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.