Round 2 Team 1

[Silence Sei]

The team is Ranger and Sulla. Round starts at Midnight tonight, CST, and lasts for two weeks. Good luck!

[Ranger]

I unbuttoned my black doublet and pulled the thin camicia from my torso, airing it out as much as I could. The relief was fleeting but the slight comfort brought a sigh to my lips. Overhead the sun was at its peak, heavy rays bludgeoning their way through the crimson canopy with mere spots finding gaps to reach the black soil below. The top of the trees were rattling with a breeze that didn’t have a chance of cooling the hapless crusaders below. I could smell the tinge of salt in the air as it mingled with the thick humidity, the condensation of the air adding beads of sweat to my own. The High Bard Council had started the quest by calling it the Day of Burning, and the weather had taken the naming literally. Clouds lingered in the distance, a storm brewing over the South Sea, but it would be hours before it found land.

With my wide-brimmed hat off, I let sore fingers run through blonde hair, trying to use the slick of sweat and remnants of plant slime keep it out of my eyes. I looked at my shaky hands. Green goo stained my cuffs and I wiped what I could off on my linen britches. It was no use, ripping through bloodthirsty vines and the soul-eating plants had ruined my clothes. “I’ll have to get an entire new suit, if I get out alive….”

Starting the day saving a helpless human born of Alerar by destroying a swath of felote had been a messy endeavor. At my side had been a dark elf and a faun, all three of which I couldn’t help but feel had no place in the Red Forest. Yet, the stagnation of a once proud civilization had let out a death knell. The brave, boisterous, and bizarre alike had come to the answer the call. I was dragged into the pointless endeavor of clearing the Lindequalme of Pode’s influence, countless others had come willingly.

Raiaera’s broken lands and ancient culture offered glory to those that arrived to help. To walk to virulent forests and slay the Forgotten witch, it was the very story of legends and sagas. It was a tale that would be added to the great tomes filled with glories of the high-elven past. Yet, they fought with their backs turned away from the problems of the daily lives of their people. For over a decade the Forgotten Xem’zund, the greatest necromancer ever to walk the world, had torn apart the nation. He had come with destruction in mind, one of two ancient plagues constantly gnawing at the heart of the elves. With the world burning in the wake of his death and his hordes still roaming the land, the nation set their focus on the south.

I had been surprised by the muster of people, even dark elves arriving to assist despite the Aleran nation having invaded the borders. As soon as I was able, I left behind the trio of women to venture off alone. My agenda was very different than that of the majority of noble adventurers. Pode was not a goddess of destruction to be feared, she had been just another dissatisfied wielder of magic in a world flooded with it. In ancient times, it was the dominance and arrogance that had brought woe upon the province of the high-elves. However, it was impossible to tell the leaders of my birth nation that I had no intention of killing or removing the witches curse. Instead, I wanted to study it, understand it in the way that I was beginning to understand her necromancer brother-in-arms, Xem’zund.

“Almost.”

I stopped dead in my tracks, my emerald eyes scanning the forest around me. The lone word, simple as it was, whispered in my mind with such a venomous tone I found it hard to be a mere thought. It took me a minute to realize I was alone. With eyes closed, I consciously attempted to search my own mind, feel out whether the lingering magic of Xem’zund was active. It flared in my mind’s eye, pulsing like shimmering shadow. His unseen hand pulled at the ethereal tether, a link attached during the years my soul spent trapped in the Great Nether.

“They’re coming!” I snapped my eyes open. The banshee-like cry echoed through the thick trees. Immediately I gripped my guandao and started towards where I hoped the source had been. “Help!”

A minute later I had carefully worked my way through the density of a grove to find a lone warrior. The man was as small as I, the lower end of five feet and a slim figure. His tattered armor was hanging from haggard shoulders, thick gashes oozing blood. The elf caught me in his field of vision and slumped to the ground, a single hand outstretched, the other arm hanging broken at the shoulder. With a cracked, desperate voice he called out again, “H… help me.”

I broke my crouch and wandered towards him cautiously. His eyes were wild with fright, but it was his pupils that caught my full attention. They were dilated as looking through the depth of night, but he did not wince with the afternoon glow. Frantically he looked at the wild forest where he had exited. I followed his path but saw nothing. “They’re coming. They’re all coming! Help me.”

The daze in his eyes completed the confusion in his tone. I grew closer with my weapon firmly grasped. As soon as I was a safe proximity I stopped. Hesitantly I called to him, my tone calm but my mind calling for his blood. I ignored the lust for blood, the necromancer’s influence being pushed aside in an attempt to grasp the remnants of sympathy left at my core. “What happened? Did you come out here alone?”

His head turned, like a dog searching for meaning in its master’s voice. In that instant I saw a tear roll down his cheek. His shattered hand reached for the sword at his side. With a wail he drew it, screaming ‘demon’ in an unearthly howl. The fear that emanated from him was akin to prey being cornered by a voracious hunter. Instinctually I brought my blade around, the arch wide and the heavy blade swift, decapitating the crazed elf in a single motion. Whatever his intent, his focus had been on me, as if I was evil incarnate. Fear was all I saw in the light of his eyes as they dimmed and the soul fled its vessel.

“Almost there.” The words felt almost excited, an unnerving sensation knowing its source.

[Sulla]

Two days and nights of fleeing through the frightful forest had given me no time to rest. My heart thumped as loudly as the throbbing in my ear with each fleet footfall, and a dizziness began to drag my body down. My breath was haggard, rasping through my coarse throat with some superhuman labor. But despite these minor setbacks, I continued onward without pause through the deadwood. Podë’s eyes and ears were in abundance all around me, peering through the twisted brush at my every move. No doubt a moment’s hesitation was all the perfidious witch needed to lash out, but I’d never give up such a satisfaction. As a crimson-tinted dawn rose above me in the canopy, I steeled my will to find some sweet, brief relief.

With the devil’s luck and my own keen senses, I stumbled upon an irresistible mark several hours later. Two simple fools were wandering just beyond the thicket’s wall. They’d found themselves in some old, worn animal path; well-trodden and, blissfully, clear enough of the forest’s insidious clutches. As the smaller of the two made his way to the wood’s fringes, I made my move. He was lithe and short, more boy than man, and with eerily large eyes filled with wonder and trembling in fear. He shuffled, more than walked, into the tree line, his hesitant shivering giving out only when the playful chides of the older woman grew too obnoxious. No doubt they were siblings; such simpering quarrels were why I was glad I was an only child.

With a canteen firmly in hand and thoughts of fresh water on his mind, it was easy enough to sneak up on him. My steps were more cautious than normal; though hearing had begun to return to my shattered ear, it was still too dull for my liking. Swiftly, without chance given for retaliation, I tightly grappled him from behind. His quivering warmth seemed to invigorate my muscles for a moment. Perhaps if I had the luxury, I’d have spent more time allowing the tantalizing struggle to corrupt my flesh, but necessity dictates course.

I brought an icy straight razor across his throat as quickly as I could, slicing deep enough to silence the burgeoning screams. Vanity, or some seething lust, overtook me enough to pull his head back and stare deep into those hazel eyes, welling with tears. He mouthed a few whimpering prayers before I allowed his carcass to crumble to the damp forest floor.

I’d recovered the canteen quickly enough and set out to remove his sister with equal ease. Lobbing the light metal bottle from the cover of the forest, I watched as she rose to investigate the source of the noise. She had an unnatural presence about her for a woman, though her gender hardly showed through the butch patchwork of armor. The struggle with her was more difficult, and I soon found myself tussling on the ground like an unruly child. I managed to sneak my blade on a sliver of unprotected skin on her sword arm, buying me enough of a chance to choke her.

As I strangled the last of the life out of the broad shouldered warrior woman, I finally felt at peace.

Her death rattle lacked the satisfaction of her brother’s, but with his supply of healing herbs and her rations of dried food, I could not complain. Leaning against her corpse, I took careful bites of tough fruit and stale bread, eager for the boost of energy they’d bring. My body ached all over, but the salves I’d found in the boy’s satchel eased the pain of the obvious wounds. Had I not been so tired, perhaps I could have approached them in a more diplomatic fashion.

But since my encounter with Madison, Podë’s will made flesh, I found myself too weary to don that heavy human skin. Pleasantries, flatteries, false confidences, and crocodile tears were all more effort than I could muster. Though damp decaying soil beneath me provided some relief, the apex of the afternoon sun was beginning to cause a stifling heat that made sleep all the more desirable.

”Lambs sleep on their night of slaughter;” the mantra repeated itself in my mind until the words rang hollow. Only the voice of the Red Witch, and her sickening contempt of me, lit the fires of my consciousness. I dared not even close my eyes for a brief bout of mediation, as the temptation to slip off the mortal coil and heed Morpheus’ summons would grow too great to bare. My mind would remain, racing and unstable, until I could get a solid sleep in.

With eyelids of lead and ears near crippled, I kept whatever voices I heard in my head at bay, and listened for any in reality.

[Ranger]

I squatted next to the head for half an hour, lingering far too long in a such macabre fashion. Beads of sweat dampened my clothes further as the afternoon heat bore down. Uncomfortable as I was, I demanded answers of the glossy, empty eyes, answers that would not come. I reached for the shimmering shadow in my mind as I touched the severed head. Xem’zund would not answer through the vessel I had provided, extending to me with nothing more than a sense of loathing and awkward excitement I could not gather the reason behind. “Why?”

“Keep moving.”

“That is not an answer!” My irritation grew like a fire with every passing moment, the only words of the necromancer insufficient. It was as if he was taunting me, playing his own cruel game with my mind as his sister twisted the physical world around me. I picked up the head and cradled it in my hands, staring just long enough for the ire to rise. With all the strength I could muster I threw it into the forest, out of sight and forever lost in the underbrush. “What do you want of me?”

Instead of an answer I had a sense, a pull towards the north. Whatever he wanted, Xem’zund demanded I roam deeper into the darkness. Emerald eyes searched the direction I was being guided towards, but I could see no significance behind it. The forest looked the same as always no matter which way I went. I slipped the sword and pack of provisions from the body of the headless corpse and shuffled onwards.

Breathing became harder as I moved through the woods, the air filled with the scent of death. It was not the fresh smell of a kill, the copper tinge of blood, but the smell of carrion. Overhead the canopy was home to the hunched backs of scavenger birds, talons gripping limbs tightly while patiently waiting for me to move on. The odor of decay wafted through the humidity, lingered on my tongue. I could feel bile rising against the back of my throat but kept walking, ignoring it as best I could. Intermingled with the smell was a growing irritant, an unseen assailant filled the stagnant air. My eyes watered and my nose itched.

It was with a loud sneeze I rounded the last copse between myself and the next living being in the area. I stopped quickly, startled by the boy. I wiped my nose on my stained cuff, clutching the handle of the sword I had stolen in my other hand. Another young human looked up at me with surprise, another misplaced adventurer lost in the Red Forest. We stared at each other for a long moment. As we did, I let myself glance at the body of a woman lying empty at his feet. “Who are you?”

“Sulla. You?”

“Arphenion.” Pleasantries aside, he at least seemed in the right mind, if not entirely interested in my presence. His eyes were not lost to his pupils, his hands were not shaking fitfully, and he was reserved in his demeanor. Whatever had affected the elf was not affecting him, at least yet, so I cautiously entered the small clearing. I kept the sword ready in one hand as I slumped against a tree, weary and reluctant to trust the human. I pulled a skin filled with water from my waist and sipped at it, never letting my eyes leave my company. “What happened here?”

In the distance, a low growl ripped through the forest, but neither of us flinched. Sulla’s green eyes strayed to the edge of the woods for a moment before returning to my curious gaze. We continued to keep our distance and examine each other, like two prize fighters sizing up the competition days before the fight started. I felt as if he was searching for answers to who I was, as much as I was searching for who he was. Whether he killed the woman or not, I could not tell, but it did not matter in the end. The dirty blonde mop of hair shifted as he looked around, glancing to either side as if he did not see the body that laid between us. After a moment he looked at the woman and shrugged nonchalantly. “I found her like this. Figured I could get some supplies since it seemed she didn’t need them.”

[Sulla]

“What happened to the rest your group?”

The elf had surprised me initially; I’d barely the time to get on my shaky feet before he rounded the corner of trees to begin a tactless inquisition. Had I the strength left, I would have sprinted into the woods rather than risk anymore interaction. Though Arphenion didn’t seem overly aggressive, his uneasiness was so palpable that I didn’t even need to read him to feel it. As I looked into those sharp emerald eyes, I felt the pings of confusion and the tinge of frustration. I was thankful I had the chance to hide my straight razor before it became a topic of discussion.

“Bandits,” I began, sweat beading on my forehead from the midday sun. “It seemed some men just took this opportunity to strike for a prize.” I have always found the most pleasant lies had some element of truth to them. Bitter falsehoods were always easier to swallow with saccharine honesty. “I managed to slip loose their bonds two nights prior when I was captured, and have been on the run ever since. You’ll forgive me if I seem a bit worn, I hope.”

Duplicity was, to me, as much a social obligation as a handshake. Without the cover of lies I felt as exposed as a crippled child or venerable elder left to die on some mountainside. As the unnatural haze of the forest began to make its presence more known, my weariness grew into a churning in the pit of my stomach. The air around me seemed to take on a golden hue. Somewhere off in a great distance, I could almost make out the scent of decay. Rot had never been a bother to me before, but it soon began to replace the copper taste of blood in my mouth, and I felt even sicklier.

“Is this the work of the same bandits?” As crimson, gilded light played on the elf’s face, all I could picture was how sweet it would be to end this line of questioning with a single cut. Despite the wear on his clothes and the all-too-dour pout on his face, he had a comeliness about him. Chiseled proper and trim, with a stature that hinted at strength, Arphenion would have made for an excellent hunt. But direct confrontation had never been an attribute of mine, and I had no ability to stalk in secret at the moment. For now, I’d have to let my still wounded tongue and frayed wits do the work for me. I bent down, with some effort, to unfasten the swordbelt around the woman I’d killed, before securing it around my waist. The blade that hung from it was cumbersome and required some degree of adjustment. I’d never much cared for such inelegant weapons.

“Doubtful,” I said, glancing around me with the look of a city’s watchman. I played with the hilt of the sword a bit, to demonstrate I wasn’t completely defenseless. “This woman and her brother,” I pointed to the grove behind me with a casual thumb, “were hit by something much more precise, and they still have their faces. Whoever led my attackers was a monster of a woman, and seemed to be endowed with the treachery and poisons of this forest.” The rumble began again; it seemed, to my dull ears, even closer than before. I showed no concern for it, but every voice inside my head joined in the chorus ”run!”

When the noise subsided, I finally noticed the absolutely stillness of the woods around us. Corrupted though it may have been, even the Red Forest had the fall of ashen branches and the sweep of wind. But there was no noise, no foul scream, just a hue of golden and the smell of a mass grave to keep the elf and I company as we continued to measure the man across from us. As he was about to begin yet another, no doubt necessary question, the sound of a frantic sprint echoed from the path ahead. Arphenion and I turned in tandem, as snapped twigs and rustled leaves heralded some fresh hell.

[Ranger]

The man had an off-putting nature about him, an aura of unease and disinterest. He had the appearance of simplicity, demure and almost humble. The tone and pace of his responses were well measured, yet had an edge to them. Sulla, if that was really even his name, obviously used the guise of the unassuming to belie hidden strength and intent. The way he secured the sword-belt, leaned ever so slightly against its weight as if playing on its unwieldy presence, and dexterously fingered the hilt all added to the deception. His intentions in the Red Forest were less clear than anyone else’s I had encountered since the start. It was a conundrum that caught my attention, drew pointed questions with gentle barbs to sting the illusion of calm. With each inquiry I sensed his annoyance more, but he continually quashed each inquiry with carefully chosen words.

“Kill him. Offer him to me.”

I shook my head free of the deviant thoughts that raked my conscious like jagged claws, but the voice of the dead was becoming stronger. It insisted, demanded, and my entire core fought the control. Muscles twitched along my shoulder and at the corner of my sharp eyes. I tried to hide the discomfort as best I could, but the flame of anger at the intrusion was being fueled with the passing of time. Instead of allowing myself to falter, I rose from my uncomfortable moment of recess, a jabbing question of coincidence and convenience tipping my tongue.

Instead, the quiet realm of Lindequalmë caught the attention of both of us. Until the snapping of twigs I had not realized the depth of silence that had spread through the forest. Overhead the canopy was still, no scavengers awaited their opportunity to gorge on the freshly deceased. The crack of the fallen branch was a call to arms.

With lines of sight open, I sheathed the stolen sword and drew my bow. My hand instinctually found an arrow, one of the few I had remaining, as I squinted. The amber air reflected the crimson forest through a flaxen haze, the ever present nuisance suspended in the mortuary scented atmosphere. It shifted like a curtain opening for a performance as fresh faces appeared, the second act of a grave drama or tactless tragedy depending on audience perspective. I nocked and drew the arrow, leveling it at the newcomers.

The first to appear was a heavy-set brute. His salt-and-peppered beard and top-knotted hair gave him the bearing of a man of the tundra, a denizen of Salvar’s harsh embrace. His face was twisted in disgust, his skin tanned like leather, and his bronze eyes harboring deadly intent. From shoulders down he was encased in a thick layer of steel plate, unpretentious and unadorned. In one hand he carried a wide headed maul, with the mouth of a wolf framing the anvil like surface of either side. Hanging from his other hand was a stout kite shield, emblazoned with a family crest.

“Hold,” he muttered as he slowly lifted his shield and yet lowered his weapon. The passive display did nothing to alleviate the tension in my string or my piercing gaze. He shifted to one side and allowed his companion to step around him. It was then the tip of my arrow was pointed away with a simple sigh. “We mean you no harm, but we have ill tidings.”

His husky voice was registered, but ignored in light of the oddity that stepped around him. I assumed it was a young boy, but his gaunt frame and small stature demanded deference. His presence was paralleled by his appearance. A cloak of broad cherry-tinted leaves draped from his shoulders covered most of his body, the once verdant coloration shifting to mimic the unnatural curse of the Lindequalmë. Mere slits in the wrap offered a peek at his skeletal torso and emaciated arms. His legs were covered from waist to bare feet with eagle and owl feathers in place of pants. Concealing his face was the skull of a young elk, the bones perfectly sun-bleached with an array of serrated antlers intermingling with thin branches. The natural growth of the twigs seemed to spring from his hoary, silken hair.

“Undead are on their way, Podë has raised them in her defense.” His boy’s voice reverberated through my core, so infused with latent magic that I could almost taste it over the grotesque flavor of the air. Confirmation of his words wafted through the forest, the groaning cries of grim creatures found my sensitive hearing, coupled with the rough shuffle of mindless fiends. “We must prepare, hide, live. Podë must not be given the chance to thrive for any longer, this forest must be cleansed.”

[Sulla]

The sight of the intruders brought a strange sort of irksome relief. With Arphenion’s attention divided to other details, I finally had a chance to relax my guard as he took up his own. The guise of a normal man had drained me something fierce. But the warrior and the druid posed a whole new set of uncertainties that required mental gymnastics I could not muster. The distant rumble roared again, closer still, and was followed by a low, moaning horn soon after. All of us gathered there looked restlessly around at the tree line, and the two bodies on the ground. Though no one spoke for a solid minute, we all knew what was on all our minds.

“Which direction, and how many?” I was straight to the point. My gripped relaxed around the sword, as near as an attempt to show some bit of faith I lacked. The warrior turned to me, his steel plate clattering as he swiveled his bulbous, neckless head. Stalwart and stoic, it was hard to see where the metal ended and the man began.

“As far as we could tell,” he paused in that obnoxious manner men of few words do to make sure each has that perfect impact, “all, and too many.” From inside a pouch at his side, he withdrew a map of crude leather. From a distance I could see the fresh scrawling on it, a deep black pigment heavy with a rushed hand. “We had an old elven scout in our group when this began. He’d drawn us a few of the landmarks nearby, should we ever lose our way. There’s an old house, not too far from here. Sturdy enough, if his skill was to be believed.”

His eyes had all the bend of brittle iron to them, and he cast a cold glare right at me. Salvarans, in my experience with them, were a humorless people. Superstitious and quick to anger, they would constantly look for fights when they weren’t search from the symbolism in a way a flock of birds moved. The boy to his side was an oddity to see. Unusually the northern thugs had little patience for the arcane arts, a view I could never fault them on. But this little grandfather had a gravity to him, allowing his mere squeak of a voice to roll over his companion’s like waves over a worn cliffside.

“Darkness will settle in soon. The perverse light that filters through these trees will dry up all too quickly. We must make for shelter soon, lest Podë’s fetid hand catch us unawares.” He seemed more a part of the forest as he strode forward, his feet seemingly merged to the rotting floor. An audible crack filled my ears as I straightened my back. Though tired and stiff, there was life still in my falsehood.

“Unless my new friend here has any objections,” I turned towards Arphenion, who merely shot me an anxious look, “please, lead the way.”

Our journey had all the urgency of a sightseeing tour than the earlier dire warnings would have us believe; but each among as carried more than just the weight of our arms and armor. Silence was our only true bond, though I learned their names as we continued our trod. The warrior bore some silly title that baser men aspire to receive, Virklyn the Beastbreaker. Though he never filled us in on the specifics, no doubt we shared a similar innocuous fascination as children, with the anatomy of our pets. The wizened boy held an equally ridiculous nomenclature, Woodsayer. He spoke with more frequency than his friend, but only in those trite riddles that the semi-learned mystics love. Perhaps if I’d met him with the intention to have my palm read, I would have given him more awe.

But as we left the path, back into the treachery of the forest, I could only curse my own weakness for again getting caught up in another questing group. I always loathed adventurers and their aimless wanderings. They sought knowledge, gold, fame, or some worthless notion of inner peace. But I cared for nothing in the world at that moment, save the sweet pleasure of undoing all of Podë’s tireless works. When my uncle had hired me for this mission, no bounty or friendship compared to the ecstasy that killing a god had promised.

The bright golden hue the afternoon held had turned into an amber haze as dusk began to set in around us. We were all tired, and dreadfully sick of each other’s sullen company. Our eyes had caught every fallen leaf with the precision of a sentry, and woe to any ill-formed rodent that crossed our path. Yet in the dim, humid gloom, we all caught sight of it at once. It was a cabin of sturdy stonewalls, meager, yet still two stories high. The worn gray rock on some sides had crumbled to the earth, and the clay tiles on its roof had all slid and shattered over the course of many years. Where simple glass windows once stood, now all that remained were a few jagged teeth in slits in the wall, just high enough to be out of reach from the outside. It was no castle, but we all had some glimmer of relief to see the woods had begun a hasty retreat from its bulwarks.

Like clockwork, in our brief excitement, we heard the first groan and crush of leaves.

[Ranger]

Despite my reluctance to be part of another ill-fated group, I kept my silence and followed the armored man. My mind was fitfully singing the chaotic lullaby of the necromancer, his anticipation only adding to the unnerving setting. Anxiety redoubled its effort to break me, holding hands with rage, the two monsters locked behind one slowly crumbling cage. Only the ever fading pieces of my former self, shattered and scattered throughout my subconscious, kept my unsteady hands from doing the work of the Forgotten. The struggle had obviously not been as well concealed as I had hoped, as the bone masked boy continually took the time to glance my way. The empty sockets lingered far too long before they passed. I stared back defiantly, mentally reminding myself to keep my face placid.

“He can sense your affiliation.”

“Impossible,” I retorted, picking up my pace to put myself closer to the front of the party. The base of my neck crawled, hairs standing on end and a shiver quivering its way down my spine. I would not turn around though, would not look like the guilty party watching his back. Not to some kid. "Not to some nature loving bastard from the Northlands." Against my will, I peeked over my shoulder. Woodsayer’s pace was awkward, slow, as if exertion was fading his motivation. His hand touched a thick tree and his shoulders lifted, but the tint of his cloak took on a slight reddening with his increased resolve.

The small party shifted through the forest like ghosts, quietly slipping between trees and bypassing obvious pitfalls. Since its inception, the mission to cleanse the forest had turned to something different for almost all involved. Time had offered the understanding many lacked at the start, bringing experience and knowledge for the survivors, and laying low those weak souls who had no business being there in the first place. I had twice seen subtle felotë waiting for a chance to devour the spirits of passerby’s, blood vine reaching out with dagger-like thorns, and small trees marking the concealed Dur’Taigen with fangs for roots. The group cautiously avoided each until the shelter was finally discovered.

It stood apart from the forest that surrounded it, a brilliant lighthouse amidst a sea of blood. Walls faltered under their own weight, the roof crumbled in on the second story, and yet it looked like an oasis in a vast desert. Undergrowth fled from its foundations, almost manicured to its precise distance. I felt my breath catch in my throat at the site, one I knew all too well. The sound of cracking branches and low moans broke the momentary silence of the descending darkness, forcing us to hurry towards the door. “Is this where you were guiding me? Is this your cruel joke?”

“Let us hurry inside and secure our refuge.” Virklyn suggested with shield and maul raised. He stepped to the door first, pushing it aside with the wolf-headed hammer. Darkness met my sharp eyes as I peered around his broad shoulders. It was an empty void that sapped the dying light before it passed the threshold. The mountainous man edged his way past the sturdy door. As soon as he did so I heard a loud thump and watch him stumble backwards on unsure footing. He spun, thrusting his shield arm away from his body and delivering a disheveled creature into the clearing.

It rose from the ground, arms and head slumped. Tattered rags covered the parts of its body not concealed by armor. I froze, my body wanting to draw the nocked arrow but my mind scattered by a thousand thoughts at once. The blue and silver mail was blood stained, gilding long since removed over a decade of mistreatment and decay. At its side was a elegantly curved sword, the markings covered by grit and grime from time spent in a shallow grave, but unmistakable. The living corpse lifted his head and my fears were realized. “Nolnaan,” I whispered.

No sooner had I let my thought slip with an escaping gasp than the human was turning on his heel, ready for battle. His hammer struck out with weighted fury. The head of it smashed against the side of the once honorable Bladesinger, sending the body spinning a yard before crashing to the hard-packed soil. It twisted in a macabre movement, contorting a shattered arm as it found its feet once again. Raven black hair fell from its flesh-rot head, glowing blue eyes shot in my direction, and exposed jaws chattered in challenge. Once friend, the fiend twisted its broken neck to square its shattered shoulders with mine.

I could hear the Beastbreaker’s throaty commands, the roar echoing through my horrified thoughts but unable to reach my consciousness. The druid darted past me, brushing my arm as he did so. A flash nostalgia struck me so fully that my legs gave way and I found myself on my knees. Over the desecrated body a spectral vision of the past appeared, my mind creating the picture of the man as I had once known him. A strong, determined, skilled elven warrior stood before me smiling. He reached out as he began to close the distance.

Abruptly a hammer met Nolnaan’s face, crushing half of his jaw and popping a bright blue eye like an overripe cherry. My expression contorted, warping from awe to wrath, as I sought who to bring my anger down upon. The indomitable eyes of the Salvaran met my own, and for a moment the urge to run him through with the wide dehlar blade of my guandao was all I felt. His mouth moved with empty words even as a hand grabbed my collar. Thick fingers wrapped around my camicia and doublet, lifting me to my feet and with a heavy thrust borderline threw me into the ruined chalet.

“Put a fucking log in front of it,” Sulla demanded. “I don’t care what you use, just get it closed!” I watched as the door was thrust shut, catching the last sight of the coming night. Outside, the mangled body of the undead Bladesinger struggled to find its footing. Beyond, from the line of the woods, humanoid shadows began to manifest in the haze and light cast by the sinking sun’s light.

[Sulla]

The heavy slam of the door brought a near total darkness to the room we all stood in, but there was a safety in the blanketing eclipse. From the window slits I could faintly make out the form of Virklyn holding the ring pull, pressing his full weight against the door. There was a pause for only a moment before a steady drum of pounding thumped against the wood. Though reinforced with steel bracings, the oak was worn and dry looking, and creaked with every hit. I searched futilely with weak eyes around the room, trying to make out some dim, dusty shape we could wedge in front of it. But a sudden light behind me caught my attention. I drew the blade at my side with a quickness that surprised me and spun in place, only to catch a most curious sight.

Woodsayer stood perfectly still, illuminated from horn to toe, whispering some wordless mantra from his pale lips. A swirling, ethereal ball of light hovered in place, before rising to the ceiling to cast a wispy light on everything in the room. Through our new artificial moon, I saw a large, round stone table of pale marble. Cracked and missing a leg, it would no doubt suit our purposes nicely. Sheathing the blade and striding over to it confidently, I found that my weariness made matters no less impossible.

“A little fucking help,” I strained, a bit of spittle flecking from my mouth, “would be absolutely lovely!” The Beastbreaker made a reluctant march to my side, placing his meaty paws on the marble as if he meant to snap it clean in half. With our combined strength, we managed to buckle the monstrous stone a bit, but we hadn’t the time to be playing with it. Arphenion was off in his own little daze still, ignoring my pleas and forgetting to help bar the door. Though the tiny latch lock had fallen down in place, it was more rust than iron and groaned with every smack. Before I had a chance to scream the elf out of his stupor, the young druid managed to pull another little trick. His silent speech started up once more, and I could swear the front legs of the table seemed to bend as if filled with water. With one final push from us, the table rolled on to its side as with carefully flew it into place. Jammed just in front of the door, the edge of it scraped against the ceiling, bringing down sawdust and soil on our shoulders.

The pounding at the door grew quieter, though it became more frequent. Shuffling scrapes sounded against all the walls, and a chorus of moans welcomed us to the first pale rays of moonlight. We looked around to find ourselves in a small entry room, complete with an eating area we’d thrown off a bit with our redecorating. Behind Woodsayer stood a black brick hearth with a few logs by its side. Dust covered everything, but here and there the patches thinned a bit. As I walked towards the fireplace, I could see a cast iron pot without rust, and a small bucket of water that didn’t look completely fetid.

“This place has seen use not too long ago,” I muttered. The wall near the entryway had a longbow slung on it, though it hung crookedly now.

“No doubt some elven scout or another sought this place for refuge during their missions. The best bastion they could hope for in this forlorn forest.” The druid seemed intent on touching every filthy surface in the room, closing his eyes as if to enjoy the feeling of dust on his feet and hands. Unthinkingly, I rubbed my own together to get some of the dirt from the table off, only to see the fine powder coating them had a yellow tint.

”Pollen?” It was strange to see something so fresh in so dead a place, but the mystery seemed a distant thought with the constant wails and roaring just outside the walls. With every rattle, I couldn’t help but jump a bit. I noticed the stairs behind us leading to the unknown, or the bleakness behind us.

“We need to search this house quickly. There may be another entryway, supplies, or…” Virklyn trailed, his mouth nearly shriveling. “You two,” he eyed the elf and I wearily, “if you’re up for it, check the top floor for anything. Woodsayer and I will see if anything needs attention in the back.” Given the size, a quick sweep would take no more than a few minutes, but I was uneasy at the idea of splitting off from the group. Almost as uneasy as I was by getting stabbed in the back by one of those shambling monstrosities.

As the Salvarans made their way in sullen silence, I turned to Arphenion with a grin. I could sense it, the doubt, the hate; they played upon his face as naturally as the shadows. He seemed in his own little world for a moment, though he’d been acting strangely since we rushed inside. No doubt some silly little elven taboo bemused him, they always had some issue with the undead, with slaughter. Still, I needed a competent man at my side, at least for the moment. I’d seen his keen look when we first met, so perhaps my gilded tongue could draw him out of the daze.

“There are so many questions I bet you have right now, but I can only think of one that matters. What’s upstairs?”

[Ranger]

“Questions?” I muttered under my breath, so quietly I could hardly hear myself. The whispers of the Forgotten spoke in an unknown language, tantalizing and teasing my senses. It was hard to focus, harder to move. Half-formed thoughts flooded my brain. The cottage was not an unknown place, but one that was actually very familiar. I had used it as refuge with the other Bladesingers, scouting the Red Forest for signs of the coming plague, and again a decade later when I had been resurrected. I had seen no signs of my squad when I came back to the living world. “Nolnaan.”

I stared at the door and the slab that covered it, wondering if anything remained of the crumpled body of my former friend. Raps of claws and muted groans began to echo from every corner of the walls. In the faint light of the druid’s magic I could make out the grasping fingers prying at shattered windows, attempting to find purchase and a way inside. Snarling corpses with glowing eyes peeked through the clouded windows.

My arrow was placed with its partners, a small compliment all I had left and I wanted to keep as many as I could. I slid the bow over my head and the string across my chest. In its place I drew my sword and followed Sulla up the stairs, slowly stepping with utmost caution. They groaned expectantly under foot, each holding our weight – if just barely.

At the top of the stairway was a long, dark hall. It seemed to stretch endlessly into the shadows. Sulla pointed at the rooms, moving towards one door while motioning for me to explore the other. I waited till the human pushed the door open, making sure that no more hidden undead were waiting to lunge from the room. Skins hung from racks, rotten piles of mold covering scraps of abandoned meat littered the floor, and an array of hunting weapons rested on a table against the farthest wall.

“Find me arrows, if there are any.” I whispered as I opened my own door and entered with sword point guiding my way. The darkness slowly subsided as my emerald eyes adjusted, my natural nightvision allowing me to search without concern for light. From every corner, lining each wall, were bundles of drying herbs. Vials of unknown liquid covered the two tables, broken glass scattered around the floor. At the center, a pile of the broken roof where it had crumbled was seemingly gathered in an organized fashion.

“Herbs,” I said as I met up with Sulla in the hallway again. He handed me a bundle of arrows and I put them away in the quiver against my hip. “Last room?”

As soon as Sulla’s hand touched the nob for the largest room we both stopped dead in our tracks, a high pitched scream ripping through the hallway from the lower floor. Woodsayer cried out in shock, almost painfully, and the shrill was infused with power. My legs attempted to buckle under the pressure as my hands were flattened against my ears. “What the fuck!” I heard my companion yell. As soon as the long breath came to an end, and with it the wail, I rushed downstairs.

((Sorry for the craptastic post. I worked all day, and then got somewhat electrocuted just before I left… so I’m wayyy out of it.))