The Dead Can't Rest With Full Pockets (Open)

[Mavek]

[[This is an open story, specifically a mission under the Employment thread called "A Grave Problem". Join at your leisure. I'm very, very new here, so I beg your forgiveness if I've done anything improperly. Now, without further adieu...]]

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“I still don’t know what we’re doing here, Roo’,” whined the one with the pickaxe, jowls flapping as his words fumbled past grotesquely fat lips. The evening was cool, brisk even, and yet the man somehow managed to sweat to the point of soaking his unkempt, well-stretched tunic.

“Yer job ain’t knowin’, Grob,” came the reply, the thin man’s voice even thinner, pinched – much akin to his narrow, pointed features, “Yer job’s shovelin’.” He punctuated the statement with a sickeningly wet snort, following it with a hock and an inglorious spit.

Save for the single torch the lanky fellow held aloft the graveyard was utterly unlit, a new moon ensuring the shady work that the duo planned would go unnoticed and undisturbed. The morning dew already kissed the sparse patches of grass, the past day’s heat lifting the midnight moisture into a concealing mist. Swirling amidst the oaks, pooling about the odd headstone, the fog was thick – rich, like a generous spreading of cream across a slice of bread. Nothing that Rooney or Grob would do that night would be witnessed by any sort of law, the citizens of Scara Brae resting peaceably in their beds half a mile away (and the gravekeeper resting forcibly in his hut, the shovel’s blow to the back of his skull putting him to a rather sudden slumber). Only the beasts who called the Brokenthorn their home would observe their actions, and animals cared little for the continued rest of the dead.

“Yah, Roo’, I know. I’mma get to it,” Grob said, moving over to the first grave of the night. The tombstone was large, crafted of marble and ornately chiseled; an obelisk as tall as a man carved from base to tip with a delicate, flowing rune script. “I just don’t get why we’re robbin’ commonfolk graves. Seems like a big fat waste, if’n ya ask me, Roo’.”

Rooney let loose a sigh that conveyed a rather obvious level of irritation, pinching the bridge of his nose. He took a moment, pausing, as if to collect (or restrain) himself, before abruptly giving the obese criminal a violent kick to his rear.

“Gerronit, ye daft, doddlin’ sod! I ain’t getting’ paid by the hour, an’ ye ain’t getting’ paid at all if ye don’t shut yer flabby trap an’ get t’work!”

Grob cringed, bodily shrinking at the blow to his rump. Muttering something akin to a complaint, he hefted the pickaxe high over his head, dropping it into the damp earth with an audible thock. Apparently content now, the thin one turned a beady pair of eyes to the rest of the cemetery, searching the mists in a casual, passive manner. More graves, and ones of the rune-covered brand his cohort was currently busying himself with, were what he searched for. Anyone with even a smidge of education (and that’s just was Rooney had) would know that the writing that adorned them was ancient Elven, and a custom of the Elves was to bury their deceased in elaborate, beautiful, and valuable apparel. The inclusion of enchanted jewelry, or even mithril weaponry, was not uncommon, either. All that considered, the incredulous’ pair’s employer wanted these graves given special attention.

" 'Sides," the narrow-faced thief added, " the only big fat anythin' 'round 'ere is you."

A wolf howled in the distance, and Rooney felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

Just behind the treeline, cloaked in mist and wreathed in shadow, a pair of amber eyes watched the graverobbers at work. They were steady, unblinking in their attentiveness, twin pools of liquid gold that reflected what little of the torch’s light reached them. A shift – the most subtle of movements, muscles coiling and a hand’s grip upon a spear’s haft changing – and the hunter slipped soundlessly through the ring of oaks, passing from trunk to trunk. He moved with an experienced, measured haste, like some sort of predatory cat circling its game: alert, calm, ready. His bare skin glistened, muscles sliding beneath his flesh in visible fashion, his fur boots padding and silencing his steps. After but a moment’s time, the Ghostwolf stopped directly opposite the thieves, the entirety of the graveyard between him and the two. He watched them a moment longer - not once did he make a sound - and then rose, stepping from the trees.

At first Rooney thought that the silhouette was a figment of his imagination, just a ploy of his mind. It was a common thing, imagining figures in the dark. His line of work was not an easy one on the wits, the setting not exactly a breeding ground of “happy thoughts” – a cemetery in the dead of night, coalescing with impenetrable fog and surrounded by ageless, gnarled trees. Thus, the experienced tomb-raider had trained himself to ignore just about anything he thought he saw. Sadly, this night his confidence in the non-existence of vengeful ghosts would come to an end.

“Oi, Roo’, don’t take me light ‘way – I need it ta see what I’m diggin’!” complained Grob as he stood, knee-deep in a grave and covered in the grime of his labor. He peered over his shoulder, obviously irritated with his superior at his inability to see.

“Shuttit, Grob,” he snapped, fear translating into anger as the shadow grew closer, larger, became more corporeal. His hand felt for the pommel of the dirk at his hip, fumbling with it as he drew it forth. He waved the long dagger before him, as if to ward off the ghost.

“ ‘Ey, Roo’. What’s tha’?”

Massive was the silhouette as it marched forward, silently gliding amidst the graves on its endless approach. Torchlight danced across the bronze skin of a near-naked man, chiseled sinew slipping beneath his exposed flesh, dew having soaked his bear-hide boots. In his right hand was a hearty oaken spear, stone tip bobbing with each of his powerful strides; in his left was an axe of some kind, small, like unto a hatchet. A knife made of an antler jutted out of the belt that secured his loincloth to his hips.

“Stay back,” stammered Rooney, as shocked at the sudden appearance of the hunter as he was surprised by his foreign design, “Or so help me!”

The huntsman strode nearer.

“I’ll cut ye, I will! I swears it!” Rooney managed to choke forth the threat, not intimidating in the least. Grob, however, had taken the hint by now and left his work half-finished, barely pulling himself over the lip of the hole he had been in to wield the pickaxe in as menacing fashion as he could manage.

Twenty feet from the thieves the untamed apparition halted. With every breath his barrel chest rose and fell, steam slowly frothing forth like an explosion following every exhalation. Those eyes – wild, stern, compelling – met the pair without waver, without doubt. Trapped there, in his glare, a long moment of uncertain silence would pass.

“Leave,” spoke the barbarian, “You will not bother the sleeping.” His words were stone, a deep bass so richly accented and forcibly spoken that it was as if each syllable was a statute in and of itself. There was no room for argument.

Rooney gritted his teeth, his resolve fast returning as the specter took on the voice of a man.

“I ain’t goin’ nowheres,” spat the thin graberobber, a sneer creeping across his narrow features. The tip of his dagger began to drift, wafting left to right and back again as he moved, shuffling to circle the unarmored foe. His enemy remained wordless, still, allowing the pair to surround him without motion or opposition.

Mavek dipped his head, lowering his gaze to the dew-laden grass between his feet. His grip tightened on the weapon in either hand, his stance lacking the visual readiness that his spirit maintained. No fear was in his heart – not an ounce of anything other than the valor of his people. He had given them warning, and they had rejected it; now they shook their metal knives and spoke the bitter tongue of the Tame Ones. Mercy flickered through his mind, but only briefly – such was reserved for those who fought with dignity, with real weapons. Forgiveness would be left for those who did not bother the sleeping dead’s rest. No, these two men had been given their only chance.

“Well? Ye gonna’ jump, or do I need t’tickle ye with me frogsticker ‘ere, first?” snarled the thief, glaring holes in the back of the hunter’s head, his dirk held aloft in a half-proper stance.

Father Oak guide my heart…

“Well?!”

… guide my hand...

Mavek dropped to a crouch, muscles in his legs coiling, bulging. Shifting his weight, he drew back his crude polearm, amber eyes set with resolution – set upon the chest of obese foe before him.

… and guide the spear within it.

[Andrasta]

Hunters called the scrublands and forests home; they slid over the low hills and through the grasses with little sign of their passage left behind. Their keen eyes pierced the darkness. Their soft footsteps gave prey no warning. Their spirits did not quail before the mist that swirled through the lowlands. The night was theirs.

The creature that knelt on the crest of a low hill was no hunter. Damp grass rustled as her knee came to rest on the ground, followed by the swish of parchment against cloth. A moment of silence passed before light flared around her forearm, casting a flickering glow over her form. She was a tourist in the nighttime mist, standing out clearly as a foreigner to the native creatures that cared to take interest.

She was also lost.

“Tails and scales,” Andrasta muttered as she looked up at the distant lights of the city. Oh, how tempting it was to call the night a wash and slip back for an ale at the inn and some research. “This is the last time I go on errands for the militia without a proper bloody map.”

Andrasta's attention turned back to the parchment across her knee... the improper map. She slid her lower lip under her canines, bit down softly; the rush of blood in her ears intensified a little, and the light around her hand persisted. The map was legible enough – every hill was marked and drawn into scale, all the roads leading away from Scara Brae were laid out and labelled. They'd even been kind enough to note the location of all three gravesites that yet to be disturbed, as well as the one that was their best guess for the next attack. Armed with the directions as she was, though, Andrasta couldn't make sense of what she was seeing. Andrasta was beginning to suspect that they'd just sketched out some likely shapes and snickered to themselves as she went out the door.

The dragonblood released her magic, feeling the familiar receeding tingle through her left arm. Pink afterimages danced over the hills, played around in the little vales now beginning to fill with mist. The ringing in her ears persisted for only a moment, and after a light stretch she felt no stiffness or fatigue beyond what she'd expect from a two-hour hike. Good. If she could find this site, and if Scara Brae's militia was right on their guess, and if the robbers had chosen the night of the new moon – well, then she'd need all of her magic, and possibly a little more. Andrasta knew the map by now well enough, and...

And...

Oh, Thaynes, she was a moron.

Fighting the urge to slap her forehead, she stared back down at her lap. It was too dark to see the map, and she didn't want to burn another focus so soon, but blurry shapes persisted in the afterimage – shapes of a map that had no compass rose. A map that would make perfect sense if it was turned around.

“Well done, Andrasta. Beautifully done. It took you two hours of wandering in the dark to realize you held the map wrong. Are you sure you're not blonde tonight?”

None of the nighttime hunters bothered to further chastise her for her foolishness, so Andrasta just shook her head with a rueful grin and rose. At least she'd left most of her travel gear back in the tavern. Everything she needed for the night's observation was on her belt – the waterskin, some food, a pair of socks thrust through the binding that also held her ritual book, a dagger... and of course Nomine Nihilum. She rolled the map and slipped it into the one free loop, then set off towards what she now knew was north.

Though the past two hours had been enough to make her a bit footsore, Andrasta kept moving. Any time that she had stopped to think about her situation without a map or a sword in her hand, she'd felt warm tendrils of dread twining around her heart. Here she was alone, a sea and a continent away from the home she'd known, pursing graverobbers in the hour of witching. There was no telling how many there were, how heavily armed... and, as Andrasta had come to realize, there were some fears that even a dragonblood could fall prey to.

She remembered—

No. Corone is past. Done. Concentrate here, Andrasta. In the present. Scara Brae needs you now.

Two calming breaths, cool and full, banished the dark thoughts. She nearly slid into focus there and then, but with another bitten lip and an effort of will, dismissed the magic before it could suffuse her body. It remained close, though, and she felt it draped around her soul like her favorite childhood blanket. In spite of herself, Andrasta felt a smile touch her lips. Her booted feet cleared the grass a little higher; her back straightened and she draped a hand near the hilt of her sword with confidence instead of fear.

===

Andrasta had just settled back into the rhythm of her stride when she heard the voices. She paused in midstep, tilted her head...

Two voices, at least. Two different timbres. One of the men was wavering, reedy; she could barely make out his words, much less any of the content. The other speaker, however, possessed a deeper voice that carried well through the swirling mist.

“...will not bother the sleeping.”

Ahead, the mist was lighter – lit from within, as though by a fire, or a torch...

A jolt passed through her spine. She dropped prone on the spot, landing in the grass with a thup. This was... yes, she was sure of it, it must have been one of the other gravesites! There was no legitimate reason anyone would be out here so late, unless the militia had hired someone else without telling her. But was the strong voice an enemy? Or did it belong to a friend?

Magic coalesced, begging to be used, and this time Andrasta assented. Her left hand slowly curled into a fist, clenched, trembled. Cold, wondrous cold, slashed deep into the center of her body and spread out to the tip of each finger and toe. Her head felt as though she'd dunked it in a bucket of springwater. Clarity banished fatigue, at least for this glorious moment.

A swirl of the breeze carried away some of the mist – and now Andrasta could see shapes, lit by a single flickering torch. The nearest tombstone was still a good hundred and fifty feet away, marking the lowest point in the little hollow. A scrubby tree spread its branches over the near stones, and beyond them she could make out the shape of a cart... two, no three men nearby... or two? Mist blew back over the graveyard and she tensed. Her hand dropped to the hilt of her sword, but she stayed drawing it – nothing would reflect torchlight like bare steel.

And something was happening down there. Metal on metal, then metal on wood... a muffled curse... fighting. Andrasta strained to see, but the torch was wavering badly—

Something burst from the mist, large, moving fast. Andrasta would have drawn right there and surprise be damned, but no monster of the darkness or hideous necromantic freak worth his salt... waddled. The obese figure bounced off the nearest tombstone, then slewed over in her direction, slowing only a little to bellow a reply to something she hadn't heard.

“Skwoo dat, Roo! He hain't payin' me enough to die here! Leave th' damn corpses and get gone!”

Her lips parted in a toothy grin and she crouched... waiting... just a little closer....

Andrasta was no true hunter, but Grob was certainly prey.

[oblueknighto]

"So it's a done deal?"

"Yea, all you have to do is take out the perpetrators and we'll give you 300 gold pieces, an extra 400 gold if you find out who's really in the business, we know that the robbers aren't the only ones reaping in the benefits."

"Trust me, the grave robbers will hit tonight and I'll get them right on the way out of the cemetery. I'll follow them to their contact and get the job done by the next sunrise."

Blue had followed his employers around they left the meeting place. It seemed that the case was pretty major or it was that they didn't trust anybody to get the job done, he already told them he'd get the job done before the sun rose but it seemed that they couldn't take his word. He had been a mercenary for years and people always act like that, they never take their chances and because of it they always pay people more than they could afford.

They had first posted their grave robbing problem as a small note on the town bulletin but it soon grew out of control, the grave robbers were popping up in cemeteries all over Scara Brae and Blue had to stop them all while collecting his fine fine reward money.


***

His plan was ruined when a man approached the grave robbers in a more direct manner, Blue wanted to follow them as they left but now he would never get his gold, his employers didn't care how many people they hired. His employers wouldn't get the better of him by hiring some random other people, the others were completely foiling his plan. He saw another shadow slowly approaching the trio in tight conversation and quickly reacted.

Blue didn't want anybody dead yet and he didn't want any conflict. His employers might never had told him to take the grave robbers in alive but he needed them to take him to their boss or whoever they worked for. His vision was very clear and he saw the trio still talking on about

As he saw one another of his hired friends prepare to engage the trio he rushed out of the shadow for a moment and gripped her mouth with his right hand and using his left hand he restricted her movement. He then whispered to her, "Be quiet. Please don't struggle with me on this, I need your co-operation with me on this."

Andrasta, If I was bunnying your character too much, I apologise for it. I also realised that you both have very long posts, I don't really like making posts too long, especially not when it's the start of a thread but since these are your first posts I guess you need to put some character development into your post.

[Vramii]

The night air was tense in Scara Brae. A bat's fluttering wings were just barely audible overhead, and Vramii lifted his chin to see the last of the creature's sprightly movements as it darted upward on a small draft and out of sight. Looking back toward the paved road beneath his feet, the druid closed his eyes for a fleeting moment as he thought, "I must not let these atrocities continue." He was not usually one to take on mercenary assignments. In fact, he was staunch in his stand against the organized military. He saw it as a matter of honor to fight his own battles, and his alone. But tonight he had stumbled upon a mission he deemed worthy of his support. The defiling of the resting dead was not something he could turn a blind eye toward. In this matter he felt compelled to act when he saw a small parchment posted on a building which described these recent criminal acts in the darkness of the night.

Reopening his eyes, Vramii looked down upon of one of those cemeteries which were posted as a possible target. He sat perched upon a nearby rooftop, hidden from plain sight by the night's shadows. The druid, on the other hand, could see clearly anything that might occur below him, his keen night vision ever a priceless tool. Vramii tightened the straps on his clawed gloves once again as he waited. His staff lay anxiously at his side on the rooftop, anticipating its employment. Vramii turned his head slowly, again scanning the misty ground below. The patience of the nature-loving druid was never in question for a moment. He was at ease, simply taking in his surroundings.

Only minutes passed before the first disruption. Two men, one slender, the other grossly obese, broke the dormancy below as they trudged across the burial ground. "Ah yes," the druid thought, "these two look the part." One was wielding a torch, making it that much easier for Vramii to see them clearly. A small sabre quietly rapped against his side as he walked. The other man wailed only a pickaxe. Their broken and unrefined speaking revealed the larger one to be "Grob" and the other "Roo." It was apparent these were the men Vramii had been awaiting. He sat motionless a few more moments until the two men stopped over a grave and the small one began giving orders to dig. The larger one grumbled and whined as he worked, which seemed to annoy the slender man in charge.

Vramii nimbly grabbed hold of the rooftop with one hand and swung himself over the edge, his staff held tightly in his other. He landed softly in the grass, preparing to move in on the defilers. He crept forward, silently jumping in out of the shadows. He took one step out from behind a large, stone coffin, which rested above ground, but quickly retracted his leg as he heard another approaching. Vramii turned to see another man who came out of the shadows. This man quickly confronted the grave robbers Roo and Grob, speaking a small amount and what seemed to be a prayer before jumping out of the darkness to attack the smaller man. "Not a consort of these, apparently." the druid surmised.

Grob ran away in another direction, and Vramii's eyes followed and moved ahead of the corpulent man to where a fourth being was lying on the ground. This fourth looked to be a woman, seemingly in wait of Grob's approach, as if she were awaiting her prey. This woman was muscular, appearing to be almost the same weight as the druid himself, yet she was no eyesore. She had long hair that rested halfway down her back as she lay still. Just before Grob stumbled into her trap, a fifth, previously unseen man darted out of nowhere to arrest the woman in his grip. "What is going on here?" Vramii thought as he waited in the shadow. He no longer had a plan. The confusion of this night seemed never to cease. He made a slight movement as if to help the woman, but noticed the fifth man did not seem to want to harm, but only subdue her attack.

"It is possible these others may be here for the same reason as I, but that does not make them my allies. If so, I cannot let them take the credit for everything that occurs tonight, but either way I must find out what they are doing here." Turning back to the first attacker and the smaller grave robber, Vramii stood up, revealing himself to all for the first time. He took a few bounding strides until he was between the robber and the larger attacking man. He raised his staff to halt the large man's assault.

"What is it you want with these men? I am on a mission to apprehend these defiling grave robbers. Leave this place now and no harm need come to you." Vramii set his feet in case of a sudden attack from either man as he held them in his sight, expecting a response. The next move was not his to make.

[Mavek]

Like a cart fallen off the oxen’s yoke, Gorb – all three hundred and some odd pounds of his flabby, distortedly fat frame – hurtled past the graves, the momentum he gained as he stumbled, tripped, and sputtered inanities sufficient enough to knock over a headstone or two. Pickaxe flailing with dangerously reckless abandon, jowls flapping with every jolt of his grotesquely obese body, the would-be graverobber was much akin to a force of nature in his panicked flight – bush, nor stone, nor sapling tree could stand up to his uncanny size. In naught but a moment’s time he had sprint-waddled the cemetery, a wake of unknowing chaos left behind. The sight of him was, in a word, ridiculous.

And none could see it better than the waiting duo – the dragonblood and the half-elf – as they lay hidden, crouched in secret among the dense foliage that surrounded the graveyard clearing: Gorb was headed directly for them, wailing and wheezing spittle-accented breaths like a flesh-made locomotive. By the time the oversized thief noticed the two of them, it was too late for any effort of his to stop (or even slow) his movement. The only thing Gorb could do was scream… and that’s just what he did.

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An enemy that flees is an enemy already defeated – that was the way of the Ghostwolf warrior. As such, the fat one was left to shame himself as he would, barreling off into the far tree line and out of sight. The other – the one wielding both blade and tongue as weapons – stayed his ground, and that pleased the hunter. Someone deserved punishment for breaking the law of Grandfather Oak, and the insult-hurling Tame One was looking to be the prime candidate, mouth still spewing profanities in his crude, base, civilized tongue. Mavek was not bothered in the least. He’d remove that venomous tendril from his mouth soon enough.

“Thah’s it, Gorb! Yer arse is mine when I tells Gryn thah ye ran ‘way!” he spat, the bitter poison of hate lacing his speech, “Jus’ like the bleedin’ sod ye are!”

Watching his former enemy retreat, the barbarian’s amber eyes swiveled slowly, cutting about and around and pulling his head to do the same. With a slow, disciplined determination the wild warrior stood, moving to face the torch-and-dagger-wielding rogue with the most purposeful, unblinking glare imaginable, square jaw set like chiseled stone. He looked down upon him, body in a visible state of readied relaxation, weapon held tight in either hand, and simply stared – wordless, motionless, waiting.

A hunter always knows his prey. No matter the circumstance, both man and beast that desire the life of another must know the mind, heart, and very soul of what they pursue. That is how Mavek knew what would happen next, even as the druid hurried from the trees to intercede. Tall, lithe, the wild one with the staff joined the scene with the intention of saving a life and resolving a conflict – at least, that is what the barbarian gathered in the moment’s span, his tirade only half audible as the thrill of the next few moments pounded war drums in his ears.

“What is it you want…?”

Justice, thought the Ghostwolf. [/i]Sweet, untamed vengeance for the Great Tree.[/i]

“Leave this place now and no harm need come to you.”

In that moment, just as the druid finished his sentence, Mavek’s foresight came to fruition: the thin thief’s soul proved to be as venomous as his words, cowardice coercing his hand to lash out with both torch and dagger, attempting to burn the negotiator and slay the hunter. This was an expected punctuation. With the grace like a cat he reacted, no thought necessary to hurl his body into action; his tomahawk glimmered in the swinging torch’s light as it hooked around, catching the knife’s crossguard in the crook of its blade. With a snap of his arm the Ghostwolf wrenched Rooney forward, throwing him off balance and stumbling forward, head-first into the very grave he’d just had his cohort exhume.

Turning with the same decisive steadiness he generally maintained, the silent warrior moved to the edge of the hole, staring down in to it with obvious intent – the spear in his right hand held reverse, razor point directed downward. Softly he uttered something under his breath, a prayer or an oath in a language none but he and the Grandfather Oak would comprehend, and he lifted his weapon high…

The ground shook.

Beady eyes swelled with fear as they met the cool, callous gaze of a mildly confused hunter. The former knew what had happened, and the latter did not. However, as the clicking of gears and the hum of magic abruptly filled the air, dulled from their origin some distance below the earth, all became clear. The narrow-faced robber became frantic, scrounging up and onto his feet, clawing at the wet dirt that created the sides of the grave.

“No, no, no, no, no! I ain’t dyin’ in no trap! I ain’t dyin’ like a rat!” he quailed, fingers drawing back handful after handful of rich mud, his person no closer to the top of the hole than before.

Suddenly more aware than he had been in some time the hunter stepped back, golden eyes darting to and fro, attentions no longer on his terrified prey. His feet slid backward, slick on the dew-covered grass, but his footing remained; he could feel his heart in his throat, beads of sweat decorating his chest in anticipation. A trap…?

Krrrrrch…

The entire cemetery shook once, the markers above a dozen graves splintering with the violent motion.

Krrrch-CHOOM!

And then, in perfect unison, seven graves exploded, an intense green flame spouting from each as the dirt and stones within them were cannoned out in every which direction. The intensely magical trap from the Elven tomb was brief, but the effects were devastating: the graveyard looked much more akin to a battlefield in no more than a breath’s span, rubble and craters everywhere. Rooney had been tossed into far tree, enough forced behind his expulsion to give his abrupt halt against its trunk a sickeningly wet effect.

After a moment of hesitation the hunter rose from his defensive crouch, coated bodily in a fine layer of gray and black dust. He coughed once, turning to see if the peacekeeper had survived the carnage, his dark brow knit with the mingling of concern, confusion, and anger. What he found, instead, was a corpse.

It was not the woodsman’s corpse, of course. No, the body was hardly more than bones and cobwebs, hundreds of years of decay having cleaned the person of any flesh he might have had. Instead the skeleton was garbed in a fine, ornamental suit of mail; decorative and lavish, the cryptic runes of a long past era scrawled all across the armor. A helm, a breastplate, two gauntlets, and a shield completed the Elven Knight’s ensemble, all of which he wore even after all the centuries spent interred. A foot or so away from his left hand lay a sword, half buried in the dirt.

By the Tree…

[Andrasta]

So intent was Andrasta on her approaching prey that she didn't register the hand over her mouth until the sudden whisper drew a startled jolt from her body. She didn't go anywhere; weight pressed down on her from above and to her right, driving her firmly into the ground. A jolt of adrenaline cut through the high of focus. Stirrings of panic stirred in her stomach; anger obliterated them. Son of a--!

Instinct cried out for her to bite down on that hand, then get free. Muscles in her jaw tensed in preparation before his words penetrated the haze of startlement and fright around her brain, and reason reasserted itself. Cooperation. Nngh. Doesn't mean harm. No time to scrutinize him in depth; she couldn't see him, had no idea of anything but lack of grave-dirt smell... lack of any smell, come to think of it. Is he militia? Another freelancer? If he was, Andrasta dearly wanted to bite him anyhow – or perhaps offer him a faceful of ice followed by a kick in the groin in recompense for messing up her timing and denying her the chance for a clean capture of the one weaving towards them even now.

No more time for thinking. Gorb was on top of them, eyes wild, mouth opening for a scream. He was going to run right over them!

Her heart beat.

Instinct shoved reasoning out of the way, biting logic on the flank as it did. Andrasta slammed her left forearm down on the ground, beating aside dewy grass. Magic flowed from her body, coalescing, scraping her soul raw as it passed out of her. For a tenth of a second, her own mist joined the swirl of fog around the graveyard; then, with a crack and a shimmer of displaced air, it froze into ice. Blades of grass yielded slightly under the weight as the icy coat formed on and around them.

A heavy foot, unbalanced, supporting an even heavier frame, landed on the ice.

For the first time in his adult life, Gorb flew. His scream scaled down as he passed overhead, clearing them by inches and scattering bits of icy grass over them in his wake. One hit her above the eye, sticking to her forehead as her skin melted a tiny bit of the ice on impact.

Andrasta felt, rather than heard, the impact three feet behind her as his porcine mass slammed into the ground.

Her heart beat again, and breath fled her lungs as she sagged down. Black dots, then silver, swam across her vision, and her ears rang. It took her a good ten more seconds to muster the energy to scramble to the side even after her assailant had eased up on the weight.

“Cooperation,” Andrasta remarked, finding herself unsurprisingly a little short of breath. During one such breath she stole a look aside at Gorb. He was on his back, having done half a twirl in mid-air, wheezing. Likely, he'd lost his breath and wouldn't be going anywhere soon.

She looked back to the man who had accosted her Or... was that an elf? She couldn't really tell in the light. And was that a longbow over his shoulder? “Even as you spoke. Andrasta Talethsenn... contracted by Captain Durris, Scara Brae militia. I was heading northwest to another site, but I got turned around, and then all this happened... Suspect's yours if you've got authority, and I... don't mind more cooperation, but mind sharing your name, stranger?”

It was all she could do to bite back some choice epithets in place of 'stranger.' The immediacy of the situation had dulled the shock, but he'd pawed all over her... been very close... she felt heat rising in her cheeks, and offered a silent prayer of thanks that the darkness was sparing her further embarrassment. To sate her wounded pride, Andrasta fixed him with a hard stare as she waited. Her lips curled back, showing enough teeth that her smile was a bit more vicious than a simple greeting gesture. However, she was very careful to keep in a low, nonthreatening crouch with her hands clasped over her left knee, well away from the hilt of her sword. Though Andrasta wanted to express cooperation, it was also important that people who went around pawing on her didn't get a false impression of how she liked it.

Her vanity saved her eyes; she was looking at him, not the graveyard, when it exploded.

The green fire lit the hollow like a stroke of lightning, giving a moment of sharp detail – a wolflike face with calculating eyes, the figure of Gorb struggling to sit up, eyes still wide and mouth open though the scream had long since ceased. Andrasta whirled to face towards the graveyard just in time for a piece of broken masonry to glaze the side of her temple. Stars erupted in her vision.

“Nnnhhh!”

From somewhere to her front left quarter, she heard a noise like an overripe melon striking the tree. Through the dancing afterimages she made out a figure sliding to the ground from the trunk; shook her head. Whoever he was, he was beyond help. But there had been others down there! Were they alive? Were they friends, or more graverobbers? And what in the name of the Thaynes had caused that explosion?

Too many questions, not enough idea of what in the hells was going on. Time to change that. She staggered to her feet, and looked aside to Blue through the dancing lights that persisted in her vision.

“...There seem to be other problems requiring our attention. I'm going down to scout out the situation. I can't order you around, but if you could keep an eye on the suspect and cover me... The way things are going tonight, I'd really appreciate it.”

Andrasta paused for just a moment, then inclined her head and began to make her way down the slope one step at a time. Her hand returned to the hilt of her longsword; she marshaled her effort to begin focusing through the miniature version of the Anvil Chorus throbbing in her temple.

“Friend!” Andrasta called out to the world at large, hoping that any survivors would be more inclined to take her at face value than stab her in the back. “Friend to the living!”

[Greyback]

Alberich's Journal:

I remember my time in Scara Brae quite clearly. The sheer age of the place is what first attracted me. The island holds many secrets, and I had need of them. I learned, however, that some secrets are best left that way. The elvish burial ground was just one such secret, but many more were to come.

The flash and thunder first attracted my attention. I had the herbs and night flowers I needed for my latest batch of salve, but I needn't return to town just yet. It seemed that there were more interesting things happening than herbcraft this night. My belongings would be safe enough, stowed behind a tree, out of easy sight. My tool belt shook and rattled as I walked quickly towards the sound of the explosion, leather creaking and metal clattering with every step.

"Friend!" The voice was shouting, clear and feminine, and nearby. "Friend to the living!"

The sentence had unpleasant connotations. If this woman, whoever she was, was a friend to the living, then there must be those here who were friends to the unliving. My hand dropped to my belt, and I pulled out my hammer, ready to defend myself against whatever demons inhabited this place. What I saw was not what I expected.

Shattered graves lay tumbled about, blasted open by the force I had seen earlier. Bodies lay exposed, preserved most likely by the magic that had guarded their tombs. Metal flashed with what looked like inner fire, and reflected off of more metal nearby. The nearby metal was a spearpoint, in the hand of a very large man. The metal that flashed was a blade, buried in the earth, very near his other hand. The blade was white as fine china, though obviously still of some metallic origin.

The blade was white. That seemed important. I kept moving while I thought it over, keeping my hands in plain view, and trying to be non-threatening. A white sword.... "By all the burning hells do not pick up that sword!"

I remembered the tale now. An order of knights, some with swords of red, some of white, bonded to the knight that carried it. Anyone touching the sword other than the owner would be burned, possibly killed. That was all I could remember, but it was certainly enough to make me wary. Even if these were not the knights I had read of, it was all too likely that their possessions were magically warded as well. "My name is Alberich, and you must trust me, do not touch the sword..."

I was almost pleading as I lowered my hammer and stopped moving for the first time since I heard the woman shout.