When Heroes Fail (Full Version)

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Kellehendros -> When Heroes Fail (1/10/2016 17:53:16)

The City of Palora had stood for ten thousand years. Her foundations were sunk deep, her catacombs hewn from living rock. In the fullness of her time marble walls sixty-foot tall ringed her, and her battlements were wide enough that a column of horsemen riding four abreast might canter along that smooth expanse. All of alabaster were her towers, but for the onyx spire of the High King’s palace, which rose sheer and slender two hundred feet to transfix the sky itself. Four were her gates, each wrought of adamant, and set with precious stones and scenes of majesty.

Palora, Queen of Cities, unburnt by the fire of her foes. Though a hundred nations had raised a thousand armies, and a million men had besieged her, still Palora stood, her towers tall, her gates strong, her people untroubled.

Palora, Regent of the South, unsullied by the trammels of the bickering princes. A hundred lesser kings sought her hand, for she was rich in trade and resources. And all of them she turned away, for they were unworthy of her glory.

Palora, Empress of Civilization, unbowed by the passing of ages. Others diminished, yet she endured, growing only brighter. Others faltered, yet she became ever more glorious. The light of Palora waxed, until to look upon her was to behold in the mortal world a place such as the gods would fain have called home.

Until the wyrm.

Until Vermonox.

Vermonox, the Eternal Blight, descended from the north, withering all that fell beneath his gaze. Almira, Tilinshce, Mermonat, each was despoiled, cast to pieces as the wyrm drew south, until it came nigh to Palora.

And so the High King put on his helm and took up his spear and, gathering his men about himself, rode forth. And never was there a ride like that of the High King and his Ten Thousand Saints, for the sun upon their armor was like the light of dawn that heralds the end of the Longest Night, and the sun upon their spearheads was like the unquenchable fire that burns at the heart of the earth, and from their eyes shone the fire of their spirits, bright and fierce, dedicated to the protection of Palora.

The people gathered on the walls of Palora, Queen of Cities, cheering as her champions rode forth. They were certain of victory, for no force could withstand the Ten Thousand Saints, and Palora was at the height of her glory and her splendor. Thus they stood upon the walls and watched from afar as their champions rode forth to do battle with the greatest evil ever belched forth from the recesses of the Blackest Pit.

Thus they witnessed, and thus they wept, for on that day the pride of Palora was broken. Her High King fell, crushed beneath the bulk of Vermonox. Her Ten Thousand Saints perished, extinguished in the fire of the great wyrm’s blast. Her tall towers were thrown down, razed by the vile strength of the defiler. Her people were consumed, withered by the horror of the Eternal Blight.

Vermonox trampled the marketplaces and smashed the dwellings, burnt the palace and despoiled the temples. Palora’s people fled, seeking shelter in the hinterlands and weeping that their home, so proud and fair, was no more.

But Palora, Queen of Cities, had one last champion to defend her.

Agemon, acolyte of the temple of Baan, refused to abandon his post, though all the city was reduced to ash and ruin about him. Taking up a spear cast aside by a fleeing guard of the palace, Agemon lifted his prayers to Baan, that he might avenge the desecration of the temple and cast down the vile wyrm that afflicted fair Palora.

Baan heard, and Agemon’s prayer was answered, and of the duel of the Acolyte and the Wyrm many ballads tell. Yet in the end, Agemon plunged his spear into the heart of Vermonox, and the great wyrm loosed a scream that shattered what was left of the walls of Palora, and the throes of his dying ground the palace into dust.
~The Book of Agemon


Palora, Queen of Cities. The very name rang with majesty. Palora, Baan’s chosen city, defended by the faithful. The faithful, led by the Paladin, who took up the Acolyte’s Spear and shepherded Palora in the name of Baan.

Once, or so said the Book of Agemon, Palora’s walls were of marble. What they were now was quarried stone, two great barriers backfilled with rubble and solidified with mortar, wide enough for three men abreast. The walls were crenellated, surmounted with pilings and towers, with great bastions like miniature fortresses over the gates. They were scarred walls, for like the Palora of old this city was no stranger to conflict.

Palora sat upon a confluence of sea and land routes blessed with trade and natural resources. Rich with trade, Palora was a target for conquest by kingdoms both less fortunate and more ambitious. Perhaps it was luck, perhaps the blessing of Baan, but Palora had not fallen. Protected by her Paladin and Saints, guided by her Conclave of Archons, she made her way as best she could, humbled from her legendary glory, but still beautiful.

***

The day was overcast, but Cendra watched the sun rise over Palora, and she had never seen a sight so beautiful in all her days. The traveler was energized despite the long miles of dust upon her cloak and boots. Eyes the color of sapphires peered out from beneath the hood of the cloak, leaping from one tower to the next, caressing the dear skyline of the city with a hungry longing.

So it always is, when an exile returns home. The thought soured her mood, and the woman schooled her expression to neutrality. Cendra was tall, for a woman, and slender. Her skin was fair, under the layers of dirt and dust, though little of it could be seen. Beneath the gray cloak she was clad in a rough homespun shirt and trousers, with leather boots and long gloves that vanished beneath her shirt. At her waist the flash of a sword’s hilt could be discerned, though she kept her cloak curled about it for the most part.

Though she might have lingered to watch the sun climb over fair Palora, might have sat all day in quiet contemplation of its beauty, she roused herself and walked down to the road, joining the flood of people and carts making for the Ram’s Gate.

At the gate Cendra stopped to wait with all the others, heart beating faster in her chest as she drew closer to the guards, closer to the gate, closer to that line over which it was death for her to set foot. She might yet run, turn aside and flee, fighting back up the tide of humanity and running back to her exile. But no, she could not. Not now, not here. So close to her home, the city of her birth, she could not turn back. She had cast the die, and for good or for ill she would go on. Turning back now would be to cut out her own heart.

She could not turn back. Cendra knew that now, looking up at the Ram’s Gate towering above her. She could not turn back, could not deny the siren call of the city, her city, after coming so far. And so she continued on, and when the guard stopped her at the gate she met his eyes fearlessly, though a lesser woman might have quailed.

The guard frowned slightly, looking her over. “What’s yer business in Palora, miss?” His eyes roved the area, perhaps curious why the woman was here alone.

“Pilgrimage,” Cendra replied, keeping her cloak held carefully about her sword to conceal it.

He squinted at her, and the exile was acutely conscious of the cheap dye of ash and oil that served to darken her hair. “How long you stayin’?”

“A week, sir.” From the pouch at her waist she drew a single coin of heavy milled gold. Taking the guard’s hand, Cendra pressed the coin into it, smiling sweetly. “I am staying with my uncle, in the milliner’s district.”

Curling his fingers about the coin, the man hesitated a moment, and then relaxed markedly. “Right you are, miss. Welcome to Palora; enjoy your stay.” The guard favored her with a gap-toothed smile and waved her into the city.

She made it through the gate and stopped, overcome with a flood of memories. So many years gone by... The exile took a shuddering breath as the crowd flowed around her, a few people giving her sidelong glances before moving on. Letting the breath go slowly, Cendra wondered how it was that she had come to be here. She had just bribed her way into the city. The city, of all places, where once she had walked tall and proud, head held high as the adoration of the people had washed over her.

She heard his voice again in her mind, smooth as oiled silk and faintly amused. The memory swept over her like a tide...

Cendra was leaning on a bar of dark, scarred wood, the bottle before her half-empty, the glass as empty as her future. That was when she had first heard his voice, cutting her to the core. “You were luminous, once. They say that you glowed as bright as the sun, your wrath was terrible to behold, and all fled before your blade.”

The exile had turned, and the man she would come to know simply as the Magister was there, cloaked and cowled, features nigh invisible but for the faint hint of unsettlingly luminous blue eyes. “Go away,” she growled, turning back to the bar and reaching for the bottle, only to blink in surprise and find it gone.

There was a sloshing sound behind her, and Cendra turned back to find the man swirling the bottle with a lazy hand and a sardonic smile. “I know why you left.”

“You don’t know anything.” The exile swiped at the bottle. Taking it from the man should have been easy. She had always been fast, blindingly so, but the bottle danced out of her reach. Embarrassment reddened her face and she made another grab, only to suffer further humiliation with another miss.

“You fled,” the man said as Cendra tried a third time, but the bottle was no longer in his hand, instead her wrist was, gripped hard enough to grate her bones together. His free hand reached out, touching the long leather glove that covered her left hand, her sword hand, up to the elbow. He ran his finger down it slowly, a disturbing giggle of mirth slipping out. “I know why.”

A bolt of fear lanced through her, the drink forgotten. “I have no idea what you are talking about. Let me go.” She hated it, the sound of her voice, once strong and commanding, now weak, pleading.

But he did not, and she was helpless in his grasp; she, who had once held an entire city in her hand, and in reaching out to grasp it, lost all. His voice speared through her, transfixed her in place. “Some stains never come out, Paladin. Some stains seep into skin and bone.” The exile glared at him, hating him for the words he spoke, for the history that he was privy to, for knowing things he had no business knowing. And yet, she was unable to tear herself away. There was something compelling in those blue orbs, something that demanded she attend his soft words as her eyes stared into blue pits that went down and down and down into the depths of madness itself. “I know, and I understand. I see the reasons you had, the logic that led you to your choices. Would you not be free of it?”

“There is no freedom,” she hated the weakness in her voice, the uncertainty. There had never been uncertainty before. She had known her place, her purpose. But that was long ago. Cendra knew what she was, the fate to which she was sentenced. Was it not written of old in the holy scripts? Was it not written into her very flesh? “There is no redemption, not from this.”

The Magister giggled again, as though this was all some great and terrible joke. “And that is where you are wrong, Paladin.”

“Don’t call me that!” The exile hissed, taking refuge from fear and uncertainty in fury. Wrenching herself free she staggered away from the bar, aware that the few other patrons were staring, watching the altercation unfold as the man moved after her. “Get away from me. I’ll call the guard.”

“You don’t want that sort of attention.” He followed her relentlessly, his voice leaving her no refuge. “There is a way. They’ve fallen, all the king’s horses, all the king’s men.” The man let out another giggle that grated against her senses, amused by the nonsensical prattle. “You’ve heard the rumors. I am here to tell you they are true.”

Cendra stopped, staring at him; the shudder running through her flesh was nothing compared to the horror spearing through her soul. “Vermonox…”

“Yes, you begin to see, Paladin. ‘All things are burned away in wyrmflame.’ That is in your book as well.” He smiled, the expression more a show of teeth than a sign of mirth. “Your book… and mine.”

“Who are you?” The exile whispered, shuddering again at the expression faintly seen on his hood-shadowed face. “What do you want?”

“I am many things to many people,” the man replied, “and I want many things. You may call me Magister. Of you, I want only this: that you take up the mantle of Agemon and the Blackwatch, and lead my chosen against Vermonox.” He slipped forward, close enough that she could feel an intense, sickly heat radiating off his body as he slipped a coin into her gloved hand, folding her fingers around it. “This will get you through the Ram’s Gate. The Inn of the Third Burning, a fortnight hence. If you would redeem yourself, they will be there.”

And with that he had left her, left her to stand in the common room of a dingy inn, hand clutched around a token that might be a path to the reclamation of all she had lost, or a coin to pay her passage across the river of death.

Of the two, it still seemed more likely to Cendra that the coin would only win her a visit to the ferryman, but she had paid her way through the Ram’s Gate with the Magister’s bribe, and here she was, breathing the air of the city, her city, again. Ten years… Ten years, and the exile could feel the city flooding back into her veins, embracing her like a lover longed for and remembered.

Death, life, redemption, damnation, any of it was worth it to stand here again, to breathe this air and hear these sounds. For the first time in a long time Cendra truly smiled, and made her way to the Inn of the Third Burning.

The Third Burning was not, by any stretch, a reputable inn. Swaying over the street, its sign depicted a trio of cackling witches bound to flaming pyres. Common rumor held that the name actually sprang from a former proprietor’s propensity for torching the properties of his competitors in the district. Whether or not that was true the exile never knew, nor really cared. All that mattered to her, as she pushed through the battered door and surveyed the thankfully dim interior, was if the Magister and his recruits were here.

Shouldering her way to the bar, Cendra flagged down the bartender and asked if the Magister was in residence. She received a surly stare in reply and was directed to a back room. Turning away, she pressed her way through the ragged patrons, slapping away a hand that reached for her purse absently, and slipping into the back room.

What met her eyes was a surprisingly cozy room set with a table and seven chairs. Upon the table was food, a simple spread of meat, cheese, and bread, along with pitchers of drink. There was a banked fire in the fireplace near the table, but no sign of the Magister. Cendra looked back and forth, but found no sign of anyone else, and so she resigned herself to waiting, taking a seat at one end of the table.

The exile had waited for this moment, whether she knew it or not, for a decade. What were a few more hours compared with more than a decade’s heartsick longing?



Caststarter -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/10/2016 21:12:26)

As I sat against a wall and spun around a silver coin, I pondered about the offer… He made. All of it sounded wrong, oh so very wrong. He just walks up to me, says there is a potential fix, and assumes I will automatically believe it? Pitiful. Then again, that one chance to… have it all back. As I looked at the silver coin, my grey-ish blue eyes pierced through themselves in the crude reflection. It only heightens my willingness to do something that could very well be foolish.

A man coughed up a storm right beside me, as he slumped against the wall. Most likely dying of disease. Where he will die alone. Something that everyone dreads. What else do I have to lose now then? At least it will be with others, according to how he said things. Blackguard. Sounds like the opposite of what a Saints platoon would call themselves. Ugh. Guess since I am already nearby, I will go to that inn as he said, The Third Burning specifically. In a room in the back specifically he said.

I got up and cut through the alleyways of the southern quarter to where he specifically told me where the inn was, something made easy as I been in the quarter long enough. The only real challenge was making sure none of these backwater folks try to mug me. As I took a glance at one of them in those rags of theirs, I got a cold and desperate glance back. When you are this run-down, you will take anything you can get. Which meant I can not be slow in my arrival. Wheezes. That is if my stupid cough does not stop me from leaning against a wall to recover a bit. I hate it. Hate it so much. No. Just run along now. Just ignore it. Have to arrive quickly. Wheezes. If I do not die first.

After I held back my cough adequately enough, I came across the swaying sign that designated The Third Burning… coupled with the sign’s image of what to me looked like three women getting burned, my suspicion only grew. Then again. This is the southern quarter. I looked around if I had anyone staring at me where I then pushed the door open. Oh how lovely, the place is dim. Good and bad for me. I can sneak into the backroom undetected. Or I can get stabbed in the back. Screw it. I stepped quietly though briskly as much as I could to a back door, based on details I was given to what the room was. Considering my stature and actual age, I would most likely be kicked out upon sight, hence I asked for the specifics.

Upon opening the door, I was greeted with a smell that I not had met for a long time. It is simple but it is easily that of meat and cheese. In short time, I glanced at a table, where I was fixated at the food laid out. It would be the first time I will not have just stale bread. Oh yes. Oh yes yes! Take the glove off and just a few bites will definitely keep me- Oh. Oh. As I hovered my exposed right hand over the food, I glanced at a woman who was seated. I could not possibly touch this with my dirty hand in the presence of others before things have even begun, especially if it was for them. Oh no. “My apologies.” I retreated to the nearby wall and opened my grimoire to read through it, just to pre-occupy myself. This is already awkward. Maybe it will look like I was reaching out to the woman, wondering if I should ask who she was where. Though, she did look like a mercenary. I took another glance at the table and spotted another figure. Clearly another woman. Before I noticed anything else about her, I looked back into my grimoire. Hopefully the wait will not be too long. And hopefully I do not need to converse much. Wheezes. Or draw attention.



Remaint -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/10/2016 22:02:04)

Dust, was ever present. Under the soles of footwear, between the sprockets of wheelbarrows, ‘neath the bales of liquor. Dust was ever flowing, from one end to others by shifting winds, rigid gravity, and other unseen forces.

If the casual observer was so keen, they might hear of footsteps that shouldn’t be. A brush of fabric they couldn’t see. The dust upon the floor that shouldn’t have moved. A hidden force had returned, and with time passing stirred dust from the Third Burning’s fore.

A woman clad in black with red manifested from thin air, her well developed form defined through her cloak. The sight of the tavern’s name-plaque disturbed her, being three witches burning. It was perhaps an ill omen, and the woman shivered. She opened the well-aged door, brushing aside her hood. It could be regrettable a decision, if more misfortunes had followed then.

The tavern fell silent for a moment at the sight of dark purple hair, but resumed speech in short timing. While the tone was a slight further tense, no more turmoil threatened to brew.

The woman who entered loosed just as slight a breath for relief, lingering for a second more before approaching the scowling bartender. His tone was as unfriendly as his expression.

“The door over there, Witch. And hurry. You’re troubling my clients.”

Seiserna learned to expect a certain unwelcomeness owing to her reputation, yet still was unnerved at the happening. She muttered a sheepish courtesy prior moving toward the directed room. Once more a door was parted, albeit with a fair more tenderness.

A rather benign sight greeted her eyes, contrary to the initial tavern presentation. There were present relatively well-kept furniture, food that told of civilisation and a tall cloaked figure with otherwise unremarkable attire. A sheath of great length was kept at her side, indicative of a rapier’s.

Though the witch was set to partial ease by the sight, she didn’t quite know what to say. It was an odd matter. The enigmatic figure known as Magister had called upon her several hours prior, stating that time is at hand. He instructed her to this tavern, and likely this specific room, but gave little detail outside of that. Here was now Seiserna, standing in close to a corner in silence. Some seconds passed before the witch decided to speak in impatient anxiousness.

“So...You’re called into the Magister’s service as well?”



Draycos777 -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/10/2016 22:27:46)

Selene looked at the sign of the Third Burning Inn, chills ran down her spine that she quickly pushed away. Selene gave a small sigh and fixed her hat. It was only the first day and she was already having second doubts.

"Way to have the meeting place have such a ominous sign. No need to keep telling us how hard this will be. This is one of the reason why I hate the city."

Selene thought back to the reason why she was here as she opened the door to the Inn. As she was resting on a web making silks, a black robed man with blue eyes, who she would soon know as the Magister, walked up to her. He started the conversation by started that she was a strange one. Selene in turned retorted that he wasn't one to talk and asked what he wanted. He simple stated that he had chosen her to fight with others against an age old threat to free herself from the chains a bound her. Selene instantly accepted. The Magister laughed and asked her if she was truly ok with accepting such a task. She had replied stating, that between dieing a pointless death out here, and dieing an instant death with the chance of removing her curse, there was only one option.Besides, if she planned on fulfilling her goals, then she would need to remove her curse one way or another. The Magister laughed again and said that she was odd and that he enjoyed that. He then told her to find The Third Burning Inn within Palora where she'd find others that he had chosen.

Getting into the city wasn't very hard, simply wrapping up both hands in silk to make it look like she was wearing white, fingerless gloves and acting like a merchant fools the average, overworked city guard. And since no one really cares to follow the normal rift-raft of the South-Quarter, Selene found her way to the Inn with much ease. Staring at the door to the backroom, Selene quietly opened the door. She asked the bartender if anyone around had asked about a Magister lately. He pointed her to a door at the back. Selene gave him her thanks and quickly moved towards it. She felted someone's hand reach into one of her bags and quickly jerked it out. Lowering her broom, Selene entered and closed the door behind her as someone yelled out about a spider. She looked around the room and took note of who was already there. So far a warrior, it seems, a highwayman that seems to know a bit of magic and a child(?) with some sort of tome.

"Hopefully this isn't it or we're in trouble."

Unwrapping her hands, Selene took to a different corner of the room and placed her broom down, but not before steal some pieces of meat. The broom rose as she sat down. She swung her feet to make sure that the broom was at the right height and took a bite out of the meat she took.

"I'm guessing you all are the other chosen the Magister talked about, right?"



Vanir -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/11/2016 0:46:32)

Darkness.
Eternal darkness. Forever darkness. Absolute, encompassing darkness. But, now, something else. Something piercing the darkness in his mind. An uncomfortable feeling worming its way into his skull.

A presence. Flannagon was being watched, stared at even. He hated being stared at. Everyone’s always looking at him with those eyes full of pity and disgust. Though Flannagon’s own eyes lacked pity, they were full of disgust. They became an empty loathing, searching every corner for something, anything.

He heard whispers of sound. A haunting, barren sound. Disturbingly, he could not tell what it was or where it was coming from. Something was there.

“What do you want?” The blind man asked, without turning around.

Suddenly, the whispers were very near. “I know what you’re looking for.”

Flannagon rose from his squat in the mud, supporting himself unsteadily with his staff. He opened the eyes within his mind and with a sudden rush of blue light perceived the robes of a figure a few feet from him. He rasped a few words at what he supposed to be an annoying priest, “Leave me. Your charity is dead.”

“Do you not know who I am?” The robed figure raised his head, and his eyes called out from the depths of his hood. Blue eyes. Perfect eyes. Flawless eyes. Seeing eyes.

Flannagon gasped at the intensity of those eyes. “Uh – No.“

Then, the whispers were behind him. “You want to see.”

A chill passed over Flannagon, and he straightened. “Then you should know that I can see.”

“Ah, but you want to See.” The robed figure lightly touched the blind man’s left hand, and he whirled around raising his staff in defense.

“Back off.”

“‘All things are burned away in wyrmflame.’”

Flannagon gritted his teeth, “What did you say?”

“You know the tales. You studied them well. You were a great student once, and a great asset. You can be again. See again. In your being you long for clarity, desperately.”

“Bedtime stories.”

“‘All things are burned away in wyrmflame.’”

“When the fire wanes, only ashes remain.”

“The phoenix is reborn in ashes. And you too can be resurrected. A new life. ‘My beloved Flagon, have hope.’”

The sound of his mother’s voice took the blind man to his knees. Flagon knew who this mysterious figure was, and the truthfulness of his words had just been proven. The Magister’s words sliced through the bandages, burns, and bones of Flagon’s hideous face and resonated deep within the suffering blind man. Tears welling in his eyes, he mumbled out, “What must I do to be saved?”

“The Third Burning.”

Flagon winced. He knew that inn well. His father had spent many coins there. When Flagon looked up, the whispers were gone. The Eyes were gone.



The Third Burning was just as disgusting as everything else in the southern quarter. Flannagon had long stopped caring about the filth though, they never bothered him, not anymore. He stood back, staring at the sign that hung over the door, and thinking about that ominous threshold. Should he enter it, there was no going back, nowhere to run. This time, he would have to face the flames. But did he have the courage? The choice of meeting was uncanny. For him, it would be his Third Burning.

He dwindled outside for a long time, watching people come and go through the door which held his destiny. He could no longer run from his past. This was the moment. If he turned away he would die out here on the streets, damned for eternity. In that inn, his Third Burning waited. His salvation was near at hand. Moving with purpose, he finally took that hand.

Creaking the door open, he crossed the portal to his future and entered the Third Burning. The room fell silent. The barkeep pointed to a door and then frowned. Pointing would not do any good to a blind man. Flagon used his mind to see, but he feigned complete blindness. He went along forward tapping out his steps with his staff. He eyes searched the room but dwelt upon nothing. They swallowed up every face and every corner, reaching out and touching everything that they could.

“In the back.” The barkeeper grunted. Flannagon responded slowly, “I know where it is. Thank you.”

He jabbed a patron in the calf with his shepherd’s staff. With a cough he muttered, “Unclean.”

Whoever in the room was not already standing rose to their feet. Those who stood between the blind man and the back room parted, staying as close to the walls and away from him as possible. He tapped his way to the door and approached slowly. When his staff struck the closed door, he felt around with his hands until they grasped the handle. Turning it, he slipped inside.

In the center of the room lay a table with a spread of meat, cheese, and bread. It smelled wonderfully. Seated at the table were two women. He thought something in one of the women’s faces seemed familiar. But it couldn’t be. The face he remembered was strong and proud, this one was guarded and sad. Perhaps that was the familiar part; he had met many women in the Southern Quarter with similar looks of despair and anticipation.

Another woman and a young girl were still standing, they must have entered just before Flannagon. There was a strange, uncomfortable look on every individual in the room. They all looked as if they wanted to say something, but did not quite know what it was going to be. If the blind man’s own face wasn’t so covered with bandages it would have mirrored their’s.

After standing by the door for a moment too long he breathed out, “Hello.”

He tapped his way to a chair near the young girl, who was reading a book and least likely to engage in conversation. After knocking the chair with his staff, he reached around for it with his hands. Finding it, he swung his pack off and placed it to his lap as he sat down. Keeping his staff in the crook of his left elbow, he reached out with his right hand and grabbed a hunk of cheese. After bringing it to his nose, he placed it back on the table and undid a portion of the bandages that covered his mouth. Laying them on top of his pack, he reached for the cheese again and slowly began to gnaw on it.



Bastet -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/11/2016 16:16:18)

‘All things are burned away in wyrmflame.’

Nilch’i’s journey couldn’t have began in a better way: she had barely left her house for a few days, and she was already seeing things. Namely, one of those things had pointed her towards “The Third Burning”, whatever it was. It might’ve been an inn, from what she could recall from her conversation, but she had to admit to herself she was distracted by the fact that she was talking to such a mysterious figure. Halfway through the conversation, she had openly asked if she was before a hallucination. Even if the individual probably was one, a tiny chance at redemption was probably more likely to get her what she wanted than simply wandering the streets of Palora.

The acolyte of Greva tightened the mask she wore both as a focus for her powers and as a memento of the past; but it was mostly out of habit. With the way she knotted it, it was more likely that the Magister’s direction would’ve led her to remove that damned mark from her hand than it falling off by accident. The girl didn’t suspect it herself, but the busy streets she walked implanted in her a sense of hurry and tension that could only disappear by distancing herself from the general confusion of the common folk.

At the very least, the fact that she had been allowed to keep her attire even in her exiled state led her to think that there was a way out of the curse that had struck her. At the moment, she just wished that she hadn’t indulged her repressed bloodlust and murdered her assailant, but she didn’t know if she could have stopped herself had she even known in the first place. What saved her from absolute despair is that she had been given a trail to follow before she could even realize how hopeless her situation was. Not even in the most remote of her thoughts could she even imagine what her life would have become had she not found a way to return to her proper home.

Barely even paying attention to what was going on in front of her, she quickly opened the door of “The Third Burning”. It was very similar to the tavern she visited on the night she had broken her Oath, a detail that didn’t escape her, as she stepped into the locale. It wasn’t long before the barkeep addressed what normally would’ve been an honored guest, not immediately realizing the true motive for her visit:

“Welcome, priestess, how may I-”

“The Magister sent me.”

The man took a step back before replying again. He seemed surprised that even religious disciples had been marked, and that the girl in front of him had not been stripped of her robes despite breaking an Oath. Whatever she had done, he sent her through regardless. Nilch’i took a few steps towards the fated door while thinking how absurd her situation was, unlocking it much the same way she had with the frontal entrance. No longer exposed to the influence of the streets, she took her time to observe those who had already joined the Magister’s mad quest. That is, if they were there for that purpose.

The girl took the superb stance that her robes still allowed her to assume. After all, though she may have been exiled from her home, the individuals in the room probably didn’t already know her story. Secondly, she hadn’t heard mention of being specifically kicked out of the cult of Greva, meaning that she still clung onto whatever shred of authority was left to her. The sight of some food on a main table attracted her, as it had been a good while since her last fresh meal. Living on supplies that were meant to be conserved for a long time had robbed her of the true sense of taste of proper cuisine. It hadn’t been more than a few days, but it still felt like months.

A bandaged man sat at the table, pushing Nilch’i to use her powers for mundane tasks rather than risking close contact with such a figure. If he suffered of some contagious ailment, she wanted nothing to have to do with it: after all, she wasn’t a disciple of Illyra. Picking a slice of bread that appeased her sight, Nilch’i gracefully moved it through the air towards her location. Landing it on one of her hands and noticing it was still somewhat warm, she began eating it.



Apocalypse -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/12/2016 0:51:09)

Seven Days Ago

Dance me high, and dance me dry
Before this day's night is done
Dance me high, and dance me dry
To yearn for that setting sun

The ocean is dark and dreary
and my bones are soaked and weary
Her lines are tied in hopeless knots
and I'm stuck with this sorry lot

So dance me high, and dance me dry
to have some fun this sorry night!

The shanty trailed off into a hum as the elf pulled the oars into the battered rowboat. He rocked his head side to side to the tune as he popped the cap off his waterskin and took a swig. Thin streams escaped from the corners of his lips, and Hendrik took a moment to wipe his lips with the back of his hand. His left hand. The humming died as Hendrik held the bandaged appendage in front of his face. His eyes ignored the cuff enveloping his wrist and the emerging tattooed tentacles spreading out from beneath it. Instead, his gaze was focused on the back of his hand, his stare burning through the wrappings at the Blight underneath. There was a moment of stillness as the little boat bobbed on the gentle waves. After a few heartbeats, Hendrik took another drink and capped his waterskin, his brows furrowed as he set it down below him. The elf laid back and nestled himself against the stern. "So dance me high, and dance me dry," the pirate sang in a whisper as he closed his eyes. "And save this poor wretch...from...his plight...

"Beautiful."

Hendrik bolted upright to find the silhouette of a cloaked figure standing on the bow before him. Moonlight illuminated his figure from behind, making it nigh impossible to see the interloper's face. The elf squinted his eyes to get a better look at the stranger. "Breaking an oath from Baan strips one of so many things. Status. Respect. Lovers. But at least you got to keep your voice."

The pirate's hands had been holding the sides of the rowboat for support, but at the mention of lovers it became an iron grip. Hendrik had no doubt his knuckles were turning white underneath the bandages. "Dastard. What is it you want?"

"Not what I want," the stranger replied as he extended a hand with the palm facing the sky, "but what you, Hendrik Songblade the scourge of the seas, want?"

"A pirate, sorry, a 'free man of the seas' is used to upsets and bouts of bad luck." The elf could almost hear the grin in the intruder's voice. "They always turn to the oceans to wash away their misfortunes. But water can only do so many wonders." Inch by inch, Hendrik moved his hand closer to where his cutlass rested on his hip. Having a reputation was a notorious yet vital part in Hendrik's line of work, but he did not appreciate it in situations such as this. This one knew far too much and was far too talkative.

"But where water fails, fire thrives." Hendrik was glad he could not peer into the intruder's cowl, lest he give in to the urge to punch the smug dastard's teeth down his ugly throat. Instead, his fingers brushed against the blade's handle. Just another moment...

"Yeah well, can't go sailing around a river of flames in a wooden ship, can I?" The elf just needed a slight distraction, a heartbeat's hesitation, anything to give that critical advantage in the moment between life and death that could last an eternity.

A low chuckle was emitted from beneath the cowl. The intruder lowered his hand. "All things are burned away-"

Now.

In a flash the scourge was on his feet, cutlass in hand. The blade whistled through the night air as it plunged towards the stranger's heart...

...and he was gone.

Not vanished in a puff of smoke like some street performer. Not in a dissipation like some troublesome warlock. Not in a wavering mirage contrived from some hallucination or fever dream. The stranger was just...gone. Hendrik lowered his sword as the wind picked up, rising goosebumps all along his exposed skin.

"You do not fail to impress."

Hendrik whipped around to find the cloaked figure now standing on the stern. With the moonlight to his back, the elf could now make out the glowing sapphires that were the stranger's eyes. "Perhaps you would not have struck were I a beautiful one with far less clothing, eh? Or if I had taken the form of a barrel of brandy?" Once again, the intruder raised an arm, this time holding a small token in his grasp for display. "In seven days' time, go to the appointed place. Ask for the Magister. Meet your comrades. Embark on your journey. Fell the wyrm once more." He placed the coin on the seat below him and straightened back up. "And maybe, just maybe, have a semblance of a life again." And with that, the intruder disappeared, leaving nothingness behind him.

The boat bobbed three or four more times before Hendrik moved to claim the token. He held it above his head to better catch the moonlight. A wooden coin, with an image of the Third Burning no less. The elf was familiar with the place enough to know that it was no place for heroes or legends. "Cheap dastard," he said before hurling the coin into the ocean laying himself down to rest.

The heat of the sun's rays woke the scourge the next morning. It was with mild curiosity that Hendrik checked the bump he felt underneath his rump and disbelief when he discovered it was the wooden coin that had been the cause for the literal pain in his arse. Stormy eyes flicked from the token to the back of his left hand where the kraken lied in hiding. A grin split the scourge's face. "All right, beastie. To the Third Burning it is."

Present Day

Hendrik had arrived to the inn early. He had ordered himself a hot dinner. When asked about his bandages, the elf replied that he had been descending from the crow's nest when his foot slipped from beneath him. The privateer had caught himself, but not without the rope rubbing his hands raw as they slide down the lines. The elf made it a point to grasp his utensils and the handle of his tankard by curling his fingers around them without bringing them in to his palm. He took pains to eat and drink with his awkward grip. Hendrik fell into the good company of a couple of ne'er-do-wells who invited him for a game of darts. They played a few rounds for a few coins with Hendrik losing all of them. He had a good throw now and again, but flinched when the movement was a bit too wild or large. The privateer would wring his hands and scoff at offers of help, instead taking large quaffs from his drink and belching, declaring that was more help than the lot could give him. All-in-all, it was a good time even as Hendrik kept a constant eye out for his new 'comrades'. He spotted a couple patrons disappear into the back after speaking with the barkeep and figured that was where his motley crew was gathering. He would have gone sooner had it not been for the incident with the crippled man. Blighted no doubt, making the two of them in the same boat in more ways than one. The elf elected to pass on the next game of darts but watched as he downed another brew. When a satisfactory amount of time had passed, Hendrik bid his new company farewell and made for the bar.

"Another?" asked the barkeep in the middle of filling a glass for a different patron.

"Only if it's with the Magister."

The reply received a double-take and a head nod to direct Hendrik to the back room. The elf replied with a smile and slapped a coin on the counter for the fellow. The elf walked away with some regret that he would not be able to see the barkeep's reaction to being tipped with wood for his role in the affair. A whistle escaped his lips as Hendrik allowed himself in through the door.

The elf was greeted with a table set for seven with six strangers, with Hendrik making seven. A fortunate number to begin this...whatever it was. A few were recognized - including the crippled man - as ones who made their way to the back room earlier. Hendrik must have missed the other ones head this way, or there was another entrance. He discarded this thought process as he plopped himself in a seat across from the one with the dyed hair. The scourge was familiar with it enough in his line of work to call a shoddy job when he saw one. Even when not done well, it was a good trick to not be recognized, but that also meant you were someone who had a fear of being recognized.

Seeing as some of the others had already started and not keeled over from poisoning, Hendrik began to load up his plate as he was not one to turn down a free meal. "So, anyone have any guesses as to what we have in common?" He paused in serving himself food to place his left elbow on the table with his hand pointed to the ceiling. He wiggled his fingers. "Because I sure do."



Remaint -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/12/2016 2:45:29)

In due time, more individuals had arrived within the backroom of the Third Burning. Seiserna eyed them each steadily as they came.

A young girl whose attire had seen better days. Her misfortunate appearance was highlighted by the occasional cough. She kept in company a strange book, and less strange a curved sheath. Likely a robust sabre given its hilt construction.

Another girl whom seemed to radiate the term ‘witch’ with her very attire. Just as she was dressed, she could have easily fit into a play or folklore which demanded the concept. Accompanying her was a broom, no less. The girl made Seiserna question if her own typical title was true at all.

Then came a ragged man in rather despicable condition, whose very presence led Seiserna to take an unconscious step back. A slight sense of alarm were present in her eyes. It was likely even infants were able to notice this person was one of pity, of disease. He carried a hooked staff, understandably so given his limp, and his skin bore a sickly pallor. The Lost Witch took it to mind in giving him a wide berth of space.

What seemed to be a priestess of sorts appeared next, and the observant would notice a slight twitch in Seiserna’s hands. The colour of the priestess’ robes kept the witch at ease, however. They were golden, a colour of possible reason. A peculiar mask rested on the temple worker’s face.

The Lost Witch eyed the masked priestess as she levitated food toward herself. It was comprehensible an action, to distance oneself from lepers. What could be strange, was the priestess’ gestures, or lack thereof. It was typical for spellcasters to at least motion, if not act verbally in order to utilise magic, but this particular woman did not require the use of either. This temple worker could potentially be very formidable a sorceress. Seiserna followed in the masked priestess’ food-taking example, with the addition of a hand’s flick. A slice of bread and cheese was cloaked in darkness, and hovered over to the witch.

A remarkably distinct person arrived then. Damaged in facial features, pointed in ear, inked with the sun alongside moon and perhaps a bit unheightly for his sex, this probable sea scourge was certainly bizarre to behold. His equipment matched that of a seafarer; an axe fitting for confined combat, a rather wide and partly curved sheath telling of cutlass, bandages that should serve as additional skin for the rough seas, and...cuffs of metal. The last detail was reminiscent of prison’s equivalent, but this certain set held no signs of standard chaining. Something else to note were all the rings and other accessories of precious shine littered throughout the elf’s body. The Lost Witch may just have to peruse his belongings in idle time...

Now, there were in present company potentially the most outcasted of all social groups; a leper, a witch, or two, and a sea scourge. Why would these hold space in the same vicinity as a priest, ordinary mercenary and an unfortunate girl, Seiserna had to wonder.

When the scourge loosed his rhetoric, Seiserna took a glance about, and an instinctive yet unnerving thought coming to mind. She motioned to unveil her left hand, slowly pulling off her thin glove with a notable snap and presented its rear for the rest to see. The rumoured dark mark came to bare, a small dot now, yet markedly blackening the veins around.

“Could your guess be the same as mine?”



Draycos777 -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/12/2016 17:24:50)

As Selene ate, more joined the little group inside of the room. A blind man, who's looks made others give him a wide berth. The man tapped his way with a wooden staff towards the table and sat down, grabbing a bit of cheese from one of the plates.

"Must be nice, not having people bothering you."

As Selene focused on the blind man's staff, trying to figure out if it was a cane or a mage's staff, others came in shortly after, drawing her attention. Next up was a young girl wear a mask and the robes of Greva. Selene looked at the masked priestess closely. Even though the girl looked young, she didn't show any signs of hunger, and she seemed clean enough. No signs of wounds, sores or any of the other kinds of signs that she'd been living on the streets for quite some time.

"Interesting. I guess that rules out her having stolen the clothes. Plus her magic is something else too huh?"

After her was a pirate of some sort. Short, with pointed ears, and lots of accessories. Though much too flashy for Selene's taste, she did have some inkling of who he was. After all, bandits aren't the only ones that have a use for her poisons. She heard rumors about the seas too, plus, there aren't many short, elf pirates round. If things went sour here he and the warrior sitting that the table probably be the worst threat here due to the small space. So it would be best to plan ahead of time.

"So, anyone have any guesses as to what we have in common? Because I sure do."

Crawling under the crack of the door was a golden-silk orb weaver. Making it's way put the door quickly, it made it's way up the ceiling and started it's task of layering fine strands of silk about. A few smaller spiders, climbed the walls to help as Selene moved her broom forward, towards the table to claim a few more pieces of meat. She could have gotten up to get them, but her moving the broom work as well since there was another point to using the broom. That was to make the others pay attention to what she was doing. She doubted the others trusted her any more that she did them, so naturally if she moves using her magic, they'll keep an eye out for what she can do. Plus, large objects catch the eye better than smaller ones do. Moving back, Selene took another bite, chewed, then spoke.

"That's a silly question, that much was apparent from the start. The better question is: how do we kill something that doesn't die?"

Selene fixed her hat with her left hand and looked up at those gathered.

"I guess introductions should be in order? Some of you may know me if you've ever lived outside of the city, but regardless, I'm Black Recluse. Just Recluse is fine. I sell silks and poisons, if any of you are interested."

As Selene was talking the golden-silk misstepped to avoid running into a small spider running across the ceiling.

"Ah, she tripped."



Remaint -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/12/2016 18:30:53)

The other witch, maybe the only witch really, replied to the lavishly adorned scourge, and Seiserna couldn’t help but to feel a bit uninformed in her own assumptions. There was a mere child and a Grevan priestess within their ranks, neither of which should be liable to commit a sin so great as to be Blighted.

The witch continued speaking, introducing herself as Black Recluse. The name was familiar, and Seiserna heard it every now and then when she looted merchant carts. Upon further inspection, so too was the description of a short, pirating elf. Wealthy traders coming from Kingsport muttered the name ‘Songblade’ in disgust not too infrequently.

“Ah, she tripped.”

Such a phrase only brought Seiserna’s features into a questioning look. A soft tap was felt upon her head, and the sorceress gave a short sigh. Perhaps she misjudged the backroom’s condition, and it was actually falling apart, to the point of dropping debris upon its patrons. She swept a hand forward over her hair, willing to displace the offending piece of wood.

A spider crawled down her face.

With near the leg span of a hand's half and speckled black-yellow in colour, it screamed of potential venom, and Seiserna yelped in girlish fear. She abruptly swatted at her face and a sharp cracking of shattered plate could be heard as the sorceress lost mystic concentration, dropping her platter of food.

Backing into a wall, Seiserna watched as the golden-silk weaver trickled away. Her expression was red with embarrassment as she looked towards the others once more.

Yeah...I don’t think I will introduce myself anytime soon.



Kellehendros -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/12/2016 23:28:58)

Cendra stared into the smoldering coals, waiting, hoping. The exile was surprisingly relaxed. She had cast the die; now all there was left to do was wait. Wait for the Magister, for the door to open, for her soon-to-be-compatriots to arrive.

And then the door opened.

Cendra’s eyes flicked to the portal as soon as the latch turned and the door began to move. Blue eyes narrowed as a figure entered. Female, young, unnatural hair, provocative clothing. Short, but then few were tall in comparison to Cendra herself. Sword at the hip. The exile’s eyes tracked the woman as she moved into a corner, but their eyes never met. Cendra turned her gaze back to the fire as the woman spoke. Sweet voice, moves well.

The exile gave no answer to the woman’s question, however, seeing no need to speak. If the girl was uncertain as to why Cendra was here then she was lost; the exile saw no reason to explain things. The Magister could handle that when he deigned to grace them with his presence.

Again the door creaked and Cendra’s eyes flickered up, watching, categorizing, measuring. Female, young, short. The exile’s mouth thinned. Brittle hair, slightly pale complexion. Immediate focus on food. This one knows hunger. The newcomer approached without even seeing Cendra or the other woman, reaching for the food and only realizing at the last moment she was not alone here. Sword, slightly curved. Apologizing, the girl retreated, drawing a book out from her belt and burying her face in it. Hitched breathing, poor health.

Still, Cendra held her peace. If the girl was hungry but could not bring herself to eat, it was no problem of the exile’s to rectify. The exiled looked to the flames as though seeking some answer there, waiting.

Moments later the latch clicked, another entered, and Cendra’s eyes cut away from the banked coals to take in the new arrival. Female, slender. Her left hand gave a slight twitch and she curled it into a fist. Charlatan’s garb. A hat hung with quietly clinking pouches, a broom, of all things, with more pouches. The girl helped herself to one of the roasts on the table and then moved to another corner to sit on the broom which rose up from the floor to support her. Magic user. Alchemist perhaps, with those pouches. Cendra’s left hand flexed slightly, eliciting a soft creak of leather.

The exile made no more answer to the broom-rider’s question than she had to the sword-carrying popinjay. There was no reason to repeat herself every time some new person wandered through the door lost and confused. The Magister would explain everything, or nothing. She knew why she was here; what the others knew was no concern of hers.

Further conversation was forestalled by a fumbling at the door’s handle. Cendra frowned, turning slightly towards the door as it opened haltingly. Male, old, crippled. Blue eyes went to the staff the man bore, sparking in silent indignation as the crooked wood trapped rhythmically against the floor. No, not crippled blind. A blind man. The man inched his way into the room, encountering the table and moving around it cautiously. Cendra’s lips twitched into a momentary scowl. Decrepit, bandaged. He sat and reached for the food; at least he had enough mind not to ask obvious questions.

Turning back to the coals, the exile grimaced. Cendra closed her eyes and inhaled for a long, slow count of ten, holding the breath before letting it slowly out again. She could feel it, a pressure building in her chest, water pressed against a dam.

Clacking softly, the latch turned once more. The exile’s eyes snapped open, cutting to the portal. Female… Masked? Unusual, especially in Palora where disguise was all too often frowned upon. Short, though it was, as always, the privilege of Cendra’s height to make that judgement. Clad in Greva’s robes. The exile’s lips skinned back from her teeth in a wolf’s grin. If this one was a priestess of Greva, Cendra would eat her gloves. It was an interesting pretext though, and one that had never occurred to her. One might hide the Blight-mark with a robe’s voluminous sleeves and have only mild fear of discovery.

This one too showed more wisdom than the others, merely observing the room and those in it without speaking. Her hand lifted and from the table bread rose and floated through the air to her. A pretty trick. Cendra’s eyes returned to the hearth and the fire. We will require more than pretty tricks. Where are your warriors, Magister? She could feel the dam shiver, pressure building up through her chest.

Perhaps in answer the door opened again, admitting what was, to the moment anyways, the fiercest of the Magister’s champions. Male, short, well-muscled. Pointed ears. An elf, but certainly a well traveled one, judging by the weather-beaten complexion. He bore his weapons with a casual ease as he moved to a seat opposite Cendra. Swagger. Bravado. Enough decorations for a harlot. Thinks well of himself, probably has yet to find someone to debase of him of that opinion.

Cendra scowled, turning her gaze back to the fire as the elf spoke. Another fool, just my luck. She ignored the byplay, the girl with the sweet voice answering the bejeweled privateer, the charlatan, Recluse, commenting on what they all knew. It was the broom-rider’s next words that were important. She had arrived at the question, the correct question, the wisest one that had been asked since this room had apparently filled up with fools.

Further conversation was interrupted by a cry of feminine terror. Cendra’s eyes flicked to the girl with the sword on her hip, catching the motion as she swatted something away. The exile could feel the dam crumbling beneath the weight of a black fury. “A spider,” her voice was hard, edged with disdain. “If you’ve no heart to face a spider, girl, you’re in the wrong place.”

Her gaze scythed to the book reader, and her tone was no more forgiving. “And if you’ve not the courage to help yourself to the table, perhaps you should go now.”

Cendra tossed her head, the motion a legacy from days when she had far longer hair than her current messy cut. “I was told the Magister’s chosen would be here. I see a room full of children, a blind man, a dandysprat, and a woman playing at piety. You’ve come here to kill a wyrm. You lot couldn’t kill your way out of a brothel.”



Remaint -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/13/2016 0:23:37)

...But the spider was venomous...

The cloaked mercenary's response was scathing, and Seiserna pouted. Still, it was nonetheless true, and the sorceress likely presented herself as, not the Lost Witch, but the Lost Idiot. The mercenary continued her outburst, and Seiserna's pout progressively morphed to a grin. The vital question that came prior filled her thoughts, "...How do we kill something that doesn't die?"

At the end of the sellsword's chain of insults, amusing as they were, the Lost Witch addressed the other witch.

"To propose a solution, pointy-hat, we might not need to."

Seiserna's next action was for certain risky, but if those present were to be her comrades, then she must be sure they were more potent than their suggesting appearance.

The Lost Witch snapped her fingers, and chains of fire streamed from two black portals above the cloaked mercenary's head. Their target was the body below.

"If the Blight is truly eternal, then it might be a simple matter of restraining the beast, and rending away its limbs. Vice-versa, if that works better."

Seiserna stood with an arrogant demeanor, standing tall, leisurely, and looking her nose down upon the sellsword. It was a pose she intentionally took to provoke, yet her weight was primarily on a single leg and she was prepared to dodge in sharp notice. Her grin asked for trouble and she very much found the ill-tempered woman to be humourous. You judge high, fool, but can you back those judgements?



Draycos777 -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/13/2016 1:04:38)

“A spider, If you’ve no heart to face a spider, girl, you’re in the wrong place.”

It seemed the cloaked warrior finally decided to speak. And her words brought a grin to Selene's face.

“And if you’ve not the courage to help yourself to the table, perhaps you should go now. I was told the Magister’s chosen would be here. I see a room full of children, a blind man, a dandysprat, and a woman playing at piety. You’ve come here to kill a wyrm. You lot couldn’t kill your way out of a brothel.”

The highway woman, also afraid of spiders it seems, was the first to speak up. Ignoring the words of the warrior, is spoke to Selene.

"To propose a solution, pointy-hat, we might not need to."

She then summoned chains towards the warrior sitting at the table.

"If the Blight is truly eternal, then it might be a simple matter of restraining the beast, and rending away its limbs. Vice-versa, if that works better."

Selene dropped down from her broom and walked towards the table with a smile, addressing the warrior sitting there first before the other magic user.

"Ah. I was wondering who among us would be the hypocrite. I guess that saves me that question. Your foul temper and lack of control denotes you as much as a fool and child as the very people you ridicule."

Selene knelt down and held out cupped hands so that she could scoop up the spider. Standing back up she looked at the warrior once more.

"Maybe it would be wise for you to leave yourself, least you charge into battle and get yourself killed. I don't really know nor care who you are or use to be, but I don't believe anyone asked for you opinion on everyone, that is obviously fed by your over inflated ego of self-importance. Sorry that we don't match up to the vision in your head, but quick question. Did the Magister say he would bring your chosen, or his chosen? How about instead of judging, you have a little faith? Or is that beyond you? Oh sorry, did I go too far? I forgot your kind have soft nerves."

Selene made her way back to her broom and sat down. Placing the spider on the broom she looked at the highway-looking magic user.

"Three things. First, I'm sure I gave out my name, to avoid annoying nicknames like that. Secondly, my spider here may be big and brightly colored, but you shouldn't be too scared of her. She isn't have poisonous after all. At the most, a bite from her would only make you suffer a bit for a day and a half before you are well again."

Selene grinned at the other mage, while the spider she placed on her broom moved toward the front of the broom until it reached on of the ropes tying the pouches to the broom. Climbing down, the spider squeezed it's body through the loosely tied top, and disappeared into the pouch.

"And thirdly, if you're showing off your magic, I believe I've already bested you just now." Selene looked at the warrior again; "As a side note, killing one's way out of a brothel isn't as hard as you make it sound. I had the misfortune of having to do so when a couple of unsavory fellows wanted me to stay longer than my silk delivery required of me too. Had to pay the place, "business damages", which wasn't fun. So, now you have a choice. Since you've spoken up, you can introduce yourself, or you can go back to sitting quietly until that short fuse of your's burns up again, 'cuz it's bound to happen again. Ehhe, I'm sure the Magister is laughing at you right now."



Caststarter -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/13/2016 14:21:01)

Silence. One would think that the other two would have at least some form of dialogue. How strange. Oh? Who is it now? A… person with bags hanging down from her hat? What if there was glass in those? They would break if that thing simply falls off! Oh and that garb and broom… is she trying to stand-out as a witch? Not exactly the brightest of ideas. “I’m guessing you all are the other chosen the Magister talked about, right?” she called out. Ignore that question. Though Magister, that is who the figure was? So he was not a rumor afterall?

Oh look, another person! Will they also be bizarre? This one, clearly a man, had bandages all over him. Yet why? Was this man in a fire accident? Though his head was perpetually stil before he muttered "hello." Then, he came closer to me where he used that staff of his like a guide. He even knocked on the chair closest to me, as if to make sure it was there. Is he blind? No, it could not be. It was like he deliberately sat closest to me. How… odd. Benefit of the doubt though. Now, just read and ignore.

Then the door made a sound once more. How quickly are others coming in? Who is it? Oh, can people here get even more perplexing? Mask and religious robes. Lovely way to attract attention. Though she did act the least awkwardly at least. She just went up and ate.

Now the door creaked once more. This time an elf of some sort. Axe and cutlass? Seafarer at the very least. Just ignore. I no longer want to analyze. Though I did catch him asking if we had anything in common. With another glance, I caught him wiggle his fingers a bit. Instinctively, I looked at my left hand. Of course. Bloody course.

“Could your guess be the same as mind?” The woman, who I now realize seems to be the true attention seeker considering her entire appearance, spoke out in response to the elf. There I saw it, the mark itself. I was too fixated at the mark, due to its very nature and meaning, to notice the witch talking, where I only caught the mention of “Recluse.” Her name? No reason to deny it.

Wait, huh? The purple-haired woman then went into a frenzy as she swatted at her face. What is it that…? A spider…? Sorry, but that is not exactly something to be afraid of. If anything, you are only provoking it. If we have people like this, we are not exactly going to last long. Oh dear.

Then all the sudden, the potential mercenary went on to ridicule the fearful one. “A spider.” Oh this should be good. Let the fire inside start. “If you’ve no heart to face a spider girl, you’re in the wrong place.” Of course. Fun. Arrogant folks are always fun to deal with. Not like she was wrong though. “And if you’ve not the courage to help yourself to the table, perhaps you should go now.” Wait, huh? Was that directed at…? Grah! I bit my lip in frustration, where I tried to hide my expression with my grimoire. “I was told the Magister’s chosen would be here. I see a room full of children, a blind man, a dandysprat, and a woman playing at piety. You’ve come here to kill a wyrm. You lot couldn’t kill your way out of a brothel.” C-Children? I am not a…! I had enough of this idiocy! As I snapped my grimoire close, I raised my voice to challenge before someone else took my place to do it.

It was the purple one. Yet I could not focus on her words when I saw two black obstructions above the spiteful woman’s head. No no no. We are not here to kill each other. Ignoring everything else, this is something that I had to stop now! After the witch made her protest at the mercenary, I yelled out to everyone to stop this tomfoolery! “Okay, all of you morons stop! Unless you all want to be the glory-hog and decide that the best course of action is to one up or killl each other off, you will have then failed before anything even begun! ‘Oh look, I am going to do all of this myself because clearly my chances are oh so wonderful already!’ No one be a fool right now. Sorry, even if you do not like any of us, you have no place to argue. You clearly have done a foolish thing before, otherwise you would not be here!” Wheezes. Grah! Spoke too long at once! I started at the mercenary. What place does she have to try to put us down? I stomped towards the arrogant woman and presented to her my gauntlet, my hand still in it. “You, however, remind me of a certain someone. A harsh critic like yourself! With that, I would like you to try and guess what this things mean. With what I had to go through while I was with him! Go on! You have an infinite amount of guesses in this case!” With that, I slid my grimoire into my belt, swiped some food, shuffled towards the fireplace and sat in front of it. Wheezes. As I stared into the fiery center, all I could think of past events. Terrible events. “If you all want to slaughter each other, go on ahead. Like I would care…” I muttered softly. Things are already going to be swell… I ate softly into a mixture of meat and cheese. Oh wow… this is definitely much better. Already calmed down at least. Though I still listened if anyone dare try to walk up behind me. I am too used to people trying to do so and with this room, it will be impossible to try so on me. Wheezes In the meantime, I can wait for the Magister to appear.



Kellehendros -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/13/2016 22:55:40)

Cendra felt the ripple of magic as the screamer snapped her fingers, confirming the exile’s initial suspicions. With that sword it was obvious the girl was a fighter, but the lack of armor suggested she was either too poor to afford it, or, like Cendra herself, fought with spell and steel. The exile was not overly concerned by the woman’s actions. Above, the magic coalesced into chains, streamers of fire that writhed like snakes and struck out at her.

But Cendra had always been fast.

The exile’s left hand went to her blade’s hilt, a booted foot came up, and she kicked off against the table hard. Wood grated against wood as her chair slid backwards and Cendra tilted in her seat, allowing her enough space to draw the rapier across her body in a flash of hissing steel.

Links of eldritch flame snapped down where she had been moments before, crossing each other as they latched onto nothing but empty air. It was no matter what they had aimed for now. What mattered was the moment just… Now. Two of the links from the chains crossed each other perfectly. The rapier blurred into a thrust, passing through the crossed links of the two chains precisely. Cendra twisted her wrist expertly, burying her weapon’s tip into the soft, yielding wood of the floor and pinning the chains there.

She crossed her legs slowly, leaning back in her chair and watching the sword-bearing caster. Cendra felt the dam breaking, the cracks widening. Patience, she told herself quietly, breathing slowly and bottling her fury. There is a time and a place. This is neither.

So she promised herself, and so she turned a cold and bitter smile on Recluse. “Do not speak to me of hypocrisy. You know nothing about it.” She scoffed as the girl continued, shaking her head. “Merchants have glib tongues and covetous hearts. If you think to wound me with your opinion of me, think again. I don’t care what you call me. I care if you fight half so well as you speak.”

Cendra left Recluse’s last comment alone for now, turning her attention to the reader instead, ignoring her demands concerning the old and rusted gauntlet she bore. “There will be no glory here, not for us. Since the elf was so eager to point out what binds us here, let us be truthful: There is no glory to be found here. Whatever end we find will not be told in song or tale. We redeem ourselves or we die, there is no third option.”

Leaning forward for a moment, the exile lifted a small loaf of bread from the table, tearing a piece from it before addressing the room at large in answer to Recluse’s final words. “As for the Magister, if you think he isn’t laughing at all of us right now, you are greater fools than I suspected.”



Vanir -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/15/2016 21:42:29)

The door opened shortly after Flannagon sat down. He turned his head toward the sound of the door to get a look, but pretended not to see anything. The creature standing in the doorway wore robes. Daughter of Greva? How strange that one of the Blighted should continue to wear holy robes. Does the order know? They showed me no such mercy. Those scheming weasels! And these Followers of Greva, no better, always going on about their knowledge and wisdom. They can’t even sift between their own kind? Ignorant idiots! Hypocrisy knows no end. What good are their libraries when they hold nothing but lies? Nothing but lies. Here we have an entire city conditioned to believe all sorts of lies. Hmm. mask. What sort of hubris hides behind that? And she must have something to hide. Flannagon did his best to suppress his anger, but he could not help from shaking when more vehement thoughts crossed his mind. I swear . . . He was so fixated on spite that he completely ignored her show of telekinetic powers.

Another soul distinct enough to distract Flannagon entered from that cursed threshold. It was an elf. Even in his many years, Flannagon had met few elves. And all were taller than this one. Based on his outfit, he could be a seaman. He was garishly covered in jewelry, which made the poor blind man a bit jealous and his past breached his mind for a moment. One day, I’ll be a Westie. I’ll have a really big house, like the tavern you go to. Just like that, but only for us. You and Momma will live with me. Ooo, and we’ll have so much gold we can wear it on our head! Can you imagine that Papa? Papa? Oh, Momma said not to drink that. Hey!

Flannagon’s memories have a bad habit of resurging at the worst times. He’s accumulated enough for them to stack up to the top of the vault of his mind. If he is not careful, they spill out and crush all other thoughts. Coming back into reality, Flannagon placed his leftover cheese on the table as the elf sat down. The elf asked a question and shook his fingers to hint at what Flannagon already knew. One of the women, the one with the form-fitting dress, took off her glove in response. How infantile her Mark is! What does she know of the curse?

He took another gaze at the company in the room. These are all children, young girls. All but the elf and that, eh, mercenary. This is my hope? That lying worm! How could I let myself be manipulated like this again?

“. . . but regardless, I'm Black Recluse. Just Recluse is fine.”

Flannagon licked the cheesy residue from his scarred lips and retied the bandages around them, sealing his mouth from the outside.

A sudden rupture of sound burst forth from the girl who had moments before displayed her mark. Flannagon flinched. It was an awful sound. It reminded him of another sound, but he preferred to stay in the present for now.

“A spider. If you’ve no heart to face a spider, girl, you’re in the wrong place. And if you’ve not the courage to help yourself to the table, perhaps you should go now.

“I was told the Magister’s chosen would be here. I see a room full of children, a blind man, a dandysprat, and a woman playing at piety. You’ve come here to kill a wyrm. You lot couldn’t kill your way out of a brothel.”
Flannagon smiled despite receiving an insult, for he was thinking similarly. I like this one. He knew the Magister would not have called him alone, but he thought he would be the weakest of the group. After seeing them assemble, he was confident that he was not the weakest. He was also confident that the older woman’s harsh words would rend some respect and order from the others. That was not the case.

The woman retaliated. Portals appeared with chains just above the woman who had dealt out the tongue lashing. The purple hair’s face twisted in a taunting grin. Insolent brat! Under another circumstance, Flannagon would have been impressed by the magical display. This however, summoned his anger.

Dropping his bag to the floor, he rose from his seat about to speak, left hand on the staff, and just in time. The table was violently pushed sideways as the tongue lasher thrust against it to repel backwards, dodging the chains. As the chains descended upon where she had been, she expertly passed her sword through the chain links, pinning them to the floor. Through the eye of the needle. I do like this one. Before he could speak, the other woman with the hat began to flap her gums. For a self-proclaimed recluse, this girl has an awful lot to say.

“Ok, all of you morons stop!” The girl who had been reading a book joined in the commotion. Wisdom at last! However, Flannagon was quickly disappointed. The girl redirected to the woman and then preceded to pout by the fireplace.

“She’s right,” Flannagon wheezed. He cleared his throat with a cough. Finding his voice again he said, “We redeem ourselves, or we die. And even if there is redemption, we die. Either way, we will die.” He looked at the women calling herself Recluse. “You speak of faith. It’s misplaced. The Magister, and us. We’re nothing but puppets performing for his whims. You’d all do well to remember your place. You’re nothing. You’re scum to scrap off of Baan’s heavy boot. You’re all dying, like I am. I’ve seen the other side. There is nothing there. Put your hope someplace else, it doesn’t belong here. Death will meet us in the middle, but let’s not hasten our arrival. We’re playing with lost time. ”

He turned his gaze onto the girl in Greva’s robes and his voice shifted to a mocking tone, “And you, sister,” He slowly drew out the word “sister” smiling under his wraps, relishing the moment. “I’m sorry you’ve wandered into the wrong room. We wouldn’t want to trouble one of Greva’s chosen with our ignorance and pettiness. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive our disrespect.”

“Now,” he moved his eyes from one individual to the next, looking into the eyes that he could. Who are these people? Their faces are too fresh. Their eyes still burn with life. He stopped at the cloaked women who had performed the amazing feat of speed and reflexes and remembered her words. ”Do not speak to me of hypocrisy. You know nothing about it.” He stared into her eyes for a brief silent moment. Oh, I know it well. Who then, are you? Snapping away from her eyes, he spoke to all in attendance, “Now, put your naïve pomp aside for a moment. I’m sure we’d all gain some confidence if we continued with introductions. You’ve seen my disgusting form, and do not think that I don’t see yours. I may say that it’s equally revolting. I ask, what are you doing here? You may impress others with your magic and speed, but you won’t earn any respect among those here with such. Use your words.”



Remaint -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/16/2016 0:36:37)

A wicked grin fell to neutral smile.

Seiserna’s binding spell hadn’t found its target, but that was no surprise, and neither was the reflexive speed and precision with which the targeted mercenary responded. It was, if anything, comforting to see a potential comrade being so agile. The oddity in the situation was the mercenary’s particular response; she avoided offensive magic obviously designed to immobilise, yet then threaded her own weapon into the mystic, burning chains. She had avoided being stuck, but she had gotten stuck her weapon. Her intention was a bit perplexing, and Seiserna wondered if there was something amiss. For what reason would one purposely stick their sword into a fix, that’s on fire, no less?

Shortly past, or during the time of the Lost Witch’s exchange with her hot-tempered acquaintance, others had begun responding. The other witch had taken to returning wordly vehemence, ending with some comments directed at Seiserna, who listened with distant eyes. The sorceress took note of the information regarding spiders, but found her mind focusing on the witch’s remark about the ease of which brothels are killed out of. Isn’t brothels being easy to abscond from, simply the point? She is mocking us after all.

The sabre-carrying child had broke her seemingly shy composition to respond in rage against the mercenary. Seiserna wasn’t spared from criticism either, as the child demanded an immediate cease to conflict. Oh please, I wasn’t trying to kill anyone. The sorceress held a guilty, but very brief look just then. No...I never wanted to kill anyone.

Some hefty bit of pessimism was shared by the cloaked sellsword subsequently, referring to an absolute void of glory, and the Magister’s probable mockery. Perhaps Seiserna was oblivious, or simply quite young, for she couldn’t appreciate the nihilistic sentiment behind the sellsword’s words. C’mon, we’re Blighted; we’re at the very bottom, the only path is up, right?

“We redeem ourselves, or we die. And even if there is redemption, we die. Either way, we will die.”

It was apparent the Lost Witch’s opinion wasn’t likely shared however, as the leper commented along similar lines.

“...You’d all do well to remember your place. You’re nothing. You’re scum to scrap off of Baan’s heavy boot. You’re all dying, like I am. I’ve seen the other side. There is nothing there...We’re playing with lost time.”

The ragged man’s words spoke of defeat, of complete and utter loss, and sounded repulsively with his coughs, but Seiserna suspected there was spirit to the old man. A spirit that suffered hardship and rebounded more than once. A spirit burning for a chance at redemption. The old man may be dying, but there was a fire within him that will not be extinguished. He may have attempted to demoralise, but his words brought a certain determination to Seiserna. No. There’s always a possibility, there’s always a way. Conclude what you will, but I won’t die, I will find something more, and I have time.

His remark toward the Grevan priestess was not missed of its viciousness, and Seiserna had to wonder about his potential history. The concept of Greva stands for reason; what malformed reason has her followers fallen to?

In the least, his last words held typical reason. Toward the chains of flame Seiserna beckoned with a finger, and the sword locked in its place was yanked into her direction. Halfway, the fiery binds dissipated, and in their place a wispy shadow brought the weapon to Seiserna. It was a quality tool, no doubt, but to the sorceress’ minor astonishment, it wasn’t the rapier she was expecting. The blade was lengthy, and balanced toward the hand, yes, but its grip was very long, longer than her own longsword. The key feature missing was a complex hilt. This sword had a simple crossguard. That cloak could certainly hide something. What more are you hiding, sellsword?

Slowly and nonchalantly, the sorceress uncurled her fingers toward the mercenary, as if she was offering something. Cloaked in shadow, the sword floated to its owner.

“This is a very nice piece, Swordsman, you shouldn’t be so quick to compromise its position, or ruin its temper.

Recluse. Pardon my silly naming, and if you promise not to throw a bag of spiders at me, I’ll concede that your magic has me out done.” The Lost Witch gave an apologetic bow, but her lips bore a sly smirk. The proper witch held quite the mouth, yet she was entertaining all the same.

“Old Man. We are at the bottom of a long and dark well. Our only option is to look at the light above, and climb, no?

And Sabre-Wielder, I’m rather sure we won’t be the causes of our ends. I think those present have suffered enough to avoid trivial mistakes. Please turn from your little corner; it does no good to plan when a member isn’t attentive.” In addressing the younger girl, the sorceress held no malice in her tone. It seemed deserving of sympathy to her, to see one so young accursed by the Blight.



Apocalypse -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/16/2016 12:28:18)

The first to answer was the one with the slight tinge to her dark hair. Hendrik rested his elbows on the table and nestled himself in his chair to get more comfortable. A slight grin appeared on his face as she spoke. He maintained eye contact, but was well-versed in examining one without bringing obvious attention to it. It was a required skill for someone who met as many shady strangers as he did. She was beautiful and she knew it – her dress clinging to her form beneath her jacket with a noticeable window to give one a preview of her goods. Chances were that this one was trash just like the rest of them, but at least she was easy on the eyes.

The black-clad witch was the next to break her silence. She dismissed the elf’s inquiry as if his assumption had been obvious. Then again, maybe it had been for the others; it was unlikely everyone had attempted to skewer the Magister upon their recruitment. An attempted murder was enough cause to leave out a few details. Guess I’m the fool for that one, Hendrik thought as he began to eat. His gaze fell to the alluring one again, this time noticing the tinge to her hair was violet. Well, we’re the fools .

The silver-haired stereotype of a witch identified herself as the Black Recluse. Name did not ring a bell, but Hendrik’s line of business did not call for poisons or silks, just a strong sword arm and a tight tongue. Something small and gold fell from the ceiling just as Hendrik slapped some cheese on bread. It fell right on the violet one and Hendrik caught sight of its eight-legged form right before it was swept off her face with a shriek. The elf kept a stoic face as the plate shattered and, instead of staring at the now-embarrassed girl, turned his gaze to the ceiling where a few of the offender’s arachnid brethren were spinning silky trails. Under order of the witch, no doubt, and weaving some form of trap if Hendrik's gut was correct. He chewed his mouthful with some thought as the woman with dyed hair lashed out with her tongue. There were insults aplenty for all in attendance. Hendrik nodded in assent at the slur thrown at him. She was right by half, after all.

As the situation in the dim room escalated, so did Hendrik’s meal. He polished off his bread and cheese as oryx voids materialized above the dyed one and moved on to his meat as the swordmistress pinned the descending chains to the table. The elf found the portion rather lackluster. The cut was decent, but this particular style had been spoiled for him by the spices of the Spring Isles. He had yet to find a cook who could compare to the masters of the open flame in the far west. The scourge swallowed and continued as the Black Recluse fell into a rant. Her emotions were running rampant, not a good sign for this fellowship’s formation. Speaking of rampant…Hendrik eyed the ceiling again, the little spiders still scuttling back and forth. The witch’s words seemed to become distant as the pirate wondered what the point of the arachnids’ spinning was. Was it a net of some sorts? To slow the enemy so Recluse had time to escape, or to ensnare the prey so they could be dealt with on some other occasion? He took another bite as he pondered this thought, only drifting his mind back to the conversation at hand at a rather strange moment.

“…killing one's way out of a brothel isn't as hard as you make it sound.”

Hendrik pricked up his ears at the comment and sat up straighter. It took a heartbeat for him to recall the dyed one’s earlier jab that this sorry lot could not overcome an establishment of courtesans that had taken up arms against them. The witch had misinterpreted the affront as the intention was that slaying harlots was supposed to be a simple task. He smirked as thought back to the girls at Madame Bhuya’s. The strumpets were gorgeous with their beaded hair and furred gowns, but also deadly with their small blades hidden about their rooms and on their bodies. Those were not just for show. The girls made love with the passion of crashing waves and had all the fury of a storm. The elf knew that he could not kill his way out of that brothel.

Then again, that might be because he would not be trying to kill his way out…

The memories of nights past spent were whisked away as another violent voice joined the fray, this time being the one whose color of hair did not match her age of face. There was reason to her words, but they were tainted by the passion born of desperation. The poor-looking girl thrust her gauntlet in front of the dyed one’s face with a final burst of passion before secluding herself by the fireplace. The sick little bird must have fallen from a mighty high perch to be in this sorry state. She was impoverished now, but perhaps she had been one of the mighty aristocracy back before her betrayal?

The ferocity of the conversation as a whole died down with the sick bird’s withdrawal, but the dyed one kept things alive with another round of slights. Hendrik, finished with his second dinner, pushed the half-empty plate away and put his boots up on the table as he waited for the cripple to finish his little speech. His rhetoric was harsh and brutal, but by far the most collected and truest of the party gathered. It seemed to have the desired effect as the violet one made amends to her slighted comrades in turn. The elf closed his eyes and nodded his head. Perhaps they could work together after all.

The pirate opened his eyes and turned to the witch. “You heard the man, use your words.” He snapped his fingers and pointed to the ceiling where the spiders scurried among their webs. “Because right now there is still the third option: leaving. Which is rather tempting. Not that I don’t want to rid myself of the Blight, mind you,” Hendrik said as he clasped his hands behind his head, “but I don’t fancy throwing in with those who are actively and openly conspiring against me.”

The elf shifted back in his chair to bring its front two legs of the floor. In a heartbeat, he swung his feet off the table and back beneath. The chair’s legs hit the ground with a thud, the momentum throwing his body so that he was standing over the table. “Same goes for the rest of you, naturally,” Hendrik said as he swept his eyes over the Blighted before him. “No matter how pretty you are. Looking at you, ladykiller.” A wicked grin splashed across his face as he jerked a thumb to point at the cripple and lowered his hand again.

“So I’ll wait twenty, say, thirty heartbeats for those little scuttlers to make themselves scarce before I’m out.” The pirate slumped down in his chair and picked at something lodged in his teeth. “Until then, Hendrik Songblade, at your service. If you care.”



Ryu Viranesh -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/16/2016 16:11:08)

The rhythm began with a creak. The sound of wood-on-wood and the strain of a weight that neared the limit of what the stout planks could bear. It was a familiar noise, one that those on the farm would hear countless times during any given day; the laborers were often forced to overload the wagons in spite of the protests from the drivers. They claimed that the ‘abuse’ would spell an early end for the carts’ careers, but the complaints typically went nowhere. You see, to the overseers all that mattered was the bottom line. The end result. No matter the risk, these men would push forward until they either got their way or the operation fell away beneath their feet. They always got their way.

As the company drew nearer to Palora the soundscape broadened, coming to include the whistle of the wind, the tired neighing of the horses, and the excited chatter of their fellow travelers. Thankfully, much of this not-so-distant din was insulated by the burgeoning breeze, though the air still carried a few choice words to Jana’s ears.

“… the harvest has been good this year…”
“… deal is going to make my career, you just…”
“… peaceful as always, thank blessed Baan.”

“Thank blessed Baan,” Jana muttered, pulling her hat that much lower over her face; her body scarcely moved as the cart ran across yet another rock, its frame leaping several inches into the air before settling uneasily back onto the ground. It won’t be too long now. The young woman cast a brief glance over her shoulder, the Ram’s Gate drawing almost uncomfortably close by this point. The sight instinctively brought a frown to Jana’s lips, the gesture lost amidst a wince as they pulled past a herd of grazing chattel. It was noisier than she remembered, but she suspected that the city hadn’t changed much at all; after all, it wasn’t the one that had run off to the countryside for almost a decade.

With some effort the girl managed to wrest her attention away from the world around her and return her gaze to the hand resting against the side of her knee. Slowly, carefully, Jana unclenched her fist and revealed the treasure contained within: a single silver coin, nestled flush against the skin of her palm. Now at last she smiled, the gesture as rueful as it was hopeful. This was what had brought her home – the coin, and more importantly the promise that it represented. That she could, finally, cleanse herself of her ignominy.

*****

One Week Prior

The sun was low in the sky as Jana made her way up the lane, a thin layer of sweat still decorating her face despite the fact that her shift had ostensibly ended hours ago. Everyone worked late during harvest season, from the poorest of farmhands to the farmer himself, and complaining would get one no further than the local soup kitchen. Tired as the girl was, the trek home was still as easy as ever; eight years of living in the same place had practically burned the route into her mind by this point. If pressed she could probably walk it in her sleep. Still, there were the occasional surprises one might encounter along the way – a street performance, a drunken brawl, or as in this case, a letter shoved halfway beneath the door of her apartment.

Jana blinked, bending down to wrench the letter out from under the doorframe, curiosity overpowering her exhaustion for the moment. The envelope was worn, as though it had taken ages to arrive, and bore nothing but her name on the front, each letter smoothly curving into the next. There was something… strange about this piece of mail, though she couldn’t quite place what. Her parcel remained in hand as she let herself in, careful to lock the door behind her before she kicked off her boots and threw her jacket aside. It was then that it finally struck her, Jana’s blood running cold as her gaze returned to the envelope, the decorative writing almost seeming to mock her with its meaning.

It’s… my name. This letter was addressed not to “Jana Keller”, but to “Jana Bhayan”, a girl that most of the world probably thought was long dead. She tore the envelope open before she could think better of the action, anxious for some kind, any kind of family-related news. What she found instead was something of a decidedly different variety.

On life I seek to give you a new lease
So your happiness shall no longer decrease.
Oh there is a way
I will tell you today
Turn this paper around and all your worries might cease.


“… Is this someone’s idea of a joke?” Jana muttered, shaking her head in what could only be utter disbelief.

“Well, I thought that it was rather witty.” The thin, wispy voice came from just behind her ear, Jana stumbling abruptly forward as she struggled to both keep her footing and turn to face the intruder that had made his way into her home. He stood stock still in the center of the room, nearly all of his features obscured by a cloak so black it seemed to be made of night itself; yet his eyes stood out as though they were a pair of bright blue beacons amid a misty sea. Though she couldn’t see his lips, Jana could tell that the bastard was smiling, his sardonic grin practically oozing off of him like a cheap cologne.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my apartment?” The young woman’s gaze flicked toward her lucerne, the weapon nestled neatly in the southeast corner of the room, an equal distance from both her and her intruder. All right, I’ll just have to keep him talking and then maybe I can…

Her thoughts were interrupted as the mystery man interposed himself between her and the poleaxe, his ‘grin’ only growing all the wider. “Now now, there’s no need for that; I thought we were having a friendly conversation about that letter.”

Jana stood stunned for a brief moment, though recovered herself quickly and instead started to casually move in the direction that she’d thrown her coat. “That’s all well and good, but I don’t really think that there’s much to say about that poem.”

Suddenly he was right in front of her, his luminous blue eyes staring up into hers as though searching for something. A moment later he almost seemed to deflate, his otherworldly exuberance dimming for perhaps the first time. “You didn’t follow the instructions, did you?” A finely gloved hand emerged from the folds of his robes, the letter trapped between a pair of his thin fingers. He showed the limerick as she’d seen it mere minutes before, then flipped the sheet of paper around, revealing a second, far more foreboding message.

All things are burned away in wyrmfire – even your sins.
Meet at the Third Burning in Palora
The Magister Awaits Your Arrival.


The girl’s mouth had run dry, and when she moved to meet the stranger’s – the Magister’s – eyes again, there was something more than mirth waiting for her.

“Tell me, Jana Bhayan – are you happy with your life as it is right now?” He turned from her to pace along the floor, his head seeming to tilt up toward the ceiling. “You make a living, your fellow workers admire your ability, and you have friends that value your companionship.” He paused, looking back over his shoulder at her; a shiver rushed down the girl’s spine, making her feel far smaller than she was. “Yet that’s not enough for you, is it?”

“… No, it isn’t.” Jana admitted, her expression as invisible as the Magister’s in the twilit gloom.

“You want what you lost – what you think you threw away.” His words were blunt, his footsteps drawing close to her once more. “What if I told you that all of that could be yours again?” This time when she met his gaze, there was no fear, no worry, only resolve; a determination born from nearly a decade of regretting a single rash decision.

“I’d be at your throat asking you what I needed to do.” The Magister smiled yet again, a faint sense of malice hidden behind the pleasure he exuded. His remaining hand slid into view, opening to reveal a single silver coin that rested at the heart of his palm.

“The Third Burning Inn in Palora – you need to be there in a week’s time. Ask for the Magister. This,” he offered the coin to her, “will get you into the city, no questions asked.”

Nothing more was said between the two, yet when Jana slid the coin out of his hand, for the first time in a long time, she smiled.

*****

“And, ah, what are ye here for... Miss?”

The guard’s skin had lightened a shade or two when Jana had dismounted from the wagon, perhaps not expecting to meet a woman who dwarfed him not only in height but also in build. She did cut quite the figure, though her more womanly aspects were somewhat obscured by the heavy cloth top and baggy pants that she'd worn for travel. Jana, for her part, just grinned, leaning back on her heels with an easy confidence and regarding the guard’s consternation with an idle amusement.

“I’m here for farm work; I hear that the harvest has been especially good this year and thought that I’d have better luck here than back in Kingsport.”

The guard managed a nod, his eyes drifting off to the side. “And, your uh… bundle there, what’s in it?”

Jana shouldered the large, cloth-wrapped mass, her grin only growing wider. “My tools. I’ve been in the business a long time now and I’m used to using a certain set of implements.” She leaned down to look the man in the eyes, trying her hardest not snicker at the terrified look on his face. “That’s not a problem, is it?”

“Oh, well, yah see…” The guard stuttered for a few more seconds before Jana suddenly clapped a hand against the side of her head, extending the limb toward the man a moment later.

“I’m sorry – where are my manners. This is for you.” The guard’s protestations ceased the instant he caught sight of the coin, practically snatching it out of her fingers to examine it. When he seemed satisfied he waved her on, already gesturing for the next individual to approach.

“Enjoy your stay in Palora, Miss. Hope that you find what ye’re looking for.”

Though she knew she had a meeting to attend, Jana couldn’t resist the urge to wander the city’s streets for just a short while. Much of the trepidation that she’d felt about coming home was washed away in that scant half hour, the familiar sights and smells putting her at ease in a way that nothing else could. Still, before too long the young woman found herself making her way toward the Third Burning; she’d been far too young to visit a pub when she was last in Palora, but this one seemed to resemble a few that she’d frequented since. Dirty, sometimes rowdy, and definitely in dire need of a new coat of paint.

Jana weaved quickly through the crowd and approached the counter, the barkeep already pointing the way to the back. “Let me guess, jus’ by the look of you – here for the Magister. Go join the rest o’ your lot, and maybe tell them to keep it down a bit. This is an inn, not a playground for whatever you all have been dragged here for.”

“I’ll… see what I can do.” She blinked, not quite sure how to take that particular introduction. Still, she followed the man’s advice and made her way to the back room’s door, shoving her way in just in time to witness the end of what appeared to be a confrontation of some kind. Jana eyed the two women involved, her eyes lingering on the lithe one with what appeared to be hastily shorn hair. There was something… familiar about her. She couldn’t say what, but was certain that there was.

For now though, the rather imposing woman chose to lean on the doorframe, her smile as gentle as she could manage. “I see that I’ve already missed quite the party, though I hope I’m not late for the main event.”



Bastet -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/16/2016 18:24:08)

Many had joined the band of misfits the Magister seemed to deem appropriate to defeat a wyrm. Despite her innocent enough appearance, Nilch’i sighed inwardly at the sight of those who she thought would have had to become her allies in the quest to redeem herself. Even as a display of magic seasoned with insults was replied to with yet more diminishing language, the priestess could do nothing but observe while slowly munching on the small slice of bread she had lifted from its resting place. She acknowledged every sight that was directed at her, but avoided replying whether verbally or not. Without a choice, she would have had to work with the other marked individuals in the room. Nilch’i wished those in front of her would also recognize it, but there wasn’t much hope for that realization to become common knowledge until the infighting died down. In the end, she was in it for herself, but she would fight for those who stood by her side for as long as their presence granted her a greater possibility of accomplishing the suicide mission they had been assigned.

Of course, Nilch’i had had to deal with plenty of individuals who were part of the lower echelons of society. Petty thieves, aloof assassins, rogue mages and their like would not be disdained by the followers of Greva for as long as they could help in the endless quest for knowledge. There were artifacts, books, and forbidden sources of information that could only be accessed by dealing with said individuals. Just like any other religion, the cult of Greva had its dark side. Nilch’i had tried it for herself on plenty of occasions. As important as the discovery of secret artifacts was, she still preferred to be in her home reading exotic books while sipping tea. One further collaboration with untrustworthy figures would be the key to returning to the life she missed oh-so-dearly.

“And you, sister, I’m sorry you’ve wandered into the wrong room. We wouldn’t want to trouble one of Greva’s chosen with our ignorance and pettiness. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive our disrespect.”

The note of accentuated sarcasm in the leper’s voice hadn’t escaped Nilch’i. Listening to the hidden notes of an individual’s speech and gestures was just one more source of knowledge, and being a priestess of Greva, garnering information was practically her occupation. Thankfully, even a drunken patron of the Third Burning would’ve been able to notice that there was sarcasm to be found in the bandaged man’s voice. Nilch’i didn’t know if the figure had actually been struck by malady or if he wore what he did as a disguise, but she postponed that thought with the assurance that she would’ve eventually found out.

Offering a blank stare, Nilch’i waited until a supposed elvish pirate was finished talking before making her voice heard across the room. Some new woman made an appearance from the door, but the priestess’ attention remained dedicated to answering the one who had sought to rouse her into a conversation. Nilch’i’s voice was delicate as ever, but it was far from the innocent tone of a child. Beneath the golden glow of Greva’s robes, there was a shadow inhabited by the darkest type of secrets.

“This shall become the wrong room as soon as I’ve rid myself of this mark, my dear. I’m afraid I couldn’t do more for you than help you on the same path we all follow; the one that will lead us to the knowledge required to remove the curse that has befallen the present individuals. If there is a cure, it is both my duty and personal objective to find it. As open as my hand might be, do not mistake me for a priestess of Illyra.”

Having spoken what she deemed to be an appropriate response, Nilch’i sought a seat near the fireplace. She missed the one in her library, but even the one found in the Third Burning would suffice in removing the feeling of cold air being stuck on one’s very being. It was a sensation that Nilch’i had forgotten the moment she had been given a stable home, but its return was prominent the second she was exiled from her rightful place.



Kellehendros -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/16/2016 23:21:51)

Cendra leaned back in her chair, chewing slowly as the blind man spoke. Blue eyes narrowed slightly as her fingers tore another piece from the loaf in her hands. I said a pretender to piety. She had not, however, said whose robes the pretender wore. So our blind man is not so blind as he may wish us to believe. The exile kept her expression carefully neutral and wondered if the others had caught the man’s error.

The faux-blind man’s response directed at Cendra herself received only a faint and derisive snort. If the man could not supply his own name, the exile found no reason to make a gift of hers to him. Not to mention she had no intention of telling these people who she was. Even among dregs and outcasts a name like hers could incite hate. The Sparrows had been proof enough of that.

To her left the caster’s chains clattered and then lifted. She might have snatched the pommel of her blade and recovered it, but she let the weapon float away, watching as the chains morphed into a shadowy cloud that bore her weapon over to the spellcaster. Cendra watched the woman silently as the blade was inspected and then sent back to her in the inky mist, though the exile ignored the implied reprimand. She had done what she had done to make a point, and if the girl did not understand that was her problem. In any event, the caster certainly had a thing or two to learn about the situation they were in.

Cendra’s blade floated in the air near to hand, but the exile ignored the weapon as she had the girl who had sent it back to her. Her focus instead shifted to the privateer as the gaudily dressed elf spoke. She cast a glance towards the ceiling as the man pointed out the gathering of spiders, dismissing them after a moment as unimportant. What truly mattered was the man’s threat of departure. Now would be a good time, Magister…


The door into the bar opened and silence rippled through the room as the patrons turned to stare at the man standing in the entrance. The Magister smiled, his unsettlingly luminous gaze raking over the patrons. “Don’t let me bother your revels, friends. One day we’ll all be food for worms, best celebrate now.” He tittered, walking toward the counter as whispered conversations broke out across the tavern.

At the bar the tavern’s keeper swallowed nervously, flinching as the Magister’s gaze landed upon him. “They… They all be here, yer Magister-ship.”

Smirking, the Magister reached into his robe and drew out a thick, circular pendant of gold etched with carefully incised runes. He depressed a knob atop the device, causing it to click open. Silent for a moment as he contemplated whatever secrets the open pendant revealed, the Magister giggled and snapped the gadget shut. “Good, good!” The gold contraption vanished into the Magister’s robe, replaced a moment later by a gold coin upon the bar. “Wait a pint, then send one of these louts for the Saints.”

Blinking, the bartender looked between the coin and the Magister. “The… The Saints?”

“Of course,” the man’s blue eyes flashed, “your backroom is full of Blighted. They might wish to know.”

“But, yer Magister-ship, you sent ‘em here…”

Apparently struck by the remark, the Magister roared with laughter. “Of course! That’s why I asked you wait a pint first.” Waving negligently, he turned and paced towards the backroom, still chuckling.


But when the door opened it was not the Magister who darkened the doorway. Female. Tall, Illyra be praised. The elf at least looked like he could handle himself in a fight, but Cendra was starting to feel like a giant. Muscled. This one knows what she is about. The newcomer had a complexion nearly as sun-weathered as that of the privateer. Frowning, the exile stared at the woman. The dusting of freckles, the hazel eyes, the cascade of hair so much like…

No, no, that can’t be… Cendra’s mind reeled back through the years to a sunny sitting room, to the wide, solemn hazel eyes of a girl who was only a promise of the woman she might one day be. The exile reached back and back and back, panning that memory of tea and polite conversation, two things Cendra had never been very good at, searching for a name. She knew this girl, she was related to this girl, if only distantly.

Jana, her name is Jana. And that realization was a fire in her chest. To one side the false priestess was speaking, but Cendra’s gaze was riveted on Jana. The exile’s left hand twitched, leather creaking as her hand turned into a fist.

Before she knew it she was on her feet, her blade was in her hand, and even Cendra was shocked by these things. She stood and stared at Jana, but the exile was not quite certain what it was that she intended to do.

But that choice was forestalled by a voice from behind Jana. “I am ever so glad you have all taken this opportunity to get to… know one another.” The Magister’s unnatural gaze roamed slowly over the room. “Pardon me,” he slipped past Jana and into the room, “be a darling and close the door. There’s work to do, Blackguards,” the Magister giggled, the fire’s light doing little to illuminate the visage beneath his hood, “and so little time to do it in. Ah, but of course I am sure you all have so many questions.”



Draycos777 -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/19/2016 9:39:08)

Selene kept quiet through most of the foolish shenanigans that happened after she had spoke. The poor girl's temper tantrum, the warriors words that reeked of: "I got scammed so now I distrust all merchants." Then there was the 'blind' man's little spill about him wanted to find death or something. It's not like his speech was any different than the last guy would had given up on hopes and goals.
She gave a small snicker when he talked about peoples forms, as if he had a right to speak about such things. Both physically or spiritually.

It was then the pirate's turn to speak his mind. Selene had to hand it to him, he was the only one to even notice the other spiders and care. However, even though he was smart about it, he wasn't wise on the subject. There wasn't any proof to pin the small house spiders on Selene, and since no one saw them climb the walls, no one knows when they actually got up there. Thankfully the silly argument that Selene had kept going bought some time for her spiders to cover a good part of the room's ceiling, though some burnt away from the magic user's stunt before they could be hardened.

Next was the priestess, who, although had very little to say, told the blind man off. Selene had to keep herself from laughing. The blind man needed a good wake up call. Although he claims to see, he isn't very good at seeing the inside of people. Too 'blinded' by his own prejudice.

"He's no different than that guy. People like him; I hate people like him the most."

Before Selene could speak up, someone else joined the band of misfits. Well, two people to be exact. The first was a rather tall woman. Well toned and tanned, it was clear she was used to working under the sun. Then from behind her came the person everyone in the room had gathered here to see, The Magister. With his glowing blue eyes and annoying laugh, he slipped pasted the tall woman and into the backroom. Selene also noticed the warrior's reaction upon seeing the tall one.

“I am ever so glad you have all taken this opportunity to get to… know one another. There’s work to do, Blackguards, and so little time to do it in. Ah, but of course I am sure you all have so many questions.”

Selene spoke up this time.

"You right we do, but, first there's something I want to say." Selene turned to the pirate; "If you're going to leave because a few common house spiders caused you to get paranoid, then this probably isn't the quest for you. Telling spiders not to build webs is like telling birds not to take a dump wherever they feel like or tell dogs not to bark at cats. It's just not going to happen. But, such is the life of us landlocked creatures. What would you have us do? Swat them away with my broom? Not going to happen. I only know what type of spider they are because they make great house guests. After all, they kill all the pest in whatever place I decide to set up shop." Selene smiled at the pirate slightly; "Sorry do I sound too much like a stereotype? I'll leave it at that then."

"As for you." Selene's smile vanished as she addressed the 'blind' man with cold eyes; "If want to die, be my guest, but kindly leave me out of your death wish. I didn't come here because to die," Selene gave a quick glance towards the warrior; "Or for glory, for that matter. I came here for the chance to remove this curse and to realize a goal. If the Magister is using me for some grand plan of his, so what? That's fine with me, since I'm using him as well. We all are, and if you don't believe that, then you're lying to yourself. Which is fine, believe what you want. I don't care either way, just remember, if you go and get yourself killed, it hurts all of us overall."

Selene hopped of her broom and walked over to the room's window and stretched out her hand towards the bright sun rays piercing through.

"I want-" Selene quickly closed her hand into a fist; "I want to change the world, and this is the first step."

Selene turned around and looked at each of the others within the room.

"I'll say this right now, since I am able too. To be honest, I don't trust any of you as far as I could throw you. However, since we'll be working together, for who know how long, we should at least be able to solve a problem together, otherwise this mission well just end up in failure." Selene glanced at the 'blind' man; "If you've got a problem with us, say it, don't try to go about it the round-about way by saying pretty words. You all are way to eager to judge without looking at yourself."

Thankfully with all that had happened, Selene's spiders had covered most of the ceiling with fine threads, unnoticeable to the untrained eye. Though the fire did help to illuminate some, others were hidden by the fire's shadow. Sitting back on her broom, Selene fixed her hat and turned her head to the warrior.

"Are you going to sit down, or are you just going to stand there holding your sword?"



Caststarter -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/19/2016 17:45:44)

The door creaked once more again. This hour’s visitor is… a well-built woman. Tanned and looks like a fine warrior. Former soldier? Heard some soldiers go into a life of solitude after their duties. Though since she is here... what could have she done?

W-wait, is that him?! The Magister?! Guess it is time then. Oh, and yes, it was “nice” to know each other Magister despite being perfect strangers still. I am sure we will gladly rip our own heads after this. “Ah, but of course I am sure you all have so many questions.” That we do… It is not like you came and asked us to fight something that may rip all of our faces off and expect us to win. Perhaps you do not expect us to. Slimy, really…

Time to fire away, I suppose. I finally walked up and sat at the table, in order to show that I am not going to slack off in this. I am no child... “That we do, Magister. First off, what should we know before we set off? Secondly, where do find this monster? Thirdly, how should we prepare for such an encounter? I am sure these are the most important questions as of now… where we might need to know these right away.” That is, if you do not deceitful like those higher-ups… Or you can pretend you do not know anything or even better, send us on a wild goose chase. A wild wyrm chase in this case I suppose. Wheezes. Curses! Do I only have a limited amount of time or something?! It is as if it is getting more severe…

Hmm, if we are going to succeed though… we are going to need to have some bonding time. We can get act like this. Is it really time to be the only adult mature wise…? They did keep asking for names… “Also, as we do need to work together, giving names will help so I will give mine… my name is Marisa Alexandra. It may not look like it, but I am ready to give my all so do not try to think I am…” Breathe in, no need to stress your throat. “... Try not to think I am a child!” Hmph. At least it will be a start… going to hate this still, though. I definitely have to prove myself to these idiots though. Just like him... though to admit, I might be the weakest combat-wise. At least I am more than that. We may have all the fighters and mages here, but without, say, a strategist and someone who can do a supportive role, we will be weak. We are now a miniature platoon afterall.



Apocalypse -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/19/2016 23:29:20)

Before Hendrik received an answer in regards to the spiders, another stranger made their entrance. This one was tall and had the appearance of a seasoned fighter. Under normal circumstances, the elf would have welcomed a partnership with such an individual. However, there were two strong factors working against her favor. The first was the violent reaction of the dyed one. It was apparent bad blood existed between the two, and even if the newcomer had not been at fault, her mere presence would put strains on relations and the job at hand. Hired blades did not have to like each other so long as they could work together. And drawing one's sword at the mere sight of the other was not a good indication of that.

The second was how the latecomer broke the group's harmony. Hendrik had bit his lower lip as he counted and recounted the number of chairs and Blighted in the room. Before her arrival, they had been seven strong - one of the numbers of fortune. While eight was not in and of itself an unfortunate one, it was an ill omen to go from a perceived seven to eight. An extraneous piece had been thrown in to the mix, tainting what could have otherwise been a brilliant concoction. The fact that there had only been seven chairs did nothing to assuage the elf's uneasiness. Either the Magister was a poor planner or one of them had been an off-the-cuff addition. Neither explanation was promising.

Speaking of the mischievous devil, the cloaked figure joined them at last. Short and to the point, he passed by the latecomer and opened the table to questions. His voice was that of a jovial fellow, but Hendrik felt a sinister air about it. For all the scourge knew, this was some sort of sick game - rounding up Blights with false hope and sending them off on a quest doomed for failure. His initial pitch had bought Songblade's attention and nothing more.

The one who called herself Recluse came around to answer Hendrik at last, though her words were not what the elf wanted to hear. She gave a longwinded defense, throwing in a jibe or two with the declaration this odd behavior of arachnids was normal and not of any interest. As if, the elf thought as the witch continued to talk the gathering's ears off. Had I reign over spiders, the first thing I would do is make the common ones poisonous and the lethal ones not. Basic deception. Hendrik half-listened to the rest of the conversation as he stared into the bandages on the back of his left hand. Bad blood. An ill omen. Deceit afoul.. How many years had it been now? Too many. This could set him free, but was it worth the risk?

Hendrik gave a slight shake of the head. No. It had already been an uphill battle, and the deck was being stacked against him. No point in wagering everything when the hand was already lost.

"No dice," the scourge said after the sick little bird was done introducing herself. He rapped his knuckles on the table twice before standing up. "Call me craven and color me yellow, but don't take me for a fool," Hendrik said to the witch. His boots clacked as he made his way to the door. The pirate's next statement was directed to the latecomer as he approached her. "Take my seat - there weren't enough for us all anyway."



Remaint -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/20/2016 3:04:04)

Only when the sea scourge leveled accusations of willed hyper-arachnid activity against the proper witch did Seiserna take note of the spiders dancing about the ceiling. She swallowed nervously as Recluse predictably defended herself. There was a peculiar shine that glared off the wood above, and unless the Third Burning held a routine of haphazardly waxing the ceiling, she was willing to bet there was spider silk strewn all about the roof. The seemingly arachnid obsessed witch had accused the pirate of paranoia, but seeing as the witch lent hospitality to a big, yellow spider using a bag on her own self, Seiserna had to suspect Recluse of influencing the eight-legged creatures as well.

Seiserna couldn’t speculate much more upon Recluse’s activity, for the moment came when the Magister finally made his appearance, and the sight of those unfathomable blue eyes once more sent a chill down Seiserna’s spine. His entrances were the type of surprise one would not get used to, but, before his own arrival, there was already present a surprise.

“Bloody Baan. That’s one Hell of a woman. A total Amazon.”

A silly remark, no doubt, but Seiserna simply couldn’t resist making it as she took in the form of the strong-woman in front of her. As a female with such a muscular build, the sack-lugging stranger before her was likely peerless in her stature. Even within the ranks of the Palorian Saints, the sorceress had seen little who resembled the Amazon. It didn’t take many clues to guess what may be within the canvas wraps she carried, but the sheer amount of clothe present made it difficult to tell exactly how many, and what specifically were laid within.

Upon hearing the Magister's words, a string of questions and speculations were loosed by the sickly sabreur, all useful ones, followed by an introduction to her name, Marisa Alexandra, and lastly, an assurance to her fighting prowess. Well, a denial to her status as a young girl, morelike. It was also rather concerning, to see a child speaking so much when she was wheezing and coughing about.

The cloaked mercenary had acknowledged the presence of the muscular woman as well, although her reaction was still yet further confounding. She arose in a stance very tense with a sword drawn. Casting glances toward the Magister and Amazon, Seiserna couldn’t find a good reason as to why the sellsword was so stiff. If anything, the Lost Witch expected the sellsword to be pleased; here was a warrior of easily respectable demeanor...who bore facial features which were strikingly similar to the mercenary...Perhaps they know one another. A noble sibling who usurped authoritative familial status? An ill-reputed cousin exiled? A sistership long-abandoned?

The sellsword’s aggressive pose seemed to be a herald of misfortune, however, for the sea scourge suddenly opted to depart. Again, Seiserna saw no effective reason as to why, and was caught off-guard.

“H-Hey! Where do you think you’re going!? Our numbers increased, there’s a greater chance for success, why are you leaving!?” I didn't even get to browse your stuff...



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