A Coveted Relic

[Arawn]

“Do you realize what you are asking of me?” Rector raged.

“It is the only path left to us, lord,” Denum replied, impassive. He was not one to back down when Rector was in a towering rage, one of few who could accomplish such a feat.

“I will not allow it!” snapped Rector.

The vampire lord looked away from his brother. He made his way across the spacious study to a ten-foot window that looked out onto the vast grounds of Joran’Kal Mansion. It was night and the sentinels were keeping watch from the trees. Normally there would be no more than three or four at a time, but recent events justified the noticeable increase in this number. Rector could perceive ten silent vampires crouched upon boughs in the south side alone. It was a time of perpetual fear. The Potissimus clan was in upheaval. None of them wandered far from the mansion anymore. To do so was to put oneself at the mercy of their nemesis’ minions, which hid in wait behind every corner hoping to catch another of their kind. This was a foe that did not operate valiantly but hid in the shadows. His methods were difficult to counter and Rector Joran’Kal was at his wits end at what to do.

He took a deep sigh before turning to face his sibling. Denum was clothed in a noble cowl like his brother, both with pale handsome faces that revealed their pasts as humans. His face was defiant before his lord. Rector cared deeply for his brother, but what he was suggesting went against everything the Potissimus clan had ever stood for. They had always prided themselves in allowing only the worthy into their fold. In light of recent losses, Denum suggested they not be so aloof and bolster their forces as soon as possible. Rector would not allow it. To simply set into the night to claim countless of the living as their own would make them no better than the rest of their kind. Yet, they were different. Their abilities and physical prowess struck fear into the mightiest of even the undead. It was an honor to be acknowledged by them and deemed worthy. What Denum suggested would undermine their position and taint their lineage.

“We will make do with those loyal to us now,” said Rector.

“Do not be so blind!” Denum implored. “We lose our brethren with every venture outside our grounds! Before long, He’ll be ready to storm the mansion and take what he so strongly desires!”

“Believe me, He will never dare enter these grounds. He knows he cannot take us all on at once.”

“But while we are trapped here he eats at our numbers! We must-” Denum’s last few words were cut short by someone entering the room.


~*~*~*~*~

The animated skeletons pushed their feisty prisoner forward. Her arms and legs were bound several times with chains. One could never be too sure with their kind. Her lip seemed to be injured as blood poured lazily from the corners of her mouth and onto her pale chin. It dripped to the stone floor and echoed. The noise of her own blood dripping to the ground was the only sound that did not cause her nausea in this forsaken scene. It seemed the only thing that maintained her sanity. The skeletons inhaled and exhaled rattling breaths that seem to come from the bowls of death itself. They were dressed in rags and armed with torn and rusted arsenals. In a fair fight, the vampiress would have annihilated the foul creatures with absurd ease, but with her arms and legs bound, it was useless to hope for victory against the dozen undead beings surrounding her and pushing her forward. They were heading down a hallway with great blocks of stone at each side. She felt a sense of foreboding with respect to what lay at the end of the hall for her.

Soon enough, she found out. With a particularly strong shove from behind, she fell to her knees and positioned her palms to mitigate the fall, shackles and all. When she looked up, she gasped, for He was before her. The dark fear of her clan’s every nightmare. The being was upon a throne with skulls and spikes adorning the back. He sat majestically above her in a raised platform. The dread creature was ever armored in plate mail dyed in the deepest black that covered every inch of his body. His face was hidden behind a full helm, but his eyes glowed red from the darkness nonetheless. A black cloak hung loosely on his sitting figure. The vampiress was frozen with fear. One armored hand held a great scepter of silver topped with an orb as black as his attire. It seemed to swirl with a hidden mist that was trapped within.

“Ah, my dear Sarina,” came a dark voice that chilled one’s blood to the marrow. “I’m glad you have come to join me.”

“Yo- you won’t have what you want,” Sarina stammered. “We will never let you take it.”

“Oh, they will not do so willingly, but if my assumptions are correct, the loss of a favored daughter will cause them to act rather rashly in your absence.”

Sarina could not bring herself to speak anymore. She felt cold and was shivering all over. Being in the presence of this horrid being was taking its toll. The skeletons had bowed down before their dark master as soon as they had entered and did not move until it was time to take her back to her cell. There, she was meant to despair in the loss of her companions.


~*~*~*~*~

“What is it?” Rector demanded tersely of the female that had interrupted his brother’s statement.

“My lord, we have had another loss. One of us set out in hopes of learning His plans and has not returned. We believe the spy to be captured.”

“See what I mean?” Denum roared at his stubborn brother. “We have had five losses in the past seven days alone! If we do not increase our numbers, we shall soon fall to His might. Who was taken this time?” he directed the last question to the messenger.

“Well, I am afraid to say it was Sarina…”

“What?” Rector yelled, his eyes widening, aghast.

“She set out in hopes of-”

“My own niece!” Denum interjected. “If anything, I hope your daughter’s capture will open your eyes to what we’re up against! She was as skilled as any in this mansion. Come now, it is time to shelve your pride… for Sarina’s sake. Give me authority to order the swift recruitment of the living in Harsglen to our cause before He rallies them for Himself.”

Rector turned once more to the tall window at the far wall. His body was wracked with pain. His thoughts seemed dreary and meaningless. Suddenly, the souls of the living lost value in his eyes when set beside Sarina’s. Only three words escaped his lips.

“Make it so.”


~*~*~*~*~

Notice handed to messengers from Harsglen and issued far and wide throughout the lands of Althanas:

Harsglen Under Attack!

We are under siege. Comrades, we seek the aid of any who would see fit to help us. Our men and women are being lost to a dark threat in the outskirts of our town, which goes as yet unidentified. Any attempts to venture forth and abolish the threat have been unsuccessful thus far. The future of our village is now at stake. Any man or woman of age to breed is being taken. We beg for any assistance possible. Money is no object. Skill in combat and stealth is preferable, but any who can wield a blade will be accepted. We hope to muster our forces into a great entity and confront our enemy head-on. Our brothers and wives are lost every day. Time is of the essence, lest we be lost to oblivion in the wake of this overwhelming menace. The safest way to approach our town, should you see fit to assist us, is by the north and by daylight; if at all possible, in large groups. To venture forth alone will not get you even near our town unless your luck rivals that of the gods.

Please hasten forth, we are expecting you.


Ever awaiting new arrivals,
~ Cael Moran – Commander of the Harsglen Crisis Team

[The Name is Mudd]

It was midday that Pvt. Grahm Percy Mudd was walking on the country road; miles from Concordia. The recent incident with a bear, and those soon thereafter were quickly disregarded as a dream. Somewhere in his mind though, he knew it wasn’t. He wasn’t sure what scared him more: the look on the rampaging bear’s face as he pumped its veins full of morphine, or him believing the boldfaced lies he was telling himself.

”I must have accidentally injected the morphine into myself while I was asleep or something.” he kept telling himself. He felt it best to call what had happened a hallucination, as it would also explain why the morphine kit was spent dry with traces of blood on the needle. He didn’t want to search his body for a puncture wound just to ‘confirm’ his suspicions either. He was, as he would put it, ‘pleased as punch’ to forget the whole thing. He felt it best to travel north, as he’d eventually hit the Scandinavian coastline, and find some sign of civilization. Now, he thought he was wandering around the German countryside, probably somewhere in Thüringen, where forest took up the majority of the province. It couldn’t have been the Ardennes, as there would have been too much snow, even in the spring.

“Not like the Weimar Republic has done a damned thing anyway. Those sons of bitches are probably sleeping while we all fight and die,” he growled to himself as soon as the thought of walking around in the ‘Thuringian forest’ crossed his mind. “What the hell ever happened to democracy.” He had, of course, not been in Germany’s lush Thuringian forest at all. He’d exited Concordia just that morning and had hitched a ride on a passing grain-wagon soon thereafter. He figured it was a benevolent gesture of kindness from a German farmer trod upon by Hitler’s Third Reich, and replied a bastardized version of ‘Danke sehr.’ But that was hours ago, and the grain wagon had already begun heading east toward what Mudd figured was the Soviet front. He kept North.

It was then that he crossed into a vast clearing. It was as if the crisp smell of alpine trees held back the stench of what was to come. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw it. He never thought he ever would. There’s a point in every man’s life, where he seems to grow up about 20 years all at once. Where time and space are divided between “before,” and “after,” and you know that nothing will ever be the same again. Mudd knew this, and the sturdy column of vertebrae in his spine crumbled like Greece’s Parthenon, and he fell to his knees and wretched at the sight before him. What he came upon was a wide ditch, nearly thirty feet deep, and twenty feet wide, and filled to brimming with naked corpses; the women with heads scalped crudely and left bald in the spring sun. He came upon what he thought, in his ignorance, was a Nazi burial ditch where they took all the gassed Jews to their earthy end. What was worse, was that Grahm P. Mudd realized that the ditch stood between him and his destination: North. He did his best to collect himself after purging the scarce contents of his stomach on the healthy-looking grass. He trudged on.

Through, rather. He trudged through. The dead gazed blankly up at the sky, with faces frozen: their last expressions of emotion were those of sheer terror and despair. Tongues dangled from jawless mouths. Flies buzzed and swarmed at the slit throats. Mudd could only try not to look down. Polished black boots sank in the sea of bodies, bones cracking under his concentrated weight, and he imagined running through knee-deep snow in a Detroit winter. It was then that he tripped over an arm like one would an exposed root in the forest. He knew what was about to happen, and his chest tingled with nausea again. The young private landed, face to face with death. He smelled the thing’s rotten breath, or rather whatever stench was escaping from its aghast expression. And frankly, as Grahm would put it, ‘death’ needed a fucking mint. The private boosted himself from atop the corpses and blindly grasped what felt like a leaflet. After grabbing the thing, and stuffing it carelessly into his pocket, he opened his eyes to see about eight more feet until land. He thrashed wildly to get to the other side. He stomped down the rot-stricken faces and blighted bodies, but for some reason, they seemed to rise back up again. There was a stirring inside the womb of the rotting dead. The ditch seethed, and surged like an ocean. Moans issued from the once stilled mouths and arms reached up to grasp the living. His gaze shifted down on instinct to see what he had caught himself on this time. It was, however, the bloated hand of what he thought was a Jew grabbing his trousers, stiffened by rigor-mortis and the drying of blood within muscles. Terror struck Mudd’s face too, and soon after, so did a clawing hand of one of the risen. His helmet nearly flew off, and he dove to the northern bank with all the strength in his legs that he could muster; landing hard against the grass. He hit the ground running, so to speak. Luckily for him, 'zombies,’ a term that branched worlds apparently, didn’t run very fast.

He ran for what seemed like ages. And honestly, it was. The pursuing dead were but a pale, slowly advancing wave on the horizon. “Grampy” read the letter mid-transit while trying to remember if the town of Harsglen was on the German map he had to memorize back in infantry training. Nevertheless, he filled his head with the good memories . . .

----

They were all running in a column back at boot-camp. It was one of the long runs, but at this point, they were all used to it. Ten miles with full gear was easy. Mudd broke out into a joke.

“Two missionaries went to the Amazon to witness to a tribe of cannibals. After pissing the cannibals off sufficiently, they were forced to their knees and a fat naked man stood before them, the cannibal chief,” he began; those in his company who already heard the joke began to groan pre-emptively. “The chief screamed at the two of them, Death, or Ru-Ru!! The first missionary broke out in a cold sweat, and thought ‘shit, I don’t wanna die,’ so he responded ‘Ru-Ru!’

The chief nodded, and they dragged him away, dressed him in ceremonial clothing, and proceeded to do hundreds of horrible things to him before chopping him into pieces and eating him. That satisfied them all for a while until they came back to the other missionary, still kneeling. ‘Death or Ru-Ru!’ he demanded again. The last missionary picked death. The chief nodded and replied, ‘Ok . . .’” he paused and waited for everyone in B company to absorb the second man’s choice. “But first, Ru-Ru!” The entire column broke out into a mixture of hysterical laughter and groaning.

“JESUS H. CHRIST Grampy, that’s not funny anymore!” Simmons shouted, having heard the joke a good three times already. It was wearing a little thin, granted, but not as thin as the soles of their boots . . .

----

He eventually came across an enclave. He didn’t care who was there, who was guarding the gates, or any of that. He saw one thing, and one thing only. A tent. The oddly clad soldier ran inside and stood at attention with a full military salute, hoping to have found his beloved company again.

“Sir, Private Grahm Percy Mudd, reporting for duty, Sir!” he howled out, closing his eyes in fear that he wasn’t where he thought he would be. How little he did know.

((All references to Thüringen, the Thuringian forest, and the Weimar Republic can be researched here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thuringia))

[Iriah Caitrak]

Ira reached down and picked up the piece of crumpled paper the ‘warrior’ had just tossed to the ground, grunting and laughing to himself. She smoothed out the crinkles and read over the words her eyes widening as she did so. Though Ira was not a wandering do-gooder whose sole purpose was to save everyone that she came across, when people shoved aside their pride and asked for help a true warrior couldn’t do anything but help. Still, she wasn’t really sure what she would be able to do in such a situation, it appeared the townspeople didn’t even know what was plaguing their village and on top of that, though trained, she was better equipped to fight in Purgatory than in the Physical World.

Still…

Ira was pushed aside by a group of people wandering through the muddied streets. She moved out of their way and headed to the town’s tavern, a run-down structure made of wood that had seen better years with less termites and other bugs gnawing away at it. Inside it was dimly lit with patrons who preferred their business be kept out of the light, candles strewn of creaking wooden tables were the only source of light and there were a lot of darkened corners for people to hide it. She didn’t care though she didn’t even pay attention to the looks the mostly male populated room were giving her. To them she looked like an unarmed woman traveling by herself.

“Excuse me?”

The barkeep looked over at her, he was scruff, his hair was scraggling down his forehead and side of his head, where it wasn’t already bald that is. He smelt of something she didn’t want to think of and he was covered in grim, his hands polishing a glass she didn’t ever think would shine again.

“What ya be wantin’?”

Ira made no comment on his rudeness, “I was wondering how to get to Harsglen.”

At the mention of that name it was as if every conversation in the entire tavern stopped and every eye was on her.

“What say ya?”

“Harsglen, I want to know how to get there.”

Some guy with rank smelling breath slid up next to her on the bar, “Now what would a sweet thing such as you want to do with that place?”

Ira ignored him; better to pretend he wasn’t there than to give him an answer.

“Aye, we’ve been hearing rumours that the town is under some kind of attack and the notices that the messengers have been giving out, ‘tis not a place for a thing such as you.”

This was about the time she should be rolling her eyes and talking of her prowess in battle, but Ira didn’t boast of such things, “I’ll decide if it’s a place for me or not, now directions, please.”

The man beside her, if she could even call him a man, felt it fit to reach his grubby hand over to her and grab her ass, so Ira in tern grabbed his arm, twisted it around his back and slammed his head onto the bar’s counter, his cheek sliding against some kind of sticky substance she’d rather not think about.

“It’s not very gentlemanly to grab a lady, sir! Now, I would like to know where Harsglen is!”

The guy groaned so Ira twisted his arm harder, almost to the point of popping the bone from the socket.

“Okay, okay, you have to travel into the forest due east of here for a good half a day but then you should come across one of the roads leading into Harsglen, there’ll be signs pointing you in the right direction.”

Ira released his arm, “Thank you.” Then she turned and left the establishment, the last time she’d ever walk into a tavern and ask for directions again. The men of Althanas had no manners unlike the men of her tribe, where they actually knew how to treat a woman.

“Jeez, we only bear their children, you’d think they’d be nicer to us…” Ira grumbled to herself.


-------------- some time later ---------------

“What in the name of Sanctuary is wrong with the other countries of Althanas!?”

Ira screamed that one into an empty forest as she ran for her life, a group of pale faced, dead bodies running into low hanging branches and walking into trees chasing after her, if you really could call that chasing after her. A person couldn’t even take a walk in the forest without a group of ‘undead’ beings chasing them for their brains, or their flesh, whichever they preferred, or maybe they just wanted to add her to their ranks. Really, she didn’t know and she didn’t care right now, all she did know was that she was getting out of this shit hole she’d dug herself into. No way was she going to curl up and die in this place, good thing the undead really couldn’t move that fast, in fact, it seemed they were getting farther and farther away, which was good, really good.

Stopping for a moment, Ira rested her head against the rough bark of a tree to catch her breath, on a normal day she’d be admiring the scenery and the lack of chirping happy birds, instead she was smelling death right now because she'd come upon a small army of rotting bodies that just happened to come alive when she got close to them. If she never had to see another undead creature in all her life she would be a very happy person. Souls, she could deal with, that was easy, stab them through the chest and they went away, undead, she didn’t know how to deal with, they had no souls!

This was all the fault of that stupid guy in the tavern, she shouldn’t have actually listened to his directions, he was probably leading her to her death! Or undeath, or…she didn’t know.

Looking behind her, Ira sighed as she realized they stopped chasing her, maybe they couldn’t sense her once she got a safe distance, which was good. Turning around, Ira tripped on a branch, cursed herself, stood up and came face to face with a sign pointing her in the direction of Harsglen.

“Oh, how…convenient.”

Travelling the rest of the way proved…uneventful. No more undead attacked her, maybe she just avoided them, or maybe they were distracted by others, she didn’t know nor did she care, but soon enough Ira found herself not at the town like she’d been hoping to, but at a small clearing in the woods where multiple tents were placed up. It kind of reminded her of home, only it wasn’t as hot and she wasn’t standing in the middle of a desert, she was in a forest, still, it made her feel a little homesick. She wondered what Gereint would think of what she was doing.

Walking into the encampment, Ira was received with a number of stupefied looks from the men who were going about their business, whatever business that was. At least it was better than the leering eyes of the men in the tavern.

“Excuse me?” She asked one of the men as she walked by.

“Yes, miss?”

Finally, a polite answer from someone, “I’m here to help with the problems the village is having, is there some place I should go?”

The man looked at her rather sceptically, she was probably a little on the dirty side, not to mention the fact that she was dressed in foreign Fallien clothing, tan coloured and a little revealing due to the heat there. There wasn’t much armour on her, shin guards, arm guards and she carried not a single weapon that he could see or know of.

“Yeah, it’s the larger tent over that way.”

He pointed towards the middle of the encampment.

“Thank you.”

As Ira walked towards the tent she noticed the sun going down in the distance, a little beauty on an unforgiving day. Once at the tent, Ira poked her head inside, “Excuse me, I’m looking for Cael Moran.”

[Scars]

((Edited majorly. I forgot to mention that Finn is probably in his mid-twenties when this occurs.))

* * *

Tonas Grahn was a bastard. He was abhorrent, ill-mannered, insensible and self-loving. He was always loud and never helpful, and if he ever showed anyone any respect he would likely spit on them when their back was turned. No-one was clear on his personal history, or what path he had taken to end up under the wing of Captain Granal, but he made a good pirate, for he was avaricious and did not seem to be mindful of morals. Ferael Finn disliked him greatly for his flaws, as did the majority of his seafaring companions. There was one thing he liked about Tonas Grahn, something that was equally as important as human decency. The man could drink.

A silver tankard rattled as it hit the hardwood floor, stirring consciousness into dozens of people who had beforehand seemed almost catatonic. Countless sets of bloodshot eyes regarded the source of the noise – a white-bearded man slumped in his seat, already snoring with his arms hanging down to the floor, his thin shirt soaked in whatever intoxicating liquid he had been drinking.

“I be wantin’ what he ‘ad!” Tonas Grahn shouted with a chuckle, and even more bodies stirred from slumber, their slow movements accompanied by protesting groans.

“Aye,” Ferael Finn said unenthusiastically. The two brigands had been drinking since noon, and he was starting to feel drowsy from the experience. He could not bring himself to turn his head or move his limbs, and his vision was blurry. Strangely, one arm still lifted a tankard to his lips every now and again. He guessed it to be someone else’s.

“Bring us some o’ that!” his companion shouted, thumping his drink down upon the table, ale spilling onto his grimy hand. A voice answered his call a moment later that stirred Ferael Finn away from sleep.

“That old bastard’s drained the barrel dry,” came the reply. “We’ve got none left, I’m ‘fraid.”

Silence filled the tavern until Tonas slammed his tankard down again. “That ain’t good enough! Bring some ‘ere or I’ll kill you all you bastards! Damn it, I’m gonna cut you up!”

Ferael Finn lifted his head slightly, but it fell straight back down. In the distance he could hear some commotion; the crashing of plates and furniture. It didn’t matter. There was probably a bear or something. As far as he remembered, bears were known to…

When Ferael awoke he was walking alongside Tonas Grahn, down the dimly lit streets of some strange town that he could not recall the name of. They were there for… something. They’d come on a boat. For… it didn’t matter. He lifted his head to see where he was walking, and something pulled him sideways. He staggered into a wall and bounced off of it, then continued walking. A few feet away, Tonas was singing, though the words were slurred so much that Ferael could not decipher them. After a short time, it began to get irritating. Ferael interrupted the loud-mouthed drunk just to stop him.

“Where… where’re we goin’?” he asked, looking from house to house with a small smile curving his lips.

Tonas stopped, lifted a finger to Ferael, and opened his mouth to speak. It took a moment for him to process his thoughts. “To find… more… ale! But,” he began, shaking that finger up and down, “all the bastard tavern’s ‘ave closed up. So we gotta leave an’ find it… elsewhere!”

That was enough explanation for Ferael. The two left the town singing in harmony; singing an old pirate song that they had adopted as their crews battle mantra.

* * *

When Ferael awoke, his first thoughts were of the churning of his stomach. His head didn’t feel so bad, but he felt the need to bring up the poison he had swallowed as the night played out, and his body recognised that need. It was only when he managed to lift himself into a sitting position that he realised that something was amiss. His plans had included retiring to the ship for the night, but this certainly was not the ship. The surrounding trees revealed that much. The sun had already begun its descent, its light piercing the leaf canopy at places. It caught Ferael’s eyes, and he held an arm over his forehead and looked down.

Tonas Grahn was already awake, standing ten paces from where he’d fallen asleep. He was moving his head from side to side, and, for some reason unknown to Ferael, the other bandit had drawn his cutlass and held it at his side.

”Grahn,” he called from where he sat, “what’s goin’ on?”

“Shh!” came the other bandits reply, though he did not turn to regard Ferael. “Can ya not smell it? Taste it? Feel it?” Tonas turned his head, then, and through gritted teeth he said: “This place, it’s… wrong.” He turned back immediately, jolting as though he’d heard something.

Ferael got to his feet immediately and walked to stand next to his companion. He shook his head. Tonas had always been overly cautious. “I don’t feel nothin’.” He stood there for a short time, trying to smell, taste or feel whatever it was that Tonas had. “Nope. I don’t smell it, taste it nor feel it.”

A rattling sounded behind them like hard rain on a tin roof, and both pirates turned quickly.

“I can see it, though.”

Ferael had heard of necromancy before – the art of gifting life to the dead. It was a form of magic that he wasn’t overly with comfortable knowing existed. The dead were dead, and so should stay dead. There was no doubt in his mind about that. When he had been told of its existence, Ferael had thought it to be one of those things that never should have been, like those people that were half animals or plants with thorns on. Necromancy –he guessed that was what had given these dead humans the ability to stand and move, and to hold… weapons.

The two bandits stood facing a trio of sluggish zombies, though two more were moving to join them a little to the right. All wore the tattered rags of what were once soldier's uniforms. The flesh that was visible through the holes in their faded clothing was a ashen grey, visible muscle that had rotten revealing bones stained a sickening pale yellow. All but one of the creatures carried a standard soldier’s sword, each one of the weapons rusted, bent or both. The one that was unarmed, Ferael realised, had lost one arm and the other hand.

He drew his own sword and readied himself for the onslaught. Before they could reach him, however, Tonas Grahn rushed forward, shrieking a battle cry as he sliced down into the collar bone of the nearest oncoming zombie. Ferael followed suit.

* * *

It was a short clash. The undead were slow to move and to swing their weapons. Tonas had found that decapitation finished the creatues. Both pirates came out unscathed, though a few seconds after Tonas cut down the last standing zombie, Ferael turned and vomited at the base of a tree.

Tonas laughed behind him. “What’s up, Finn? Those things turn yer stomach?”

“They just,” he began, and then wretched. “It’s just the alcohol,” he managed to say between convulsions. “Gettin’ rid o’ the poison.”

“So, what we gonna do?” Tonas asked when Ferael had composed himself. “We’re lost, is what I think. I don’t remember the way back or nothin’, but we gotta move ‘cause I don’t wanna fight more o’ those things. Whatever they were.”

“Then let’s move,” Ferael replied.

* * *

They had been travelling for hours, clearly in the wrong direction, before Tonas Grahn finally turned and put an arm across Ferael’s chest.

“I hear things,” he said, “but not like last time. Voices. People.”

A short walk later the duo emerged from the brush into a large clearing. Tonas’ strong senses had guided them from danger – though a few times they had come close enough to require a fast paced retreat - and now they had finally found an escape from the constant threat of undead. A sizeable encampment was established before them - several large tents that no doubt housed several people. There was a little activity outside, though there were obviously many more people camped here than those Ferael could see. Daylight was fading quickly. Maybe they could get food and water here.

He approached someone nearby, Tonas in step. “You, what’s this? Where is everyone?”

The tall, scruffy man glanced over the two pirates and grunted. He looked like he had seen better days. “Harsglen Military Encampment. Taking it you read the thing…? Everyone’s in that one over there.” He pointed out one of the large structures, then continued with his work.

Ferael glanced to Tonas, who shrugged, and then the two made their way to the tent that they had been directed towards. Neither hesitated before slipping inside.

They found themselves at the back of a large crowd. Ferael glanced back outside, considering leaving immediately, before someone began speaking at the other end of the room. He couldn’t help but stay and listen.

[Chelsi]

“Not bad considering the undead don’t have a set salary.”

Chelsi bit her lip as she counted the final few gold she pulled out of the rotting pouches of the half dozen grey skinned creatures, twitching in the spasms of a second death all around her. The witch sat cross-legged on a particularly bloated fellow, using his bulk as a makeshift couch.

“Forty-nine… Fifty… Fifty-one. Not bad at all. Should buy me a few rounds and a bath at least when I finally find this place,” the witch mused as she wiped a bit of grey matter from her brow. The undead were really messy too.

“I guess none of you boys want to point me in the direction of Harsglen, huh?” Chelsi asked the still convulsing creatures, particularly one that was still propped up by a small, dead tree.

Wait… that’s no tree!

The anxious witch shoved the decaying beast out of the way to look at what appeared to be a signpost.

“I guess you were useful after all! Thanks for the help pasty,” Chelsi spoke with a smile as she kissed the zombie affectionately on the cheek and started North in the direction of the village. Unfamiliar with this area, Chelsi could only imagine what kind of people would make their home so deep in an area clearly marked by the presence of necromantic magic. Even to her dulled senses, the stench of un-death was heavy on the wind from every direction, and seemed to grow more potent as she progressed north.

Her eyes were drawn to the sky, then, as a small, thin, plume of smoke wafted over the horizon. Chelsi crested the next hill, half expecting to see another horde of zombie henchmen hard at work, but was relieved to see what appeared for be a small military encampment, surrounded by a low palisade, with a single tent in the middle of the camp, which seemed to say “inquire here if you’re looking for something” to any who would see it. Busy men scrambled around the small gathering, obviously preparing for something, grim-faced and anxious.

In front of the tent, saluting stoically, was what appeared to be, of all things, a World War II re-enactor. Thoughts of high school history classes came flooding back at the sight of the man, as she saw for the first time in several years, the first thing that reminded her of home.

The question was, what was he doing here? Any time Chelsi had ever mentioned anything about the history of her world, she had drawn blank faces and laughter. Thus she had never spoken or thought about it since, but for the first time in years, she saw the remnants of her past (and her past’s past, for that matter!) standing in front of her. Chelsi turned to one of the busy residents of the camp.

”Hey, you. What is this place? And who’s that grunt over there?” the witch called out.

“This is an outpost for Harsglen. We’re orchestrating the final defense for the village. I’m assuming he’s here to join the war effort.”

“Hmm. The bulletin did say traveling alone would be dangerous. Why not?” Chelsi mused, obviously more to herself than the man she started away from, without a word of thanks.

“Hey! Cannon-fodder!” She called out, choking back a nervous squeak. This might be the first time in years she conversed with someone from her own world.

[Arawn]

Cael Moran, as surviving leader of the Harsglen army, led the crisis team with what military knowledge was bestowed upon him. The army itself had been useless in the first attack of the Inferi. As things stood, the army was down to less than a quarter of its original size. Harsglen had seldom needed its armed forces, but was such a great town in such a desolated location that it seemed foolish not to at least have a reserve. So, in truth, the army consisted of all the men in the city that were of age. Once they became men, they were taught the basics of swordsmanship and were called upon at need, though they mainly went on about their lives rather than opting for a military career. Now, most of the men were either dead or worse. The first wave of Inferi had been composed of countless skeletons. Swords were meant to pierce flesh and rend organs; these creatures had neither and thus rendered most of the army’s training useless. Half of the men were felled with ease.

The second wave was of Inferi curst and vampires. The latter shunned the torches the army carried, but the former dimmed the light with their unique powers. Curst were the reincarnations of warriors who had died dishonorable deaths. Their skin was grey and stretched upon their bones. They instilled fear in the bravest of men. The dread of this second wave was that those who fell to it found themselves joining it. Either by the bite of the nosferatu or the stab of the curst, soldiers would be turned seconds after their deaths, an unnatural speed doubtless granted by the master of the Inferi to its forces. The final wave had decimated any who did not retreat on Cael Moran’s order, including Jonathan Fehn, his most trusted comrade. This mass of force had possessed powerful monsters and great beings bent on utterly decimating the living. They were the heavy artillery of the Inferi, ranging from deathbringers, hulks wielding dual balls and chains, to nightmare beasts, impossibly huge creatures with tough hides and sharp claws.

Yet, as if these troubling foes were not enough, there had also been disappearances linked to the Joran’Kal Mansion. The Potissimus vampires had never troubled the people of Harsglen, but it seemed the city was now caught in the crossfire of a war they did not want nor sparked. Cael had always liked the Potissimus deep inside, for it gave him hope for others that by sheer will any evil temptations could be overcome. However, if these were now counted among their list of enemies as well, Moran did indeed have something to worry about. He had sent word far and wide for aid, but very few had come. An optimistic guess would count eighty souls from the outside world added to the mere hundred that remained guarding under Harsglen’s banner. The standing leader had ordered tents raised in a clearing some miles from the town around the bonfire that was now kept lit perpetually. All houses were abandoned and Harsglen was left a ghost town. It was best they keep close together. Escape was not an option, as they would be throwing away the lives of their women and children in the process, many of whom had already been widowed and orphaned.

No. There was only one chance in a free-for-all where both opponents outmatched you. Cael hoped he found his solution in the dark elf now sitting in front of him. He had witnessed the white, cloaked warrior expel a flash of light that decimated four vampires of the Inferi in an instant. The being had then proceeded to create daggers of glowing light from thin air and lunged them at half a dozen curst without touching them, burning the undead at contact. Once that was done, the elf whistled for his steed and a silver draconic being swooped down from above to carry him off to Harsglen. Cael had stopped him as he mounted the beast and they had returned together. They now sitting in his private tent, discussing the desperate leader’s plans. They were out-matched in both strength and numbers, leaving them clinging to the bonfire in the town square and praying for a turn in their fortunes. What Cael Moran had in mind had little chance of success at best, but was all he could think of for the time being. He wished to send forth the former commander of the Black Hand with a small group to contact the Potissimus. Cael had always believed in Rector, certain it was his brother who had turned him against the living. They did not communicate nor get along, but until recently had coexisted in a tacit peace. Cael wanted it turned into an alliance against the Inferi before all hope was lost for them and the next town was caught in the middle of the war.

Hikari had come to Harsglen when a plea for help had found him in Radasanth. He had not come purely out of the goodness of his heart, nor for riches as some doubtless had, but for a sense that had been drawing him thither weeks before the message reached him. He had armed himself with only his bladed spiked chain and his daggers, not needing much else with the impressive power to manifest his own arsenal at will. It was this versatility that made him useful against the diverse horrors that now threatened the town. As it was agreed, Hikari no Ashigaru would take a number of no more than seven others through the woods to the Joran’Kal mansion. There, it would be up to what Cael had taught the elf to negotiate an alliance. Cael would not abandon his home while he still had the will to defend it; this was why he sent another.

Now, it was only left to decide who Hikari would take. Thus, they exited the private tent and went over to the main housing with most of the soldiers and volunteers to spy on the happenings before making up their minds. They looked upon the multitude of about eighty from an adjacent flap, allowing them to see without being seen for at last a few seconds. There were all kinds within. There was one being in disguise among them who Hikari would most definitely take, but that left five others to be chosen. Whoever he did not pick would be left to battle the ever-coming enemies, a feat no less hazardous or hopeless if the drow failed. Once Hikari was satisfied, Cael Moran planned to give a speech. In the meantime, they simply watched those within the tent; observing them closely among the scarce furniture and minimal decorations.


Now is your chance to interact with NPCs. Hikari will take seven people, who will include Argen, you four and the two most well described NPCs of the bunch. Chelsi will be noticed as an old friend and Mudd will be brought along if/because he's with her. You other two can contact me if you don't know how you want to catch Hikari's eye.

Curst ( http://www.wizards.com/dnd/images/mof_gallery/MonFaePG87.jpg) – Deathbringer (http://www.wizards.com/dnd/images/mm2_gallery/88268_620_24.jpg) – Nightmare Beast ( http://www.wizards.com/dnd/images/mm2_gallery/88268_620_94.jpg)

[The Name is Mudd]

“My god,” is all he could manage. A string of nothing but “my god,” over and over was all that escaped his lips. He was up shit-creek, and he most certainly knew it. There was no more lying to himself. This was not Earth. The crowded tent was a sea of heads peeping from armored bodies, ducking and bobbing like the waves in the English Channel right before the amphibious assault craft doors dropped and submitted his entire squad to the MG-42 fire. It was D-day all over again, and this time it wasn’t a barrage of bullets that came whizzing past his ears left and right; rather an onslaught of odd stares and whispers. He hated being the freak in the room just as much as any other late teen from Detroit, and it seemed that he’d better get used to it quick.

A white cloud of smoke puffed up to his immediate left. He was quickly greeted by an older man, dressed in clothes even more bizarre than his own. Out from under what looked like a flat-topped baseball-cap and bushy gray eyebrows, shot the dark eyes of a Frenchman. His uniform, what Mudd was soon to realize, wasn’t at all with the times. He was wearing a light blue overcoat, red officer’s collar, and the reddest pants Mudd had ever seen in his life. He would soon find out that these ridiculous things were called . . .

“Pantalon,” the Frenchman said to him as he smoothed his moustache, already drawn into absurdly fine points extending well past the confines of the rest of his face. It seemed to have its own habit of curling up under his nose whenever he sneered or got annoyed, which was apparently quite often, even among Frenchmen. “PANTALON!” he screamed at the boy. His moustache flew straight up his nostrils the second he contorted his face to sound out the word.

“What?! What are you saying!?”

“PANTALON! Zince you kiip stawing at zém, you might az well kno’ what zey are kolled! I am e'jucating you, stupide Ame'wicann,” he snorted, and smoothed his moustache again. His white-gloved hand picked up a silly little teacup and placed it to his lips, sipping daintily, minding his soup-strainer at all costs.

“Oh Good God. Gimme a break,” Grahm sighed. “The one person from Earth that I find, and he’s an asshole. Great.”

“Nott zeh only asshole,” said a rather tall man behind him, turning around smugly with sugar-glazed oilcook in his hand, and some coffee in the other. Of course, the man was dipping his doughnuts in the dark black liquid, and eating them that way. “My name,” he paused, struggling with what Mudd found out was the common tongue, “is Boris Zlobin Petrovsky. I zerve . . . zerve?” he glanced at the Frenchman for help, who in turn nodded as he downed another little cup of tea. “I zerve mother Roshia as . . . as . . . artillery officer.” The Soviet was big. A handle-bar moustache hung on his upper-lip like a chandelier, and a set of mutton-chop sideburns flanked his cheeks like hairy saddle-bags. A tarnished brass warrant-officer insignia reflected under a coating of dingy tarnish in the fading light. His hems were frayed, and his boots scuffed; much unlike the snobbish Frenchman.

“And who’s this?”

“Hon hon, mon ami. I am François Anton Rousseau, zee Capitan extraordinaairrre. As you have rudely observed, I wear zee pantalon rouge. It iz often said in my country: zee glory of France iz in our red pants,” he stood proudly and stuffed his left hand into his waistcoat. Very napoleon-esque, but considering the fact that the three of them were the only Earthlings in the tent, they figured they’d all have a good laugh.

The two officers explained that they were both sitting peacefully in an Allied Power motor pool, when the air-raid siren began its whine in a slow, ear-piercing crescendo. Before François had a chance to say ‘Croissant’ (or Boris, ‘Vodka’), the two of them found themselves in the middle of the Concordia forest along with the rest of the motor-pool personnel, 3 Sherman tanks, a m59 Long Tom cannon, a BAFORS anti-aircraft gun, and two Browning m2 heavy .50 cal machine guns. Problem was, they were all F.U.B.A.R. That was the least of their worries of course, especially when they’ve all been dropped straight into yet another world choc full of strife and hate. Mudd could relate. He assumed that the same exact machinations that resulted after his capture were what the Frenchman and Soviet officers we’re dealing with now. Whatever the case, they were still up shit creek.

At least they were all in the same boat.

His ears perked then. Cannon-fodder wasn't exactly a term he and the other boys in B Company took too kindly to. He remembered the day an army airman tried to say that in earshot; he only got to cannon fod- before he found a set of shoelaces around his neck. Odd thing was, it was a 'dame's voice - odd for the Army, not here.

"Who the hell do you think you..." he spun on his heel, his glare burning into everything until it met the eyes of a slender broad (if there is such a thing) - the kind he would see painted on the sides of bombers and dogfighters. "Hiya there, ma'am," he approached her, tipping his combat helmet. Almost everything about him was special issue: his dress, from the dull green of his helmet to his impeccably well-taken-care-of feet, was standard. Everything was fit for inspection, or so he hoped, save for a smear of dirt on the side of his right boot. "Fine day, 'innit?"

[Iriah Caitrak]

There were more people inside the tent than Ira had first thought she’d encounter, however the message Cael Moran had sent out probably reached widely throughout Althanas and there were many a warrior in here who were just looking to make a name for themselves, others who had just come for the money. Her, well, she wasn’t exactly sure why she’d volunteered her life to help a village and a people she’d never met before, she wasn’t a do-gooder warrior, or an adventurer out looking to make her mark on the world, but she’d ended up here anyway because she thought it would be worth her time.

The give or take eighty some-odd adventurers and warriors were conversing amongst themselves, talking about battles to come and what exactly was in store for them. Others were telling outlandish tales of their bravery in battle and their skill with the blade, as well as the creatures they’d fought. She had to stifle the urge to go over and inform one of the men that Fallien didn’t have a race of three-headed lions that were twenty feet tall roaming it’s desert, however she realized anyone making such claims was not worth her time. Most of the people in this room didn’t seem like they were worth her time, just people who had gotten too deep in over their heads to see how far in the grave they were. Still, she bet the man who had asked for help was pleased to see even a small amount had answered his calls.

She wasn’t mingling into the group though; Ira was standing off to the side of the tent, leaning against one of the wooden poles supporting the fabric. She was observing her surroundings and sizing people up, almost in the same manner that Cael Moran and Hikari were doing, unbeknownst to her. She was also looking for something, this was a war and though Ira had never participated in one she’d been there to clean up the aftermath of what can happen. Dying was not the end of everything and she was sure there were a few lingering spirits in and around this encampment, especially since she could sense one, she was just having a hard time picking whoever it was out in the mass of bodies within the tent.

It took her a few minutes but she finally spotted him, a soul who would have been a good-looking man in his life and a warrior too. No, mayhap not a warrior but a soldier instead. He was looking around the crowd, his eyes shifting from person to person observing the people who had come most likely to protect his village.

She watched him for a few minutes before his eyes found her and she noticed he was about to look away when he finally realized she was not looking through him but at him. It was not surprising the look that passed over his face when he realized it a second before he vanished and then appeared beside her.

“You can see me?”

Ira glanced at him only for a second before turning back to the crowd, “Yes, you are slightly see-through and you are wearing the clothes of a soldier that are stained in the blood and mud of your last battle. You have a large black hole in your chest and you tend to hover slightly above the ground, who could miss you?”

He actually smirked at her sarcastic remark.

“I know that I am dead and I know that it is unnatural for a person to be able to see the dead.”

“A normal person, yes, but I’m of a peculiar race that’s sole purpose seems to be guiding and helping lost and tormented souls.”

He folded his arms over his chest and regarded her for a moment, “I am not a lost or tormented soul.”

One of the men in the crowd was looking at her oddly as if he noticed the fact that she was talking to no one, from his perspective anyway. She glanced back at him, cold, silver eyes that were constantly swirling and showing no emotion. He quickly turned away.

“Yet you stay behind instead of moving on, why is that?”

He sighed and looked towards the far end of the tent as if seeing something she did not know was there, “I was hoping in some way that I could help, or maybe I just wanted to see Cael again before moving on. I’m not really too sure, but this tent is filled with strangers ready to go into battle for a village most of them have probably never heard of.”

So he was a friend of Cael’s.

“That’s true and I am oddly enough one of those people.”

He nodded his head, “Do you think you could do something more me?”

Instead of just glancing at him, this time Ira turned and looked straight at the man and partially through him, “What is it?”

“I’m going to be staying here until I see the conclusion of this war, whether we win or not, but I’d like you to give a message to someone for me.”

“Cael?”

“Yeah, can you tell him that Jonathan Fehn said he was right and that I should have retreated when he gave the order to…and that I’m sorry I cost Harsglen the lives of so many men for my bullheadedness.”

Ira could tell that this pained him, that he’d made an error in judgement he clearly saw now and that now it was too late to do anything about it. Normally she wasn’t one for running errands around for the dead, that tended to complicate things when it was easier to just release them from this world and hope for the best of them wherever they were sent, however, she’d make an exception this time. Besides, having a ghost on one’s side during a war could be rather useful and he did say he was going to be staying around until the end.

“I shall.”

He smiled kindly to her, “Then follow me, I will lead you to where he is hiding and watching the warriors within this tent.”

Ira hadn’t known he’d been watching them but she wasn’t too surprised, he was probably sizing up the individual strengths of the people here. Following the ghost through the crowd, Ira soon found herself on the other side of the tent where a small flap was left dangling in the breeze. Cael was most likely on the other side of this, along with someone else she could sense, and a strong someone else at that. Jonathan nodded his head letting her know it was so. Instead of barging through to the other side Ira leaned casually against the wooden post beside the tent flap and looked out over the crowd like she’d been doing on the other side.

“I have a message for you: Jonathan Fehn would like you to know that you were right and that he should have retreated when you gave the order, and that he’s sorry he cost the lives of so many of Harsglen’s men with his bullheadedness.”

When she finished, Jonathan gave her a kind smile and nodded his head, she didn’t know what the other man’s reaction was though, she kept her back to him pretending he wasn’t there. Her job done, Ira pushed off the post and headed back into the crowd noting that Jonathan was following close behind her. She didn’t mind and she didn’t blame him, why wander through a sea of faces that couldn’t see or hear you when she was here and could do both?

[Chelsi]

“Yes, you are slightly see-through and you are wearing the clothes of a sol…”

“Um…” Chelsi began, maneuvering her gaze towards the central tent in the small enclave.

“A normal person, yes, but I’m of a peculiar race…”

”Am I the only one who noticed, that crazy broad is clearly talking to herself? Just how hard up for soldiers is this Cael Moron guy?” Chelsi said, cocking an eyebrow as she turned back to face the war re-enactor. The grunt greeted Chelsi in a less than educated manner which only caused the witch to speculate further, the quality of these mercenaries. Not that it was her place to judge. If anything, she fit in well with this rag-tag militia. A woman who came from as sketchy of a past as Chelsi, was definitely in no position to criticize. Not that it ever stopped her before.

”So, Private Cannon-Fodder, Joseph Stalin, Charles De Gaulle, and a girl with an imaginary friend, are all going to save a village with the rest of these unorganized jokers? Where are all the real soldiers? I’m not going to be able to do this on my own…”

Chelsi closed in on the private, coming close enough to make out clearly the slight unevenness of his once broken nose.

”You know, you look kind of familiar. Didn’t we meet once at a tavern in Alerar? No?” She finger-walked up the man’s leg, starting at the knee and stopping just short of his inner thigh, when she was certain the man was at least slightly uncomfortable. “It must have been someone else I guess.”

The fact of the matter was, that Althanas was a world dominated mostly by men, and in order to carve out a place among them, a girl had to either be one of them, or establish a hold over them. Chelsi found the latter of the two much easier to accomplish.

“Ples to be excusink me, mees…” the Russian man standing behind the American interjected.

”Chelsi.”

“Oui, Mademoiselle Chelsi. Befo’ we met yohor ami ‘ere, we were alookingu for Monsieur Moron aussi.” The French-man added.

Chelsi stifled a giggle, noticing her ‘mispronunciation’ of the Commander’s name had caught on. She shrugged though, not even knowing herself where the elusive Cael Moran might be located.

“I dunno. Ask the crazy chick. Or maybe those two gentlemen.” Chelsi added, noticing the addition of two shadier looking gentlemen who were making their way towards the central tent. Why don’t you flag them down for some information, and I’ll go see what’s up with Miss Talks-To-Herself. Go do some… reconnaissance or whatever it is you military types do.”

Flipping her hair femininely, confident that she had made a good first impression with the soldier boys, she did not bother to look back, knowing that if they were like all the others, they’d follow her eventually. Which was good. She had more than a few questions for them anyways. Striding closer to the bonfire and the large tent beside it, Chelsi narrowed her eyes at the young woman. Still distracted by the prospect of communicating with someone from “home”, she didn’t notice the definite, powerful presence of necromantic energy as she neared the girl.

”Hey, you. If I might… Interrupt… for a moment” Chelsi smirked. “Do you know where I can find Cael Moran?

[Iriah Caitrak]

”Do you mind if I follow you?”

“No.”

”So what’s the name of your race?”

“We’re called Calerian’s, we’re from a specific tribe in Fallien.”

”What exactly do you do?”

Ira turned and looked at the slightly transparent Jonathan Fehn. She’d been watching an interesting interaction between a group of three men and a woman but his questions were distracting her. She couldn’t hear what the four of them were talking about, but the men were dress rather oddly, especially the one who looked like he was trying to blend into the forest, while the other was trying to stick out like a sore thumb with those pants. She didn’t know what to make of the woman, but to each their own, Ira probably stood out in this crowd too with her Fallien clothing, purple hair and silver eyes. Then again…some of these ‘warriors’, they were wearing armour she swore was made solely to just be shiny.

“What’s with all the questions?”

Jonathon shrugged, “I’m just curious, okay? I’ve never met anyone before who could see and talk to the dead.”

“You do realize that you are that ‘dead’ you’re speaking of?”

”Yeah…” He looked away from her into the crowd and over in the direction Ira knew Cael Moran was now watching them from, “Yeah, I know, but there’s nothing I can do to change that.”

Ira nodded her head, glad to know that he wasn’t thinking about returning to his old life, which would keep him trapped here and then in Purgatory where she would eventually be forced to send him to Sanctuary.

“So,” He started again, “What exactly is it you guys do?”

Ira laughed at his persistence, “we travel to and from Purgatory, a place between Abyss and Sanctuary, or as you might know them, Heaven and Hell. Souls with regrets they cannot let go of eventually get trapped there and slowly lose their humanity in that dismal place. We go in and ‘release’ them from Purgatory, taking their regrets and any evil they have done into ourselves, if we take in too much we become corrupted and turn into nothing but monsters who will never stop killing until we are killed.”

Jonathan looked at her with pity in his eyes and Ira couldn’t understand why.

”That’s a sad existence…”

“W-what?”

”To live your life going to a place where souls get trapped and freeing them only to in turn be corrupted by your good deeds. It’s not that great of an existence.”

She’d never looked at it that way before, “I choose to do this with my life and I regret nothing.”

”You’ve got company.”

Ira raised a brow then turned around in time to see the girl from before approach her and ask her where Cael Moran was. Of course she did know where he was but she wasn’t about to tell this random woman that. Clearly Cael wanted to observe the crowd of warriors without making his presence known and Ira wasn’t about to just point someone in his direction.

“Sorry, I can’t help you there, I don’t know where he is.”

Ira heard Jonathan chuckle to her left but she didn’t turn to look at him, just kept her eyes on the strange woman before her who had clearly seen better days.

[Scars]

“Is there anythin’ happenin’?” Tonas questioned, attempting to peer over the heads of those standing in front of them. “I can’t see shit, Finn.”

They hadn’t moved from where they had entered the tent, at the back of the crowd. Tonas Grahn had the idea that something special was happening and wanted to stay, against Ferael's wishes. He glanced from one body to the next, his brow twisted in puzzlement. There were so many people here, of so many different races; people of the likes of which Ferael had never seen before. He could not imagine what had brought this vast collection of individuals together, but it probably wasn't for a tea party. Though curiosity urged him to stay and discover what was going on, logic told him it was safer to move on.

However, he could not.

Tonas had attempted to move forward through the crowd, and had failed when he’d barged someone from his path, shouting a string of exasperated curses. The human warrior hadn’t fought back, instead just shooting the pirate a poisoned stare as he regained his balance. However, his friend had.

The man that had stepped up to oppose Tonas Grahn for his unruly behaviour was built, and looked like, a bull. His features more-or-less resembled those of a human, but his hair was white and seemed to grow over the top half of his face as well as on his head. From that messy white mane grew two horns, each about two hand lengths long. His hands, Ferael noticed, were large and taloned, and his eyes were twice the size of a human’s. The most defining feature about the strange protagonist was his height, and that was the thing that worried Ferael the most. He loomed over Tonas, the human only coming to his chest. He cringed when Tonas turned his attention to the behemoth.

“What?!” the buccaneer shouted, lifting his head to meet the gaze of his challenger. They stood there in silence for countless seconds before Tonas spoke again. “Move, ya dim-witted freak! What’s wrong with ya!”

The one facing Tonas lifted his right hand and squeezed, his knuckles cracking with a sound alike to the crunching of stones underfoot. He smiled, revealing a full set of huge, yellow-hued teeth, and from his throat was emitted a low growl. It was a clear challenge. Ferael made his way forward with intention to pull Tonas away and end the dispute before his companion was torn limb from limb.

“Right!” Tonas answered before he could move to restrain him. The real answer came as he jumped, wrapping one hand around one of the huge creature’s horns and pulling him down. Tonas’ rising fist connected fully with the giant’s jaw. As the pirate landed, his opponent stood straight.

And then toppled.

Tonas spat upon the fallen body of his colossal enemy, and then stepped over him, wide eyes following him as he disappeared into the crowd. Ferael moved in quick pursuit. Tonas Grahn had gotten lucky. Not every warrior here would fall to his practised punches, though Ferael guessed that Tonas believed so.

[Arawn]

“I’ve made up my mine, Moran,” Hikari no Ashigaru said to his superior, for this endeavor at least. “Give your speech.”

“Very well,” said the human and marched into the tent, his voice still uneasy from the woman's deliverance of a friend's message, which had caught both of them off guard. Nevertheless, he was the very picture of composure as he entered and waited for silence, a credit to Harsglen's people.

Hikari ducked behind the flap, lest he be seen. Due to the nature of his assignment, it was better that the main army decoy not be savvy to it. As Cael Moran made to the head of the tent, silence began to fall around the room. Those who knew him ceased to speak out of respect and those who didn’t simply followed along with the others. The entrance of Cael Moran did more than this, for it was a cue for the being Hikari had planted within the tent. Argen came out by the entrance Moran had used and stood before Hikari. The silver dragon was disguised as a human with dark hair, a form not usually chosen, but at the time, most convenient. In a town of humans, the race was more quickly accepted. Now, as Cael was within the tent and the elf and dragon outside, Argen waited in silence. They seemed two beings conspiring in the shade of the raucous tent, their plans involving those within.

“I’ve decided five is the number of individuals we’re taking along, Argen,” Hikari finally said. He had come to this conclusion with the arrival of Chelsi. “Now,” the elf went on to the polymorphed dragon in the dark, “I want you to first contact Chelsi and her companions. You may mention my name as she's a former acquaintances.”

She had been the leader of the Order Within Chaos, a clan Hikari once counted himself a member of. She was joined by three oddly-dressed men, and the dark elf thought it a possibility she would come more easily if not asked to separate from them, eager to have a known aide in their venture besides Argen. Her being there was pure luck and Hikari sought to cash in on it. With her, he would at least be assured skill, as was a prerequisite for their mission. He knew Chelsi to be a witch of some sort. Though he had never witnessed her talents firsthand, it was more to go on than was the case with the rest of the tent's inhabitants.

“After that,” Hikari continued, “I want you to contact the female that came over to us. Those will be all.”

Hikari was not pointing into the tent to make clear his targets, but there was no need. Argen knew whom he meant among the mob. The trio with Chelsi was in by sheer circumstance. The girl would be coming along for her odd declaration of communicating with the dead. If she spoke the truth, she would be of great aid. If she lied, she would be best kept from the main army anyway. The white warrior wished to bring along some brute force, but it was impossible to choose among those inside the tent who was truly capable and who simply appeared so. He was about to leave somewhat dejectedly when he heard the sound of something heavy crashing to the ground. Looking in on the tent, he saw a pair of humans standing by a giant of a creature one of them had just knocked down. With a rare chuckle, Hikari grabbed his dragon's human arm and pointed the men out.

"Invite them as well."

Without a word, Argen went into the tent and Hikari marched off in the dark back to a smaller, private tent he had Cael Moran set aside for his purposes in the encampment. Argen was to walk among the group in the larger tent as Moran gave his speech and telepathically invite the people his master had mentioned to join Hikari once the speech was over. The individuals would never know where the message came from, but simply hear it in their heads. It was an invitation to go outside, discreetly, and go where they were instructed. The dark elf’s location was directly to the left of the large tent’s exit. Those Argen contacted would get his information and presumably leave after the speech, not drawing attention to themselves in all hopes.

Hikari’s face was set as he walked into the room where they were to convene and made to sit behind a plain wooden desk. He took off his black cloak and put it on a stand, revealing the brown leather garb adorning his muscular white form. Sitting behind the desk, he faced the only entrance and exit to the study-like tent. There was a bookshelf to the elf’s left with manuscripts and documents not pertaining to the moment. All that mattered now was a map set in the middle of the desk. There were ten chairs opposite him, only seven of which would be filled. So, Hikari waited for Moran to give his speech and the chosen few to arrive, that he may begin briefing them on the truth of the matter and debriefing them on the fanciful tales of heroics Moran was doubtless spouting out at the moment.

~*~*~*~

Cael Moran’s heart was beating fast as he made his way o the head of the tent. There was a platform raised about a foot high at the end. He stepped up and silence ensued. He was then standing alone, a solitary figure about to address the masses. He knew the speech he planned to give by memory and was thus empty-handed before the crowd. He saw Argen entering the tent from where he had just come and proceed to walk amongst those gathered in front of the surviving leader of Harsglen. Hikari had told his ‘pet’ those he wanted to accompany and, as was their plan, Argen would contact them individually. Cael would not know whom the dark elf had chosen until his speech was over and he saw them leave. He hoped they would be discreet, but a wary eye would be able to spot them. He then began his short speech.

“Comrades, I thank you all for coming,” he dictated with a boom in his voice expected of a man held in such esteem. “There are few present here who can say they have not witnessed the undead that threaten to grip our town in their favor, whether it be in your coming or in defense of it. I will make no claims to the glory of our cause, but simply say that we are fighting the worst enemy any man can ever face. Know now that we do not confront faceless masses of enemies, but our own friends as well. I have seen the blood of my dearest companions spilled by one of their own and have, in these days, been forced to raise my sword against companions I cared for dearly. In joining us you forfeit the right to mercy if you are taken by the enemy. There is no salvation from such a conversion, a lesson we have learned with blood and tears,” he paused for a second before going on.

“Yet, there is hope. Some said we would not last a night against the undead, but we have lasted far more. They fear us. They know we have more power than they can challenge, which is why they fall back on underhanded tactics of trickery and ambush. Now, there are those among you with your own agenda, doubtless attracted by the promise of treasures I gave. This was not an empty proposal. I’d rather empty the town’s coffers than see it burn to the ground. Money, if such is desired, will be given to any who aid us now. As for our mission, it is simple. We seek to defend this town without question. As I said before, our enemies are not marching upon us because they can’t. What little we know of them tells us they are far from their main citadel and are weakened. We will wear them out in our present defense and so weaken them for our later advancement. This is not a task to be taken lightly and any man believing they will show cowardice in the frontline may leave now or be killed in their retreat. A dead ally is preferable to another undead enemy…”

So on and so forth went his speech, each word slightly more bitter than the last, until, “…I now call upon you to take heart and aid us in saving this town from the accursed undead.”

So it was ended and the mass of people was allowed to mutter once more as Cael got off the platform to walk and talk among them. He felt guilty. He was playing with their pride with his words, convincing them they were the greater force. He did not lie in that the Inferi were afraid to advance, but it was not for fear of the Harsglen resistance. After their first assault, the vampires of Joran’Kal attacked them from behind and decimated many of their forces. Likewise, it has been seen that when the elite clan of vampires has advanced, the Inferi take the chance to strike their greater enemy. Harsglen was not a threat to either group. In fact, Cael Moran had yet to hear a report of one of the Potissimus vampires slain by their own. Hikari and his troupe had the fate of Harsglen in their hands. The dark elf had to convince Rector of an alliance against the Inferi. Otherwise, Harsglen would be no more than a footnote in the retellings of the great war about to erupt.

I leave to each of you the individual phraseology of Argen's telepathic invitations.

[Iriah Caitrak]

The woman before Ira never had a chance to respond to her for at that moment Cael Moran was moving through the crowd and everyone was beginning to grow silent before he addressed the large group of men and what few women there were before him. Though the words he spouted were daunting and could make the most battle seasoned warrior want to turn tail and run, they also inspired hope in those around her and Ira could see he was boosting their moral.

”He’s lying.”

Ira blinked and looked at Jonathan floating beside her, the man had his eyes on his old friend who could not see him.

“How do you know?” Ira whispered, not wanting to be disrespectful and not wanting to draw any stares.

Jonathan gave a sad smile, “I was there at that battle and I saw what happened, even after I’d died. He’s trying to boost everyone’s morale and he’s probably got some kind of back-up plan because there’s no way we’ll win fighting the army of undead and the vampires.”

”Vampires?”

Ira really was lost in the world outside of Fallien when there were so many races she’d never heard of. Her tribe was too isolated for it’s own good.

”Plus,” Jonathan continued with a lighter smile, [/I]”Cael’s eyes always go down and to the left when he’s lying.”[/I]

Ira had to stop herself from laughing at that one. Just like a good friend to know exactly when someone was lying by way of his body language. Still, it wasn’t something she should be chuckling over, if Cael was lying about what was going to happen then a lot of people in the army who went head to head against the undead were going to die. A lot of people in this room were going to die.

It was at this time, while Cael continued on with his speech, that Ira felt someone invade her mind. She stiffened, every muscle in her body locking tight, at first she thought it was Gereint but then she realized her body had reacted so because it was an unfamiliar presence.

”Your presence is being requested, once Cael Moran finished his speech you are to leave the tent as discreetly as possible and make your way to a smaller one off to the left side.”

Just as quickly as the presence was within her head it was gone and she relaxed, still, she felt slightly violated having an unknown person inside her mind. It left her feeling a little vulnerable and her eyes travelled to those closest around her and those in front of her but she could have no idea where the message had come from. The thought of ignoring it did pass her mind, but someone was clearly looking for her help and she knew that Cael was lying about the military forces thanks to Jonathan, so why would she want to stay here?

”What’s wrong?” Jonathan asked.

She glanced over at him, “Someone was poking around in my head and asking for my presence elsewhere once Cael finishes his speech.”

”Perhaps the old dog has a few tricks up his sleeve after all…”

A few minutes later, Cael finished his speech, something Ira had been patiently waiting for and in the hustle of the tent and all the clatter of the talking warriors afterwards, Ira found it easy to leave without anyone notices her and if they did they just didn’t care where she was going. Once outside, she saw the smaller tent off to the right that the voice in her head told her about, how she wished she could strangle the bearer of those words and how they’d disrupted her equilibrium.

”Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I don’t like it when people poke around in my head, the only one I let in there is my shaman Gereint and having an unfamiliar presence speaking words to you can be a mite unnerving.”

She was speaking out loud and louder than she should but she didn’t care who thought she was crazy.

Jonathan just nodded his head and followed her towards the tent. Pushing back the flaps, Ira found herself standing before a rather sparsely decorated tent with a large table meant to seat ten people and one person inside. Ira had never seen anything like him, used to men of dark complexion from her native Fallien, seeing someone so white, well, it was a little weird. His hair was blacker than sin and…he had fangs. Just barely seen, but they were there. His eyes were just as dark as his hair and Ira changed her swirling silver ones to match his blackness.

Ira leaned back against the wooden post by the entrance and crossed her arms under her breasts.

“I take it you’re the one who called?”

She recognized his presence from the one she’d felt behind the tent flap when she’d spoken to Cael about Jonathan. Even though he was easily more powerful than she was and his appearance was…daunting, he didn’t intimidate her. It was hard for the living to intimidate her anymore when she’d seen so much of the dead. Instead, she found him fascinating.

[The Name is Mudd]

He’d not felt the grace of a ‘dame’s touch for months, a real ‘dame - not the scabby kraut war widows whose nazi husbands were killed fighting for Das Vaterland. They all lost what he needed, and as sorry as he would be to admit it, the kid really needed more than fifteen minutes in an outhouse with his pin-up magazines. It was the only woman he ever got on the front. As odd as it was, when you spend day in and day out breaking the back of a regime bent on world domination, risking your damned neck for a world you didn’t exactly have much hope for to begin with, all you really want is to get your rocks off. With this in mind, Private Mudd’s response to the Russian made sense when he interrupted.

“CAN IT, SLOB,” he spat back frustrated. The private could stand for a little more of what the lady had to offer, not to mention the private’s privates, that was for damn sure. He didn’t mean to turn the word Slav into a racial epithet, and he could feel the angry soviet staring back at him from behind his moustache. Everyone was pretty on edge. Mudd was one panzer tank short of a blitzkrieg in the “keep it together” department. He was a loose cannon; a fitting description despite him having lost his M1 in the Ardennes.

When the little lady gave him orders, however, she became something besides a ‘dame. She became a sass: another breed of female he was quite used to. Just because he had a cod to swing didn’t mean he would be tripping over it, chasing after some lousy skirt. The other two officers turned away, the Russian nodding in acknowledgment, and the Frenchman doffing his hat. Mudd barged right between them, parting them like so much water in the Red Sea. The grunt marched right up to the brat, extended a grimy finger and jabbed her a few times with it on the shoulder blade.

“Look. I don’t take orders from no ‘dame. You’s for beddin’ and weddin’, so I’ll have no undue fussing from someone who can’t pee standing up. And I don’t wanna see you try, neither. I’m going where you’re going.” He paused. He had ignored the metallic-purple hair havin’ broad until her last little bit - talk of purgatory, heaven, and hell. She was talking as if someone was really there. He couldn’t resist. “Who’s the space cadet?” he joked. A few others glanced at the private with an odd expressions. “WHAT?!” he flung his arms up in the air. “Don’t eyeball me, son. I’ll hit you so hard, you’ll be talking to yourself too. I’ve got a shovel that’d look great against the side of yer hea. . .”

He stopped. “What in all hell,” he glanced over his shoulder with a mutter. “Someone’s calling my name. You hear it?” he asked Chelsi. “Oh... wait. I’ve not introduced myself yet. The name’s Mudd. Graham P. Mudd. The guys just call me Grampy. Coulda swore someone just said my name.” The grunt looked left and right, peering over the top of the woman’s dark haired head as if someone was standing behind her, and throwing his voice. Bewildered, the only place he hadn’t looked was up.

“Mudd. The other tent. Doubletime.”

He glanced warily at the little lady next to him and proceeded into the tent, this one a little less spacious. The speech was like one he’d heard back in the second Great War: the one about insurmountable odds, and not surviving another week, and not having enough supplies, and the sobering sound of church bells in the background that made a booze-buzz a lost luxury. Mudd sighed his reply, managed to draw in a shuddering breath, and fell silent.

[Chelsi]

Beneath the surface of every pond, is a myriad of secrets. Of course, anyone looking at a pond will only see its calm, cool, and inviting surface, or in some cases, the threat that accompanies a watering hole of which all sorts of predators call their own. It is because of this outward appearance that we never examine it closer than need be, willing to accept everything at face value. And for that reason, we never really see the beauty hidden beneath the waves… or the deeper, darker, danger.

_________________________

“Look, I’m not sure what they teach you in the army, but the least you could do is buy a girl dinner before you start poking her from behind,” Chelsi said, rolling the innuendo over her undeniably full, feminine lips, as she spun on her heel after being turned down by the purple-haired woman and her imaginary friend.

In the background, the young witch also heard the beginnings of Cael Moran’s preemptive eulogy for all the gathered soldiers. The American before Chelsi went through a stream of chauvinistic insults, most of it she had heard before.

But the man won points for his retro jargon. At least that was kind of original. By the time the bizarre grunt was done his spiel, the young witch found that she liked him even more. However, further thoughts along those lines were interrupted, as Chelsi too felt the mental intrusion.

Miss Chelsi I presume. An old friend of yours requests your presence. Please be discreet. Make your way to the tent left of the gathering, if you will.

“…eh?”

As the telepathic message ended, Chelsi found that the soldier was gone. Apparently, he too received the mental invitation. Or at least, she hoped he did. There were still questions to be asked.

“There’s so much going on, I hope I’m going to find him here. And if nothing else, Maybe Cael Moran can take me to him…”

The observant witch, noted to, that the odd woman whom she had also spoken to briefly had left before the conclusion of Cael’s speech. An interesting party, if that’s what the psychic messenger had in mind. Perhaps, the pursuit of him might be interesting in and of its own. But from the feel of the air, and from Cael’s ominous tone as he gave his speech, Chelsi was certain that if nothing else, she was in the right place.

As inconspicuously as possible, the slender woman exited the tent, all eyes still on the leader on top of the wooden platform. Making her way to the designated tent, Chelsi stopped for a moment, and fished around in her backpack. The exterior of the camp was deserted now, and after checking for any movement, she retrieved the items she was looking for; a pack of matches, and a sealed scroll. With one last nervous glance, Chelsi struck the match and set it to the paper. It caught the flame instantly, and the cryptic witch let the burning parchment fall to the dust at her feet. With that, she finished the short trek to the meeting place, and joined the three people waiting there. The purple haired woman, the infantry man, and a pale-skinned man, who’s appearance ignited the tingling of memories in the back of her mind. Some accomplishment from her past, now buried in failure.

As she fruitlessly battled the haze caused by years of alcoholism and other distant memories, the paper she left in the dirt outside neared the end of its destruction. Only the last few lines were still visible as the flame consumed it.

_________________________

…As an agent I feel I can trust, and who’s goals are not so dissimilar from my own, I hope that the terms I offer you and the task I put before you are to your satisfaction. Of course, you will receive payment as payment is due.

I humbly await your arrival.

-Sincerely…

A

[Arawn]

Paul, Hikari is hardly dark-skinned. Heh.
Scars, your guys can barge in before my next post, if you’re still into this.“Yes, I am the one who asked you to come here,” Hikari replied to the woman who was first to enter the tent, looking her over just as she did in kind. “I’ll explain things in a moment.”

Seconds later, they were joined by the oddly adorned man and Chelsi, both of whom remained silent upon entering and rejected the seats set for them. This might be a good indicator of the personalities he’d chosen, but the drow couldn’t be sure. In any case, the others seemed disinclined to follow suit, failing to enter the tent after the foursome waited in silent expectation. Deciding to push onward, Hikari rose to his feet from behind the desk. This was no small detail, his height almost a foot above the tallest person present. Towering above the others from his position of power, he finally addressed the room at large, feeling oddly out of place as a leader rather than a lone wolf.

“First things first,” he began tersely. “Forget all the lies Cael Moran spouted to his precious few recruits.”

The white warrior’s black orbs scanned their eyes. This came as little surprise to the purple-haired female, at least.

“In this case, what seem like insurmountable odds are actually worse than so. Not only have these people no chance of defeating their enemy, but their foes come twofold, both already in full capacity of sending this little town to oblivion, leaving not a living soul the wiser. The only reason it hasn’t been swallowed up in the rising surf already is that the conflicting currents have been competing for supremacy.”

With this, in came Argen. His dark hair was now a silvery white, his features elven. No longer seeking to blend into a crowd, the dragon had assumed his favored humanoid form. Without a word to the others, he maneuvered across the enclosed area to stand beside his master behind the wooden table, not meeting anyone’s gaze with his silver eyes turned downward. Hikari continued, patting Argen on the back.

“Here is the voice that brought you here on my command. He’ll be coming along with us. Now, as for the reason I gathered you…”

Finally, the pale drow drew their attention to the map (http://www.MyOnlineImages.com/Members/legol/images/Coveted_Relic.jpg) before them on the wooden counter. It showed the present state of affairs to the best of Moran’s intelligence. It would look childish to a martial officer, but it was the best they had. At first glance, one could hardly make out the defending forces among the gargantuan enemies squads pressing in on all sides. It was now that the futility of Cael’s inspiring words was made plain. On the map, the path they would be taking, along with an alternate route, was denoted in brown, cutting through forest and enemy groups. Hikari had cut this path himself with Cael’s aid, proposing that it might be the trail of least resistance, though they would still likely meet their share of foes. Pointing to it, he spoke once more.

“We have a marginally less hopeless course ahead of us than that of our peers. As you can see, our path takes us deep behind enemy lines. I intend to contact the leader of the Joran’Kal manor with a message of alliance. Cael seems to believe Rector’s hand has been forced by others and that an emissary would be welcomed most favorably by him. However, this does not mean his forces will not attack us on our expedition. A white flag will only be stained red in this war.”

Coughing lightly, he paused, thinking of the letter to Rector hidden in the folds of his hanging cloak.

“We all have our reasons for being here,” Hikari looked at the trio. “You are not in this yet, though you be privy to information of a gravely sensitive nature. I have need of companions to ensure the message gets through. Monetary compensation is no object. You’d be surprised how freely an ill-fated town opens its treasury. So, who of you is willing to embark on this venture by me?”

As he finished, his eyes met Chelsi’s. He suddenly felt outside himself, as if he were witnessing the moment from a separate viewpoint. He felt his right eye wink at the witch, though he had not willed it to do so. Coming back to himself abruptly, Hikari blinked a few times in quick succession, as if fighting back fatigue. Unsure of what had just happened, or even if it had transpired at all, he gave no further confirmation that anything odd had passed, letting the silence invite the others to speak up.


*~*~*~*~*

“How is our spy fairing?” the dark lord spoke regally from his black throne in the Inferi fortress, a smile playing across his face from within the concealing full helm. Every word echoed poisonously from the hall’s onyx walls.

“Our mole has been most conveniently placed to reach Rector, my lord,” spoke a specter to its master. The phantom floated in the air before the Inferi commander, mist composing the majority of his present shape, though he had been invisible when overhearing Hikari’s choice of companions outside the main tent.

“And I suppose the convoy will be departing soon,” the chilling voice came once more.

“Yes, my lord,” the ghost replied simply, not exiting as expected.

“Is there something more?” the black king asked, his short temper already rising.

“Well, master, it’s our chosen ally. Is it wise to trust such a being?”

All of a sudden, the black plate mail clanged loudly as its wearer got to his feet. Holding out his silver, orb-topped scepter he began to speak words of an ancient language, every indecipherable word a menacing hiss in the specter’s direction. The effect was plain for anyone to see. A lightning bolt-shaped crack began to course its way downward from the ghost’s forehead, glowing a brilliant white. It screamed in such agony as he thought was lost to it in death. With a crack, he was split in two and sucked instantaneously into the swirling black orb atop the scepter. With an enraged exhale heavy with fury, the armored being sat back down on his skull-adorned throne. His eyes burned bright red, just as when he had addressed the captured vampires.

“Never question me,” he commanded the room, now devoid of any sentient presence besides his own.

[Scars]

((Better really, really late than never.))

* * *

Ferael Finn found his troublesome companion standing amidst a sparse crowd near the front of the tent, listening intently to Cael Moran’s speech, his arms folded over his chest. Ferael grabbed Tonas’ shoulder and turned him. Frustration washed over him as he watched Tonas Grahn meet his gaze and smile.

“What the hell d’ya think yer doin’?” Ferael growled. “Yer gonna get us killed. We gotta leave.”

Tonas shrugged in response. “No-one’s followin’ me, are they? Quit yer worryin’, Finn. And we’re stayin’, ‘cause I’m listenin’ t’the speech.”

“We’re goin’.” They needed to get back to the ship. He didn’t know what time it was or how long had passed, but he didn’t want to be left here, especially not with Tonas Grahn as his only companion.

Tonas laughed disdainfully, and then shook his head in response. “We’re stayin’. I’m stayin’. You can leave if you want.” He turned away, then, returning his attention to the unnamed speaker at the front of the huge tent.

A minute or so passed where Ferael found himself tempted to draw his dagger and bury it in his friend’s spine. He tried to calm himself by doing as Tonas was and listening to Cael Moran’s preaching, but the arrogant pirate still stood in his peripheral vision, and he found his focus moving from one being to the other as he bit his lip in frustration. He considered leaving, but how would he know where to go? And what of the undead plaguing the surrounding woodland?

Those thoughts aside, Ferael needed to urinate. It was when he finally looked elsewhere in search of an exit that he heard a voice in his head. Ferael stood still, looking lost, as the voice summoned him and his friend for an audience with someone he’d never heard of in another tent. He spoke Tonas’ name, and the other buccaneer turned his head.

“I still ain’t leavin’,” Tonas chuckled, and Ferael sighed.

“Y’sure? I think I know where there’s drink,” he countered, and then smiled.

“Aww, shit Finn, ya shoulda said before.”

* * *

The two pirates stumbled into the tent as Hiraki drew attention to the map that was displayed before him. Tonas leant in to Ferael, whispering in his ear: “Where’s the drink?”

“Just shut up and listen,” Ferael retorted, and for once Tonas did as he requested.

It was when Hikari finished speaking that Tonas Grahn repeated his question, addressing it to the rest of the group.

[Iriah Caitrak]

Ira was glancing at the poorly drawn map before her intently. The man, which she was sure he wasn’t even human, had finished his speech on how hopeless their mission was a few seconds ago and the moment afterwards someone had raised his voice about drink. She was ignoring him; perhaps he had stumbled into the wrong tent, though she did find it odd that no one, not even their ‘leader’ had seen fit to kick the two of them out. Perhaps like the rest of us they had been invited only they’d decided to take their damnable time and were on the rather rude side.

”The plan isn’t a solid one but he is right, Rector has normally been of no trouble to us even though he is a Vampire. Something must have happened at the manor and this may be the only way to save the village…if only Cael had told me about this earlier…”

She didn’t bother to look at the form of the slightly transparent Jonathan she could feel floating beside her, looking down at the map as well. So lost in her own thoughts Ira didn’t even blink about talking aloud to Jonathan, it was just too natural for her and her people back home. She did keep her voice low in the silence of the tent.

“As I was looking this over I thought that maybe a safer course of action would be to take everyone through Purgatory.”

”Purgatory? Isn’t that the place you told me about earlier where souls go when they can’t move on?”

“Yes, a Calerian can take other people into Purgatory with them and traveling in Purgatory is like travelling through the land of Althanas, if you walk ten feet from where you entered Purgatory then leave, you exit ten feet away. However, with all who have died in this war Purgatory may be filled with Fallen who can be just as dangerous as zombies.”

”I see why you didn’t suggest it.”

“Though this course of action is indeed not safe I see no other way of traveling to this Joran’Kal manor. I also do not see much that I can help with in this fight, though I wish to.”

Ira glanced up from the map to Jonathan, he was watching her intently, his eyes saddened, perhaps in the fact that he could not fight his own cause any longer, perhaps in the fact that if he’d known about this plan earlier he might have been more cautious. She didn’t know and she was no telepath to delve into his thoughts and find out, not even sure if she would want to.

”This is not a cause you have to fight for but…”

Ira smiled at him, “I know you want me to fight for your village, it’s written all over your face. My skills lie in the dead though, not in war combat.”

”Yet you fight the dead in Purgatory, you must have skills to defeat them, use your skills to defeat the dead crawling through these lands.”

Looking passed Jonathan Ira’s gaze fell to the being that had brought her here in the first place. She must have shown something to inspire him to ask her here. Perhaps it was her commune with the dead, perhaps it was something else. She carried not a single weapon on her that anyone here could know about and her dress looked nothing like a warrior but he asked her here to fight in this cause and she knew it was worth her time, blood, sweat, tears and maybe even her life.

“You can count me in for the cause.” Ira said to him.

[The Name is Mudd]

Mudd hadn’t been paying attention to the map, but rather burying his nose in a pinup magazine he kept rolled up in his bag. The broad with the bombshell legs, oddly enough, painted on a bombshell, had taken his interest hostage. Map, shmap. Between weirdy and crazy-woman, there really wasn’t that much along the lines of easy pickin’s. At least the fine ‘dames in his magazines didn’t reject him. Little did he know that he was shooting himself in the foot, in that regard. “Hell. If crazy-girl’s goin, I might as well. Someone’s gotta keep her from spacing out, talkin’ to thin air an all. Only time I’m planning on seein’ purg-a-whatta is when I buy the farm, and,” he paused, looking up from his literature of choice, “and I never fancied myself a gardner.”

He smiled at the seadogs, mostly because they reminded him of the comics and reading Treasure Island as a child. He restrained all urge to break out into a stereotypical “Arr! I be havin termites in me leg,” nodding instead. When they asked about something to wet the whistle, the private took special care to hide his canteen. It wasn’t water he had in there. It wasn’t liquor either. When you’re out in the middle of nowhere without a tree, or bush to pee on, it just doesn’t feel right; your parts hangin’ out for the world to see, and such. If memory still served, Mudd couldn’t remember ever seeing a male dog lifting a leg to open air. It was an instinct.

“Well shit, when are we gonna head out? Let’s get this thing moving eh? Before something really pisses in the pickles. C’mon. Can’t be that bad, right? They’re already dead. Just whack em somethin fierce a few times to remind ‘em,” he laughed nervously. Rolling up his magazine, returning it to the pack he had slung over his shoulder to keep the pirate-lookin fellows from getting any ideas, he jabbed the witch lady a few good times to get her attention. “You got any good stra-tee-ger-ees on how tah take these suckers down? What’cha gonna use?”

He was hoping she’d say something sexy.

“Crazy girl could probably just spook ‘em with her heaven and hell talk. Coax em into fighting for us by puttin’ in a good word with the Man Upstairs, mh? Mr. Pale Guy could just blind them senseless. If they’ve got noses, those two could take them by smell alone,” Mudd grinned. “Me? I’ve got my own aye-dee-er,” he smirked, pulling the trenching shovel from his harness with a click. “Dig a grave infront of ‘em, I’ll be sure they get to running. Hobbling, limping, staggering, skippideedoodaah whatever a dead thing’d do.”

[Chelsi]

Hmm… Two pay checks. Not a bad deal I suppose.

“Alright, count me in… Hi… Hikari?”

Of course. The OWC. Chelsi’s clan of old, back in the days of her highest pinnacle of accomplishment.

How long ago that seemed now. She didn’t even really recognize the dark-elf. Not physically anyways. Although his presence inspired memory.

Unfortunately, with memory, came that nagging sense of lack of accomplishment. Almost half a decade ago, scores of people had followed Chelsi without question, respecting her as their leader. More recently, she had been a trusted advisor and friend within the legendary Bandit Brotherhood. Now she was a petty thug for hire. Perhaps that was why she had come here. To be part of something greater. To be a bigger player in the grand scheme of things.

Chelsi shook her head sharply to clear away the unpleasant thoughts, as she tried to focus on the rest of Hikari’s story. She had been too busy reminiscing to notice the entrance of the striking elf-like creature which now stood beside its dark-elf companion, or the entrance of the two pirates.

The young sorceress was returned completely to her senses as the soldier she had been speaking with earlier, jabbed her in the ribs. She laughed offhandedly at his comments as she looked at him, perhaps a bit harder than she intended too. Those questions about her world and her origins now burned again, and Chelsi winced.

She wished for a second that she could just keep her mind on the tasks at hand for more than a minute, and agreed with the pirate’s sentiments as he requested booze.

I should get down to business, or he isn’t going to be very pleased. I need to find him soo… wait a second…

A smile began to find a find itself on Chelsi's full, black lips, as the girl, now relieved for the first time since she had arrived at the camp, began to believe she had solved the mystery of her enigmatic employer. The contents of the letter...

"Well big fella, I say you put that shovel to good use and we take the route this little children's drawing has planned out for us."

She wrapped her arm around the soldier’s broad shoulders, and turned her gaze back to Hikari, smiling pleasantly.

“Let’s be off! We have some undead to fight.”

The crafty witch, now believing she had solved her personal puzzle, suppressed an ironic laugh as she spoke those last words.

Hikari’s subconscious wink hadn’t gone unnoticed.