livelihood. And more so…" Looking first to Nathyen, then Blanc, before returning her eyes to the orc, she nodded, "You've my word… if we find any, they're yours. Provided we have your word they've no ill intent for anyone but those foul monsters."

“I can agree to this,” Blanc nodded once plainly in turn, her stance cautious but neutral. Taking a few steps over to Nathyen, she put a simple clean wrapping over the small wound, “I can’t say I appreciate you drawing our companion’s blood, though.”

There was a brief and somewhat sudden tense silence, before Blanc’s following words soon de-escalated things once more.

“You’ll get the majority. But I think it would be fair if we keep a small sum. Even if just a dagger amidst a dozen swords.”

She finished tying the wound, glancing up to Maud.

“...I want to see if it’s possible to melt them down. See what the ‘fallen stars’ in that metal really is, unless you know already.”

"Good luck find a smith living that knows how to work with it," Maud scoffed. "I've searched for some time for one."

"This is all well and good," interjected Nathyen, brushing Blanc's tending aside. "But are we to take your word you won't just knife us when we provide you with a lion's share of the loot? Sounds an awful lot like we're takin' the risk and you're profiting."

Maud met Nathyen's gaze with his own, brow furrowing.

"Because we could kill you, see what valuables you have, and if you have, say, a map or two in those saddlebags of yours. Might do well to boast less in the tavern 'bout what you're lugging around, one of my men's posted there to see who's headed up this way. Choice is yours."

"Seems we're left without a choice, 'eh lads?" Nathyen sighed.

"Indeed, and in turn seems you've no further reason to detain us. We've an accord…" Eyes on the orc, Aria's hand extended, "We'll collect what we can find regarding these weapons… barring what we ourselves require, and you give your word no harm will befall our troup, coming or going… nor any other in these parts save those creatures. Aye?"

"Aye."
 


Niowyn and Oryn





Niowyn watched as Nathyen and the others took their leave to scout the paths ahead. As much as she was experienced in scouting, the others seemed eager to volunteer their services and she was silently thankful for the momentary rest in their travels. She was on the last watch of the night, and as such, was lacking in sleep. The woman shrugged the gourd off of her shoulders and dropped it on the ground with a satisfying thud. Niowyn stretched, her arms extending as high into the air as she could reach them, with her body swiveling from side to side with satisfaction.

Niowyn glanced at the other two left behind with her, the colourful knight and Oryn, and smiled. “I’m going to take a little stroll around. Keep an eye on everyone’s things, please!”

Although she wasn’t scouting ahead, there were other avenues to explore. On their walk up she had noticed a small foot path parting a number of large bushes skirting the edges of the trail. Niowyn was curious where the path led and she allowed her feet to take her to satisfy her curiosity. Pushing through the brush, she emerged onto a narrow rock lined path. Without hesitation she followed the trail down a rugged path until it brought her to a pond. Niowyn smiled, she thought she had heard the sound of water on her way past and she was happy to find that her ears didn’t deceive her.

Oryn sat on his horse and watched as their newly appointed scouting party moved up the trail. He reasoned not to join - there was no point in a scouting party so large they'd be seen quickly by unfriendly eyes. He sat with Dale's reins in his hand, and watched the road behind them and then in front. He didn't know his companions very well yet, and so the travelling got quite tedious. He hoped that would change soon - hopefully before they encountered any enemies. If they were to fight together, he would prefer to know the people at his side. He looked up at the looming sight of Gol Badhir and let out a grunt. Fighting was guaranteed on this journey, of that he was sure.

He swung his leg over and dismounted Dale. Oryn landed on the ground with a thud and stretched. He patted the horse, to which the animal replied with a shake if its head. Both of them appreciated some rest. But he didn't strike up a conversation with Dale as he did so often, for Niowyn caught his attention. Well, that was to say, he caught what she said and saw her disappear back toward the direction they had come from. Oryn glanced at the Rainbow Knight and back down the road. He sighed, looked at Dale who reared his head. "Shut up." Oryn said, fiddling with the straps on the saddle. The horse made another noise and he stopped, stood with his hands at his side and looked at the animal with a raised eyebrow. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. "Mmh…" It was a displeased sound, the type of which you make when you know someone else is right and there is no point in arguing. Oryn took his sword from the saddle, strapped it to his belt and headed after Niowyn.

He found a footpath and reasoned that it must have been where she had gone. It was more visible when you came down the trail from this direction. He spotted a couple of fresh footprints as well and went down the path quietly. Eventually, her figure came into view and Oryn stopped. "Shouldn't wander off alone, Niowyn of the Ta'Lassa tribe." He said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I think our party would be mighty sad to lose you and your skills." Oryn was convinced that her water magic would be helpful in ways he couldn't even imagine yet. Oryn was just a sword and knew only a little magic. His skills were more easily replaced.

Niowyn turned at the sound of Oryn’s voice behind her. She had heard something following her down the path and assumed it was either Vardis or Oryn by the sound of the steps in the dirt. No animal made that noise. Niowyn smiled at Oryn; his sentiment was sweet and there was something comforting about knowing one of the members of her newfound group was concerned for her well-being. “Just call me Niowyn, Oryn the silent traveler.” a grin had appeared on her face as quickly as the smile had.


“There’s no need to worry with water so nearby. Here, look.” Niowyn reached for Oryn’s arm and gently guided him down the path toward her. It was narrow, so standing side by side was a snug fit to say the least. She pointed to the small pond just ahead where the path widened into a small clearing. There was something shimmering in the sunlight in the pool. “There’s something in there. Treasure, maybe?” she flashed Oryn a playful look with a raised eyebrow.

He mirrored her expression. When he smiled, it tugged at the long scar on his cheek. He had deliberately used the title she herself had given, when they first spoke. She had also politely asked him to just call her Niowyn, just as she was now. But Oryn had not been particularly well raised and his manners weren’t the best. And he enjoyed teasing her with it. Before he could answer, however, she had dragged him along the path.

Oryn looked at the pond and the flowers surrounding it. There was no mistaking them. It had been a long time since he had seen them, however. He glanced back at Niowyn, smirking. “Mage and treasure hunter? You’re full of surprises.” He shrugged and stepped forward. “Though I suppose we’re all treasure hunters, in this company.” Oryn pointed to one of the faintly glowing flowers close to them. “Mandrake’s Tongue.” He stated, stopping at the edge of the water. He took off his cloak and undid his sword from his belt and put both on the ground. He turned and pointed at Niowyn. “If some foul thing jumps up at me, kill it with your magic.” Oryn nodded, smiled and turned to step into the water.

“Oh-hoh.. You know of the venomous flower? The common folk are drawn to it by its beauty and eerie glow. It’s only those who have familiar knowledge of plant life that tend to know about it’s poison.” Niowyn remarked, two hands firmly on her hips. She grinned once more. “You’re full of surprises yourself it would seem.”

Niowyn watched as Oryn left his belongings on dry ground and made his way into the water. Although the weather was cold, she was a tad jealous he was the one wading through the pond and not her. Chuckling at his remark, she crouched to a resting position as she watched him make his way to the shimmering item in the pond. “Kill it with my magic? Have you never met a mage before, Oryn?”

"I was fortunate enough to have someone teach me a thing or two about plants." Oryn said, shrugging. The water was cold and he could feel a shiver go up his spine as the water cooled his skin. He remembered all the countless, mind-numbingly tedious hours he had spent with Calen, the latter trying to teach a bull-headed young boy about plants, poisons and potions. That was such a long time ago.

He closed in on the shimmering, the rays of the sun catching the steel in the shallow water. Oryn stopped, raised an eyebrow and watched the object for a while. Was it a trap? Or was it actually this easy? There was nothing indicating a trap that he could see. "I've met exactly three mages in my life, and none of them were as friendly as you." He shifted the weight on his feet. He had killed two of those mages although they had both left their marks. Oryn sighed, bent down and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of a sword. When he stood back up, he paused, prepared for an eventual trap to go off.

“We are lucky to have those who will share the knowledge of the world with others. You’ll have to tell me more about him, or her, later.” Niowyn replied. It reminded her that she would one day be a knowledge keeper for her people and would be expected to pass that knowledge on. Niowyn didn’t broach the next comment - she had heard stories about those who used their gifts with wicked intentions but she had yet to meet any on her travels. And as much as she wanted to tease Oryn, she thought better of it. It was obvious his encounters with other mages were of the wicked variety.

Niowyn stood from her crouched position and watched curiously as Oryn drew the blade from the water. “A sword?” she thought out loud. From where she was standing it was impossible to see all the detail but the blue gem in the pommel caught her eye. “Why is there a sword in such a place...”

Nothing happened. Nothing launched from the water or through the trees around them. Oryn turned and looked at Niowyn with a smirk on his face. He began wading back toward her. When he reached her he held it out toward her, so she could have a closer look. "Be careful." He said, bending down to pick up his own weapon and his cloak. "That edge looks razor sharp."

Oryn strapped his sword to his side and put his cloak back on. He looked at the sword in Niowyn's hands. It showed no signs of having been in the water for a longer period of time. In fact, it looked almost freshly forged. "Can you read the inscription?" He asked, wondering if she would surprise him yet again. Oryn's eyes moved from her face back to the blade, noticing the faint blue color. He tilted his head, looked at the Mandrake's Tongue surrounding them and then back. "Careful." He repeated. "I don't like how that blade gives off the same color as those flowers." He didn't know how, but he wondered if it might be coated in poison. Logically that wouldn't be possible given that the sword had been in the pond, but he couldn't count on logic in a place where a sword retrieved from a pond showed no signs of rust or decay.

Once Oryn was within reaching distance of solid ground, Niowyn reached for his shoulder to help him out of the water. She took the sword from him, inspecting it while turning it from side to side. It was a beautifully crafted weapon but there was a bizarre language inscribed in gold lettering on the hilt. Her eyes fixated on the foreign words and her fingers ran across the embellishments of the text. “I don’t know what this is… but maybe the Colourful Knight does. He seemed to have knowledge about the World of Old. He might have knowledge about this too.”

Niowyn retracted the sword when Oryn mentioned the blade shared the same colour as the Mandrake’s Tongue and held it toward him. “I’m not best with these things… my world is magic after all. Maybe you should take it?”

He shrugged and nodded. She might be right. He had heard some of their conversation from the previous night, as he had laid in his bedroll half asleep. Oryn had chuckled to himself, amused that anyone still talked like the Colourful Knight did. He decided then and there that he liked the moniker. Still, the knight seemed knowledgeable about a great many things, so perhaps Niowyn was right. The inscription on the sword looked nothing like those on Oryn’s own, so he was no help.

“Right.” Oryn said, taking the blade carefully from her. He took it safely in his gloved hand, looked at it a moment and then up at the mage. “Well, Niowyn.” He said, emphasizing that he was not using her full name and title this time. “Let’s get it to him, then? See what our newfound treasure is worth.” He made an excited face and nodded toward the path they had come from.

Niowyn shot Oryn a devilish grin at the tone he used to call her name. But the excitement that followed in his voice surprised her. Since beginning their journey, Oryn had been a rather quiet and collected individual, except for his occasional razzing. This was a side of him she hadn’t seen yet but she was happy that he was beginning to open up. “Yes, most definitely! And you’re going to have to do something about those wet clothes lest you prefer freezing to death.”

Niowyn started up at the path in the direction the two had come. The ascent back to Vardis and their belongings wasn’t far but in the distance there was the sound of voices. A lot of voices. Angry voices. Niowyn put her arm out to stop Oryn from passing her. “Wait… do you hear that or is it just me?”

He looked down at his soaked boots and nodded. He’d be freezing his toes off if he didn’t get those dried and his feet warmed. One thing he had learned in his travels was to always keep an extra pair of socks with him. For this trip, he’d packed two. He followed Niowyn as she lead the way up the path they had come from. “Hmm?” He looked down at her hand and then at her. He was quiet and listened. She was right, there was something going on up the road. Oryn let out an annoyed sound. Had they found trouble already? “Let’s go see.” Oryn drew his sword. The runes on it glowed faintly against the dark, rippled steel. “And we haven’t even eaten yet.” He widened his eyes, lips parting in a grin, and seemed now almost eager to approach the danger up ahead. Even if it was on an empty stomach.


L: The Traveler's Path | M: Vardis @Steel | I: Oryn @Morgan & Niowyn @Pupperr