OPEN SIGNUPS Maeblood

[Grumpy]

Location: The Eastern Bank of Toll | Tag: Aridam by @MiharuAya (Mentioned) ​

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They came in a ragged column, drifting in like smoke on the wind. A scattering of families still intact despite the odds, but the majority were broken pieces of something once whole. A mother and two children. A father and his daughter. Siblings, clutching one another tight. Fragments that would never again be mended in this life. That such a wretched procession could make it through the dangers of the Maeblood was largely down to the trio that led them. Hard-faced, clad in colours that blended them into the forest gloom, walking with the practised care of veteran travellers. Practised, but not confident. Never confident.

Maeblood Rangers respected the forest too much to ever be so reckless.

Standing just beyond the eastern walls, a ring of earthworks, palisades and stone that separated Toll from the dangers outside, Baelith watched the refugees with a quiet apprehension. Something on the wind was bothering him, but he could not put his finger to it. Left with no other options, he put such worries aside. Controlled that which he could control. As the Rangers approached he turned his head to gaze down upon them, nodding a greeting. He knew each of them by name, for they were frequent travellers across his bridge. Dael was their pathfinder, one of the few mortal men who could truly claim to have explored the length and breadth of the Maeblood. His support came in the form of Tonwin, a stocky woman carrying a bow as tall as her and who could put an arrow through a man's eye faster than he could blink. The last was Kioen, their herbalist - young by Ranger standards, whose supplies of food and medicines would no doubt be stretched to breaking point by the unfortunates following behind them.
"More refugees from the east," Baelith observed, sweeping his gaze across the figures emerging from the thinning trees. Dael glanced back over his shoulder then grunted.
"Getting bad out there," he said, voice weary, "that's the second village we've found burned out."
"Bandits? There have been such attacks before." It was Kioen who spoke then.
"Not bandits. Bandits go in with a mind to take something." He shook his head. "Whoever hit these towns burned everything. Houses, food, livestock. Gods, even people. Enough supplies to last a winter, and they just torched the lot of it. Survivors don't even know what hit them. I've never seen the like."

"We cannot take them all in," Baelith informed them. "Those with kin here, perhaps. Those with the skill to contribute. But Toll is stretched thin as it is. Cruelty is not my goal, but I must attend to my people first."
"It's the way of things," Dael said, "we ask only that you let them pass through."
"You would extend your protections to them all?"
"We took them in. It's our responsibility to get them to safety." Tonwin gave a bitter laugh at that.
"Or what passes for safety in the Maeblood, these days," she remarked, "no guarantee the west will be much safer."
"Least the west isn't currently on bloody fire, girl," Dael muttered. Not wishing to witness a spat between comrades, Baelith hefted his gargantuan weapon from it's resting place in the earth before him and set it against his shoulder.
"Bring forward your charges, then. Those who wish to pass will be granted the Rangers' Exemption. Those who would stay may make their case to my people."

The feeling of unease lingered. There was something on the wind, wafting in from the east. Whether it came from the fires said to be spreading out there or from something closer Baelith could not say, but it was enough to keep him rooted in place as the refugees began to filter past. Hollow faces gazed up at him, a cavalcade of emotions writ large upon them; the various shades of fear, mostly, but his reputation had spread widely enough that a handful looked relieved at the sight of the towering Knight of Toll. Whatever danger he might potentially pose to them, they clearly felt that what they were fleeing from was far worse.

About half the refugees had made it through the gates when Baelith stirred, twisting upright on some unspoken cue. There was something in the air now, almost overpowering. The scent of cinders and ashes, as though the wind was carrying in the traces of a distant forest fire. Sweeping his gaze across the remaining figures, he fixed upon a figure clad in robes that looked like they had been half-consumed by an inferno. Singed and blackened, reeking of smoke, the scent blending into the smells emanating from the figure wearing them. The top half of his face was wrapped in a layer of bandages that hid his eyes, the bottom half hidden by a soot-blackened beard. If it was just the robes that caused the stench Baelith might be less concerned, but the rot went deeper than that. There was a taint in this figure that nothing could hide. He stank of furnaces and industry, of hungry fires and chemical burns.

As the man tried to pass, Baelith's arm stretched out to block his path.
"Hold," he ordered, and the man stiffened. The other refugees paused as well, looking on nervously as their procession came to an abrupt pause.
"...is there a problem, sir knight?" the man asked, voice crackling like an open flame.
"Your eyes. Show them to me." The man pulled at his beard.
"They were wounded in the fires, sir. A burning beam caught me as I tried to escape-"
"-that is not what I asked. Show me your eyes." Confronted, the man was attempting to back away from the towering form of the Heower.
"I wish no trouble. If there is a problem, I will leave." Before he could retreat any further, Baelith moved. Like a tree caught in a gust of wind, slow at first and then with the momentum to carry him. His arm extended to snatch the bindings at the figure's eyes, yanking them back. Pulling them free.

Light spilled out from behind them as they came away.

Baelith gazed down into the man's empty sockets, lit up like candles set into the hollow of a wall. Flames dancing where human eyes ought to be, moving in a breeze all of their own. The robed figure was grinning, an inhuman rictus. Baelith could feel the heat spreading even from two paces.
"Be cleansed!" the man spoke as though in benediction, even as his skin began to blacken and the first licks of fires pushed out from his flesh, "be cleansed in the blessed fires!" Nearby the refugees were screaming, backpedalling from the man as though he could erupt into a blaze at any second. Baelith, meanwhile, lunged forwards.

Ignoring the searing heat that immediately began seeping into his gauntlet, he lifted the smouldering man like he was a child. Swinging him upwards, southwards, sending him hurtling out towards the open water of the River Mae like an athlete throwing a stone. The man ignited in the air, a vicious bark of flame that made the people still on the bridge recoil. Then he hit the river with a gout of spray and smoke, disappearing beneath the water. Baelith watched the spot for a long moment, waiting to see if something would emerge.

Nothing did. Whatever was left him had been claimed by the undercurrent.

Silence settled in the wake of all the panic, as the Rangers lowered bows already nocked with arrows.
"Every time I think I've got a grasp on this bastard forest," Dael growled, "it goes and pulls my feet out from under me." Tonwin was watching the water still, eyes narrowed with anger.
"Aithenge's corpse, how long was he with us?"
"Since the village," Kioen confirmed, "I took him for walking wounded. I didn't think... he..." The herbalist trailed off, even as Baelith was turning back to face them.
"How many refugee groups have the Rangers helped to cross west?" he asked. Dael gave a shrug.
"A handful, had I to guess. Been a week or so since last we were at camp."
"Then more like him have crossed." Baelith turned to look down upon the cluster of refugees that were only just now creeping out from cover. "You may continue," he told them, still in that calm, soft voice. The warning scent still lingered on the air, but it was dissipating now that it's source had been claimed by the river.

"I require a service of you," Baelith informed the Rangers, even as the refugees began to funnel past once again. "A message to be carried, to the Heower known as Aridam. Tell him that safe passage through Toll will be granted in return for his... insight on matters here." There would be no further surprises hidden amongst this group of exiles. But in other packs and bands of refugees filtering out through the Maeblood there would be others, sparks floating off on a wind carrying them far and wide. They simply needed to land in a dry enough spot, and the flames would spread. Baelith needed to understand such a threat, before the fires spread to his town.

And who better to teach him than an embodiment of the inferno?

 

[Asmodeus]

They had named it Lodestone Lodge. But they were long dead now.

​

So were the people who came after them. Three hunters, who in life gave two shits what their lodge was called. But now they would share a grave with its original builders. One could only hope the former went to Westgloom while the latter went to Northrot. Else they would all be stuck together, and have nothing to talk about.

Auvorer might have dwelt on that notion a little longer, had she not been distracted by the sight of a teapot.

The stag-skulled woman approached the item by stepping over the huntsman's corpse. Bent ribs and a split belly had made him extra pliable when he fell. Now he was folded between the door frames. A portly trip hazard. A noble baby gate.

Fitting that Auvorer had run him down in the kitchen, since the man had been a connoisseur in life. And had taken such pains to describe the diseases he wanted Auvorer to craft, three winters ago, when he visited her den with proposals for a plague to stricken deer, slow foxes, ground ducks and sedate pheasants.

Auvorer, naturally, had mixed the concoction. And had promised three years of fortune for the huntsman and his friends, before she collected her payment. Although she had whispered that last part, as the huntsman walked away with his vial. On reflection, he should have had better hearing. But perhaps that was why he needed a bottled plague to even the odds.

But enough of that story. Auvorer has other mixings in mind.

Traversing the kitchen, her robe snagged on rusted pots and pans, dragged through mud and caught on splintered wood. This room was long neglected. The three hunters had only come to the lodge to drink or sleep, and what food they butchered was wrapped outside and taken back to Toll. Years had passed since the kitchen had known a loving housekeeper. Now even the rats had fled from it, at the coming of Emeria's wolves.

What they had left behind was a lattice of decay. A fruit crumble of rot. An entropic casserole, baked in a vermin slum.

She reached up and cupped the teapot, lifting it gently from the shelf above the stove. Her bloody palms left marks, but none too vivid on the vessel's purple clay. It was a quaint keepsake - something an old spinster might have kept, half-filling it each evening as she counted the days till she joined her husband in the hereafter.

No... there was a better description...

It was like something Mother would use.

Auvorer set the teapot on the stove. Stared at it. Fetched a ladle to plunge into a fetid rain barrel kept in the corner. The boiling process would remove the dirt and the larvae - that was the purpose of boiling, was it not? She remembered as much.

Auvorer poured slowly from the ladle into the pot, watching the liquid swirl. A moment later she got onto all fours. Sniffing and scratching, she pulled up lengths of wood from the kitchen debris. Beams and cabinet pieces not yet taken by rot. She bundled these with stirring spoons and vegetable boxes, and crammed them into the hearth under the stove.

She had once done the same with her brothers. They had competed to carry the largest handfuls of kindling to Mother. Auvorer had always been last. Fifth place. Oft because her brothers had pushed her over in the forest.

"They're as good as stable hands!" Mother would say, while smiling to the kitchen staff, who stood awkwardly while the lady of the house insisted on making her own tea.

Father would find Auvorer in the woods, struggling to pick up what she had dropped. He would send her off to fetch the leaves instead. As 'the woman' should do.

Now the fire? How to make it? How does one make fire?

A half-hour passed. Auvorer broke from her pondering and retraced her steps. At the doorway she reached down, hooked her fingers in the huntsman's nostrils, then twisted. There was a wet sound before she returned to the hearth and knelt to whistle into it. Her lips were pressed to a bloody mouth organ - the huntsman's severed nose. Through his airways, magic sparked. Hot mucus sprayed the kindling and caught alight.

She tossed the nose where the rats would find it. Then, straightening, she watched little bubbles form inside the teapot. She heard it start to rattle. She looked along the shelves, till the hollows of her skull aligned with an earthen jar.

A place to keep secrets. Like her sister used to...

And there it was: the end of all reminiscence. Another black curtain descending over her memories, to veil the then from the now.

Only it wasn't black; nor a curtain. It was white, and lined, and crimson-framed. Two rows of teeth, closing upon a young girl's fle--

Auvorer lashed out and struck the jar, knocking it from the shelf. Dried leaves and bitter dust spilled from it. A half of the contents tumbled into the bubbling teapot. The remainder burned and smoked upon the stove top.

Good enough.

When the fury had passed from her, she picked up the steeping teapot, half filled with dirt and leaves, and carried it away. The vessel sizzled in her hands - a dinner bell to sound her way.

Stepping over the huntsman, she returned to the corridor that ran through the hunting lodge. Her antlers scraped against others - these ones mounted on the walls alongside dried pelts and taxidermied birds. Among these hunting trophies she felt like the one animal they had forgotten to kill, stumbling from their meat locker to run amok.

The second huntsman lay in the corridor, his skin as purple as the teapot and his bloated face upturned. He had drowned as he tried to run. Auvorer would have to ask Liriel how she achieved such a kill.

The third hunter was somewhere outside, having been caught by Emeria. From the sound of her wolves, darting through the gardens as they circled the lodge, it had been an equally grisly demise. Auvorer only hoped they hadn't been too noisy. Even out here, in the counties bordering the Scar, a heower must be careful not to draw the attention of the Maeblood Rangers.

Ah yes, the Scar!

She smelled the border beyond the shattered bay windows, as she turned into the lounge. The eastern counties had the smell of a bonfire on a clear, starry night. They tasted of mulled wine, passed around a campfire by rebel troubadours. They sounded like a stagehand, testing a thunder machine backstage. For even from this lodge, one could spy volcanic clouds at the edge of Maeblood, where lava rifts glinted like bloody smiles, and the factories of Morspark flickered by gaslight.

"A spot of tea, my darlings?"

She called through the ravaged house, where wolves bayed and blood dripped. Perchance the others were close by.

Hearing a response - perhaps from Liriel, perhaps from Emeria - she stepped fully into the lounge and closed the door behind her.

In the corridor she had left, darkness fell again on the lifeless eyes of the hunting trophies... and on the rubies that studded a life-size statue of Aithne.

The visage of the fey maiden smiled, as she always had, towards the porch of Lodestone Lodge. Offering a warm welcome, if not protection, to all huntsmen who would enter.

Location: Eastern Border - - Tags: Liriel / @DANAsaur ; Emeria / @Esprit ; Aithne / @Princess Rose

credits

 

[MiharuAya]

Aridam
@Grumpy​

The forest enveloped Aridam in its shadowy embrace, a realm often perceived as dark and foreboding, where perilous creatures lurked, eager to pounce at the slightest misstep. Yet, for him, this was not a place of fear, but one that felt like home. The tranquility of the woods provided a refuge for his thoughts, allowing him to delve into the depths of his mind. Around him, the gentle melodies of singing birds and the rhythmic chirping of insects wove together a symphony that echoed the very essence of life within the forest, creating a harmony that soothed his restless spirit.

As he wandered through the trees, memories of the festival lingered in his mind. It was an experience that had pushed him beyond his comfort zone, yet he found himself unable to shake off the stirred emotion inside of him. There was an indescribable feeling, a spark that flickered at the edges of his consciousness, urging him to explore it further. Deep down, a part of him yearned to return to that vibrant atmosphere.

But that was just wishful thinking.

Aridam had a job to do and duties to perform. He simply couldn't abandon his responsibilities to chase fleeting emotions and selfish desires. The weight of his obligations kept him grounded, reminding him that some paths, though tempting, were not meant for him to follow.

The Heower was heading towards one of the eastern villages when a scent caught his attention. Aridam paused along the trail, recognizing the smell as human. However, he found it strange to encounter one so deep in the forest. "Come out, I know you're there," He shouted into the forest.

A group of rangers emerged from the forest, appearing ragged and worn. "Are you the Heower known as Aridam?" One of the men spoke, intentionally keeping his distance.

Aridam scowled, "It depends. Who's asking?" He replied, annoyed.

"Baelith has requested your presence. If you agree to come, he will grant you safe passage through Toll."

Aridam stood, torn between his desire to wave the man away and a deep-seated curiosity about the Knight's intentions. If he was willing to grant Aridam passage, it had to mean that something significant was at stake. The weight of the moment pressed upon him, igniting a flicker of intrigue that he couldn't easily dismiss.

"Fine, let's go. But you'd better keep up, or I'll let the beasts snatch you away." Aridam warned, starting down the trail. As they walked through the dimly lit path, a sense of paranoia enveloped the rangers. Shadows danced around them, twisting and turning, as if monsters were lurking just beyond their sight, reminiscent of the fears that had haunted them in their childhood. They huddled close together, whispering and whimpering, desperately seeking comfort in each other's presence. Amidst their anxiety, Adriam couldn't help but chuckle to himself, finding amusement in their fear.

As they approached the village of Toll, Aridam noticed the familiar scent of embers lingering in the air. It was a smell he recognized all too well, and it never signified anything good upon entering a village. An uneasy feeling settled in his gut; something was certainly amiss. As they moved past groups of ragged refugees, his instincts were confirmed. Despair hung heavily in the air, whispering of troubles that ran deeper than he could see.

When he approached the bridge, he walked towards Baelith with a solemn expression, "What's going on here? Why have you called for me?" Aridam questioned, still peering around at the unusual sight.

 

[DANAsaur]

The Drowned Saint

Liriel occupied herself while waiting for tea, wandering the hollow halls.

She moved in slow, deliberate circles like silt stirred from the bottom of a still pond. Her bare toes traced the cracks in warped floorboards. Her fingers brushed moss from a broken pew. She adjusted the tilt of a toppled icon without knowing why. There was no reverence in the gesture, only habit. Mercy clung to her like mildew.

The lodge had not been tended in years. It was neither ruined nor preserved. Only waiting, in the way of things that had once held meaning. Silence lived here. It was not the clean quiet of abandonment but something older and closer. It pressed against her shoulders like a shawl of damp wool. Heavy. Familiar. She did not mind its weight.

She can smell Auvorer's scent clung to the lodge like ash on porcelain. See Emeria's wolves had passed through as well. Their pawprints are marked by blood.

The lodge has been seen. Touched. Changed. But not healed.

Liriel entered the tea room. At the center was a table warped by years and use. She had cleared it with soft, slow hands, damp with river-dark moss. She moved curled papers aside and brushed away dead beetles, the flaking ash, and a stitched doll with no mouth.

She made space. Not for plates or spoons but for silence. She then began placing the trinkets she brought placing each with care: a waterlogged prayer bead that was cracked and hollow. A bone comb with hair still tangled in its teeth. And a bell with no clapper tarnished to green.

The trinkets were not reverence. Not mourning. Just… remembrance. A reminder that they were there.

When the table was finished, Liriel sat down with her back straight and her hands folded in her lap. She did not close her eyes, hum, or speak. She was just... there.

A moment passed. Then another. Soon, Auvorer entered, moving like a shadow with weight, her blistered hands curled around a steaming teapot.

Liriel watched the steam drift between them like a question left unanswered when the tea was poured.

Being here, surrounded by Heowers, felt strange.

Perhaps that was why she had said yes. Perhaps it was loneliness.

No. She had not named its loneliness. Not yet.

But in recent weeks, she had lingered longer at the edges of villages, watching the living speak in words she no longer used. She had listened to laughter behind closed doors, to the crackle of firelight. She found herself drifting not toward silence but toward sound.

She exhaled slowly.

"Villagers from the East are moving away," she murmured after a while in an attempt to create conversation. Her voice was distant, like a prayer offered to no one. "Some are moving to the Toll. Some have already settled near my home."

Liriel sipped her tea. The liquid was bitter. It was not unwelcomed.

"Strange.." she murmured, quieter still, "They fled the fire... only to kneel in its smoke. "

---

Location: Eastern Border
Tags: Auvorer (@Asmodeus), Emeria (@Esprit)

 

[Esprit]

The man had died screaming.

It was a fearful sound, the desperate cry of cornered prey. It was a choking sound, stifled by a sudden inability to draw air into his lungs. It was an agonized sound, fueled by the pain of countless blades flaying his skin and dismantling his flesh. It was the sound of vivisection, of a living creature sacrificed upon the altar of knowledge.

Emeria watched the process intently, as she always did, looking for the truths buried within layers of meat like a monk poring over sacred texts. His sun-tanned skin recounted the trials of a hunter, scarred by wild thickets and bestial claws. The well-developed muscles of his arms and upper back revealed his training in archery, long hours spent drawing back the limbs of a recurve bow. The adipose deposits around his waist confessed a gradual descent into self-indulgence, decades of discipline slipping away in a few years of effortless poaching. The deteriorating cartilage in his joints whispered of the aches and pains that accompanied a lifetime of physical strain, likely contributing to his recent decline.

Enlightenment, as usual, was nowhere to be found.

Her interest waning, Emeria leaned over the body – now hardly recognizable as that of a human – and plunged a hand into its open chest. She came away holding the hunter's heart, dripping with gore. As she turned and walked back to the lodge, lupine forms emerged from the surrounding overgrowth and set upon the carcass with the ferocity of starving beasts.

Emeria stepped inside and closed the front door, muffling the crunching and squelching noises coming from the garden. She followed the corridor until she reached a doorway containing an eviscerated corpse. Another of the building's previous inhabitants, no doubt slain by one of the Northrot Heowers. She trod over the dead huntsman, startling a rat that had crept out to nibble on his entrails, and found the kitchen empty, its stove still smoldering with the remains of Auvorer's fire. For several seconds her gaze rested on a barrel of stagnant water, recalling distant memories of violent, wet coughs and lips stained with bloody phlegm. Then she blinked and looked away, resuming her search of the room. On a half-rotted shelf Emeria located what she sought: a stack of dusty dishes. The grime came off easily enough with a blast of scouring wind, and she placed the raw heart in the center of a newly cleaned plate.

Now carrying a grisly meal, she wandered out of the kitchen, frightening a second rat that scurried off with something in its mouth. She heard Auvorer call from further in the house and quickened her pace slightly, only to pause as she encountered the final hunter in the hallway. Emeria examined the cadaver, noting the signs of asphyxiation, an apparent drowning on dry land. It was a curious sight, the kind of bizarre death that only divinity or sorcery could have reasonably wrought.

She moved on, passing by a shattered window to arrive at the lounge. She had just opened the door when there was a loud crash, and a pair of dark shapes raced past her into the room, one after the other. Fortunately, both avoided the table where Liriel and Auvorer sat, their instincts warning them to stay clear of the ominous duo. It was a brief pursuit; soon the larger creature snapped up the smaller one, and now there was a wolf standing on a low sofa with its jaws locked around a squirming rat, which in turn had its teeth stubbornly lodged in a severed human nose.

Emeria entered the lounge while the wolf shook broken glass from its pelt. She stared at the animal for a long moment, then wordlessly pointed at the open door. The wolf sheepishly jumped off the furniture, slinking out of the room to enjoy its prize. As she approached the table and sat down, a gust of wind blew the door shut and swept aside debris left by the commotion, clearing the floor of glass fragments. She accepted a cup of tea from Auvorer with a polite

"Thank you,"

and set down the plate bearing a fresh heart in return – an unspoken offering, before she tossed it to the wolves.

"Perhaps they had no choice,"

she replied to Liriel.

"Humanity is a fragile thing; too close to the flames, and the blaze engulfs them. Too far away, and they disappear into the night."

Emeria looked down at the time-worn trinkets on the table, tapping a finger against her teacup in silent thought. At her touch, the turbid liquid in the cup became clear, leaves and dirt precipitating out of the beverage. She took a sip of her tea, then gently placed it back down.

"Followers of the Eastern Spark have always been volatile,"

she said eventually.

"Their faith is one of insurrection and zeal, warring against the futures glimpsed by their mad prophets. But these recent fires are dangerous, even for them. They will not be permitted to set the forest alight."

---

Location: Lodestone Lodge, Eastern Border | Time: Afternoon/Evening? | Tags: @Asmodeus – Auvorer, @DANAsaur – Liriel​

 

[MiharuAya]

Rasma
Open Interactions
Rasma's Shop​

In the early hours of the morning, just before dawn broke, an unexpected knock echoed through the stillness of the house. Rasma, having spent a sleepless night with his companions, had found solace in the warmth of their bodies, tangled in their comforting embrace. The persistent sound of knocking, however, cut through his contentment like a shard of ice, relentless and demanding attention.

Rousing himself from the cocoon of blankets and extremities, he reluctantly threw off the warmth that had cradled him so sweetly. Each step down the staircase felt heavy, as if the weight of the night still clung to him. With a weary sigh, he pulled himself into the dim light of his shop, wondering who could be so insistent at this hour.

As he opened the door, Rasma was greeted by the unsettling sight of two men clad in robes, their faces adorned with eerie grins. The air around them was thick with the acrid scent of ash and smoke. Despite an uneasy feeling prickling at the back of his mind, he felt compelled to invite them in, just as he always did with his customers.

"Magnificent muse of Maeblood, Rasma, we beseech you. We need your assistance," one of the men began, his voice trembling with a mix of reverence and desperation. He bowed his head deeply, his hands clasped together in a gesture of earnest supplication.

Rasma couldn't help but feel that the honorifics tossed around him were more than a bit excessive. Yet, as he stood there, he found himself warming up to this unexpected treatment fit for royalty. With a scrutinizing gaze, he addressed the two men before him. "What is it that you seek?" he asked, suspicion lacing his voice.

The bowed man lifted his gaze, revealing a look of determination. "Our leader has sent us to gather this list of items," he said, his voice steady despite his humble posture. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, extending it toward Rasma.

As the Heower scanned the list, a sense of familiarity washed over him. Most of the items seemed straightforward, and he was pleased to note that many were already within his reach. Yet, as he continued reading, his brow furrowed slightly; a few of the items were quite rare, their acquisition a challenge he hadn't anticipated.

"What are you planning to do with these things?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at the humans gathered before him. The assortment of items they sought seemed foreign, not fitting for any typical tinctures or brews he was familiar with. A feeling of suspicion gnawed at him, igniting a sense of unease about their true intentions. "Who did you say your leader was?" he pressed, seeking clarity amidst the brewing tension.

The hooded men came to a halt, their eyes darting between one another before shifting back to Rasma, their grins unsettlingly wide. "We are with the Carmine Church," one of them finally spoke, his voice dripping with an unsettling calmness. "Rest assured, we are only interested in these matters to aid our flock." The air around them felt heavy with unspoken intentions, leaving Rasma to ponder the true nature of their presence.

Rasma let out a weary sigh as he weighed his options. "Fine," he said, finally relenting, "but it's going to cost you ten gold pieces. And I'll need you to return later for a few of these items, as I don't have them on hand." With that, he began to gather the requested goods, carefully placing each one into a small sack, his movements methodical as he prepared for the transaction.

As Rasma completed his task, he handed over the item to the peculiar duo in exchange for their payment. They nodded in agreement, promising to return later for the remaining goods. Once they finally exited his shop, Rasma felt a wave of relief wash over him, grateful to have the strange pair gone from his space.

 

[Asmodeus]

Auvorer gave a little shriek before drumming her fingers together. Then she snatched the heart from the plate.

Such was her style: to run the gamut from green girl to grisly ghoul. And... as she nibbled on the heart... a gracious grandma to boot.

"It strikes as rather extreme. All the little poppets, loading up their wagons and heading into town. While those who stay move closer to the village churches. Quite the shiffle-shuffle of peasantfolk."

A piece of heart splatted on the table between them.

"A time there was, my darlings, when the families of the Scar were more reserved. The madness skipped a generation. Mayhaps a firstborn son; mayhaps a virginal daughter. But all in all, just one..."

She pushed the last chunk of heart under her stag-skull, folding it like sodden bread.

"One little member of each family, gifted with Eastreck's Sight or plagued by his Convulsions. It was a special occasion! But now..."

She gathered up a handful of her emerald silks, and dabbed them under her jawline. An old etiquette. For the spots she wiped were both bloody and clean.

"Well... now it seems that all of them are raving mad. Gaggles of elders; clutches of children; parents, parishioners and parties all. Acting in concert like a fool by his lonesome."

She picked up the bone comb and pulled it through her hair. Slow and troubled passes that mixed a stranger's remains with her own. Bone and blood was folded with follicle and scalp.

"It all points to one thing, my coven cuddle bugs..."

The endearment suggested a smile, as her hollow sockets peered at Liriel.

"Remember the cold snap at summer's end, when Northrot shared the secret of fog crafting?"

Then she craned her head to Emeria.

"Or the Dust Eclipse, after Westgloom disclosed the extinction of the vauden cat?"

She set down the comb, now more bloody and matted than ever.

"These are stirrings of a Barrow God on the move."

She lifted her teacup in both hands, and clonked it to her skull. Behind the steam, her visage wavered.

"Eastreck is up to something. The little scamp."

Location: Eastern Border - - Tags: Liriel / @DANAsaur ; Emeria / @Esprit

credits

 

[myegokiller]

A pair of thick, gloves hands worked with great care and skill in prepping the food and drinks for the guests in the tavern. At first, people questioned the gloves, as well as the rice sack over his head, but as they tasted the meals and beverages he helped make, their attention turned to their stomachs that craved more. It didn't take long then for the people- staff and guests- to get used to his odd choice of wear, and Dolio was grateful for that. It was the least they could do for letting him work there for little pay and not question his previous whereabouts and upbringing. All he asked was that the staff leave him be and allow him to come and go as he pleased.

"Hey rice-head!" A waiter was approaching him from a table, carrying a platter that still held the mugs he just served. At first, Dolio was concerned that he had done something wrong, but as the man approached, he smelled nothing from the tin cups. When the man sat the tray down in front of him his suspicious were correct. The man chuckled as he showed off the cups that looked as they had been cleaned just moments before. "Ha! I almost feel like puttin' these back on th' shelf! Another happy pair rice-head!" With that, the man placed a couple of coins on the counter. A tip for Dolio to keep. With little pay, they allowed him to keep personal tips, and he got plenty from the happy folks.
"I am goad to heaw they awe sthatisfied." (I am glad to hear they are satisfied) Dolio hummed beneath the sack. His voice was muffled, but his pleased demeanor was clear.
He took the mugs and tray and made his way towards the inner kitchen to wash the dishes. He may have been happy for the moment, but something was nagging at him and had been for a while since he had arrived to work. It was a strange and familiar feeling like when he had first encountered Lireil, his traveling partner. He could not quite call her a friend as he was still weary of her and her connection to the being that took his life, but she had been there for him when he as wat his lowest and offered to spare her solitude to allow him to wander with her. He took no part in her mysterious doings. Whenever she had something to do, he would find some way to occupy himself until she returned. At first, he would spend his time building crude sculptures from wood and trash he found at the banks of rivers where he refused to stray, but then as they neared civilization, and she was gone for longer periods of time, he found himself wandering closer to towns, yearning to interact and experience what he once had.

That brough him to where he was then, feeling that similar pinch of longing and kinship. It scared him to think that there was another like Liriel around, but his fear was overshadowed with a foreign curiosity. Finishing his current task, he regloved his hands and made his way back towards the main area. He didn't care that people saw a strange hulking man wandering about the tables, his only concern was what kind of being he was trying to find. He looked ahead and his eye caught sight of a man that pristine appearance looked quite out of place among the common folk around them. Comparing him to Lireil's haunting visage, there was no similarities.
Stepping towards the table where the oddly perfect man sat, he cleared his throat of the usual burble as best he could, trying to sound normal in contrast to his bizarre appearance to hopeful keep the man at ease. "Uhm- hmm.. How awe you enjoying youw meao today..?" (How are you enjoying your meal today?) He kept his large hands clasped in front of him and slouched, hoping to appear as docile and harmless as possible.
APPROACHED! @sele MENTIONED! @DANAsaur

 

[DANAsaur]

The Drowned Saint

Liriel's fingers traced the rim of her cup, its surface slick with the dampness that followed her everywhere. The silence of the lodge was thick and porous, absorbing Auvorer's theatrics like moss swallowing sound. The heart offered by Emeria was gone, devoured with the same careless grace her Northrot sister brought to all things. She did not flinch at the splattering blood, nor when the wolf and rat scuffled nearby, nor when Emeria's winds swept glass shards into corners. Chaos, like rain, fell around her but never on her. She was a stone in the current, patient, polished smooth by time.

Outside, the scent of damp wood and earth hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint rustle of mist weaving through the trees. Auvorer was right. Eastreck was indeed up to something. But Eastreck's convulsions were no more alarming to her than distant thunder. An inevitable flood on the horizon. It did not yet concern her, but it piqued her interest like a ripple in the still waters of her existence.

When Emeria spoke of the followers and forbidding them to set the forest alight, Liriel's lips parted to let a slow breath escape. She was suddenly reminded of the new villagers near her dwelling. They had not asked permission to build on her softened banks or to whisper prayers beneath their breath. They left their charms, believing it would be enough for her.

Those villagers were the heretics from the east.

"Fire does not ask permission," Liriel whispered, her words barely more than a sigh. "It does not wait for an invitation. It simply comes and takes."

Her gaze drifted to the window, where mist pressed against the panes like a living thing. Beyond it, the waters waited. Patient and indifferent. She thought of the villagers huddled at its edge, their fires guttering in the damp. They feared her, yet their feet still carved their paths to her waters. Seeking refuge in the embrace they barely understood.

Fled the fire... only to kneel in its smoke. Liriel's words echoed back, bitter as the tea on her tongue: a warning wrapped in ash. They had not escaped anything. They had changed altars.

Liriel tilted her head slightly as though listening to something beneath the floorboards or in the walls. Her eyes glazed with a faraway look as if whispers drifted through the very bones of the room. She could hear faintly the river's lament, the voices of the drowned, the secrets carried in the current.

They whisper many things. But not of the Barrow God. Why?

Her brow furrowed, a shadow passing over her face. That silence was stranger than any whisper. The river remembered everything. Names were chanted into the soil, bodies buried beneath stones, and even the lies told by dying men. But of this, it spoke nothing. No stirring beneath the loam. No murmured oaths. No footprints pressed into the mud.

It was not forgetting. It was avoidance.

Liriel tapped her glass gently in thought.

"A Barrow God," Liriel murmured, voice like tidewater slipping beneath a door, "It cannot walk without secrets beneath its feet. And when it moves... it is always drawn to something interesting."

Liriel slowly blinked twice, glancing toward Auvorer and then to Emeria after.

"If the god who sleeps beneath stone stirs," voice slow and heavy as the shift of deep waters, "Does the world wake with it, or does it simply listen to its echo?"

---

Location: Hunter's Lodge
Tags: Auvorer (@Asmodeus), Emeria (@Esprit)

 

[Peacey]

Desire​

Oh woo is him! To be bored and to have little to do on a day such as today!? Truly it was a sin amongst sins! How could he, not have any kind of party, dance or festival to attend? Even the idea of crafting one for other to join in felt like a dull and uninspired idea. After all the festivals happened within some time that he's already forgotten- Maybe? It's hard to really tell time between the sex, drinking and drugs, sometimes one high blends with another and you think an event happened yesterday but in reality it was a few months back. Alas! In this current moment of time! He was bored. How terribly he needed to fix that- As to how he would go about fixing things that was a good question. A question that he won't get his answer for until his stomach was filled~

Cooking was one of the many skills Desire doesn't possess. Normally if he wants a meal (and he didn't feel like paying for it), he would stop by Tessa's house (on the days he could find it), mooch off one of the people he was sleeping with, or simply coax a street vendor to give it to him for free. Today, he was feeling so so so generous! Generous enough that he was willing to pay for his meal! Truly, he has a heart of a saint no matter how you think about it!

It was for the most part random the tavern he picked...but also not exactly either. He knew this place, he had been to it before and he was aware that there was one particular 'person' that tended to stop by from time to time. Now of course there was no promise they would cross paths, but my if they did? His boredom would certainly be taken away from him in a heartbeat~

The mere idea was enough to put more energy in his graceful step as he strode into the tavern. One that was overflowing with patrons, busy as one could get, with people chatting about all kinds of things, song filling any empty space while food along with drinks flew across the room. The smell of it all made his stomach grumble and with a push of his cloak he would move past the crowds, taking a second to scan the crowd. To find a person to bring an end to his boredom, or maybe someone that would be so kind as to pay for his meal? Now that would be quite the treat! As his multicolor eyes scanned the room, he soon spotted two interesting things~

A man with bag over his head~

And a familiar face of a handsome 'man' that he had been hoping to meet once more~

What made the sight even more interesting was the fact they were both at the same table? Now what a coincidence one that he wouldn't ignore~ He may not be invited to the conversation, but rarely did the lack of an invitation stop his participation~

A light hum and easy steps, silent but filled with grace as he dodged a few patrons and workers to make his way to his targets~ Once he got there he smirked before leaning over so he couldn't possibly be ignored by the handsome man. "I do hope you have enough time and attention to give me some as well~" He purred as he took a seat next to Jola. "You were at the festival whenever that happened and didn't greet me~? How my heart hurts so, here I was hoping to have a dance with you be it in public or otherwise~"

A cock of his head as he rested his cheek on a closed fist, now bringing his gaze to the larger man. He took a few seconds to take in his appearance before giving him a playful smile. "I have to learn about the latest fashion trends, I am sorely behind~ Or you are so far ahead of them that I can't see it on the horizon~ But, I have seen many an outlandish things, a bag of rice shockingly isn't in my top three of oddities to wear~" There was a bit of a pause the playful smile turning more genuine. "But who doesn't like a bit of oddities in their life~?"
@sele @myegokiller

 

[Grumpy]

Location: The Perimeter of Toll | Tag: Aridam by @MiharuAya, Illaria by @sele (Mentioned)​

---

"Fire travels fast on the wind."

Baelith's soft voice drifted over to Aridam as he approached the eastern walls of the village. The Toll Knight stood vigil beyond the perimeter, carefully surveying all who would approach from that stretch of the Maeblood. As the other Heower drew closer, Baelith brought his blade up to rest on his shoulder and angled towards the newcomer. A statement. A warning. 'There, but no further'.
"I thank you for heeding my call. As for it's purpose? It is because I have questions."

For a stretch of time that threatened to become deeply uncomfortable, Baelith stared across at Aridam. Sizing him up. Trying to match the demigod that stood before him with the bleak reputation he carried. Wondering, and not for the first time, if he had been right to choose this path. Yet doubts would get him nowhere, and the fact that Aridam had come at all spoke volumes. Idle curiosity? No. There was fire beneath such smoke, Baelith was certain of it.

"You felt it too, did you not? At the festival. I saw it in your eyes. As you watched the people there. I saw it because I have felt it myself. The moment when it dawned on you that in spite of everything? All the horror, the torment? The terror our kind unleash upon them? They still find it in themselves to have hope." Baelith shifted his weight, bowing slightly in the breeze, and there was a distinct sense that, beneath the helm affixed permanently to his head, he was smiling. "The town behind me is full of such hopes. Small ones, still. It is my own hope they will grow."

His tone shifted again. Bitterness blowing in on the wind.

"But this forest has other ideas. Several days past, a convoy of refugees from the east came. Within their number was a man. A smouldering man. Bearing the very conflagration you are reputed to carry. We stopped him. But there will be more. There always are. Thought I, then, of you. Of that look in your eyes, as we passed through the festival in the company of the Dreamer."

The sword came down slowly, lowered into the earth from a ready guard over Baelith's shoulder into a resting position embedded in the dirt. The towering Heower's stance shifted in turn, no longer bladed towards Aridam but open. Something that almost could pass as an invitation.

"If I am to keep these people safe, then I must know what is coming for them. So speak to me of cinders, child of Eastrek. Speak to me of the fires beginning to spread. And in turn, I shall permit you passage. I shall show you that there is more to these people than fear."

 

[Asmodeus]

"There," Emeria declared, and pointed where she was not looking.

​

The object came into view in the valley below. Framed by an eruption, in the Eastreck Wastes, the carriage hurtled through the borderland. It was drawn by four horses, their eyes and nostrils wide. Its driver was a robed silhouette, slumped prone on the seat. The vehicle bounced and rattled over rocks and ditches.

The thunder of hooves and the crack of wood. This was terror making music.

"A chars-branlant conestoga wagon!" Auvorer might have said... had the thought of saying it not turned her stomach. It was an odd thing to recall, as she stood with Emeria and Liriel on the hillside. Her father had owned two of these. They were for taking game and orchard spoils to market. But this particular one was a peasant cousin of the vehicles her family owned. It was all but breaking apart as the horses dragged it through the valley.

"You broke off our tea party for this, Darling?"

She asked Emeria.

"It's hardly the spectacle."

Emeria kept on pointing. With her hood up, she resembled some prophet of scripture: signaling the promised land (or the doomsday cloud). Her wolves still howled and fidgeted around her. They had been like this since the hunting lodge. Their racket had caused Emeria to rise and leave the lounge, muttering only that something was wrong.

The Northrot sisters had asked no questions, but simply followed.

"The driver..." Liriel said. Unlike Auvorer, she was paying attention to exactly where Emeria pointed. Now all three of them squinted for a better look as the wagon screamed past.

The driver, it seemed, was not unconscious. His limbs were in motion, forming peaks and valleys beneath his robe: the feet kicking the seat-back, the arms snagging the reins only to drop them again, the spine twisting like a snake. His head turned one way then the next, showing a half-face with the jaw stretched wide.

"Oh, I see. He's having a seizure. Very sad."

Auvorer's sarcasm was punctuated by the driver going airborne. The wagon hit a rock and bucked, flinging the man from the seat. While he face-planted in the grass, the wagon crashed back down. The horses dragged it a second more before their girth and breeching snapped. The animals tore free as the yokes disintegrated, leaving the shaft to spear the ground like an anchor. The now horseless wagon flipped onto its back, its cargo mashed under the canvas top.

"Bitumen and frankincense,"

Auvorer remarked, noting how the wind carried fresh notes of flavor following the crash.

"The scent of souvenirs. Mayhaps a little rummage before we head home?"

Emeria chided her wolves for trying to chase the horses. Instead, she sent them to descend on the now motionless driver, while she and the Northrot sisters approached the wagon. A strange trio they made as they strolled downhill. Like a bardic troupe or witch's coven. One with antlered skull; one hooded; one dripping.

The overturned wagon was dripping too. Animal fats, resins and even a few paints had spilled through the vehicle's ruptured timbers. The fluids now trickled over the still-spinning wheels and soaked into the canvas. Auvorer circled, huffing the air as she stepped over shattered glass and earthen jars.

"Quicklime! Coumarin! Bergamot!"

She dived into the back of the overturned compartment, burrowing between the sacks and wooden crates. Emeria and Liriel stood at the opening to peer at her. They watched her pull something from one of the sacks. A fungus: frill-stalked and purple-hued.

"A bovaxis mushroom!"

Auvorer cried, before nuzzling the fungus to her cheek.

"This was from Rasma's shop!"

Her other hand stroked the sacks and boxes around her.

"All of this was from Rasma's shop!"

Liriel was about to ask a question. But a sound came from behind her. Or rather, sounds. The din of a dozen wolves, scattering apart. She and Emeria turned from the wagon to behold the animals bolting uphill - away from the thing that sprinted through them.

The driver. He was upright again, and coming for them. Running... Shambling?... Rolling? It was hard to assign the right gerund. For the seizures that had caused him to lose control of the wagon had now reanimated his limbs. He ran while thrashing, while dislocating and relocating his limbs, while side-stepping and skipping, sliding and stumbling, jumping and diving.

It was all very... unpredictable.

"He got better. That's marvelous! Quite the little trooper, isn't h--"

Auvorer's final word became a guttural shudder. A dagger plunged into her back. The sacks behind her subsided. There was a second man in the wagon - carmine robed like his partner. And like his fellow cultist, his eyes were tiny balls of flame. A maniacal gaze that burned as violently as his intentions.

He stabbed again. Auvorer twisted with him as they became bloodied and entangled in the back of the wagon. She tried to block his third strike, but his elbow bent backwards to complete the swing. She tried to snag the dagger as it slid between her ribs. But the dagger was not there. She swung for him; she missed. She rolled on top of him; he was not there. The dagger impaled her thigh. Her chin was sliced open. Her palm was skewered.

She could not counter him. She could not track him. His every motion was chaos. His every signal a ruse; a feint; a mindfuck.

The blade punctured her breastbone. Seven stab wounds. Auvorer collapsed.

And the cultist - he scrambled towards the other heowers.

Emeria and Liriel were caught between two glitching, flame-eyed assassins. Two flickering candles. Two puppets, out of phase with the strings of fate.

Location: Eastern Border - - Tags: Liriel / @DANAsaur ; Emeria / @Esprit

credits

 

[sele]

"Hey rice-head!"

Jola heard the waiter call in toward the cook with the sack over his head. The feline-spirited Heower was of ambivalent reactions to this. On one hand, a cat could snicker. On the other – a cat could also find such crude behavior offensive. Jola experienced both internally.

Though the tipping point for the dark-haired man was that Rice-Head had made Jola's food, and it was marvelously comforting. Therefore, the feline fell fully into passive offense at the waiter. He sat. He listened. He ate. He loathed in lazy calculation. What saved the waiter from being dragged into the woods later that evening as an offering to Northrot was that he gave the cook his due tip money, and the two seemed to chuckle together.

Jola would claw someone else into the darkness another time then. Someone – as ever – who annoyed the shit out of him, which was of course, potentially easy to do. It depended on his mercurial mood and nature, and where one deed might trigger him during the afternoon, the same thing might charm him by evening.

But for now, Jola let the waiter go in his mind, and took another bite of his blessedly filling stew.

After a time, the cook returned from his dish-washing and wiping here and there. As the cook who fed the cat, Jola admired the bizarre entity as though nothing was amiss about him. He sounded like he was perpetually on the verge of drowning? No problem. Sack over his head? Gorgeous. Odd scents? Cats loved odd scents. And he had a note of Heower in the mix of it, too.

When addressed, Jola eased his eyes leisurely closed, opening his amber stare toward this magnificent host with admiration. Blessed are the ones who feed the cats, after all. Especially temple cats. Where was Jola's temple? He was his own, of course.

"My friend," Jola purred as affectionately as if these two had known each other for sometime. He kissed his fingertips and scattered them to the air in response to the drowning-gargle of Dolio's question.

"I have never had better." Because he lived in the present. "I'll return whenever I'm able, and I hope you'll continue to be the cook."

Jola did not mind that he was so beautiful in comparison to this... bloated, drowned sack of chef. In a cat's eyes, the hand that feeds is the one worth keeping. So what if this chef's hands were... something. Jola didn't need to bother defining their mysteries beyond hands > feed > perfect.

The docile posture the cook took was interpreted by Jola as subserviently cowering in the face of majesty – which made sense to Jola. It was fitting, and gratifying.

While another Heower approached with silent grace, what heralded him to Jola was that supernatural note to his keen nose. What was more, Jola wasn't put off by this approaching presence – he associated those divine notes with a figure who complimented him. Jola lived for affectionate attentions, especially if they could be given even while Jola preened or pretended to half pay attention.

Then came the pleasant hum from behind as Desire approached. The way the Heower introduced himself was ingratiating enough to charm Jola. How did Desire always seem to know the right turn of phrase to enchant him? It was like the perfect scritch under the chin.

And as though Desire's words had been that perfectly curled finger under Jola's chin, Northrot's Heower slowly turned his face toward Desire, eyes half-lidding with gratified affection. That Jola made someone pine and ache for his presence filled his ego with delight.

Jola's slow blinks were as kisses on the air for Desire as their eyes met. Desire also teased and honored the chef with just the right notes to charm the contradictory facets of Jola's humor.

"He can dress as he pleases. He feeds me." Jola stated his obvious loyalty for the third Heower.

"And its comfort masks the singed scent on the air just enough." Jola offered crypitically. No cat gives anything fully at face value for free. He imagined the other Heowers had some sense of strange happenings, at least in some manner or another. Jola was only ambiguously aware thanks to the supernatural burn marks that blackened at the edges of his divine sense of smell.

"The festival has passed, and so, too, has your opportunity for a dance." Jola teased Desire in a flat murmur, though a shadow of mischief shaped his glance. He didn't really want to push him away by that, but to urge him to pursue. Jola couldn't be the one doing that, after all.

Jola was quite content, filled by the attentions of these two Heowers. Each stroked a different aspect of his whims – as he saw it – what else could be better?

Which gave him a sudden sense of annoyance.

Why? He could almost taste the otherworldly touch of singe on the air now that he was about finished with his bowl of stew. Where his human ears couldn't lay back in agitation, his eyes faintly tightened.

That agitation extended in favor of these two with him, too. Might their pleasantries be forced to an end sometime soon? He couldn't say.

"What have you heard, or felt, of desire?" Jola murmured toward his more attractive companion beside him – lacking the rice sack.

Though given Jola's fickle nature, and craving for praises, he could fall in whatever direction Desire decided to reply. If he took the inquiry literally – about anything potentially bizarre, or fell winds of some kind, he'd listen and consider looking out for his own, including them.

Though if Desire took it more 'philosophically,' Jola would have been content for the world to burn down as long as he had gratifying attentions upon him.

|| Tag: @myegokiller @Peacey || Location: Tavern in Toll ||​

 

[DANAsaur]

The Drowned Saint

Liriel watched the wagon tumble and shatter below, her eyes unblinking like a ripple spreading slowly across a still pond. The horses' panic, the driver's spasmodic collapse, even the musical shattering of glass, and the perfume of resins; all of it was distant, muffled behind a veil of river mist. The valley seemed to hold its breath; the air grew colder, heavier.

Like the river itself, Liriel followed Emeria and Auvorer down the hillside. Her bare feet brushed the damp grass, robes trailing moisture in their wake. The overturned wagon bled its secrets: animal fat, paint, incense. She lingered at the edge while Auvorer rummaged through the wreckage. The scent, tangled with the sickly sweetness of quicklime and coumarin, was a discordant symphony that set her nerves on edge. Something was wrong. She could feel it. A familiar ache like the memory of a wound reopening.

Half listening to Auvorer's muffled voice, Liriel's attention snapped as the wolves scattered. Their howls cut off abruptly. She turned, drawn by an unseen tether. The driver or whatever now wore his shape moved with jerky, disjointed grace, like a puppet dancing to a tune only it could hear. Her eyes narrowed, not in fear but in recognition. Something was wrong here. The reanimated movements scraped against her like bone on stone.

This was no sickness. It was possession, or something close: a soul twisted by devotion or curse.

Then the dagger. Auvorer's guttural shudder. Chaos erupted inside the wagon. Violence. Struggle. Auvorer's body twisted, failing to keep pace with the madness. Blood splattered on sacks, broken glass, and ruined cargo. The coppery scent mingled with bitumen and frankincense.

Liriel drew a steady breath, cold and heavy in her lungs.

The cultist scrambled toward her and Emeria. Their eyes met. His eyes were burning with fanaticism, the movements erratic and unpredictable. He was chaos made flesh: a storm unleashed, blind to reason, deaf to consequence.

She had drowned once. What was death to her now? She was the river: patient and inevitable. If they wished ruin, she would show them what it meant to be claimed by the tide.

And so, she waited.

The cultist soon lunged. The dagger's point pierced her chest, slipping through sodden folds of robe into cold, yielding flesh. Sharp, bright pain flared, but Liriel did not flinch. Instead, she opened her arms, drawing the cultist close, as if he were a lost child seeking comfort at the river's edge.

Her embrace was gentle, inexorable. Until it wasn't.

What began as a gesture of quiet mercy curdled into something colder.. Her arms, once yielding, constricted like a current long denied. The cultist's breath hitched; his body tensed, but she pulled him closer. Her damp hair clung to his cheek, her ashen skin pressed to his fevered brow. He struggled, but her arms were the tide. Unstoppable. Inescapable.

Liriel's head tilted against his like a mourner sharing grief. Her breath was cool on his ear.

"You brought this upon yourself," she whispered. "No prayer can save you now."

Then came the flood.

Sickness poured from her like winter rain: bone-deep, marrow-heavy. It was a creeping tide filling the hollows of the cultist's soul. His limbs shuddered, spasming in final resistance. Skin blistered as rot passed through him, not just flesh, but spirit. His blazing eyes dimmed, black veins threading up his neck. He sagged in her arms, breathless, confused. He reached for her not in violence but supplication. A drowned man, clutching at the current, claiming him.

But Liriel did not offer solace. Only truth.

With one last breath, the cultist collapsed. More water than man. More silence than defiance. She let him fall; his body struck the earth with the dull finality of a stone cast into deep water.

Liriel stood still and pulled the dagger haphazardly out of her chest. Her pale skin was unmarked, robes damp with water, not blood, as if the river itself had sealed the wound.

"If only he had chosen wisely," she murmured, voice low and mournful, "he might have found peace without pain."

She then stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until her shadow fell across Auvorer's prone form. Liriel looked down at her sister. Not with cruelty, but something worse: disappointment.

With the toe of her foot, she nudged her gently. Too gently, like testing if a corpse might stir.

"Still with us?" she asked, voice soft as mist. "You always did love theatrics."

The dagger weighed heavily in her hand, an extension of her will. She raised it, examining the sharp edge as if pondering its purpose.

"I was never one for drawn-out games," she said, her words distant but sharp. "But you? You live for them."

Her gaze flicked to the bodies; their stillness settled over the air like fog.

"They won't be far behind," Liriel added, more to the silence than to Auvorer. "The dead leave trails. This one is loud. Too loud."

She turned her head slowly, eyes closed while she listened to the water beneath the soil. "Others will come. For the cargo. For the corpse."

Then she looked at Emeria and smiled. A thin, sharp curve, as if her lips had forgotten warmth.

"I should also thank you, Emeria. For bringing me here. I… had fun. And learned a lot."

It was not a kind smile. Not cruel, either. It was the smile pretending for a moment that it remembered what warmth used to feel like. The smile vanished as quickly as it came.

"I must go." Liriel murmured, her gaze now on the forest. "I stayed longer than I should have. There are...things... waking in the deep. Things older than prayer. Please excuse me."

She turned without ceremony, without farewell. Her bare feet made no sound, only ripples in the mist. Where she walked, the grass sagged, heavy with unseen dew. The fog seemed to lean toward her, eager to take her back.

The mist swallowed her like a memory fading beneath still water, and soon, there was nothing left but the scent of rain and the silence she carried with her.

---

Location: Hunter's Lodge - Eastern Border
Tags: Auvorer (@Asmodeus), Emeria (@Esprit)

 

[MiharuAya]

Aridam
@Grumpy​

As Aridam approached Baelith, he took a moment to examine the knight, his gaze sweeping over the man's imposing figure. Baelith stood tall, the hilt of his sword angled protectively at his side, a subtle yet clear warning. Aridam couldn't blame him; caution was warranted. There was a certain irony in the situation, as if the weight and sharpness of that sword could slice through Aridam's mighty flames.

"Questions?" Aridam urged, his head casually tilting to the side as he considered what he could possibly offer to the protector of Toll. The ensuing silence enveloped them, and Aridam stood there, exuding a nonchalant demeanor. He could feel the weight of the Knight's gaze, assessing and sizing him up, yet the firebringer remained unfazed. Shifting his weight with an air of confidence, he stood firm, unwavering amidst the scrutiny.

While Baelith lamented about the humans and their hopes, Aridam stood firm. He kept silent, concerned that his air of stoic indifference would become fractured. As he began explaining about the recent convoy of refugees, Aridam became intrigued. It did indeed sound like something him and his compatriots would be involved in, yet he had heard no news of it. As the right hand of Eastrek, something smelled off.

A sense of respect enveloped Aridam as he observed Bealith finally relax his grip on the sword. The Knight's demeanor spoke volumes; it was clear that his dedication to protecting the town was unwavering. By choosing to cooperate with Aridam and permitting him entry, Bealith demonstrated a commitment that went beyond mere duty. The gravity of the situation was palpable, and Aridam couldn't help but feel a deep appreciation for the Knight's resolve.

Aridam let out a deep sigh, lost in thought as he considered his next steps. "I understand your plight," he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him. "You care for your people, just as I care for my Lord Eastrek." Loyalty had always been Aridam's guiding principle; he had dutifully followed his master's orders without a second thought. Yet, as he contemplated the situation, he felt a shift within himself. Still, the words came to him effortlessly, ingrained in his very nature.

"But… I have not heard of these smouldering soldiers," Aridam admitted, furrowing his brow in thought. "All that I can promise for now is to investigate them."

The chaos and destruction Baelith described resonated deeply with Aridam's previous exploits, and it was not surprising that the Knight's mind immediately drifted to him. Yet, despite their similarities, Aridam had not caused such mayhem in quite some time. He found himself torn, uncertain if he would lend his aid to the other Hoewer. But curiosity gnawed at him; he was at least eager to uncover the truth behind this mysterious disturbance.

 

[myegokiller]

Even without the familiar twinge, Dolio was certain the man- or whatever it might be- before him was not from around the area. The stark difference between their wear and demeanor was vast and almost had Dolio ashamed about his own choice of clothing, but sensing no hostility, he only took it as a secondary reaction from being around someone of the stranger's striking appearance. Instead of the fuss and usual snobbish attitude he's seen from people of higher standing, Dolio received gratitude and praise. He was even referred to as a friend! Just who was this guy? And why was Dolio tempted to give him another helping to strengthen their newfound kindship? "G-g-goodnessth!" A labored, but relieved sigh. "I am- goad you found the meao poeasing. It wouod be a poeasuwe to have you again- M-m-my fwiend." (Goodness. I am glad you found the meal pleasing. It would be a pleasure to have you again.)

As he kept his presence near the stranger, he felt a pulse in his head. More precisely at the end of the fin on his forehead. The esca, or lure, was glowing faintly. He could see the slight illumination beneath his mask. He could only hope that it was dim enough to be seen by only him.

Just as he was about to inquire about the kind stranger's history, their attention was changed to the approach of a mesmerizing, and confusing individual. As they approached, it seemed with each movement their appearance would change. A tilt of the head, a slight change of the light would bring someone new and beautiful. It had Dolio absolutely flabbergasted and amazed. The man-woman-being sat beside the stranger and curled into them as if they were a cat sapping the love an attention out of their companion. Dolio himself was too busy trying to capture the visage of the being that he didn't realized that he had been addressed. A man here, lips curled in a devious smirk- no a woman, her eyes sparkling with chaotic delight. How grateful he was for the sack on his head. He felt as if the water he had dampened the burlap with was turning into steam from his hot skin.
"W-we have fffish..?" An absolute fool that he was. He needed to leave before he embarrassed himself. Or worse.
With a quick and clumsy nod of his head, he turned towards the front doors, shuffling and bumping into patrons as he fled.
MENTIONED! @sele @Peacey

 

[Asmodeus]

...and all but one of those patrons got out of Dolio's way.

"Clumsy oaf!"

Dolio's elbow was seized. The man he collided with took the chance to both regain his balance and stop the chef in his tracks. It was like being snagged by a fish-hook.

"Now you'll make amends, Boy..."

The Carmine Priest drew close. But to Dolio he was merely a stranger. Hooded in a hempen cloak, there was nothing to betray him as a priest, save for the way he addressed the towering cook as 'Boy'. Disfigured by a half-smile scar and one glassy eye, he seemed like any other patron here. And he certainly hissed just like them, right in Dolio's ear.

"The cloaked one with Old Scratch..."

He nodded at Desire.

"Who is he?"

He pressed a coin into Dolio's hand. Golden and dirt-encrusted.

"His name? His business here? Bring me news, and I'll cross your palm again."

Leaving Dolio with the coin, the Carmine Priest slid into a chair at a nearby table. It was a perfect vantage point. He hunched there, keeping one eye on Jola, then flicked his hand dismissively at the cook.

Location: The Totally Tollish Tavern - - Tags:Desire / @Peacey ; Jola / @sele; Dolio / @myegokiller

 

[Esprit]

It was not every day that one encountered the inexplicable.

Strange or eccentric creatures were common enough – they were in Maeblood Forest, after all. But something truly anomalous, animated by bizarre and unpredictable logic (or the lack thereof)? A being whose movements seemed to defy the principles of probability? That was an intriguing sight, worthy of further observation.

Distracted by this spectacle, Emeria had not been paying attention to Auvorer when the latter was ambushed.

She looked back at the scuffle in the wagon, then glanced at Liriel, before wordlessly moving to confront one of the cultists. Evidently she had no intention of joining forces; equally obvious was her appraisal that Liriel would be able to deal with the other assailant.

With a cultist fast approaching, Emeria lifted her left hand. Something invisible shot toward him, only to miss its mark when he unexpectedly cartwheeled to the side. A second attack failed to connect as he convulsed and tumbled along the ground. The third flew harmlessly past when he leaped into the air, flinging a dagger that grazed her shoulder. Now almost within striking distance, the cultist hurled himself at Emeria in a blur of chaotic motion. Just as it appeared that she would soon share Auvorer's fate (of getting stabbed), she clenched her hand into a fist.

A storm of unseen blades erupted from the Heower's body, stripping the area around her bare of vegetation. Her opponent took the brunt of the indiscriminate attack; one of his legs and both of his arms fell away and tumbled down the hillside. His blood splattered on her robes, soaking into the dark fabric. Emeria stood over the cultist as he writhed in the dirt, his unstable future mostly neutralized by dismemberment.

"What are you?"

she asked.

The man grinned up at her, his face contorting with prophetic seizures. His burning gaze bored into her eyes.

"We are the chosen,"

he said.

"Soldiers of blessed flame, ordained by the Carmine Priest."

"Where were you bound?"

"To the villages. The Priest awaits our shipment."

"What use does he have for such things?"

The cultist's grin broadened, unfazed by her questioning.

"You will not escape his fire. All is kindling for the Carmine Church."

He suddenly lunged at Emeria, having somehow used his single remaining limb to push off the ground. His unusually wide jaws were mere inches from her throat when a wolf slammed into him from the side, knocking him away. Several more wolves were upon him in an instant; he laughed while they tore him apart. One animal gnawed on his head, then dropped it with a startled yelp as it spontaneously burst into flames.

Emeria watched the bloody scene for a few moments before turning away, rejoining the others just in time to see Liriel prodding Auvorer's body. She listened to the Drowned Saint's parting words, and inclined her head when Liriel addressed her.

"It was a good hunt,"

she replied simply.

She made her way closer to Auvorer, stepping over the wagon's scattered contents.

"They followed someone called the Carmine Priest,"

she said.

"The one I spoke to did not seem to know the purpose of their cargo."

Emeria leaned down to inspect the mess of compounds and aromatics seeping into the ground, then briefly checked inside a torn sack.

"Components for a ritual, perhaps,"

she muttered.

"The person who sold them these items might know more."

---

Location: Eastern Border | Time: Afternoon/Evening? | Tags: @Asmodeus – Auvorer, @DANAsaur – Liriel​