CLOSED SIGNUPS e s o t e r i c a || DRY SEASON

[Nemopedia]

Back with a Bang - @Applo, @Doctor Jax

The last thing he remembered was racing for the trees, like Ana had instructed him, trying to get somewhere, or maybe back to the camp? Finley wasn't sure, he wasn't sure of anything anymore, other than that he was hurt and that it was dark and sometimes all colours combined and he felt very, very nauseous. Did he trip over a root? Or was it the leaf he saw in passing that he chewed on? It was a very curious specimen after all and so fragrant and the botanist had wondered if it tasted as good as it smelled.

The tent was quiet, at least for the moment. Across the room, Orville slept soundly, only turning over minutely or shifting. Yet there was a sort of seasick sensation, as if Finley were on a great vessel aboard the sea. The dark was thick as oil, sticking to every available surface, and there was little light but for a lone candle on a trunk.

"So, you're finally awake."

There was a hint of motion at the very edge of the candles corona. A body moved through the gloom accompanied by the sound of creaking wood and a slow dull thud.

"Me and Doctor Danford were quite uncertain as to when you would wake up."

Shuffling into view with a slightly lopsided shuffles, Dr Pendleton squinted at the young botanist through the darkness of the tent's exterior.

"To be frank we were not really sure what was wrong with you. One of the others brought you back to camp. Your body seemed to need sleep and nothing suggested we shouldn't let you have it so sleep you did. How are you feeling, old chap?"

For Finley, in the moment, awake seemed like a big word. His body was swaying, as if back on that awful boat again on which he had already lost the content of his guts to, and then there was the constant drip, drip, drip that surrounded him, thick and syrupy, reminding him of fresh pancakes on sunday, but without the sweet smell following after.

"Hrmpf?" he managed to produce the sound, but his mouth felt as thick and heavy as the darkness that surrounded him, scaring him ever so slightly remembering that they hadn't even arrived that long ago.

But the doc said he had been asleep, long asleep, and maybe that explained the griminess surrounding him a bit, even if the doctor didn't seem to notice it himself, or let it bother him anymore.

Scraping his throat, gurgling and coughing as if the grimy substance was stuck there as well Finley finally found the ease of speech once more, though it sounded heavy and slow to him, his lips fighting to articulate properly.

"My head," he groans, finally noticing the splitting headache he had and the dark spots that followed, eyes blinking before he peered at the candle ahead, relieved to find that he could still see at least even if the darkness seemed impenetrable.

"Where are we?" he questioned, followed with a wince, the obviousness of the answer so clear and so thick, and yet Finley couldn't trust it. Where was the crackling of the campfire? Lung's murmurings of dinner? The chatter of the rest?

"What happened? The skull, the camp?" The memories flooded back and Finley remembered once more how he had held the jaw of a deadman in hands, and how he had vomited after getting off the boat, emptying his already empty stomach in the jungle before Anna told him to run for the trees.

"He's awake!"

The voice came from a chipper and familiar face, young Danford bursting in beside Dr. Pendleton like an overeager puppy.

"I thought I heard somebody speaking, and it wasn't Orville. How are you feeling!" Danford asked, before realizing he was perhaps overstepping his bounds. The junior doctor quickly took a step back.

"Er, that is, if the good doctor is done with you. There's so much that's happened, Finn…!"

"Well? Speak up!" Finley groaned in an uncharacteristic bout of impatience, his head splitting, the energy from Danford proving too much to his still grasping mind that was trying to make sense of the situation.

And then a gunshot. The crack of the rifle as a bullet was loosened somewhere in the camp of which the sound made Finley cringe and crumble into each other as if he was shot himself, the sound too loud and too scary, instantly recognised.

A lot had happened indeed, he felt, too much and perhaps there wasn't enough time to listen if Finley wanted to live.

With surprising strength and a swimming head Finley finally managed to get himself out of bed, his throat still in need of water, but the fear momentarily made him forget such as he stumbled over to the light, the only light in the tent.

"What the blast."

Instinctively hunched low, Bertrum pivoted on his cane and stared at the sliver of radiant, dust filled light that was the entrance of the tent.

"What in the hell do those bloody idiots think they are doing out there!"

Creeping forward, the senior doctor joined Finley at the entrance of the tent, squinting into the blinding light.

"Danford, do you have any idea what's going on out there?

 

[Kuno]

PETER O'KEEFE || RIFLEMAN
Location: Camp center
​

Peter kept his rifle trained on the deformed monk, even as it spun away and fell, its head now emptied of any ill-intent. It twisted upon the ground in macabre display, bloodied and defeated. The rifleman continued to watch, unmoving; it was only when the foul creature fell into still lifelessness that his rifle lowered, his eyes hard.

Abruptly, something gripped his side, and his head swiveled sharply. Angelica, pale and frightened, had latched onto him like he was a protective bulwark. She said something, and he strained to hear; rifle shots tended to leave a ringing in the ears in closed confines. But he sussed it out well enough. His gaze swiveled back to the monk's prone body, the question answered with a silent nod. He knew a corpse when he saw one.

But her first comment had brought something to sudden awareness. The monks from the monk room: how many had there been? And if they were all moving about, twisting others about in subconscious visions–

Where the hell were the others? Why had he just now noticed the absence of noise and conversation in the temple?

Uncharacteristically of him, he swore, violently and colorfully, in poor Angelica's presence. This was all his fault.

At least two others' whereabouts could be confirmed. Alex had given a spirited yell (and threat) from back yonder, there past the mess hall into the bleeding shadows of the corridors. And Thomas, finally freed from his own dream, had fallen forward, swearing and cursing as he had sputtered back into the world of the living. Peter took a pained step toward him, concerned, until the navigator made a dry jest. He shook his head, frowning.

"Thomas, if'n y'alright, keep an eye on that body and stay by that fire there. I've got to find everyone and–"

Something was anchoring him still, holding him down. Peter looked down at Angelica, softening.

"Miss Warren." Firmly, he detached her hands from him, separating the two. "Go and have a seat by that fellow there. You'll be alright."

 

[Doctor Jax]

Deciphering Madness, III
​

"Simply…. Write back."

It was so simple. Too simple. An easy, ready task for her mind to seize upon. And so, in spite of the terrified scream and the building chaos without, or perhaps because of it, Ana began writing.

I am Tatyana Volkov, she started. A safe bet, as she believed in her semi-panicked state; if this- being she now communicated with was connected at all to the Khuman Tong that she'd cared for over such a time, it would be nothing new. The next part was, perhaps, the riskier to write. Yet, she needed to know. Who are you?

The answer was quick. As if another had taken over Ana's hand, she began to scribble a response, in her native tongue this time. It was awkwardly written, as if scribed with a left hand, but legible.

A part of the All, Tatyana Volkov.

In spite of everything she had experienced in her life, from the mysterious suicide of Roland to the nightmares and dreams and visions of the Khuman Tong to the giant, sucking ghost outside the Temple visible only through her camera's shutter, this felt- tame, in comparison. There was no loud fury, no pulsing terror, no creeping dread. It was gentle communication, a simple answer, where some crevasse in Ana's mind had anticipated, feared, violence.

A part of the All. What did that mean? What All? And how was only a part of it speaking with her?

May I ask you some questions? I seek many answers and find that I am woefully ignorant.

Politeness and respect and care had seemed to appease the Khuman Tong while it was in her possession. Best to carry on with that tradition.

I am open, if you are open. The door is cracked. Push. You are close by.

The answers were simple, easy to comprehend, but not specific. The hand that guided hers was almost eager, writing nearly faster than her wrist and fingers could keep up.

Her heart raced even as her hands did. What was this happening? One thing, maybe, to see the supernatural. To see visions and nightmares and- but something was channeling itself through her. It should have frightened her, and if it had been aggressively forced, perhaps she would have been. But Ana felt peace within. Even as the Part of the All ceased its own message, even as Peter's two bullets entered the animated corpse's head, Ana wrote:

I am open. Lead me.

And then she was somewhere else.

It was a white and open place, like the bleached sky of a desert without end. She stood in water up to her ankles, and before her — a sapling. Tiny, a sprig perhaps, growing up from nothing. As far as the eye could see, the waters seemed endless, but immaterial, bleeding between sky and horizon, mist and firmament. She was weightless, a silver cord extending from her chest into the sky, as if she were a diver tethered to a boat above in some unseen place overhead.

"You have questions."

The voice did not come from anywhere. The sapling waved its tiny branches.

"I can answer them. What knowledge do you seek?"

The gunshots still rang in her ears, but any sign of what followed was gone. Indeed, everything even marginally famkar was: the tent, the table, the paper and pencil, and even Henry were just- gone. Or perhaps it was more correct to say that Tatyana was gone. She was no longer in Siam, as far as she could tell; she'd certainly never seen anything resembling this in maps or descriptions of the country. Like a mirror it seemed, and she was standing in the midst of it. An infinite expanse. But somehow, not oppressive.

"I-"

It was taking some time to gain her bearings. Her mind spun, unsure of where to turn or look. The tree, the sapling, was her only point of focus. She tried to approach, but found instead that the weightlessness held her as firmly as a vise. Or more accurately, like a giant down mattress.

"What did you mean, 'a part of the All'? What is 'the All'?"

"You are part of the Whole. I am part of the Whole. The fabric, all that is in it. It is Total. I am just a shoot of Existence in the Cycle of Suffering," the sapling said, leaves waving in a non-existent breeze. "You are a Part of the All, that can understand itself."

The weightlessness continued. The seasick feeling Ana had experienced no longer plagued her, though the confusion certainly did. The question was whether she'd get any answers more clear than that she'd been given.

She doubted it.

"Why do- ghosts plague us in our search? In fact, what is 'soma'?"

There was a great and relieved breath. It was as if that breath had been held, waiting, years and years and years, only to now exhale in one, ecstatic release.

"They are still in the All as they are, and they reject their place in the All, will not continue in it as they should. You call it soma, 'drink of gods', but gods are Part of All. This… is more. Do you want to be as you are now, forever?"

The sapling was still now, but gave the impression of looking intently upon Ana.

...as you are now, forever.

She didn't stare back. For one, how could one match the gaze of a tree? More to the point, it was a difficult question. Her father- his death had been so hard for him; there was no doubt that he had suffered greatly. Ana did not want to share that fate.

Yet, did she wish to remain as she was? A lonely journalist, flitting from patriotic propaganda to supernatural surveillance and back again? Full of fear and anger and trepidation? This was no life.

"Certainly not," she finally said, her voice firm. "But this does not answer what soma is. Do you say that it- preserves a person as they are? And this is why the ghosts guard it?"

"The ghosts are part of the All only by will of others who would stymie you. They are stagnant water scooped up, by magicians to hinder you. Soma opens you to the All, to be one in it. It sustains in by union with the All. You are too small to understand it now. When an ant reaches a boot, can it know what the boot is, or that a person is inside it?" the sapling said.

And without warning, sudden, the chain in Ana's chest wrenched with a rude and ugly yank. Her consciousness was pulled away, back and back and back through what seemed like layers of treacle and tar and then concrete and basalt—

Henry was shaking her.

"Gunsho's! Miss Volkov, damn you, awake!" Henry commanded, his eyes wide as he stared out the door. "Angie screamed! We must go!"

"Ants!"

Tatyana's eyes shot open, a brief, crazed look before she regained herself. Her lungs strained for air and her arms for something to brace against, the shift from weightlessness to irresistible gravity causing her body to panic. No, she was back in the tent with Henry. Her paper still lay before her, covered in more of that illegible script from earlier. Henry or Angelica should be able to translate it.

Angelica!

"Come!" She bolted up from the table, grasping at something, anything, with which to defend herself. Or with which to attack- whatever was causing Angelica to scream like that. Her hand closed about a foot stool. It would do. "My idem!"

Ana's fear was gone. The Hound had a scent, and she was ready to bite.

@Red Thunder

​

 

[Doctor Jax]

Angelica drew struggling breath after struggling breath as she quickly took a seat beside Thomas. Alex yelled, and her head lifted. Dear Lord— they'd shot in their direction. but what else could they have done? The young woman looked to the corpse on the floor. She had never seen a corpse before, much less one so grotesque. what they had thought was a mummy, was in actuality a living thing.

It should not have bled like a man, much less walk.

"Alex! We… We're fine!" Angelica called out to them, eyes still fixed to the monk.

It's mouth was moving. Tears were streaming out of its sunken, dried eyes. Angelica gasped, yanking Thomas' shirt sleeve to gesture at it. She cringed back from the husk, yet her eyes intent upon it.

A rasping voice, speaking in a language Angelica understood. Only little more than a whisper of Pali. Her ears seemed to narrow in on the sound, struggling to translate.

"He's…. He's speaking. He's saying…"

"I failed. Oh, I failed. They know not what they do. They know not what they do. They shall speak the name…"

The creature stilled at long last in its millennial endeavors, jaw falling slack. The body began to crumble slowly, as if the weight of time had at last run its full race.

From some distance, the frantic sounds of Henry's and Ana's footsteps echoed against the walls in a nearly muffled fashion. Angelica ran to her father's arms immediately, the researcher staring at the abomination slowly fading away with fascination.

"What in Heaven…"

In the dark, the soft and familiar sound of scales began.

@Red Thunder @Kuno @Ritual Lobotomy @DayDreamer

***

Danford in his eagerness crowded behind the other two men, his wide eyes frightful as he looked over the two men's shoulders.

"I-I don't have 5e foggiest clue, if I'm honest! We were nearly beset by Decha's men when we got here, so perhaps we've engaged them. We're in the belly of the beats now, Fin, the temple itself."

Danford peeked his head around the outside, to try and see through the dark, but it was cloying. He grabbed a lantern and hastily lit it with shaking fingers, squeezing back by the two men.

"Wait… Isn't that Andrew?" Danford asked, pointing forward.

There was a figure, of Andrew's height and build, but someone else was standing there with him. The stranger was emancipated, bony, wearing robes as it held its hand out before Andrew. A strange and unearthly chant seemed to buzz at the backs of their brains.

"Hey!" Danford shouted, "What the devil is going on, Andrew?"

The hollowed eyes of the figure beside him turned to the trio in the tent, and in a flash it was before the three, the chanting growing louder— the world becoming an oil slick as some strange spell sought to overtake their mind in comfort and satiety and satisfaction. Like cloying fingers, the chant overtook all.
@Nemopedia @Applo

 

[Nemopedia]

FINLEY ELLIS || BOTANIST

Decha's men? Andrew? Finley felt himself grow weak at the names he felt he should know but failed to know. Gunfire shots in the distance didn't help, distracting him, blasting off like sparks that shouldn't be there and the thump, thump, thump on the sides of his temples.

The chants barely registered, seemingly mixing itself so perfectly with the gunfire and the drum within his own head, both fast and slow, menacingly so and in tune with the horrifying sight that suddenly appeared before Finley the next time he opened his eyes.

If Finley screamed the man couldn't hear it himself, the chants louder, overtaking whatever sound or word escaped him, overtaking the sound of gunshots that scared him. Gone was the headache, and gone were the sparks he saw with each shot loosened, gone was everything Finley had woken up to as he felt himself dragged back down into the oily, heavy, darkness a tad too familiar and for that all the more terrifying.

 

[Applo]

"What the bla-"

The words were lost with the grotesque figures' sudden appearance not more than a few feet in front of three men. The chanting wasn't loud, it didn't make one's ears ring like a gunshot or a fog horn. Rather it was all-encompassing. The noise wrapped itself around the mind like a blanket, smothering all other sound out of existence.

Instinctively, Bertrum threw an arm in front of Finley and Danford while trying to swipe at the creature with his cane. But it was like trying to play darts after a full night at his club. Moment by moment, heartbeat by heartbeat the world was becoming more muddled, more distant, as if the doctor was being pulled away from it by his collar. No matter how hard he tried, how much his brow wrinkled with concentration, Bertrum couldn't resist this pull as his mind was overtaken.​

 

[Doctor Jax]

The sound of susurration filled the air ever longer as they contemplated the poor creature that had fallen before them. It built in the ceiling, just out of hearing, though to Peter's ears it would be a familiar and unhappy sound. The chant had died away to leave a cloying, filling silence otherwise, and maybe something else.

"This is one of the monks…" Angelica breathed. "Impossible. Simply impossible."

"And he bleeds," Henry noted, stroking his daughter's hair. "Somehow, he has remained alive in all this time."

"He had to be… what, 500 years old? That's simply not— not possible!"

The rustling continued. At Alex and Lung El's feet, water nipped their heels, causing Lung El to walk back.

"The water… it rises," Lung El said with trepidation.

Indeed, it was, mimicking the noise above as below. The starlit expanse in the doorway seemed to be spilling inside of the temple, the water warm as blood against their ankles in small, encroaching waves. The very water itself seemed to carry the stars into the temple— and abruptly Alex's foot stumbled even while in place, as if abruptly sinking straight through into water. Should any investigate, they would find the same themselves. The floor gave way, like a thick treacle of stars. The seasickness heightened.

"We need to move," Henry said darkly. "I do not belie'e this 'emple is native to this… place. Outside, wha' did you see?"

He had already snatched up a lantern in a thin hand, the wan light seeming rude in comparison the starlight beginning to rise off of the water, illuminating the interior in a soft cold light. He began to lead them away from the lake of water, Angelica walking with.

"The monk room. Where are the other monks?!" Angelica said. "Was that the only one?"

"No idea. But we should check."

The hiss of scales followed them.

@Red Thunder @Kuno @DayDreamer @Ritual Lobotomy

***

The fire was warm, crackling in the Outland night. The sky was a strange and haunting blue, unnaturally bright with the full moon overhead. Andrew stoked the fire, looking to his father.

"And then what happened?"

"Obviously, the yaramayahoo got 'im! Told the poor son of a bitch to take at least a bloody rosary with 'im, not that it would do much good, seein' as they're not Catholic, but you know, cover all your bases," said the aged man beside him, smoking a pipe. The hares on the fire crisped nicely on their spits, Andrew turning them. His father readjusted, rubbing the stump of a thigh.

"Still gives you trouble?" Andrew asked.

"Nah, not anymore," his father said. "Not near as bad as it was. Funny, our bodies make ghosts for us even 'fore we're dead. Makes you wonder where your soul is at, when my leg's got a ghost of its own and it haunts me just the same."

There was a gunshot somewhere in the dark. Andrew's eyebrows furrowed, looking out into the night.

"Somebody out on a night hunt I see," his father said with glee. "Dangerous business, I nearly shot off a mate's toe doin' that."

No, that had felt close. He had thought he'd heard something else, too, like a scream. He took a bite of rabbit, and it was cold, despite being on the fire for so long.

He knew that sound. A cry that was familiar to him. His head shot up. Something here was… wrong. The cold rabbit felt like clay between his fingers. His father was unnaturally pale, to him, like the day he—

He got up and began to walk away from the fire. His father yelled after him, asking where he was going and that the rabbit was about to burn, but he didn't listen. Finley. He had heard Finley yell. He wasn't in a dream, he had been in Thailand, and he was being seduced by a vision.

He broke free as a man swimming through a sea of cotton to break the surface. The creature held a hand out in front of the three enthralled, weakly fighting it, and he swiftly took the lantern he was holding and bashed it over the head with it. Lamp oil sprayed across the figure's dry clothes, and it began to burst aflame -- and it screamed a dire and horrid scream.

@Applo @Nemopedia

 

[Nemopedia]

FINLEY ELLIS || BOTANIST

Was it day or was it night? Finley couldn't recall, but he didn't seem to care much either now. Somewhere in his mind names floated, names he could barely recall and connect, but were important for some reason. Something about darkness, something about a jungle, he remembered it so vaguely like a dream fading away minutes after waking. Finley didn't want to open his eyes.

And then there was heat, heat, heat of a fire, the crackling of flames quietly consuming everything and threatening to touch his skin, his clothes and more and Finley gasped, eyes suddenly open again as he found himself in the soil, his eyes looking up at a creature of darkness, his eyes going beyond to the fabric of the text, his eyes dancing with the flames of the fire suddenly bursting overhead.

"Mother," was the first thought that escaped him, but then Finley remembered he had left his mother, abandoned her and the rest of his family for the chance for adventure to which he was so ill-suited for. "Father," he wanted to call, wanting to summon the man that was his security and his pillar, but was also miles and oceans away. Finley had wanted to be his own man and now he was here, where he didn't belong and where he was less than a man, but more the prey of whatever it was that chased after him, them.

With all of this swirling in his mind and his fears Finley reached within him, deep as the prayer of a prayer long forgotten came to mind, the first line repeated in desperation as Finley called and called with barely any understanding of what he said himself.

"Vade retro Satana, vade retro Satana!"

 

[Kuno]

PETER O'KEEFE || RIFLEMAN
Location: Camp center
​

Nearly half of their party was unaccounted for. He'd counted– or rather, was counting– as well as he could in the subsequent disorder, his momentary deafness lending itself to a transient quiet. There was Alex and Thomas and Angelica, and Taumai back in the tent. That made four. Then there–

Mr. Warren and Ana burst onto the scene with justified bluster. There was room for neither relief nor concern; he merely added to six. Had Lung El been with Alex? He added to a hesitant seven, though still that left…Nine unaccounted for.

Nine.

And the tapestry of the heavens had fallen at their feet.

He thought he was seeing things. He just knew he was seeing things. But then the water lapped gently at his feet, aglow with all that was unrighteous, and therein came a call: a slow, stirring sound, scratching at the senses like a somber song. It reminded one of…yes.

Massive scales sliding across a ceiling.

It was too much at once. Like a large, curtained window, the man's brain shuttered, emptying of thought.

Physically, Peter showed no signs of stopping. He moved stiffly, mechanically as he reloaded his rifle. When Henry took up the torch, so, too, did the rifleman, though the illumination was momentary; with a start, he soon shoved the lamp into another's arms and regained control of his rifle, hurriedly limping after Henry and Angelica with his rifle cocked at the ready.

 

[Red Thunder]

Tatyana Volkov
​

Angelica was, at the least, unharmed; she clearly had the strength to cling to her father. Henry having arrived behind her, Tatyana felt her own attention shift to the focus of her companions: the remains of the monk. The decomposition was swift, more swift than nature should permit for its course, and yet it felt so slow to watch. Moments felt stretched into hours as skin was pulled taut and snapped beneath the weight of dehydration and disintegration, and she felt as though she caught a passing chill, like a long forgotten but strongly disagreeable name was rolled across the tongue. She paused, her head cocked.

The silence fell across her strongly. Less a silence; more an emptiness. The monk's departure had left a vacancy of a sort she was unable to determine, and she did not want to think what might come in to fill it. The others did not act concerned- not about the silence, at any rate. And yet-

Even as Henry and Angelica examined the dwindling corpse, Ana's stomach shifted in a way unlike before, where natural discomfort had arisen from natural fear. This was … Other. Lung El's warning whispered through her ear, and she blinked. The floor, once sturdy rock and as dry as desert dunes, was giving way to some uncertain surface beneath a rising tide. This was wrong, and more wrong that had been mere moments ago, when-

The Sapling! The desert and the infinite pool! It felt like that! Only, then, sand and sky swirled seamlessly, and it had been impossible to tell where one ended and the next began. Here- here, Ana feared the stars that crept in through the door, their light reflecting and refracting across the undulating waters. Someone suggested retracing their steps to the room that contained the monks, and her limbs moved of their own accord to follow, her instinct for survival suppressing whatever curiosity might have otherwise driven her outside to see this new environment she was so certain they had arrived in. She found herself close to Peter, and when he absentmindedly shoved his lantern into her arms, she took it and followed without question.

 

[Ritual Lobotomy]

THOMAS "TOM" O'REILLY|| NAVIGATOR

Besides his name, Thomas barely registered much of what Peter had told him through the fog, although he pieced it together well enough to nod back at the rifleman. Animated voices and erratic movements around him sounded more present through the pounding of an inner drum behind his temples. A wave of nausea came and went with a few blinks.

"Aye. Body," the navigator mumbled without much effort for his response to reach O'Keefe. The body was sprawled untidily, nigh at his feet. The ghastly face that merely flashed in front of his dazed eyes was still there, its dead sockets digging into his. A shock? Terror? Anger? A confusing mix and mash of overwhelming thoughts. Deadman's empty face was grotesquely captivating.

For the first time after she sat next to him, Thomas acknowledged Angelica when she called back to others. As painful as a gong against his skull, it helped none with the crippling headache, but it had sobered him enough to understand that the image in front of him was a reality. And so was the moment when it moved. Just as miss Angelica grabbed him tighter, his arm protectively extended in front of her while the other searched his side for a gun. Without taking his eyes off the lamenting hellish visage, his hand wrapped around the handle of a weapon, tense and ready to draw.

"What are ye on about," he asked unusually timidly, perplexed, referring to Angelica's mad talk. "Sayin'? Sayin' what?"

Did he care what the girl thought she heard from what was supposed to be an empty husk of a long-passed man? He could have pretended he didn't.

Could have if he did not just witness the deadman bleed and die anew in front of them. If he was losing his mind, they all lost it collectively. Folie à deux. An induced hallucination. Anything that remotely made sense.

As the ghastly form began to retrieve into its robes and turn into dust, the knot in the navigator's throat grew heavier with the anxiety of realizing that he questioned the logic he still stubbornly held onto. Usually inclined to give a witty response or two to his superstitious comrades, he found nothing to contribute to in the discussion Angelica and Henry had amongst themselves.

Thomas got up, as silent as death and with face years older under a heavy, troubled frown. As he kicked it out his way, an empty bottle of gin shattered against the rugged wall. As a response, a familiar slithering sounded from the darkness of the corridor ahead. In his mind, a large hellspawn of a serpent was tangible.

"Cuireann siad siúd a fhaigheann bás isteach orm arís," it had repeated in his memory as he gave another look to the pile of dust the monk had turned into.

"Is mór an trua é."

O'Reilly entertained a persistent thought for a moment, unable to shake off the dread even as he made a couple of decisive steps toward the pickaxe he had abandoned in the corner, ripping it out of the fracture in the ground with a quick pull.

"Come and fuckin' get it, ya slitherin' freak," he grumbled under his breath, entirely making peace with the fact that he would be swinging his way through the damn thing or perish trying.

He made another step towards the sound, tightening his grip around the tool, but instead of fortifying his position, he leaned forward when his foot unexpectedly stepped through the floor in front of him. Having no choice, he retreated, cursing everything: the sound in the darkness, helplessness, the obscurity of it all. This was nothing he had been prepared for, and the fact alone was enough to unnerve him into doubting himself. Yet, the ground continued to vanish. Logic or not, the vision of the twisting insides of the room woke up the instinctive need to get out of there and ponder on it later. The same inner struggle, he was sure, occupied his fellow Irish. It was a distinctive gaze of a man beating his psyche. A character of a true soldier.

A suggestion of a retrieval spot reached him, and he had no time to agree or dispute the decision. It was all that could have been done in a situation like that. Whatever they may have been against.

Despite disbelief of his own, O'Keefe triggered an admirable organizing effort of the panicking group so he, too, would pull his weight. The gun was out of its holster, and the pickaxe was attached to his person.

"Fall back," his voice sounded loud and commanding. "Stick to markers and stick to the group," he instructed further, moving backward to hold the line with Peter as they flocked the group to keep moving.

 

[Doctor Jax]

Chapter 3: Beyond The Door
"Lo, the Bodhi 'fore the heart of Ratchasawan/ it hangs with [read either 'fruit' or 'sons' ]/full of life./The city [unintelligible] its dead./ Life is in it/ By its [Name/Breath]/ the Bodhi of Shivit speaks."— excerpt from the Tala-Patra
​

"And here I thought I taught you better manners than that," Mave scoffed at Charles Green, financier of a swiftly failing expedition deep in the Siamese jungle. The dame dabbed her mouth with a napkin, and she shrugged her shoulders as Charles got up and looked around with uncouth interest. No one else seemed to notice his sudden, rash movements.

"Given I was there when you passed, I'd say it's you being rude for lying about being alive," Charles murmured as he sat back in his chair, sniffing. His thumb was sore, and he rubbed it, a strange and vague memory seeming to pierce through the odd fog that clouded his mind.

"Then you're seeing that which isn't real, is that so?" Mave asked. "This place look familiar to you?"

"The Chardonnay, my favorite restaurant," Charles said, realization crossing his features, and Mave spread her hands out, looking at him expectantly.

"Oh, spit it out, darlin'. You're in a theater of your own damn mind," Mave huffed as she went back to cutting into her chicken cordon bleu. Yes, it was making sense now. He had been taught to use a location, a memorable location, in the event his mind was purloined, a place so heavily in the forefront of his mind that any attempting to breach it would immediately latch to it — and creating a tell that he had been conned. After all, the Chardonnay burned down when he was but nineteen.

Something was looking into him. Which meant that he could look into it. He merely needed to…

He could feel the images begin to defray as he got up, running for a wall ensconced by a curtain. It was onto him, whatever it was. But no, he would learn. Nobody could peer through the keyhole without risking a finger to the eye. The curtain drew back and—

His eyes went wide as he viewed a city on fire from on high. The backs of eight other monks were before him. They turned away from the city, a lurid and bizarre expanse as if carved from stone set in a massive waterfall, enshrined by red-orange-purple trees, great blocks of stone. Amidst the city, emancipated giants roamed. Things ran through the streets, things too small for him to make out, only that they were not human, attacking things that were. And the chanting was gone.

And just like that, he was shunted out, his body a nimbus of aches and pains, centered almost entirely on his thumb. Before him, in the dark, he thought he could see the body of a starved thing, and with a war cry, he rushed it. The thing was fast, but he caught it by the robe, and in the dark, he wrestled to the ground the wiry creature that had tried to take his mind, a rage filling him as he bashed its skull into the stone floor, with the viciousness of the violated and the afraid.

"Chuck! Chuck! Chuck, the thing's dead, mate, you've killed it!" Andrew's voice shouted past the animal panic.

Charles looked up finally to the wan light of Andrew's lantern, shining upon him, Finley, and Bertram. His hands were full of dried skin and hair, the remains of a monk underneath him. He leapt to his feet with a muttered curse as he wiped his hands on his shirt, gasping for air.

"You alright, Chuck?" Andrew asked, and the financier nodded, staring at the crumbling monk, moaning it's last.

"I… I am, but— first things first. We need all the dynamite we can carry."

***​

The hissing scales followed them in the dark, their lanterns the only light. The dark seemed to wind around them with the loving fingers of an admirer, as the panicked group followed Peter and Thomas down the hall. It seemed as if the temple stretched miles in the dark, as if the distance had become relative to their dread, compounded by the slithering that followed overhead.

"Father— Father, this is— is all wrong," Angie whimpered as she tucked into her father's side, the man rubbing her shoulders. Indeed, he was beginning to perspire as well, and he looked down at his daughter's stricken features.

"Nonsense, Angie. Nonsense. I won' le' a 'hing happen, sweet. Not a 'hing. Come on, chin up," he reassured, kissing the top of her head as he looked to the ceiling with awe — and cunning.

Finally, they reached the monk room, and sure enough, all were missing from their posts, the stele standing in a shaft of starlight, the only other illumination. The cold, white light fell upon the glimmering scales of the Nagk, wound down from the ceiling behind the monk's pedestals. The rest of its serpentine body was all over the ceiling in coiling loops so thick, one could not see the stone, going out the three doors leaving the central atrium of the Stele Room.

Angelica gasped, Lung El immediately falling to his face in reverence and fear before the snake. Henry was quick to step between Peter and Thomas before they could shoot the serpent.

"Nagk of the Grea' Waters. The Book spea's o' you as the doorman, a simple bouncer. Is such true?" Henry asked.

The eyeless serpent seemed to luridly grin, coils undulating. A strange noise issued forth — like it sucked its teeth.

Hast thou such desire to be betwixt? This be the place for such, the Nagk said, in the native tongues of each who heard. Thou hast not broken the door and made ingress by force, then little work hast I, no? Not worth sweat.

"Ever hating your employers, are you?" Henry asked gesturing to the pedestals, and it reared back with a deep hiss.

Or perhaps thou dost seek death true. I can this gift well, the Nagk reported. Henry shook his head, tutting his head.

"Pe''y creature… the Book says you divide the waters wi'h some'hing of man," Henry stated. "His brea', I belie'e."

Behind the group, Charles and Andrew led the auxiliaries and Danford with Finley and Bertram in tow, an unmarked crate with handles between the latter two. Charles started at the sight of the massive serpent, but did not seemed stunned, merely gesturing for Andrew — who was staring agape— to keep the men together.

Yes. The breath of a man, for every passenger, the serpent sighed.

"All of them?" Henry asked.

The Nagk swayed, not answering. Henry scoffed, looking to the others, before glancing back at the Nagk.

"We have paid in five hundred years of 'hem 'hen. More than enou' passage for us all, given the dea' of your… employers," Henry stated, gesturing behind him towards the body of the monk killed upon the temple ground. "My compatriots delivered."

"A thousand, actually," Charles chimed in, "as I took care of one."

"Thousand five hundred," Andrew threw in sheepishly.

The Nagk gave a strange noise like metal screeching upon metal— a laugh. It swayed languidly, delighted even at that.

A boon, then, for thou, felling mine jailers. I shall send thou as thou request, the Nagk said. With counsel.

The creature looked at them each in turn.

The dead canst not bear wounds of fatal kind. Always shall they resurrect, so long as that sickly root is within them. Waste little time fighting them. For the ghosts, water blessed is their pain. For those taken by soma, succumbs they to flame for a time. Glad tidings to you, O Dying Creatures. Shall I never again bear thine visage upon my face.

Abrupt and painful, if a wound existed upon their person, blood flowed in a stream from them. If no wound was ready, a wound was made upon the back of their hand — a bodhi leaf, as if carved there by a subtle and thin knife. The blood pooled across the floor in a thin stream from all but Taumai and Charles, their blood paid in advance.

The Nagk exhaled long, and through the mist of breath, the stele before them burst the spectral visage of a many armed figure with lurid fangs and skulls about her waist, naked from the waist up. Her hands reached before her and gripped something unseen, and as she pulled the doors opened to Nakhon Ratchasawan.

Before them, the way rent before them by the hand of Kali, was a highway amidst an unnaturally bright and colorful jungle standing in white waters, the sky the same color. The path ahead seemed endless, save for at the end rose great towers of stone, great walls of rock so gray in the mist as to seem ephemeral though the rush of water barely filled the air.

GM Note

@Red Thunder @Kuno @Ritual Lobotomy @DayDreamer @Nemopedia @Applo
The way is open before you.

Go forth.

If you need more description, DM me and I shall bequeath verily.

 

[Nemopedia]

FINLEY ELLIS || BOTANIST

Vade retro Satana, vade retro Satana! When Finley had switched from screaming out loud to screaming in his mind was unknown to himself, but when the male finally caught his wits together there was a round object in his hands, hair and dry and rough to touch and two dark holes of where once eyes were set stared right into his own when the botanist finally dared to open his eyes, revealing the skull that he had somehow caught of his attacker and the source of all his nightmares.

"Mother Mary, please have mercy!" the shriek, high pitched like a lady, followed with the remainder of his soul that escaped him, his hands in reflex threw the skull up in the air, bumping against a low hanging ceiling near, before bumping right back and smudging against Finley's face where he could have sworn he could feel the aged teeth of the skull he had thrown, and another shriek escaped and the skull rolled on the floor, eyes turned up and staring deeply into the very being of Finley whose legs felt weaker than ever before as the screams wouldn't leave him, joining Andrew's shout that stopped Charles before the capacity of his lungs stopped him and all that was left was an erratic breath.

"Dead, dead? It might as well have been me!" the male screamed, his voice unable to lower in volume as he was at the breaking point of screaming and shrieking again, the prayers building up in the back of his mind as Finley tried to remember his lessons on how to keep the demons away from him, wondering why his baptism wasn't helping and wondering if he needed another baptism to cleanse himself.

"Holy water, and sage, myrrh as well and God above us, please protect us," Finley continued to ramble off, apprehensive at what brute force such as dynamite was to do when the monk on the floor in pieces was the devil's work itself.

 

[Red Thunder]

Tatyana Volkov
​

Reality shifted, bashing itself against an already assaulted mind. The ghosts before, the visions, and trances: those could each be waved away as delusions of a weakened and overstressed mind. Yet now. Now there was no debate. A massive serpent, if it could be classified as such, leered at them, and the words Tatyana heard in her native Russian were mocking and mysterious. And not unfamiliar. The words of the Tala-Patra, of the Sapling in her vision. They seemed-

Her knees, now scabbed over from when she had scraped them against the stone floor, lanced with a sharp pain. Inexplicably, the shallow wounds had opened, and warm blood trickled down her shins. A vehement curse fell from her lips, and it was immediately followed by a string of profanity as the stele of Kali herself moved, seeming to grimace terrifyingly at the group as she wrenched open some door that had not actually been there. But it was, and through it was something very much alien to her familiar mortal plane. Were it not for the heat, Ana would have clutched the lantern she carried to her chest for comfort, for some anchor to the world. To cling to the vestiges of real, natural, red, genuine light.

No: not unfamiliar. The waters- they were the same as those that surrounded the Sapling. Perhaps- was the Sapling here, then? Could she find it? There'd been more questions she'd had, before she'd been shunted back to the waking world. Her eyes unfocused a moment before focusing sharply, and her expression set. Here, there was a story to find. Here, there was information to learn. Ghosts and monsters and the Baba Yaga itself be damned; Tatyana Volkov would investigate this new place or go mad with the effort.

Lantern upraised as a kind of religious ward, she stepped onto the highway and into the alien jungle.

 

[Kuno]

PETER O'KEEFE || RIFLEMAN
Location: Camp center
​

They fraternized with that which was unholy willingly and with nary a misgiving. The massive snake returned upon their persons like the Devil returning once more to tempt Jesus in the wilderness; like the Christ, Peter was ready--albeit with a loaded gun rather than the word of the Lord. Strangely enough, he suddenly wondered if it was blasphemous to think that, for the moment, one could be rendered the same as the other. Were not both tools to root out wickedness?

But neither Mr. Warren nor Charles nor Lung El would have it. Peter watched them barter with the Thing, rendered a dumb mute in the wake of the many impossibilities. Those were the only options left to him, it seemed: silence or violence. The man had nothing left to say, nothing left to do save his contractual obligation. His reality was imploding with the mere swish of scales; the snake's words fanned over him, and he stared, only shifting slightly as a familiar pain arced along his leg. This was it, he thought. Now they would embark into hell.

Was it worth it?

It mattered not. The way suddenly stretched before them through supernatural means; a doorway, of sorts, yawning open into a spirit realm. Peter shielded his eyes against the sudden bombardment of light. Someone moved past him; he caught a flash of blonde, and he reached out, missing by a hair the ever bold and dauntless Ana Volkov, stepping over the precipice into the unknown. But ah -- she lived still, untouched on the other side. His heart beating frantically in his chest, Peter raised his own lantern and cautiously followed after, gun at the ready.

 

[Ritual Lobotomy]

THOMAS "TOM" O'REILLY|| NAVIGATOR

Well aware of the sinister slither against the cold stone, Tom's mind still focused on the possibilities of getting the group out of a situation he wasn't versed in. As much as he hated to admit it, there weren't many, to begin with. His first instinct wasn't to run away in front of the sound of a large body moving towards them in the dark, although it may have been wise if it were. The sense of familiarity mitigated the dread, diluting it until it became merely an ingredient to O'Reilly's wariness. On the other hand, a panicking group of people rushing through the dark, damp halls of the long-forgotten temple was enough danger, as it were.

Admittedly, the aim in the direction of the sound was more of a self-reassurance, a pale belief he had it under control. Shoulder to shoulder with O'Keefe, he pushed the crowd forward until the narrow corridor suddenly stretched into the spacious pedestal room. The weight of the narrow walls felt like it had been lifted from his chest, allowing him to grab a lungful of damp stale air from the chamber. To the man's chest, it was as sweet as the summer breeze in the deep Irish countryside.

With his head as clear as it got, Thomas held his ground, tracing the slithering sound across the ceiling until a row of scales emerged in the gunsight. Large serpentine head extended forward, and a sudden rush of having a clear shot between the creature's eyes gave him a solid shot of adrenaline with an almost animalistic taunt.

Shoot.

Tom hesitated. A man that heartlessly pulled the trigger efficiently on many found himself unwilling to comply on impulse.

Shoot it, you pathetic dryshite.

Somewhere in the back, a gasp and a slight commotion. Up in the front, Henry's body suddenly obscured his aim. He thought him an idiot. Had he been more inclined to pull the trigger, the bullet would have already lodged in the man's back.

"Get out of the way, American," Thomas spoke up formally, with barely any threat or a well-thought-out fright tactic in his voice. The man was dead until recently anyway, but other people's safety was very much paid for. Stubbornness ran in the Greene family, and the man would not heed the warning; therefore, making any effort on the navigator's side an utter waste of time. It was also a matter of fact that O'Reilly wasn't above shooting the beast through the man if such action would be necessary.

But as the man deepened the conversation with the large serpent, the need for violence subsided into the expectation of things to come. Voluntarily or not, the creature's words seemed to imprint themselves into his mind. The context of many things it spoke of was held together by what little knowledge he had gathered in such a limited period. By the end of it, Thomas' gun arm faltered. He dropped it down with a subtle wince. On the rough skin of the back of his hand, a searing sensation was followed by a self-inflicting cut of an intricate design. The blood trickled from an image of a plump leaf, with purpose, pooling at his feet before proceeding further toward the stele. It left no drop behind. He thought of Charles and a clean stone slab under his gaping, pulsating thumb.

The group moved forward. Thomas contemplated it all momentarily, eyes fixated on the carving that was all but fully formed on his skin. Breaking out of what seemed to be a morbid admiration towards the ghastly scarring on his body, O'Reilly shook the last couple of dark crimson drops off his hand and sought out a piece of unused cloth in his satchel, following after the rest with a barely audible grumble of a pep talk.

"Well, this is feckin' normal, aye."

 

[Doctor Jax]

No Way But Forward
​

"Right, well, we will need to leave a rearguard team here, and -- oh, well, damn me, I suppose," Charles began, as Tatyana Volkov chose to walk through the doorway without further hesitation, driven as if by some strange and fell purpose. The financier turned to the soft chuckle of his compatriot, Sir Henry Warren shaking his head.

"She ha' the righ' of i', Chuck," Henry stated. "'ere's no going back from here."

Indeed, he pointed behind the group, where the sound of lapping water continued. Beginning to encroach upon the monk room, waves of starry black water ate away at the confines of the temple. Several of the auxiliaries backed away from it, muttering curses in their native tongues. Angelica, propelled by the same morbid curiosity that perhaps drove her father, walked towards it instead with fascination. It was as if she were peering into the night itself. She had watched one of their number 'trip' into it, finding there was no purchase beneath that starry fluid, like the floor had given away underneath.

"Where... exactly are we?" she asked, looking to her father, and he smiled, knowingly.

"You've read the Tala-Patra, Angie, you know exactly where we are."

"Enough riddles," Andrew snapped as he helped some of his men carry Taumai towards the door. "What are you talking about? How do we pull our foot out of this mire when we've got what we've come for? Why can't we leave anybody in here?"

Angelica's face paled as she backed away from the waves slowly entering the door. She looked to her father with horror, then to the others.

"The book... the book says that at the rising of the noon star, the way is opened in the Sea of Nights, from which the gods themselves arose to bring about the speck of sand called the world," Angie recited, grabbing Alex's arm for support. "And those who cannot pay the toll are... left to that formless chaos."

"Fantastic. Lovely!" Chuck griped, throwing his hands up. "Move it out, then, that was all you had to say. Christ alive..."

Ahead of them, Peter and Ana were already making a forward advance through the door as the rest gathered their supplies and made to cross the threshold. What they saw was a twisted form of paradise, of trees that sprang high and wide. The highway was made of black, polished stone that seemed slick with moisture under their feet, stretching into the jungle ahead. To either side was swampland, if truly it could be called that, as there was no land that they could see, only opaque water almost opalescent in character reflecting the overcast sky of endless white.

Curiously, the trees all seemed to be the same, no variation amongst them, the same leaves and same color, ever-verdant, bleeding a white sap. The smell upon the breeze was heavenly, euphoric in nature, and one of fragile mental constitution could be forgiven for sitting in stupor just to enjoy the scent.

There was no sound of bird call, no ring of an insect's wing, only an eerie calm and desolate quiet. It could have been mistaken for a peaceful place.

They had only gone some hundred yards from the team, when they spied a figure down the highway. As if a naked nervous system had been pulled from the body and left to hang as a marionette, at this distance the thing seemed merely like wires in the shape of a person, with an obvious mass at the top for what could be construed as a brain. With slow steps, it began a slow stagger in their direction with purpose, silent.

Spoiler

It's been very long in coming, but have a post - and tackle whatever new fresh hell this is in here. :)) @Kuno @Red Thunder @Ritual Lobotomy @Applo @DayDreamer @Nemopedia

 

[Kuno]

PETER O'KEEFE || RIFLEMAN
Location: ????
​

"God help us."

They were the first words uttered by the man since he had left the decaying monk to die in the camp's center. The shock of a supernatural environment had loosened his tongue; Peter's eyes were awake now, bright and full, flitting to and fro about the space with bordering madness.

Would he call it ethereal? Perhaps. He could be forgiven for thinking he had stepped into heaven, the tranquility of the forests and clear, empty black road beyond calling to mind of one such stairway to God's kingdom. But heaven brought promises of respite from his pain and suffering; his limbs and injured leg still throbbed from their wounds. His anxiety still eroded his heart. And the birds did not sing.

This was the Devil's mirror of heaven.

And there came the Devil's messenger.

"Don't." Miss Volkov was just ahead of him, but he grabbed her with an ironclad grip about her wrist, forcing her to a halt. He had seen something.

His eyes were wide, plaintive even, as he stared at a wiry mess of a being just down the black bricked road. He did not stop staring, not even as he heard the rest of their party spill unevenly unto the grounds behind them. Only then did he turn his ice cold gaze upon Angelica.

"What in God's name is that thing?"

 

[Kuno]

What The Good Book Says
@Doctor Jax collab
​

Angelica stared, slack-jawed, at her surroundings. At first, she had wondered if they had entered some form of heaven, her rational mind fighting with her far more sensationalist eyes. There was something strange about the trees, though, something she couldn't seem to put her finger on. Something about --

Peter's exclamation brought her eyes around to the figure walking along the road, and her eyes widened, face going pale. It was as if her brain had ceased to process the things she was seeing - there was simply nothing to reference, seeing the strange lurching, branching thing coming towards them.

"I….. I…."

Angelica was dumbstruck, before frantically pulling out the tala-patra. Surely, surely, it had said something about this, something somewhere, something about a root that walked.

With every stuttered noise, with every turn of a page, the wiry monstrosity crept closer and closer. Peter's patience was thin, nearly a hair's width. His eyes darted to Angelica. Next they darted to the book.

"Out with it, girl!" Peter said harshly.

Angelica frantically flipped through the book of leaves. It was as if the book was trying to steer her away from the words, making them move, difficult to track. As if this were information it did not want her to find, something to obscure.

"Um, here! It says 'the sons of Nakhon Ratchasawan… something about being the fruit of the tree? They're a part of it--"

There was the crack of a rifle not twenty feet from them, the auxiliary Andrej having decided he was not willing to take chances. Angelica yelped, jumping at the loud noise. However, it seemed he missed as the humanoid mass continued to amble towards them, the gunman cursing under his breath in Dutch.

If the thing heard or felt it was in danger, it did not show it. It was nearly a hundred yards away, a wiry smear.

"Don't shoot!" Angelica indignantly ordered, shoving Andrej's gun into the air. "Maybe it's friendly!"

"That is not a friend," Andrej snarled, shoving her back.

"Don' be so quick to judge…" Henry said, the gaunt archaeologist fingering his beard, choleric in countenance. "I 'hink… 'hey are th' 'sons of th' tree.' Long-lived, soma-drinkers, the… chosen of the Tree of Life. We 'hought 'hey were priests, or holy men, but 'hen why have monks, hm?"

The thing lifted what could only be assumed as hands to them, in the air, as if to show it was unarmed. Andrew, however, stood beside Peter with his own rifle he had purloined from a different auxiliary.

"I don't know if I want any part of the holiness that thing hails from," Andrew grumbled, rifle at the ready.

"I know, and I don't."

Peter's gun was aimed at the center of the thing's chest. The position of the rifleman and the auxiliaries had grown into a military formation, all rifles and pistols at the ready.

"There's been nothing holy about any God-forsaken thing in this temple. I won't be foosterin' 'round these devils any longer," Peter went on, his face tight. "We cut them down, I say, on sight. No bullet spared."

"If 'hey can be killed," Henry noted blandly, shrugging his shoulders, deformed tongue almost speaking with full dexterity. He did not move to stop Peter or the other men, but neither did he pick up a gun and help them.

Peter's head swung toward Henry immediately. "Oh? Then just what do you suggest then? 'Fore we're killed in this-"

He broke off, culling his words as he fully digested the calm neutrality of Henry's features. There was a placidity to the man's face, a nonchalance that went against the dread of the supernatural unknown that he and his party were faced with. Peter stared. And stared. And stared.

Slowly, he turned fully, raising a finger to point at Henry.

"You. There's something more to this, isn't there? Something you're not telling us."

Angelica's eyes darted between Peter and her father, the other man looking on at Peter with something like pity.

"Father wouldn't hide things," Angelica said, but even she seemed unsure. She had put down his odd behavior as part of his long incarceration in that damned jungle, but even she was finding it difficult to stomach his seemingly carefree consideration of their circumstances.

"No, I wouldn't. Ask Miz Volkov, I've exp'ained quite a lot," Henry stated. "But few people seem to ask me… well, any'hing."

His eyes trained over Peter's shoulder at the ambling figure.

"Boys, maybe we should worry about holding a trial after we deal with whatever that fucking thing is," Andrew snapped at them. "Chuck! Something? Anything?"

Charles, however, was also staring at Henry, eyebrows furrowed as he seemed to be thinking hard. Henry, as if preternaturally aware of the focus turned upon him, said, "Oh, do no' give me 'hat look, as if you aren' a man wi' a graveyard in your closet, Mr. Greene."

His last name was said with the most acidity he'd so far shown, and perhaps even a touch of hurt.

Peter gave neither man time to dwell on it. Andrew was right–he had lost focus, albeit momentarily. But a man could lose his life in the span of a breath. And unbeknownst to any of them, the rifleman had decided from that moment forward that no longer would be negotiating.

There was a second crack of a rifle as Peter fired at the chest of the monster's body.

 

[Doctor Jax]

The Creature Approaches​

With the crack of the rifle, at last, the thing staggered as Peter's shot fully penetrated the mass of vines that made up its chest. The creature stumbled back, though it did not react as if it were in the sudden agony of a man shot. Instead, it turned its mass of brain-like roots towards its chest and tilted it to the side, finger-mimics probing the round hole in its chest.

It was bleeding red and white, intermingled, from the deep gouge in its woody torso. Globules of white seemed to separate out of its blood like liquid fat. Angelica gave a strangled gasp at that, her hand flying to her mouth as she saw blood fall to the ground at its feet.

Like everything else they had encountered, even this thing may have once been human.

The creature again looked back up and it lifted what could be called hands to the sky. Lung-El, Alex, and several of the auxiliaries would recognize the gesture as a prayer gesture to the sky, palms together and hands rocked backwards and forwards to the white, impenetrable clouds. The gesture was seemingly one of profound gratitude, almost jubilant celebration.

A creaking, groaning noise issued forth from it, like the noise from a dead tree finally falling over, squeaking and grinding as it approached closer to them, gesturing to its chest.

"What does it want? Why is it - why is it doing that?" Angelica warbled.

There was nothing in the tala-patra about this. Nothing about men made out of tree roots, nothing about this strange world made of mist and trees and water.

It lurched forward towards them, hands together, begging. At a hundred feet, it got to its knees, arms open, beating its mass of a chest, streaming blood and white ichor on the stones. The auxiliaries bustled in a line with their guns, a firing squad around Thomas, Andrew, and Peter, save for Taumai who was too injured to do more than stare from the litter on the ground. Andrew looked down the line of men loading up their rifles, shuffling anyone not holding a firearm behind them.

"Think it's fairly obvious. Let's put the poor thing out of its misery. On my mark, everybody fire," Andrew ordered. "Ready... FIRE."

Those who chose to shoot, shot, the report of rifles filling the air. Tellingly, not a single bird rose out of the trees at the loud sound, not a thing disturbed, the noise strangely muffled in this in-between world. The creature fell back to the ground, and a growing puddle of white and red leaked down to the black stones beneath it.

"Someone needs to make sure it's dead," Andrew said, beginning to reload his rifle. "Volunteers? We'll cover you."

And there was a bizarre compulsion to continue to move forward. It pulled at them like a mental current, a thought that would not leave. Keep going. Keep going. By whatever means, come near, come near, come near. Not to stop at the thing on the ground, no, but to go past it, to ignore it even. By whatever mental calisthenic needed to come up with a reason for the thought, it went through the entire team's mind, a compulsion that could almost be missed.

Angelica might need the truth, to know more. The auxiliaries, they needed the money and had come too far. The thought of a loved one suffering and in need of such wondrous medicine, the realization of possible fame, the desperation for security such a find could provide, the compulsion to finish out a cause years in the making - any and all occurred to them, strong, fervent.

Keep going. Keep going. Keep going.

@Kuno @Red Thunder @Applo @Nemopedia @Ritual Lobotomy @DayDreamer