HEXAMORE ✦ The Arcane Heresy | IC

psych0pomp

the Best Intentions & the Worst Outcomes
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Wed-Sat, you're going to not hear from me or hear from me really late. Sun-Tues, I'm VERY available. But I also like sleep. WOMP-womp.
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Fantasy (all but High,) Scifi (Futuristic to Space Fantasy,) Scifi (Cyberpunk and Beyond,) Modern Fantasy (Supernatural Investiagtion to Obvious Fantasy World,) Steampunk, Mythological, Weird Western, and Horror.
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OUR STORY BEGINS
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The sun set on the last day of the celebration of the Pilgrimage. The Magister moved through her halls, talking wildly with her mechanical bird. As she came to her personal quarters, she was stopped by a very studious man. She paused and backed away. He smirked at her and motioned her towards a large conference room.
She passed through the huge doorway, petting her mechanical bird and biting her lip. The Magister was greeted with Lady Greytides and the hulking form of the Cleaver behind her. The former was a woman in a long sleek black dress, brandishing a weapon. The Cleaver was an armored hulking figure. "Oh good, you're here," Lady Greytides said with a soft smile. "I have notice that you sent a group to relieve the sick guide."
The magister sucked down a noise. "Yes, of course."
Lady Greytides smiled, wide. Her lips were full over a set of teeth that were too long and perfect for a human. "Thank you. Finally, we can find the traitor in our midst."
The magister paused. "Traitor?"
"Oh yes, one of those you've hired is a servant of the eldritch." Lady Greytides leaned forward, curling her hand under the Magister's chin. "Much like you m'dear. Let us find them, and I'll spare you." The Cleaver grunted. Bubo screamed in panic.
--​
The group was comprised of various misfits that wanted their exit of Faelkroft for one reason or another. Soren looked over them, huffing on his cigar softly. He turned from the walled city and into the wilderness of the Middlelands. They traversed over hills, across plains, and heard the echoing cries of abominations. Soren made sure that they never encountered these fiends. The campfires at night were the only moment where the members got to know each other. Yet it was brief before watch duty.​
During a nightly visit, the group found the pilgrimage. It was guarded by members that noticed the sigil of Faelkroft presented by Soren and let them in. Soren approached the lights with hands outstretched. He dropped the Everlight Lantern he had held. It covered the entire camp in light. The group followed him. He immediately spoke with the Liege Stormborn. They conversed briefly before being pulled into a tent. The rest of the pilgrimage was open for anyone to chat to.​
Mordecai, curious about the exchange, moved closer to the tent. She heard their conversation slowly evolve into an argument. Shuren glanced out into the night, holding the lantern. Her eyes narrowed as she saw abominations circle camp wildly. It was common for them to take to the shadows. Yet, they seemed overly interested this evening.​
Cayle heard about Stomborn’s illness being reported by someone within the camp, but no one wanted to state who they are.​
Feilan went to find a talkative member of the pilgrimage. Gorge whipped his head around and smiled at Feilan. He was dirty, hair covered in mud, and his eyes were dull and wide. “Hey mate, what’d you need?”​
Maxwell went to help Mordecai and ended up just hearing a cacophony of voices. He was quickly drawn to a set of pilgrims arguing over a plate of food. Yet the argument seemed very odd. They were screaming about eggs, but there’s nothing in the skillet.​
Mudfoot was weirdly an observer in this midst. He watched as his compatriots disseminated and dealt with various things. Yet, he had dealt with so many things revolving around his own mercenary company, he knew that something was off.​

@Elle Joyner @foodforpigs @SilverPaw @Ute @Skald @ThE_DeAd
 
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(co-written with Ute)

The tightly trodden soil beneath his feet in the rudimentary ring of tents and rough barricades was familiar and gave Mudfeet a sense of homeliness. Smoke from small campfires wafted about the place, and the dim flickering light cast long shadows across the ground. People milled about in no particular manner while others argued about nothing. Mudfeet had seen the lurking forms of abominations when Shuren shined the lantern’s light beyond the edges of the camp, and it bothered him. It wasn’t that abominations were there - they always were - it was that no one seemed to mind. The camp was awake with the humdrum of people who were willfully blind to their surroundings and it unsettled Mudfeet.

“Damn fine job this is turning into,” Mudfeet grumbled. His voice was low and scratchy, as though he’d never quite gotten over a cold. He was looking forward to a night of restful sleep and felt as though he’d already been robbed of it. Quickly finding a patch of undisturbed ground Mudfeet set about claiming it. He jostled his pack to loosen the leather straps from his shoulders and deftly swung it onto the ground. Inside and strapped to it were his essentials; a bedroll, tinderbox, rations, tools to maintain his weapons, and his axe. Placing his hands on his hips and bending backward Mudfeet groaned and stretched his tired muscles. He felt older than he was, and he was plenty old to be in this line of work already.

Shuren's eyes darted from side to side, trying to track the wild movements of the abominations as they flickered in and out of the light of her lantern. The large size of the camp seemed to have attracted more of them, and though they were now beyond an imaginary border around the camp, their movements disturbed her.

Her first instinct was warning the others in her group, and without thinking about it, beelined towards Mudfoot in a hurried pace. Mudfoot and Shuren met at a tavern on the night prior to the group leaving to head towards the Pilgrimage. It was far from the street where Shuren had started a brawl that led to her detainment and prevented her from joining the Pilgrimage when it had left the city. Recognizing Mudfoot from the initial debriefing when she entered the pub, she walked towards him took a spot beside him at the bar itself. Shuren admitted to herself that simply standing next to Mudfoot made her feel less alone, even though they didn't really know each other, besides the names.

Shuren's face was pale, but Mudfoot was still someone she could confide in and talk to. Mudfeet turned on his heels to face Shuren, his boots digging into the soft ground as he did. She had raced towards him and caught him by surprise.

"We need to re-assemble the group, right now."
“Calm down missy.” He offered to her hurried orders with raised hands.
Shuren gulped. "The abominations out there are moving. More than usual, I mean. More emboldened. I think they're preparing to-" As she was saying those words, just having Mudfoot there to listen calmed her down. She sighed deeply. She knew what she saw, but her claim didn't have enough evidence.
“I saw ‘em. I saw ‘em.” Shuren must have had her reasons, but Mudfeet didn’t believe the abominations were too much to concern themselves with when the camp was this alive. He sighed deeply and motioned to the center of the camp. “They won’t come near us with this many people. You should find where yer gonna sleep tonight and get a drink.” he paused for a short moment. “C’mon. Gotta be someone here with some drink.”
 
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Something was off. It hardly required the depth and wealth of a marksman vantage to garner as much. Tension twined tighter than Echo's strings and while she wasn't able to hear much of the whispered argument, it did appear that their journey to relieve the ill pilgrim would hardly be as simple as implied. But it mattered little where her own personal quest was concerned. As long as she got where she needed to go, what went right or wrong along the way was of little consequence.

Sometime into her eavesdropping, another among their company joined her. They had all made introductions fairly early and she vaguely remembered this one to have called himself Maxwell. He was a young and oddly diminutive fellow, though not in such a way that she greatly favored underestimating him, with ginger features and a cherry disposition that could unsettle at times. He didn't linger long, and Mordecai got the impression he wasn't terribly well practiced in keen observation… That, or his stomach led before his ears, because not a moment later had he flickered off to a pair vexing over supper. In many ways he reminded her of herself, before she could no longer afford such a cavalier focus, and she had to wonder if such a dangerous mission was befitting. But she had also seen the calloused knuckles of one accustomed to hard work and dedication, so perhaps he was simply one blessed with an aptitude for optimism. Either way, he hadn't noticed the argument happening behind the closed flaps of the tent, and so Mordecai was left to investigate the heated droning on her own.

Somewhere near the tent entrance, her footsteps slow and practiced, Mordecai approached a rock and sank onto it, and from her pack produced a few odd pieces of reed, twine and shale. Along their route, she'd kept an eye out for feathers and had managed to scoop up a few here and there. While she listened as intently as she dared, she fletched together a new arrow and with careful, guided movements, second nature by now, her hunting knife scored gently along the edge of the arrowhead, dragging it into a deadly sharpened point.

As she listened, her eyes flicked up to the other members of the team. Most seemed preoccupied by the mundane, but as she glimpsed the pudgy fellow and the petite, short haired girl, she noted the pallor of the latter and a frown crossed her lips. The evening, it seemed, was not going to be a pleasant one to any degree.
 
The camp they arrived at was certainly an upgrade compared to sleeping in the middle of nowhere with only a simple campfire to mark their location. Even as muddy, overcrowded, and tense as it was. Not to mention the uncomfortable number of abominations lurking not too far off. As long as they didn’t come any closer, it should be fine. Feilan did wonder if there was any tent they could commandeer for themselves…Not that it would be much of a luxury, but even terribly minor things to make their experience better were appreciated now. Such as washing.

Oh, how it irritated that they were now almost as filthy as the sorry excuse for a man they approached – and through no fault of their own. Water truly was a precious commodity during travels. Though it was hardly a solution, Feilan usually resolved their concerns by not thinking about it (much). They never would have considered before this experience that talking to a common peasant – a mere traveler, not even an adventurer! – as if he were their equal could hold any appeal. Truly, hardships changed a person. Or rather…even boredom did.

Feilan stared at the overly chummy man. He was downright grimy, and his glazed pupils were a sign pointing that he may be under influence; perhaps something stronger than alcohol? “If you must address me so familiarly, at least use Yazath, if you please,” they introduced themselves, brows twitching into a mild frown as their lips thinned in discomfort. “As for what I require, mister,” Fei stressed the title to make it clear they still did not have his name, “I would like to know what the situation is here. How has the pilgrimage been so far, and what caused the necessity for backup?” they inquired.
 
"Are you certain, Deacon?" Cayle mused, striking his boots against one another to loosen the accumulated detritus from the soles. Black diamond-like pupils dialed in on their subject. A portly fellow with a receding hairline and a long white beard seated among a semi-circle of his peers who seemed to silently to defer to his better judgment.

With a self-assured sigh, the deacon repeated himself with a somewhat patronizing tone.

"My apologies, we haven't heard a lick of such. Nor would we concern ourselves with such. It's ungodly to spread rumors," the old man tucked his thumbs into his suspenders to straighten them as he looked approvingly to his silent partners.

"Of course, I wouldn't presume to question a man's dedication to his faith," Cayle replied.

He studied the hand-carved sigil of the seven gods emblazoned on the side of the bleating deacon's wagon. The edges still sharp, and indentations significantly lighter than the surface of the boards. The elements had yet to take their toll. Indisputably a new addition to the carriage by an individual who isn't satisfied by his own self-assured piety, but wants to ensure his fellows are just as convinced.

How quickly man takes up the worship of new deities and proclaims their undying servitude. What had it been, 50 years since the end of the Titanic wandering? Seemingly overnight these new beings had replaced the old Gods, not that Cayle trusted them any further than the new ones. That said, at least the seven clearly outlined their expectations for their followers. The old ways had been obfuscated by generations of cultural practice and symbolism.

Who was to say they mortals weren't living as the ants among the cobblestone of a busy marketplace. Their world narrowly missing being stepped on by infinitely larger beings passing by. In all likelihood, it was only the lesser forces that by intent or accident interacted with the mortal planes. If it were intentional, surely, they would consider us mere playthings.

Cayle didn't convey any of this to the deacon, men with conviction were rarely open to such discussions and while he found discourse with differing views enlightening, it was hardly productive. A different approach was necessary. An approach that appealed to his respondent's values and would motivate him to use his influence for the greater good.

"I do have one concern. Disembodied rumors, as I'm sure you already know, often manifest as a consequence of...Mistrust, uncertainty. Doubt."
Cayle paused for a moment, allowing the thought to sink in.

"And on a sacred journey, protected by the Gods, a pious man knows doubt to be..."

"A lack of faith--." the old man sat upright on his stool as if stirred to action by an unseen force.

Cayle had his doubts about the pilgrims' ability to find the source of the rumor themselves should the individual(s) wish to remain hidden. Though they would shortly rule out the possibility of a genuine loss of confidence in their original guide.

"My brothers and sisters!" The deacon's voice took on a revered tone as he commenced to pontificate with all the passion and movement of a high priest. "We must put an end to this blasphemy, for the sanctity of the pilgrimage. If you know of any doubters within our company, please meet with me that we might work together to restore their confidence." There were many a whisper and hushed tone as the pilgrims discussed with their parties.

The deacon took this opportunity to lumber his way over to Cayle and clasp hold of his forearm in an unceremonious jerking motion. For a moment Cayle thought he may have embarrassed the old man. But his eyes welled with gratitude, and he was grinning from ear to ear. "Thank you for drawing my attention to the spiritual importance of this issue kind sir. I can't think of a greater opportunity to teach my flock how to wrestle and overcome the demon of uncertainty." Grabbing a tin mug from his mess kit, the old man beckoned Cayle to join him by the fire for a drink, sizing up his new 'friend' with earnest.

Politely, Cayle declined. He preferred to survey the movement and responses of pilgrims to the task set to them. And while he could use a drink, he needed his wits about him. One was never sure of what lurked in the opacity of a man's heart. Or the darkness beyond the lanterns and fires of a camp such as this. The seven had siphoned the wonderous arcane energies from this world. But the bilious stench of Eldritch mana still remained. Like a toxin, it invaded and twisted the psyches of every being it came who came in contact with it.

So the question remained, would the threat come from within? Or without?
 
Maxwell stepped up to the tent flap, turned his head, and put his ear to the thick fabric. Normally he wouldn't care; the ramblings of two old people was the most boring thing ever. Always something about the weather, or stories that always started 'remember back when'. Yawn. Besides, he wasn't the only one eavesdropping. What was her name again? They had been traveling hard, pushing to catch up with the pilgrimage. They all had introduced themselves at one point, but he couldn't remember anyone's names. It had been such a brief interaction, and there hadn't been time for conversation, regretfully. If Red was going to listen in, so was he.

"Where'd yeh put the eggs, you dolt!"

She probably had a better spot to hear them. It would make sense, she had been one step ahead of him the entire trip. The red-haired woman seemed to not be troubled by the harsh journey; one would think this was an everyday walk for her. But he was the first one down the cliff, so he won that one. They had sent word for aid, all that time ago, but the guide wasn't ill. Now they want to talk to Gruff-face alone. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something strange about the whole thing. He had a feeling in his belly that he couldn't shake, like one of his masters' tests. Not one of the easy ones, either. Of course not. He always preferred the straight-forward approach to matters, but not all things sit in clear view, as Master likes to say.

"You 'ad 'em last! Don't look at me!" He might've been able to hear the guides, if two old pilgrims weren't arguing ten strides away, screaming at the top of their lungs.

Stars, looks like she wins this contest.

He walked over to the old pilgrims bickering, trying to strangle down the urge to burst out laughing at the two. It was comical, seeing the one with the skillet waving it about in front of the other's face as if to show that it was empty and to imply a threat.

"How yeh 'spect me to make decent bread without eggs, eh?"

"I never seen ya make a decent bread with eggs." He grumbled. The other's face turned bright red, and she threw the pan down into the fire.

"Hmph, well, from now on you can make you own supper! I've 'ad it! I'm--"

"You can add water," Maxwell said matter-of-factly, scooping up the skillet before it became too hot to pick up. "Or you can use this." He offered a handful of milkweeds he had in his travel pack. "You can use the juice in these instead of eggs to make bread. A lot easier to travel with than eggs." They both just stared at him, mouths practically hanging open, and took both the skillet and the bundle of weeds.

"Oh, well. Um, thankee, young man." Maxwell grinned at them, waved, and left them to their meal.

He may have been trained by masters in the martial art since he was seven, but cooking was his passion. Every chance he had gotten over the years, he had practiced. Whenever he had been sent for supplies or had free days from his martial training, he had learned as much as he could from the cooks in the village. The joy and the feeling of accomplishment from toiling at a hot fire to create a delicious dish was every bit as satisfying as a victory in the circle. He didn't have much of a chance to share this skill with his companions on the venture here, but seeing as this camp was more broke in he quietly hoped to himself that he would be able to make something for the group. But not tonight, it was getting late and he needed to find a spot to sleep. And he didn't know where they had all gotten off to. Tomorrow, then.

He found a spot smooth enough to sleep and tossed down his pack. Wrapping the tattered, large cloak around him, he slumped down and stared at the twisting, almost hypnotic shapes at the edge of the light. There sure are a bunch of them here.
 
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The old vardo creaked with Cayle's every step, the patchwork of scavenged wooden boards sagged and creaked beneath his feet. He took one last look at the small groups huddled around their campfire for any last-minute business. Once satisfied he would not be disturbed, Cayle reached for the door. An abrupt slam of wood against wood and the slide of the deadbolt punctuated his departure.

Now safely encloistered in the four walls of his mobile quarters, he could tend to his routine. Cayle massaged his jaw, opening his mouth as wide as possible, trying to relieve the intense pressure he felt between his ears. What began as a low hum had steadily increased over the last hour. Now it was deafening, like being plunged beneath the waves during a thunderstorm; each sound seemed to reverberate. Just as how it always began.

Next would he would notice shadows that didn't look quite right, an odd shape wriggling out of the corner of his eye. Otherworldy creatures, speaking ancient tongues and gnashing their teeth. Then the chanting as they called for their master, that usually heralded his arrival. Things would get ugly real quick then. Best to get on with the work before he comes.

Out with flint and blade. Sparks leaped from the black stone to the tinder dish causing dry fibers to smoke and glow, creating an adequate enough flame to light a candle and heat a couple of seed bombs.

The delicate fumes danced gracefully through the air as Cayle quieted himself. The sere bands wrapped him in their earthy scent.

From a small compartment, he produced a thin-rimmed bowl and with a tiny mallet. Dextrous fingers twisted the straw-like handle between his knuckles back and forth. The rhythmic movements cut gracefully through the looming trails of smoke as they dispersed into a dull haze and with a final flick of his wrist he struck the side of the brass bowl and it sang out.

"This plain, this time, this space. Nothing here is out of place."

Cayle poured out a mason jar of ash and earth onto a tray before him and drew a series of connecting symbols that resembled what might be a map of the heavens. Once satisfied he scattered 13 marbles across his canvas. The colorful glass orbs each rolled to specific locations as if they were magnetic. He scanned the spread of dirt and glass the way a fisherman might consult his map. Sometime later he, came to a stop and pressed a single brown button into the dirt and traced a circle around it before covering it with some wet leaves.

A yellow-toothed grin spread across his face as he admired his craft, propping his feet up on a stack of old books.

"Find me now, you parasite..." he hissed, lighting a cloven cigar on the lantern.

Already he could feel his ears clearing, sounds becoming sharper, his surroundings more contrast and even the numbness in his fingers subsided. Never underestimate the benefits of a little self-care. One always feels better after ensuring their existence has been adequately preserved. He could sleep soundly for at least a few hours tonight.
 
The lights at the edge of the camp flickered in the abyssal night. The flimsy groaned occasionally as a tired wind tumbled over the plains. The moons in the sky only came out in moments but offered little in the way of illumination against the oppressive clouds. The abominations stirred outside the encampment. Chittering, growling, and snarling occasionally broke through the camaraderie of the encampment. Yet, there didn’t seem to be an air of fear. Of course, there were those that had never been outside a populated area. They didn’t know that the abominations, born of the Titans themselves, were always present. A story told to them as children about abominations snatching them up from their beds in the middle of the night was made an uncomfortable reality. Occasionally, a disfigured claw or maw would edge close to the camp only to recoil from the light or a glance at one of the pilgrims inside. There were many within the camp that owned swords, shields, pikes, arrows, or guns. The abominations were terrifying, but they were not immortal.

One such creature looked in, three holes for eyes and a toothless maw. It lifted its head, almost as if sniffing the air. Blood hung on the tepid wind.

@foodforpigs @Ute
Shuren was not wrong, but neither was Mudfoot. There was an unease to the danger surrounding the camp, but there was also safety in numbers. In search of a drink that could abate the anxiety of their situation, they did indeed locate a group of pilgrims that seemed to be in higher spirits than most. A few sat on makeshift benches around a crackling campfire, a few were wrapped up in their bedrolls, a couple were already asleep from drink and fatigue, and there was an older woman standing close to the fire, raising her tankard upward. Her brunette hair was tied in a tight bun behind her head and a short-brimmed leather hat sat on her head. It was hard to make out her form for the fur-lined long coat that hung off her shoulders, but the glint of a rapier was easily seen. |SHUREN’S PASSIVE PERCEPTION SUCEEDED| Yet, in the flicker of the light, Shuren could make out phials holding various liquids of different hues and viscosity.

The woman caught the eyes of the two that approached. “Finally, we’re going to be able to leave this titan’s-damned camp!” A light cheer went through those that had gathered. The woman’s smile was rosy, but that may have been from the drink. “Come come, tell us about your journey here. Let’s get you...” She paused, her eyes narrowing as she looked at a small keg at her feet. She gave it a tap with her boot. “Well, I was going to say, ‘lets get you a drink,’ but it seems like Eddard isn’t back with the second keg.”

The woman extended her tankard with a gloved hand. “Here,” she said, looking between the two. “One of you can have mine if you go find Eddard… or more importantly our missing ale. The other can tell us about your trip here and how foolish you feel for a wasted journey.”

@Elle Joyner
Tent flaps erupted open, the far crisper light from inside overpowering the light glow of the camp. Soren exited, followed shortly by the Liege Stormborn. They had their hand on the pommel of one of their blades, as their eyes narrowed at the guide. A few blinks and they smiled, wiping the disdain from their features. “Get some rest,” they said. “With your comrades, Soren, we should be able to pack up early tomorrow. We need to make up for lost time.” |MORDECAI’S PASSIVE PERCEPTION SUCEEDED| ”Arbiter Patrice and the deacon be damned,” they grumbled and reentered the tent.

Soren stood there, slouching, and rubbed a hand across his mouth. It was easy to tell that he was bleeding from the lip. His blood mixed with his beard, and he spat. He pulled something from underneath the collar of his armor, his back turned from Mordecai. “If I was the infirmary tent, where would I be?” A pause. “That way then.” He moved away in his usual slouching fashion.

@SilverPaw
The intoxicated man tried to focus on the person before him. Feilan wouldn’t have a hard time noticing that the gears were turning in this man’s head at a grinding pace trying to understand what came out of the lordling’s mouth. “Ya-…” he started. Yah-zath. Yah-zuth. Yah-zah. Yah-Yah. Honestly, he seemed quite content on that last pronunciation. “I’m Gorge Mattelbean,” he said without problem. “Pleasure to meet yah. Don’t get you fancy folk around here often. Been hiding in a rug, mate? All rolled up?”

“The situation? I donna know. No one tells ole Gorge anything. It’s only ‘tend to the sattles, tend to the horseshoes, tend to the bags, tend to the feed, and stop getting shit everywhere, Gorge.’”
He lifted his arm as if he went to take a drink, but there was nothing in his hand. Looking at Feilan, a bit of recognition passed his eyes. “Why we stopped? Oh yeah, it’s cause the guide was sick, Stormbren or whatever. Or at least that’s what Culver told the Father. They were convulsin’ and whatnot.” He paused. “They seem fine now, Yah-Yah. Donna know why the Father was so worried.”

Gorge winked, overdone and with both eyes. “But donna go tellin’ anyone, Yah-Yah. Ole Gorgedonna hear that. Only just spreadin’ shit everywhere.” He laughed and went to sip from the drink that didn’t exist before looking dejected.

@Skald
The two pilgrims that Maxwell had spoken to seemed placated by his words. They swiftly got to work on dinner, acting as if their previous feud accounted for nothing. Yet, at the edge of the conversation, another argument erupted. This time over something even more trivial than eggs.

As the young monk bedded down for the night, his eyes glancing to the edge of the camp and catching the moving shadows of the abominations just out of reach. Maybe a cloud moved out of the way of one of the brighter moons, or maybe Maxwell’s eyes focused on one such abomination. It approached slowly to where the light and the barricade of the camp created an invisible wall. It pulled itself up into its full height, taller than an average man. Its gaunt arms and spindly fingers reached forward. The young monk would note that there were two different hues to its flesh.

It took a moment, but the confusing picture of the creature came into focus. Its form was pale white and sharp, yet pulled over it like too-tight linens was what could only be described as a second layer of flesh. With every movement the abomination made, the flesh ruptured at the joints. When it lowered its head, over its perfectly spherical dome of a skull was the stretched face of a human.

Maxwell only had a second to lay eyes on it before it skittered back into the darkness. |MAXWELL’S PASSIVE INSIGHT SUCEEDED| He could be confident, without a doubt, that was the face of one of the men he’d just spoken to.

@ThE_DeAd
The deacon that Cayle had conversed with was one of many religious figures that littered the camp. Though, his congregation was by far the largest. The others didn’t seem to tend to their flock as diligently, or they met behind closed doors—per say.

Cayle could be assured that he made it back to his vardo without prying eyes. There seemed to be enough traffic around the camp that it was surprising that people even noticed the arrival of the new party. Yet, there had been those that had.

Once the door was closed and the ritual performed, the muffled words pervading his thoughts subsided. It was true, the world became crisper. So, maybe the soft scratching across the door of his traveling domicile rang clearer than usual. Yet, Cayle wouldn’t have to strain to hear as it became louder… and louder before the sound of cluttered footsteps against mud followed it. Then there was silence.
 
Shuren handed off the lantern to Mudfeet and lifted both of her hands to take the tankard before Mudfeet could say anything. She still as pale than she was before, because despite being reminded of the safety in numbers, the shapes she had seen in the darkness flickered in her mind. Only after she had a firm grip on the mug did Shuren look up at Mudfeet, feeling shame for unthinkingly giving into her impulses and not considering what he wanted first.

Mudfeet offered to go search for Eddard and the keg, and left Shuren to sit on an empty keg to talk to the woman. Both her hands were still on the tankard and she assumed a protective posture, as if someone else would rip it from her. Her hands were shaking as she took a sip from the tankard, then steadied as she drunk the rest greedily. Afterwards, she set the tankard aside.

"There's not much of a tale for the trip from Faelkroft. Walking, keeping watch, no action." Based on the woman's reaction, she wasn't going to let Shuren off the hook with a response like that. "I'm Shuren Fenstrider. I had come far to reach Faelkroft to join the Pilgrimage, you know. I got my sea legs on board a ship that went down the west coast, earning my keep as a deckhand. I climbed those ship ropes like a monkey to work the sails and fight against the storms."

"I was looking forward to the Piligrimage, if you could believe it. I was worried that --" Shuren chuckled. "I'd be late. I was in Faelkroft about a week early, and then there was the partying. I hadn't partied so hard or spent so much coin before in my life. It was the big city. I had to. And then some jerk." Shuren raised her hand and outstretched it wide before clenching in a hyperbolic manner. "Put his hand on me. A second later, I had twisted his arm." Shuren stand up, emboldened by her own tale. "I pushed him forward. Crash! Split a table in half!" Shuren was getting off track about the journey, but the woman didn't care to stop her. "Stood my ground until the guards came. I missed the departure as I was held in the prison drunk tank. When I got the job to catch up with you guys, I got my hope up again, that the Pilgrimage would be like the stories I heard about enlightenment." She sat back down on the barrel sullenly. "And now I'm stuck here in the middle of nowhere surrounded by a slew of monsters."

"What about you? How did you get into this mess?"
 
Mudfeet took the lantern from Shuren with a faint grumble. He’d wanted nothing more than to sit down and wait for the keg-man to bring him a drink, but it didn’t seem as though the fates were willing to cooperate with him this evening. Mudfeet cast a glance at Shuren as she sat down, mug in hand, and calmed down. She needed the drink more than he did now anyway. Turning away to go find the supply the old woman had pointed out Mudfeet cast a wide gaze around the camp again.

A little way ahead Mudfeet saw a dimly lit tent standing proudly with what looked to be large barrels inside it. His excitement peaked and his pace doubled as he brought the light of the lantern over the front of the tent. Dipping inside as he came to it Mudfeet was met by a gathering of barrels, casks, and kegs with stamps and markings denoting what they were and who owned them. Uncertain of what the old woman had had Mudfeet ventured deeper into the tent when he was halted by a deep rasping. His boots squelched in the mud as he leaned forward, peering over the barrels.

The bloodied and pale face of a young man met him. Hands were wrapped around his throat. Mudfeet could tell whoever had slit it had missed the windpipe, but the blood pulsing didn’t leave him with a good feeling about the whole matter. To make things worse his equipment was safely stored where he intended to spend the night. He hadn’t even thought so much as to bring a knife with him. After all, wasn’t the camp supposed to be safe?

“INTRUDER!” Mudfeet roared over his shoulder. His deep voice would have carried through the night air with a deafening presence. There was no use pretending that the camp was safe anymore. This whole affair seemed to have taken a turn for the worse. Laying the lantern on the top of a barrel Mudfeet pushed past the barrels and looped an arm around the dying man and yanked him free from the tent to the open muddy ground outside it. His time among the mercenaries had taught him a little, but Mudfeet was far from a healer.

Tearing a piece of not too bloody cloth from the man’s shirt Mudfeet pried away his hands to inspect the wound. Immediately he thrust the cloth onto it and pressed the victim’s hands back onto it. “Hold it there. Tight. If you don’t, you’ll die.” Turning back over his shoulder, unaware of what had transpired behind him, Mudfeet saw the clatter of people waking from their daze. “Send a healer!” He barked. There was nothing more to be done on his part. If the man died, I was simply bad luck at this point.

Instead, Mudfeet pressed into the tent again and investigated, taking the lantern and shinning it over the bloodied mud. There must have been some trace of whoever had slit his throat. Barring the man doing it himself Mudfeet wasn’t going to rest tonight until the assailant was found.
 
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Feilan’s lip curled at the drunkard’s attempt to pronounce his last name. They were certainly not a fan of ‘Yah-Yah’. It was a terrible nickname, the kind of teeth-rotting sweetness an overeager lover or fan might come up with. Hearing it from the man in front of them was purely revolting. “I wasn’t hiding, I recently arrived,” they sighed as they explained, exasperated and already tired of the conversation.

“Mm, I am sure you must feel rather abandoned, Gorge,” Feilan drawled in a sarcastic play at empathy which was blatantly fake; they didn’t believe the drunk would notice that though. “I see. Concerning indeed that the guide was down for a while there, but if they’re alright now, no need to worry anymore, now is there,” they blithely lied through their teeth, adjusting their pattern of speech to something a tad more casual. They smiled wryly for a short moment as they considered how wasted that effort surely was.

Privately, they thought that convulsions were a sign of something serious indeed. A recurring illness? Seizures, the kind that were often ascribed to hysterical folk – but if so, what was their cause? Had it occurred to Stormborn the first time, or was it a reoccurring matter? Surely, it had to have begun relatively recently, or elsewise, they wouldn’t have been trusted to guide anyone. A curious matter indeed, and Feilan was drawn to investigate. They were bored for one, and for another, information was power.

“Of course, I will not. We were just chatting a bit, nothing special about that, eh?” they chuckled forcefully, though someone much more observant than the fellow in front of them would be needed to discern it as a false gesture. “Now then, I am afraid I have some other business to take care of. But thank you for the conversation,” they concluded. With a brief nod, they turned on their heel and walked in the other direction. They had a so-called Father to locate.

However, a shout resounded through the camp at that very moment, announcing an intruder. Feilan gripped the sword sheathed at their side; they’d not yet unpacked, as they’d wanted to find an unoccupied tent before they did so. They walked swiftly towards the sound of disturbance, finding a gathering crowd there, and a man bleeding from the neck. Growling, Feilan made their way through, getting to the front.

“Let me, I can patch him up,” they said, not quite revealing the how. They tugged at the man to take him back to the privacy of the tent. “Privacy will be required for such a delicate procedure, so if the rest of you would move,” the words were formed as a request but the tone demanded immediate obeyance. Once Feilan was in the tent with the injured man, they laid a hand upon him and poured healing power into him. “Goddess, please do let him live at least a bit longer; if nothing else, we need to find whom to exact vengeance upon for this murder,” they muttered. When – if – the man was better, the questioning could begin.