We are going to do this dammit

[Knave]

The sun entered its final hours on another hallowed day, its trail through the sky an august trail of crimson clouds and fading glory over Corone’s Jadet. The town had survived another winter, the streets still slick with the remnants of frost, the breeze still cold with the season, and the salt of the ocean where it belonged. The forests nearby marked the path to woodcutter’s village of Underwood, a shorn passage through the forest by courtesy of Baron ruler and many men’s backs. The day was ending in one direction, but with a turn of the head, the prevailing night could be seen as it rose from over the sea.

Shops closed with a common mind for prudence, but places for the night dweller, insomniac, rogue, villain, watchman hard at hooky, and women of less repute than merchant’s spittle gathered. The pub as always was open, and new nothing of night or day with forever lit lanterns and forever dimmed windows. It was a place filled with the scent of fire, filthy meats made sweat by necessity, and the grim spiteful hand of a cook and his wife. All the tables were fully occupied but one, and above it was the nailed flyer for a hunt.

‘Zombies… if there is anything more confounding than vampires in both the nature of their characters and the motivations behind their very being, it would have to be zombies,’ Herobrine thought. The shapeshifter had yet again found himself living someone else’s life, a life old enough to feel justified in pondering nothing as he draped on arm over his chair, set his heel to the table, and lowered his gaze to the mug of ale that tinted the air with its beard curling alcohol. ‘Strikes the mind, soft though it is, that a zombie is always craving flesh or brains… probably because the silly thing knows it lacks—‘ His thoughts were interrupted by the shrill of a terrible klaxon.

The bronze heights of some female baritone rattled the taverns walls enough to leave every man sure that the nails and wood had been loosened in both the floor and tables. It was a death knell for happiness and freedom, “Drinking! spitting! cursing! shiftless! witless! buffoon!” The man, hollowed eyed with both his graying hair down and his shirt torn open real under every accusation as if he had been struck—at the very least more so than the one which had bloodied his nose and lip. He raised his hands to ward off the sphinx like horror that though not half his age (her youth a child of comparison, looks too) was strong enough in character to treat him like a child.

The old man’s wandering eye had seen her come in, and he’d laid eyes on her bitter looks and pink gown; she thought too highly of herself and had too little money to spend putting on airs for a people whose business was just as involved with liquor or death at Schioleck’s Pub. He’d seen the stick in her hand, a thing of wood like the leg of a chair whose only use these days was propping doors shut.

The second thwack of what would likely become a slowly progressive drubbing spread a yellow toothed smile across old Herobrine’s face. Elderly by line of face and fade of clothes, a giant by the length of his limbs, he was not a cruel man, but the stumbling, bumbling, simpering of, “honey,” and, “darling,” and, “I’m sorry,” and, “please!” were enough to make a man ambivalent about another man’s suffering…

As the two left, and the cheer everyone felt as fate spent precious seconds belting one rather than another ran its course, Herobrine drank deeply and rubbed at his throat at the blazing heat he knew to be health searing his body came and went. ‘That’s how you know you know you’re alive.’ His father had said some decades earlier with son at knee (choking). “That’s how you know you’re alive.” He mumbled, keenly aware of how alive he was, before turning his thoughts to wonder of time.

Three weeks ago he’d paid some boys to spread the fliers and word of a job, the kind that paid when it was done and not a second or gold piece until the graves were filled. It had cost him ten pieces of gold—children’s prices had risen lately, he noticed, before writing the rats off as greedy—and they’d delivered. Nailed or sealed with glue or spit, those flier were on every third street, and if that wasn’t enough, the story on every fifth persons lips. A world of fiends, elves, despots, and fools and Herobrine still found his ears perking to the sound of worry and fear.

On the table before the man lay the crumpled paper pinned under an ashtray, its mottled parchment running the catchall slogan “Jadet’s Mercy: Help the living impaired find their proper place!” in large black letters, beneath it a casual grave and flowers had been drawn, none of them looked the same, but these were usually the same. It hadn’t been the first they’d been made either, more had been lost trying to solve this problem than when it had started most said, they said it there too, the mouths of the faceless turned away from him whispering things they had every reason to think he couldn’t hear. One thing Lawrence was certain of was this old man was one who needed his meditation…otherwise the voices bled through his skull.

“He’s so old.” “The hell does the fool think he is?” “We’ve got watchmen and soldiers, why don’t they handle...” “He looks like one of those old things at the citadel; poor soldier doesn’t know when to retire.” “I’m telling you, Jadet belongs to us, not some baron too stupid to make his own bed.” “Think he’ll end up like one of them?” “At least he’s willing.” “We’ve got a civil war too, and the drafts dragging away anything that can stand.” “Did you see the size of that spear?” “Aye, that place makes a corpse out of anyone who dares to die, but it’s better than being trampled by every regiment that crosses the frontline.”

“SHUT UP!” The inn trembled under his black gaze as the man’s moustache curled upwards with his snarl, the inn went quiet too. Turning, drinking, huffing breaths of what might be paint thinner without relief, the man awaited his party of whoever dared to arrive. He’d met two earlier: a man who stank of death and magic, and a woman who had managed to arrive at a pleasant juncture in the old man’s estimations between spiteful bitch and damned useful. Baring children, Herobrine Svarldin was largely indiscriminate about who followed him to death’s fields.

[Rhiannon]

A knocking surprised Rhiannon as her eyes slid open, glancing around in the darkness slightly confused before she sat up, letting out a wide yawn. Yet another series of knocks rang from her oak door, giving her the motivation to answer. Wrapping her blanket around her slender body, she opened the door, squinting from the immediate light from a candle. “Officer Roland?”

“Rhiannon,” his voice spoke deeply, and soft enough not to wake the others sleeping next door. “I need to ask an important favor of you, privet. I find myself in quite the pickle it seems.”

Sounding a bit concerned, Rhiannon waved the man in, shutting the door behind him. “What’s going on, officer? How can I help?” she asked with curiosity.

“Thank you.” Roland lied the candle down on the bed’s end table, looking at Rhiannon with a somewhat serious expression. Something seemed to be bothering him. Off topic, Rhiannon never saw Roland in casual clothing before. The quality of his clothes seemed pretty moderate, which likely met he made a good living working for the Underwood Government.

“Is everything ok?” Rhiannon asked, pushing for him to speak of what was bothering him. She also felt that it was kind of odd that he came to her of all people. She was just a simple private and a Head Officer seemed to seek her out for some kind of assistance.

Roland hesitated a short moment as he stared into the fire of the candlelight. Before Rhiannon would have to dig deeper to get the information out of him, his lips parted. “We have a problem North of Underwood. A problem with the dead. I had a few strong men of higher rank armed to help the town…and… they backed out last second. I gave Herobine my word that our patrol team would assist him to solve this problem once and for all. No one else will do it, you are the only worker I have left.”

Rhiannon’s eyes watched him, seeing the serious in his eyes brought her great courage. Just from the little time she has worked for him, she admired his dedication to protect his people. From what she saw of this town so far, the burly man was a true soldier for Underwood. “If you need my help, sir, I will assist you in anyway I can. Though I don’t really understand what you’re asking of me. The dead, how can it possibly be such a threat?”

The burly man stroked his beard a few times, his eyes narrowing in thought as he tried to summon up a summary on the job’s description. Finally, a light bulb went off in his head. “The dead are a threat because they are walking, moving around, attacking any villager that crosses their path. There seems to be some kind of cycle going on, some kind of magic. Every full moon these creatures rise from the earth and destroy everything in their path. If the solution to this problem isn’t solved, I’m afraid the problem will make its way south. Underwood can’t afford more chaos than we already have. Our budget is slim, especially with all of our money going toward the war.”

Securing her blankets which were slowly crawling down her shoulders from paying less attention to it, nodded at Roland. Normally she would salute the higher ranked, but this was by no means an option. Roland wouldn’t appreciate seeing one of his patrollers in their undergarments. Then again, maybe not seeing she was one of the few females working for him. The only one that she knew off, actually. “Give me your orders, sir. When should I depart?”

Seeing now that everything wasn’t hopeless, Roland smirked, giving her a thankful handshake. “This means the world to your Officer, Private. Normally I would just command people to go, but Underwood left me with nothing but volunteer recruits like yourself. Hopefully the men who declined will feel shame and embarrassment to see a woman hold the weight they would not. You’ll be leaving, er, now. Time is short and you need to arrive there just before nightfall. Again, I apologize I came to you with this burden.”

“No burden, sir. I swore to protect Underwood under your command. I’ll do just that. Let me pack my things and I’ll be on my way, but under one condition…” Rhiannon smiled, it was always amusing to watch a man’s expression when she made a catch.

“And?” Roland asked, giving her a look that couldn’t exactly be explained. It was evident that Roland didn’t enjoy being in such a tight situation. Flustered would be a good word.

“I leave the armor and sword. I will use my weapon as well. What you provide to your recruits will only burden and slow me down. I can make much better time without it.”

Letting out a sigh, he agreed. What other choice did he really have? “Fine, but I want you to take this.. It may become of some use later on during your quest.” Holding out his rough textured hand, revealed a small ring. “This ring, with a twist to the right, will provide you with light during the night. Its radius and clarity is much better than any torch. And so you know, I’ll be expecting this back.”

“You got yourself a dead ridding soldier, officer.”

“You’re a good recruit, Orris.” Roland chuckled, reaching in to give her a pat on the shoulder, but his fingers quickly retreated, feeling it wouldn’t be a good idea professionally. “I’ll leave you to ready yourself.”

Once the door shut, Rhiannon didn’t take a second to hesitate as she placed the ring on her middle finger, seeing it was the only finger it would fit, and tested it out. A flash of green light colored the room, which indeed was brighter than a torch. It was so fascinating that it sent tingles all through the woman’s body. Turning the ring to the left, quickly dressed and opened her drape. The sun beamed in powerfully, causing the woman to take a step back, sniffle a few times, and let out a powerful sneeze. Damn. Got her every time.

Since Rhiannon spent much of her time patrolling the night, her sleeping hours were during the day. Lucky for her she only needed five hours of sleep to be fully rested. Minutes passed and the Patrol Recruit was already out the door, marching her way to Roland. He handed her a small map he wrote out for her. He spoke quickly and to the point. “You’re to follow these directions north and speak to a man by the name of Herobrine. He will guide you from there, just, er, don’t look at him funny…His appearance will throw you off.”

With a nod, a salute, and a respectful goodbye, Rhiannon set out. The travel would be many miles, but this woman has traveled much, much further in one sitting. Keeping an even pace, she paced herself up north. A horse would have been pleasant, but the woman understood that Underwood was on a very tight bank.

Hours of patting feet.

Nightfall was near, and the rain was heavy as Rhiannon marched through the heavy rain as a poncho hood covered her from the wet tears of Althanas. Keeping the large poncho tight against her, looked far up the hill, seeing the tavern in the distance. Her destination was very near, and within an almost perfect time range.

Many drunks surrounded the tavern, laughing, telling jokes, singing, and even fighting over nothing it seemed. Hm, what a place. Seemed pretty popular from what she saw. And dangerous. Making her way closer to the tavern, she placed her hood back, eyeing the bar over. Her beauty and straight shoulders made her stick out from this rowdy crowd. This woman really held herself together, much like a trained soldier.

The bartender gave her an odd stare as she approached him, asking for a Herobrine. His slightly aged, hairy finger, pointing to a man across the bar. “The man ya seek is there, lassy. Don’ get too close…ya might lose ah ear.. Heard da lad gots the teeth of a crocodile..”

“Uhm, right. Thank you.” Without any word to the bartender, she walked to the empty table.

Placing her finger cut gloved hands down on the table, her eyes glanced at the paper under the ash tray before her gaze fell on the dark man. “Recruit Orris reporting in under Head Officer Roland’s command. If I am correct, you go by the title Herobrine?”

[car'a'carn]

It was that time of the day when one could hardly tell if it were evening or night already. The sun had ended it's daily travel cross the sky and was now rapidly sinking at the horizon. A dark blanket would rapidly follow, tucking most townsmen in for the night. Not everyone was ending their day yet though. Like anywhere, this town too had its creatures of the night. For a variety of people, their workday was only about to begin. There were those who made a living plundering houses when the inhabitants were asleep and those trying to prevent that from happening. Those who lived from serving food and drinks and those who preferred to stay up late with friends in the local inns and restaurants, trying to make some money rolling dice or playing cards. If they eventually went home they'd find themselves a bit lighter then when they entered the establishment of their choice. Lighter pockets and lighter heads tend to make people happy for a night, only to regret it in the morning.

Still outside, a man walked towards a wooden door. Above the door was a sign. Although it was a bit peeled, the letters on it were still readable. This was the place he'd been looking for. An not a minute to soon. His cloak was wet, his body cold. And the wind did not help him warm up either. There were many people outside. Joking, laughing and fighting on this wet, cold, late-winter evening. All fools according to the middle-aged man. There was a perfectly dry and warm tavern only meters away. But these idiots preferred to stay outside. Not Gilberto Di Palerma, he didn't hesitate one second to get of this crowded street.

As he swung open the door, a loud murmur escaped the room. Accompanied by some of the warmth that was promised inside. Gilberto shook the rain from his cloak and removed the hood from his head as he stepped inside. It was busy in here, but there was room for a few more. The man thought of those outside and couldn't help but smile. Idiots! The man passed a few table on his way to the bar. On his way there, bits and pieces of conversations reached his ears. Some about work, others poorly told jokes. But none about his goal in the tavern. He was here because of a rumor he'd heard. Walking death. The man had been intrigued by this rumor. Mostly about a stone that awakened corpses. That was a thing he could use to further his study.

“Hello young lady.”
Gilberto was born and raised in a wealthy family. He was raised with the idea of good manners. An idea he still held high, even though he broke with his shallow-minded parents.
“Can you tell me where I can find Herobrine?”
The courtesy of good manners where not for everyone, so it seamed. The woman behind the bar simply took the glasses she'd been filling and nodded towards a table on the far end of the room. There were two people at it. A man and a woman. Both were looking down at a piece of paper in between them when the middle-aged man arrived.
“So, you are the ones who're going to put the undead to rest?”

[Amen]

Marcus was beginning to feel like he was chasing shadows. The Brotherhood had been gathering rumors of the so-called Dark Stone of Orox for some time now, and even the most skeptical scribes of the Order had to admit that the common threads between each tale were notable. Still, when the orders had arrived to investigate the matter further, Book had not been pleased.

This, he felt, was scribes’ work. Let someone else find the damn thing, and if it existed he would deal happily deal with it.

Once again, the young paladin cursed Corone, the Citadel, and his apparent entrapment. The Radasanth holdings of the Brotherhood were the smallest in the known world according to common knowledge, and so manpower was severely limited. It seemed that before every opportunity Book had to leave, someone found some excuse to send him to a far corner of this gods-forsaken country to investigate goblins or evil rocks, because who else could go?

And where was he now? Marcus paused, half-unfurled a folded map, and considered how far he’d traveled today. The sun was dead set for the horizon now, but he had set out relatively late in the afternoon to chase down a fresh lead on the Dark Stone, and did not feel taxed. He was a good marcher.

In any case, he did not intend to hunt down a probably-mythical magic rock in the dark. After roughly discerning his location, he picked the nearest settlement on the map and then set off in the direction it was meant to be. Once there, an inn wasn’t difficult to find, and that might have been the end of his reasonably uneventful day if not for a chance discovery.

The innkeeper was in the process of collecting trash when Marcus was preparing to settle in for the evening, muttering about nonsense, graves, and adventurers. Book rescued a curious flier from the trash heap, and his heart gradually sank as he read it. While it did not expressly describe the object he had been sent for, it spoke of phenomena too familiar to ignore, and its advertised meeting was to happen tonight.

With a crestfallen sigh, the paladin returned to the night in search of faded shadows, the contents of which he was increasingly sure did not exist.

***

Marcus was unsure this was the right place. The air was crisp, and the streets wet either with recent rainfall or a new spring’s attentions on an old winter’s pockets of frost. Still, men milled about outside the inn, embroiled in various acts in degrees of misbehavior. A hard place, but Book was armed with sword and mace and his considerable brawn and was no stranger to a good brawl. A scowl cleared the way to the door as effectively as muscle would.

Warmly lit and well-patronized, the pub still seemed a better place to plan criminal enterprises than a meeting spot for public servants. Marcus didn’t care, in the end. He scanned the crowd, and picked out a mismatched crew gathered around a particular table. This was his best bet.

On approach, he considered those gathered individually. Naturally he noticed the woman first: hard-bodied and straight-backed, confident and professional and yet clearly out of her element. Marcus liked looking at her, but did not entertain notions beyond that - he tended to like his women fit, but unreserved.

Next was a pale, slight, long-limbed man dark of hair and eye. Around him was the miasma of magic, some of it black. Book’s ire was raised, but he stamped it down: let him find the stone first, if these people knew anything about it. The broader duties could wait.

The last of those gathered must have been the one advertised as Herobrine Svarldin. This was an old man on the surface, but Marcus immediately mistrusted all appearances: there was something off about this one. A paladin of the Brotherhood has it in him to sense the spiritual shadow, which all people have to some degree. Herobrine, however, was altogether invisible to this sense, like a man who could be seen and heard but whose motions could not displace air.

Troubling, but it didn’t matter. Book had intruded on the meeting, and now he pointed at the flier that sat on the table, pinned by an ashtray. “I’m looking for that,” he told them, his voice a rolling baritone, the cadence melodic with his native Salvic, his consonants hard.

[Knave]

The raucous roar of tavern could only be said to be growing as time went on, a stream of new people and parties filed in from a hard day, though few could claim work in these terrible and draining times. The fact was that for every person who had needs, there was a dearth of problems, the world simply being too big a place to stop and wonder at it all or offer aid. Some of the best and worst made the best of life beneath that surface.

Herobrine’s right hand never left his mug, and he signaled for more before he bothered to speak to his first constituent. She seated herself regardless and struck him across the ears with the most direct address Herobrine had heard in all his years. Holding alcohol aloft in the closest he would ever come to a salute, he spoke a voice too tired for bullshit and finished her sentence. “And you’re all he could find.” Though it was a less than informal lack of recognition, he met her with one shining, wandering gray eye; the other being half-closed by a permanent and scrutinizing gaze.

“Welcome to my humble office, Orris, I hope you enjoy the finery and décor,” Turning, he extended an arm to their surroundings, his balanced chair creaking as he shifted his weight for the act, “and title is a right proper word for a name like that, elegant even.” While his expression never changed from its grimace, the art of sarcasm being a joyless one as it flew on lead wings from his lips. “Truth and form aside, Orris, order what you can pay for, we won’t be leaving just yet.”

While he addressed her, he watched the incoming men as they fell in from the emptying streets outside. 'The clientele said a lot about this place; it was like rain into the gutter.' The time set for the party had been a guideline each of Herobrine’s next volunteers had followed stringently, with little more excitement than any other honest day’s work, a good sign if ever he had seen one.

When Gilberto arrived, his path was one of polite distance and least resistance toward who crossed his path, and in meeting Herobrine, he lead with the bluntest question the old man could ask for. The reply was easy coming; he eve laughed the affirmative, “He-ha. The undead don’t need rest;” he answered darkly, “they just need guidance about the proper things in life.” He said, noting the inimitable tinge in the air that surrounded the man as he seated himself; he’d know what the dead needed more than any other. “But seeing as you’re here to offer your aid, I am Herobrine and this is Orris,” he dropped her title like trash, “give us a name for the moment, be ready to give it again,.Sad to say, but introductions are a must.”

Already the next came, the scraping of wood hardly finished as Gilberto settled himself. If there was anything to be said, it was this: the next newcomer came with enough bitter suspicion in his closed face and distrustful features as to reach Herobrine in the depths of his heart, and there fill Lawrence with exactly the same. For whatever reason, though clearly armed, the man’s suspicions had not raised in him the proper alarm of what was currently nodding not sinister but aggravated recognition.

’And there he is, the square in my hand of fools.’Lawrence thought, though Herobrine’s grim feature never altered, the thought was cold and yet manic as he saw the man approach, ‘ Regardless of what he knows, I know uncertainty where I see it. The adversary that clothed itself in Herobrine’s name and skin and filth sized this next challenge, and new at any moment he could shatter the man’s skull and be done with him. Time and again, the greatest dangers he had faced were those which had been there to begin with… only time would tell and aid him in how to solve this one.

There was little impressive about the man beyond the implications of his existence, implications of violence and a heart given to thinking nothing of it. Officious to the point of command, when the last of Herobrine’s group arrived, he settled his attention on Herobrine and pointing at the flier which had brought them all together demanded simply “that” pointing at the illustrated grave and tombstone.

“Oh, you’ll have that by nights end if end you leave here now, if you want to see the next day, sit down.” Herobrine said, his gaze no more or less stern for the spiteful enmity that wakened old and usually quite dead emotions…like fear.

With another look up, and about, and seeing no one, Herobrine took in the full sum of his tools. A woman whose features were more attitude than any sign of martial discipline, a man whose face and body said nothing of work, and the most promising yet would likely prove himself more dangerous to the cause than the undead; Lawrence’s cause, of course. Herobrine eyed them all, and began where he knew he needed the most from them. His boots slipped the tables edge, and though the movement was sudden and violent, Herobrine came to the table easily with the rap of his chairs legs as they met the ground.

“If you’ve forgotten, as I’m sure you will, I am Herobrine, and this,” he setting a hand on the flier, “is the best information most you have gotten;…not that it’d do more for our prospects.” Though he finished his words speaking to no one, he continued as though neither the goal nor the team were anymore strange than usual. “We’re dealing with a problem that feeds on the mortal coil, feeds right from the soul of man if legends are to be believed,” his voice smoothed along the edges as the words found their places in surrounding minds, “truth of the matter is, we’ll be going in and after two groups that have gone before us, they’ve no doubt made more of a mess for us.

Now I don’t care at the end of the day, and if you ever live long enough to know the difference between arrogance and experience, you won’t either, but the importance of the matter, be it the masterless occult or some malicious villainy, is that the dead have found time to walk among us and are recruiting like the Ethereal Sway.” He said this while eyeing, the armed soldier as he glared back, his voice had rung with the tones of Salvar, and the jab itself at its only religion, a minor antagonism to see how far he could be pushed. “To the West, out in the fields before Underwood’s forest, they’ve been wandering the night, disoriented, as the dead should be, but dangerous. There’s no need to say more about why we’re here.”

“Now,” the elder said, addressing them all with nothing like welcome or brotherhood or any of those other silly romanticisms placed on those ready to die, “introduce yourselves, and nothing we don’t need to hear, just what your called so we can inform others as to where you might be buried, and what you can do, so we know how we’re best to stay alive.” The time had come for formal introductions.

[Rhiannon]

Only seconds passed with this old goat and she was already starting to hate him. Feelings would have to be set aside to insure that it didn't interfere with the mission, though his lack of respect could make it quite difficult for her individually. Rhiannon never took too lightly to men who looked down upon her, finding her weak because she was a woman. Then again, she could just be jumping to conclusions, so she'd leave the thought aside for now. Sitting down next, but well parted from Herbrine, watched quietly as the others came.

The two gentlemen to take part in this quest came in almost unison, falling right after one another. The first man of the two looked about her age, which caused her autopilot to scope him quickly, but remained silent with her arms crossed. Since this Herobine seemed to have the 'talking' under control, Rhiannon felt it was best to let him take the lead. He knew the information after all. Herobrine's expressions of this fellow was pretty identical to the one she had received. The old bastard was probably just grumpy from his beverage and the fact he was washed up. How did he think to manage a sword without losing a limb while he was at it?

Third. Now the third brought a few questions to Rhiannon's even flowing currents of mind. The way the looked at one another, this fellow and this Herobrine toad. Something was causing an uneven tide between them, tension. Perhaps the two knew one another. Either way. This guy was straight to the point and seemed to want something. What could you possibly want from a bunch of undead creatures? Rhiannon seemed to be missing out on some sort of information that Roland never spoke of.

Introduce yourself. Welp, this was probably her cue. With a polite smile, the woman spoke softly amongst the table. “I am Rhiannon Orris, summoned here by the Underwood patrol. You could say my senses are a little off the charts.” Turning her head to look over her shoulder, just taking enough time for a glance, looked back at the table smiling. “There is a man pissing beside a tree, groaning slightly of relived pleasure. Hes out back of this tavern. As for any 'powers' that you may wish to know, the cells in my body are heavily motivated, enabling me to heal abnormally fast. Other than my strict training in combat and survival, that is all.”

[car'a'carn]

Only minutes after Gilberto entered. The last and final person partaking in the order of the day entered the crowded room. It was a man resembling an ox. The moment the middle-aged scholar laid eyes on him, he disliked him. A guy with a body like that clearly preferred brawn over brain. On top of that, he had the look. A look Gilberto had faced numerous times before. It was a look filled with disgust. Usually fed by a notion of misunderstanding. The newcomer made his way to the table shortly after entering the inn. His words, when he reached the table, were nothing more than Gilberto expected from the newcomer. “I'm looking for that.” Gilberto was certain he could learn a parrot to say that. In fact, he was almost sure that parrot would be smarter than this man. A cold distance already seemed to grow between the newcomer and Gilberto. A distance the scholar was not ready to cross.

When everyone was seated, the old man who gathered this meeting began to speak. His words formed an introduction of what was going on today as well as a more formal introduction of himself. After that, it was the woman's turn to say who she was and what her skills were. Apparently she had great hearing. She said that she could hear a man release himself of his bodily fluids outside, even though the inn was filled with a rumbling crowd and rain dropped down outside. Gilberto found this skill to be impressive, if it were true, but quite useless in a battle. The scholar's first idea was to test what happened when a sudden hard sound reached those keen senses. So when it was his time to give his formal introduction, he spoke in a loud voice. At least the first few words. His eyes were fixed on the female guard when he spoke, ready to see what happened.

“My name is Gilberto Di Palerma. I'm a scholar by nature. And from this nature I received certain powers. The thing I can do for you on this quest lays in control. I can control living things around me.

That being said, he turned to the last person who'd joined the table.

“How about you sir. What can you do for us? Apart from standing between the zombies and us that is.”

[Amen]

Grumpy, Marcus thought as Herobrine directed him to a seat.

The paladin was used to it. The old man had the bearing of an old soldier, and Marcus had been under the command of his fair share of grey war-dogs. The surprise, when it came, was born from the realization that he was, quite without warning, under someone’s command. He had assumed this party had been gathered to discuss the problem The Dark Stone presented. Now he realized they intended to do something about it, maybe tonight.

Book took up the seat Herobrine had indicated and turned it around backward. He then straddled the seat and planted himself down, wrapping his considerable arms around the chair’s carven back. He understood this was considered rude in polite company, but the company hardly seemed polite and he did not want to detach his sheathed sword from its place on his back just to sit down.

Seemingly satisfied at that, Herobrine began to explain the situation and Marcus listened intently. He raised his eyebrows when it was revealed that two groups of unknown size had already made attempts on the stone, and he was impressed to discover that this group was, indeed, assembled to itself act against the stone and not merely to discuss avenues of solution. It seemed the paladin would not be facing the unknown alone.

The old salt’s mention of The Ethereal Sway did not seem to draw any response at all from Marcus. He was well-versed in Salvar’s religion and had attended his fair share of sacred services, but he did not count himself of their number. The Church and the Brotherhood were allies, but independent from one another.

Now Herobrine called on those of the party to make introductions, and Book very nearly groaned out loud. Anya Shea, his mentor, called this stage “making friends” and it was well-known that Marcus was bad at it on his best days. If he’d been told he was going to have to make friends today, he wouldn’t have crawled out of bed in the first place.

He was relieved when the woman spoke first: Rhiannon Orris of the Underwood patrol and Marcus had little reason to doubt the claim. It made sense, he decided. She was certainly the most striking patrolman Book had ever laid eyes on, but also ranked among the most physically capable women he could recall meeting, based on appearances. He didn’t know what cells were, but combat training and enhanced senses he understood. If she wasn’t overstating her skills she would be an asset and, more importantly, her goals would align with his. Marcus silently counted her an ally, for now.

When Gilberto Di Palerma spoke next with an upraised voice, it seemed a sudden interjection. Book eyed him with curious neutrality, and soon realized he’d already failed at “making friends” – Di Palerma did not seem pleased with Rhiannon’s company, but the icy welcome he had for the paladin was unmistakable and unmasked. Marcus chided himself for concealing himself poorly, but what was done was done. They had started on opposite sides of the fence; the only difference was now Gilberto knew it too.

“I would like to think that standing between you and the hungry dead is useful enough,” he said. “But if you’d like more, well…”

Marcus raised his right hand for the party to see, which abruptly burst into flame. At first glance it could be mistaken for natural fire, but a brief moment of examination showed that it was not. The paladin’s skin did not blister or burn, nor did the flame flicker or spit or twist in the air, and it would not consume cloth or wood or any inanimate substance. It did not behave as fire should, but rather reminded one of lightning or the light given off by the sun, and its heat was somehow more than physical. It both uplifted the spirit and caused it to shrink away as if threatened.

“My name is Marcus Book,” he said, “and this is hellfire. Fire eats wood and fuel, this eats the stuff that desecrates corpses with reanimation. And those that would use that sort of magic. Because every so often a scholar comes along who thinks he knows more than he does, like this man Orox, and makes a mess. Then I come along, with my fire, and clean that mess up.”

Book realized that the patrons surrounding their table were beginning to stare at his burning hand in drunken, slack-jawed awe. As suddenly as it ignited, it went out, and he lowered his hand and smiled mirthlessly. “That’s what I can do for you. So, when do we get started?”

[Knave]

Under orders for more, laughter over cards, and one great cry of “thieving fiend” Herobrine laid his elbows on the table and his arms across each other as he evaluated each of his recruits for the best they had to offer. With one eye shrouded in bush of eye and beard, he scrutinized them and never shied away from his drink, dizzying that it was as it passed under the nose. He could feel it in his veins as he listened, a chocking and cloying that numbness buried with its chemical cure for the day, week, month, and century; peace meant nothing when the worst war was with one’s self.

The girl was effective in delivery, neither her posture, intonation, heartbeat, or shift of eye suggesting her assets of skill and talent were fables. Derision played his thin lips into a quirked smile though as he listened to Rhiannon’s odd choice of words.Little causes to little effects, he judged, unwilling to ask and far too uninterested to be confused. While “charts” were familiar, though foreign, and “cells” were unknown, and uncared for, the old man noted that with pride of her abilities she neglected all mention of weapons or their use. Herobrine neglected to speak, valuing her for her presence and all the attention it would attract.

When Gilberto spoke next, Herobrine made no move, but noted the young fool’s ability, “Control?” He understood the word like his own hand, employed it in his thoughts like a son, but more useful, and marched it to war alongside side soldiers most similar, like force and deceit; to his ears, his sharp, aggravating, mind numbing ears, it sounded like some silly imposter drunk on power it had in definition rather than reality. He would ask for more details later, damned if he would ever hear the echo of Calibrena’s sweet and painfully seductive voice; in the Immaterium’s infernal darkness, in the halls of N’jal, he had suffered greatly at those words, “you didn’t ask.”*

Working the scruff of his neck, Herobrine nodded something like amiability, openly letting his black eyes chase the words that passed between Gilberto Di Palerma and the threatening companionby his side. Finally, the time had come to see the holy man speak, Herobrine, wise in his years, spared him neither suspicion nor consideration, and by his righteous boast Herobrine knew nothing worse or better than to ensure him his place. He was eager to learn however, and leaned forward to look and see and hear just what the dwindling lights had created next to buy them time… only time.

Throughout the night, from morning’s rise, and sun’s end, Herobrine’s face had little changed, but when Marcus raised his hand, and in his calloused palm flames were birthed, their light illuminated the lines and crags of Herobrine’s and danced in his eyes as he sat transfixed, for the first time drawn in.

The sounds changed around the room as people became wondrously still, and the shadows fell away to wax deep and seethe with the element. All of this was beyond Herobrine, so deep a want as to leave the old man honest as to his feelings: hopeless desire, he wanted to lay hands on it with every bit of his worn soul. Lawrence for the second wished, Herobrine in the next dismissed, and Marcus snuffed out those flames one swift instant later.

Herobrine laughed for the lights, a tone of respect tactfully laid in admiration of the first power demonstrated and the first among his group who could claim to be useful. “A finer proof than words, no love may be lost or wasted tonight, but the fresh dead will soon find themselves in their proper place.” When Marcus Book followed with the question of beginning, the elder raised his hand with wisdom damn near sagacious. “We’ll start when we’ve decided how best to kill things that refuse to give up their ghosts. It would be a shame to find ourselves out thought by the brain dead.” He believed in plans, he knew existence to be a struggle, though he could not say that life was out to get him in its entirety, should he have ever been moved to be vocal in honesty his first pronouncement would be that the sum of all things was as follows.

Lawrence considered pragmatism the sole purpose of reason, paranoia being its highest form, higher consciousness both an excellent and poor tool for any purpose, and the conservation of resources being paramount. Hence why animals slept and hunted only when necessary, and spent the rest of their time preparing or waiting. The reasoning went as follows:

Accidents can be attributed to several parts, and thought of as axes; the handle lay in the unknown and made up the heft; the head, a variable where the greater the threat the sharper the blade; and beyond that, waiting, laughing, gnawing its coin, and flashing its golden teeth was horned, bedeviled Luck, whose strength was directly proportional to both fate’s caprice and the speed of one’s decision. The only factors that lay with the victim were hope, which kept a body going, and spite, which made a person wrestle with things they could never fully beat… like Luck, who would claim that he let you win… and would be right, or that he meant to hit the poor bastard next to you, to the same effect.

Or as the 39th Mikado of Akashima said at his execution, “The good die young, and I’ve lived a long life because of it.”** This was the philosophy of their self-appointed, and rightfully so, leader, and while he plotted to achieve his own ends, he plotted to save as many pieces for as long as possible, possible ending nowhere near his own neck.

“Now, as I see it, none of you, not one, has mentioned anything along the line of fitness for battle.” While mentioning quirks of power had been interesting, and even entertaining the ability to wield these skills had eluded the point of Herobrine’s instruction. “I’ll assume you all to be fit if nothing else; you’ll assume the same of me. Now.” Setting his mug on the table with a wooden clatter right atop the flyer’s grave.

“Spanning a modest tract of land are the fields lost to the undead,” Herobrine lead them through the sad facts of the enemy, “for whatever reason, Orox was daft enough to bring protection for himself and his pretty toys, but failed to come back from those fields alive. More than that though, is that with their master dead the boys don’t know what to do, anyone who comes near dies, anyone who dies decides to start running around spreading this particular affliction.” The sage looked at his merry crew, and finding them serious, he led on to the land itself.

“We’ll not be getting a choice about luring them out or away, they never leave, and you can imagine what that’s done to the gresdah*** fields. The lands been worked so long it keeps the paths between rows, but the gresdah has grown thick and tall and unruly, farmer’s can’t tend it, and the weather is no aid to a blazing purge,” at this Herobrine passed his consideration over Marcus Book, “if corruption is the only thing your fires burn, you’ll likely find none of it among the trees then,” and to the rest of the group, “in these conditions, I can think of no better solution than not going at all, you see why two groups all the larger than we few perished for the most part.

Make no mistake though, I chose night for the best fact of it all,” the old bastard whispered, grinning as he leaned forward with an energy born from a long tamed eccentricity toward violence, “the dead decay. It’s likely been slowed, but all sights say that they rot, and that means that they have wits and senses in ever decreasing supply. By moonlight, a poor source of the element to our benefit and cost, we’ll be upon them quietly, and render each immobile for later immolation.”

With that said, there were concerns to be addressed, “Age has left me with many things but infirmity of spirit or mind or body, Orris here says she can hear a man give voice celebrant of sweet freedom—as men are won’t to do—and through a wall, at that!" It was impossible to tell which way humor turned or whether it was meant to cut in his groaning laughter. " And what you do best, if that was it,“ He threw an indicatory finger at Marcus, “is light the shadows we need. You don’t strike me as either subtle or fool enough to run into enemy territory calling down the wrath of we know exactly what. Keep that in mind when I ask the next question.” In his estimations, he overlooked the third member of their party, by any estimation he would be useful. Giving a sigh, a leaning back to set his hands on his stomach, he let loose his next charge, “Anybody have a problem with what’s about to go down?”



*A minor venture in Lawrence's early life involving multiple levels of the Immaterium or Anti-firmament. Having been contracted by the equivalent of a demon god, Lawrence with the aid of Drago and Lorenor suffered greatly so that a a girl**** might receive the full destructive power for a hefty fee and the threat of incredible and immediate death from/at her father's hands. The particular instant where Lawrence lost all faith in the infernal involved a grievous wound to personal pride, the loss of an arm, and interpretive dance. Do not laugh, never laugh, no matter how ridiculous a situation, Lawrence took it badly.

**Ka Ogen died at the ripe age of seventy-nine, he had taken office when he was twelve, and survived on nothing but his own publicized will and the meat daily harvested from live cows. From puberty onward, 10, there was not a week gone by of some rumored and usually true debauchery. While in face, form, deed, and thought, he was the endearing object of hatred known across the land, he was possessed of one redeeming quality, his forever perfect hair. He has since been canonized as the patron saint of fiends, having survived two revolutions, and a number of assassination attempts which proved that nothing is fair. The quote upon which he is quoted is speculated to have been a code word for rescue, either he misspoke upon the chopping block, or the executioner knew better than to search his soul before sending another to hell.

***Gresdah, flora found in warmer climates. This flora is a stalk baring tuber whose roots actively draw nutrients from the earth and then ferment, the stalk itself is a light orange shade with numerous nettles protruding from branches, these nettles are rather soft, but have been known to inflict powerful fevers and inflammation of the face on those with even minor allergic reactions to pollen. Its main use is after being processed to the point of being both poisonous and delicious, hence why it makes excellent anesthesia and children sometimes steal and chew the stems, its suspected to be a powerful sterillant however in its raw form. The friendly, local barony has been working to suppress these rumors and mass market the crops. They are succeeding. The rumors are true.

****BITCH

[Rhiannon]

Gilberto's sudden outburst of vocal power made Rhiannon act like any typical person would. Surprised, and looking at him oddly because she was expecting him to speak casually as the others. Her keen sense were keen indeed, but she was still human. As the same reaction to a dog when you yell in his ear, they look at you thinking 'was that necessary?' "Welcome, Gilberto. Its an honor to have you." Control?

The woman's senses were by no means a source of magic, but a source of science. The Technocratic Union were very wise and took much thought into making her senses much keener, and keeping out any flaw if possible. Much like a radio, her hearing was structured with a built in auto tuner. When things were really loud, her body was at work. Her eardrum was scientifically developed to handle far away sounds as it was close, meaning when Gilberto tested her hearing with a sudden outburst of sound, it went auto pilot, tuning her hearing down so that it wouldn't be overwhelmed. Whether it was the sound of a gunshot was a whole different story. Immediately her eardrums would rupture, like most people, and that is when her designed healing factor would come into play.

As for these men's powers, Gilberto's left her kind of in the air, but Book's, now he had an astonishing power that shes never witnessed before. Her eyes widened slightly as the fire remained a lustrous reflection in her beautiful eyes. Wonder struck her, making her overly active brain ignite with ideas, theories, and mathematical equations. Though she didn't realize her brain had calculated this all at once, all she knew is that it just didn't seem possible, at all. But what you could see, was it not real? Rhiannon wanted to reach out and touch this fire, feeling it wouldn't harm her, but her strong will kept her content with just looking at it. Curiosity had charmed the cat, and she looked the man over. “How.. did you do that?” she asked mystically. Did the Union lie? Did magic truly exist, or was it just this world, Althanas? Would she one day be capable of magic as well?

No, there is no Magic! Only science, Agent Orris. Magic, mystical creatures, and religion are all myth by man. Science is the answer to everything.

Then why? ….

The zone only last a few moments before she blinked and looked around at everyone. It was probably for the better that she let the over full pool of her thoughts go for the time being. Her headache which seemed like nothing started to throb a little bit. Maybe she pushed herself a little too far listening past everything and through a wall to hear the man pissing on a tree. This wasn't the first time its happened.

Meanwhile, while Herobrine explained the situation and their plans, Rhiannon gave the old bastard the benefit of the doubt, leaving her inputs and remarks out as he spoke. Always yapping her jaws would be quite stereotypical for her being a female, for they were known for doing it. Rhiannon wasn't like the rest, she was different in many ways, but in many ways the same.

When the old gentlemen, understatement, was finished and asking what they thought of the plan, she finally helped herself to speak. "Sounds like we have ourselves a plan. I'll be listening in so we're not ambushed by surprise."

[car'a'carn]

There was little reaction on the woman’s face, apart from a surprised look, when the middle-aged man introduced himself in a loud voice. Gilberto didn’t know what to think of it: where her so-called powers real or was she just boasting things she could not do. He needed to find out before they’d entered any kind of battle with the zombies. He’d prefer not to be overrun in an ambush while he was relying on her powers to protect them from such an event. While these thoughts raced through his mind, he finished introducing himself and turned to the man sitting next to him.

The mountain of muscles in the chair next to Gilberto spoke, raising one of his hands. Completely unexpected, a bright light erupted around his forearm. With a small shriek, it sent Gilberto to the back of his seat. Impulsively cowering away from the fire that didn’t burn flesh. The scholar somehow knew he’d better not get into contact with this fire, for it could burn a part of him.

When Marcus explained his power, Gilberto knew he was right to avoid contacting it. This magic he called Hellfire burned away the things that made corpses stand up again. Unluckily for the scholar, he was able to do that. Not that he planned on telling the people around them. These men were going to hunt down the things a man like him had created before he died. Telling these men that he too could raise the recently deceased could turn out in a load of trouble for him.

“That’s quite an awesome power, but why call it hellfire if it only burns vile creatures?” Gilberto only whispered it, aware that none would hear it. Apart from Rhiannon maybe, if her powers were real.

Meanwhile the meat shield, who had just proven himself useful for the quest they were going to take, had extinguished the fire around his hand. People still looked at the table, but rapidly returned to their own business.

With introductions now behind them, the old man took word ones more. This time he went on about the specifics of tonight’s job. Apparently the zombies walked the earth on greshdah fields. They always stayed in the same area and slowly rotted away. The time to act was now though, people needed to farm the fields. In these times of war, like so many other things, supply of anesthesia was running low. These fields, filled with poisonous nettles would be the first problem to overcome. Then there were the zombies.

If Rhiannon’s powers were as good as she said they were, she would be able to find the zombies with relative ease. Gilberto’s powers could be used to make a path towards that place and finally the muscular warrior could use his powers to give the zombies eternal rest. All in all, the group that had gathered here tonight was quite complementary. The only one who didn’t have a clearly outlined job in Gilberto’s plan was the old man. Then again, he figured, they’d be lucky if the old man could keep up with the relative youth around him.

[Amen]

Marcus Book took in the details of the assignment as he always did: mute and intensely attentive. If it were the Brotherhood giving him these orders, there would have been a rundown on the variety of undeath he could expect to encounter, the means of reanimation, the average state of decay, and at least three contingency plans. The undead were not dangerous to a paladin – even a determined scribe could hold his own against one shambler – but hordes were a different matter. There is no force on earth undeath cannot topple, given time and opportunity.

It was Book’s job to deny that opportunity.

“If it behooves me to be silent, I will be silent,” Marcus said in response to Herobrine’s question. “If I may, I would suggest that we procure an accelerant before we leave town, oil or turpentine. And let me take the opportunity now, before silence is necessary, to advise my comrades to look down. If the shamblers have been rotting away for some time without necromantic upkeep, the knees often go early. Some might be crawling.”

[Knave]

(Sorry for the wait, and excellent job, team, we've officially outposted every other boss thread.)

Weather beaten, life trodden, festering at the core with innumerable sins both real and… concocted, Herobrine took in this new and utterly motley crew. Out of all of them, there was one who would be singularly useful, out of all of them, there was one who was utterly redundant, and out of all of them, there was one so dubiously suspected of being without use that Herobrine was tempted to leave him; otherwise the fool would be one more raving omnicidal corpse baking in the sun and lurching through the night. By morning, he expected a few of them to be dead, and for all who cared to ask of him: gone.

At Herobrine’s question, the group remained deep in thought, hardly paying any more attention to each other, hardly asking any questions of their own about the future or about Herobrine, who by his ragged features, often bitter and riotous no matter the mood. Lawrence beneath the skin was almost insulted, all the nebulous lies he had prepared for even the most basic of interactions now seemed wasted. As the time boiled down, with every passing second into history’s grave, Herobrine for the first time spared them a smile, his yellowing, crooked teeth grinning with nothing of the colder contempt below.

Orris spoke first, and with her agreement, the elder nodded his assent as though glad to have someone whose senses might exceed his own. When he spoke, though, it could be nothing else aside from admonishment or command. “Just keep your wits about you, death makes more of the world in every way when its hosts get up and walk about. Every smell burns and churns the stomach; every sound will be for want of company, compassion, or hatred, all in madness.” It was a fair warning, and Lawrence knew that he would be walking into a bitter hell made manifold by all his senses.

To Gilberto’s discredit, when he spoke his mind, and asked his question, Herobrine suspected no one thought less of him. In passing, the regard Herobrine gave Gilberto was passing and empty and when the grunting, howling devils set upon him he would serve his purpose: dying loudly. In passing, Herobrine nodded his approval of Gilberto’s momentary silence.

Finally, Book offered his advice, and being the best and only offered tonight, it was the most triumphant in insight and breadth of mind. “True,” the old, dirty bastard replied, “the dead crawl when they have only legs to carry them, and injured mortally when dying some shamble in through life, but the fresh dead still possess all the speed and strength of fighting men and worse.” As an afterthought, “…it’ll do them no good though— For tonight, the shadows are our allies!”

With that said, Herobrine stood, and despite the weight of alcohol on his shoulders that would have crushed and toppled another man, just as he did not slur he did not stumble. Reaching into his trouser pocket, Herobrine found and raised a sack which rustled, and hung gravid with gold, “Steiner! bring me my bill!” And with a knowing wink at Marcus followed his order with, “And add to it a keg of your foulest brine! The kind that barks and makes fair women swoon!”

Thug, bootlicker, shoe maker, clerk, harlot, wench, and slumming daughter turned to the old man for a single second even as the barkeep, his head crowned in gray and his brown moustache matching his stained apron, fired back, “The Orphaner’s delight? Or one of the Fallien rums?” Though Herobrine had been in this down for little town, he had his friends.

Herobrine in all his forms originated from Fallien, and with a sense of actual nostalgia, he ordered the most hateful drink he and his brother had ever had the fateful punishment of thieving. “Coex Hytel’n Fyane, have you got it?”* And at his request Killy rinsed his hands, and departed only to return with his arms about a barrel and his back and legs placed powerfully beneath it as he trundled from the darkness of his cellar and around the corner. Kilroy proved himself a good hand, though age brought to him short breaths and a ruddy face as he hauled a small barrel of only sixty pounds. Paying with a coin, quick word, and laugh Herobrine collected the long sword he’d left behind, settling it into his belt alongside the knife in his belt, Herobrine moved to the door.

And calling over his shoulder, all cheer passing quickly as it always did, Herobrine called to his crew and signaled for them and told them to get their asses moving.

*A special blend of fermented root left to simmer under the same sun which reigns over Fallien’s dessert. At a ripe age, it is tested by passing it into the water of roosters, and judged to be ready when depending on how long the fight rages; afterwards it is fed to and filtered through a bull. The final product is considered the end of any alcoholic, for any who imbibe more than a sip are thrown into violent delirium. Forever.

[Rhiannon]

Rhiannon's greenish blue orbs fell on Gilberto as he asked his question to Marcus. Seeming somewhat interested, she forced herself to look away, though she was interested with the same question. Why did he call it fire when it truly wasn't fire at all? She couldn't resist, curiosity seemed to kill the cat on this one. “Yes, why do you call it 'hellfire' Mr. Book? A favored soul like yourself is anything but Hell I'm assuming. Why not holy fire?” Smiling at Gilberto, who she was aware of his testing, gave him a long lashed wink. He now would know. She indeed was no woman of lies or exaggeration.

Listening to the old man Herobrine and Book speak, the women felt it was about time for preparation. Bringing her arms back, she tied her blonde locks back tightly, placing her hair in a pony tail. Since Mr. Gilberto wanted to be so testy, she would do the same, making sure her chest was out as far as it could be without seeming intentional, her back curving slightly with divine art. Was his wits about him, or would he easily be distracted by the scent of a woman? Wow, Althanas was already starting to twist her character.. Maybe being around people like these men instead of brainwashed Technocrats was making her more...well, herself..

Though her test fell short as old Herobrine became quite the happy one. A smile? A toothy, yellow stained smile made her look at him in almost disbelief. Somehow it also brought her a sense of motivation and moral. “Hm, never thought I'd see a smile from the likes of you, Herobrine..”

With a moment of silence, she nudged Gilberto's shoulder with her own, whispering. “How much do you suppose he drank? He was drinking before even I arrived? If he wants silence and stealth, how do we know he won't be a hollering hoot after that shot of his?”

The old man's boney hand, almost seeming lifeless and on the verge of decay, motioned them to follow. Rhiannon looked from Gilberto to Marcus, giving them a shrug before she gladly followed. They did have a mission to complete after all. “Lets get this show on the road, gentlemen.”

(If this writing is horrid my apologies.. I was quite the lush coming home from the bar.. stumbling to the computer … 'ahhh knave posted... hah.... knave...' and started to write.. haha)

[Amen]

As Herobrine stood and called for his bill and a casket of foreign swill, Marcus took to his own feet and politely turned his chair back round the right way. As he tucked the seat beneath the table, Rhiannon said, “Yes,” as if seconding a thought, “why do you call it hellfire, Mr. Book? A favored soul like yourself is anything but Hell I’m assuming. Why not holy fire?”

And then she cast a smile at Gilberto. At first Book felt…what? Jealous? The woman was attractive, and the smile was sweet. After a moment – a long moment, and the paladin could admit to himself that he was historically slow to catch on to this sort of thing – he realized the smile was too saccharine to be fully genuine. Perhaps that was not a smile he wanted aimed at him, after all.

Marcus raised his eyebrows now, realizing he missed something. “I apologize,” he said to Gilberto, “I must not have heard your question. They call it hellfire because, well, I guess you don’t find angels burning in Hell. I don’t claim to know where it comes from and I’m far from favored by anyone or anything, I just use it because I have it and it works.”

The paladin realized with a start that Herobrine was halfway out the door now, and swung from drunken cheer back to irascible command again as he ordered the crew to, under no uncertain terms, remove their respective hindquarters from the premises. Rhiannon gave the remaining pair a shrug, and then she and the self-professed scholar went on their way. Marcus followed them out.

[Knave]

Outside the stellar procession had followed with the suns setting and the night’s arrival, a body of constellations magnified to make men small, twinkling lights of foreign stars dotting the sky to take distant vantage and gamble with fate. Among them were Apos and Aarist shining green in the distant west of which scholars said they orbited each other and sailors claimed they were wed. The constellations by their factions had long been attributed to thayne loyalties and thayne rule, the eye of Draconus’ red rimmed iris and its baleful blue core, N’jal’s hand a grasping claw. All throughout the sky superstition painted the universe as simple: divided along lines of fantasy: ruled by divine will, and immortalizing divine life and divine struggle.

The old religions knew the promethean Thayne for what he was, a sourceless god, and Lawrence knew in his bones that the black, bountiful fields of nothing from which it sprang still bore fruit. The proof was in his bones, in his hair, and creeping from the back of his mind with the fear of what he knew was awake and watching there. To step out of the pub would have brought no new revelations to any of Althanas population, save for those who sought their guidance, but for Lawrence in Herobrine’s guise, he could only look cast his eyes to the moon and no further, the darkness between those stars more profound and terrifying for what he knew might fall from them.

The present reality, with its simple hungers and simple demons, was still. The common shop owner, the shrewd people of thrift, the day walkers all had retired from the world, and so too did the dregs sink into the alleys and pubs and freshly opened houses. There were only the faces of buildings left dark, black and bare cobblestones for the street, and the lamps which flickered dimly from their filthy cages into the distance. Into the distance, the most comforting sound was the echo of feet as Herobrine and company made way through damp air. Into the distance, the most comforting image was the rising silhouette of Underwood forest and its hidden depths.

Though Herobrine finally appeared to warm to their company, he doubted they would find in each other anything more than distaste in one another, but they were all he had to work with. The best he could hope was that under the choking miasma of death they would find camaraderie among the enemy, and the thought Herobrine’s lip turned up in disgust as an ill wind carried the suffocating stench through the air.

‘No, I’d sooner walk into this quietly and alone than with chaos at back and side.’ While Herobrine’s cheeks were red, his gait unwavering, his insides seethed and turned on themselves with Lawrence’s disgust. He could see it now, the fungal growths rising from skin in motley colors and fuzz, the bilious infection that would coat their teeth with bacterial poison, the weight of that hoard falling on him. ’The easier the better.’ He suppressed the shudder and thoughts of flight, and in Herobrine’s snappish manner he turned to his merry crew.

“It’s a walk of minutes more than petty silence can handle, any of you lot have a story worth hearing? Or am I right in thinking the story worth hearing is from the slack jawed dead?” Warming indeed, else tonight would add to the horde three more bodies. Even with such a battered façade, the lights of those blood shot eyes never considered that his life was in any more danger than death by disgust.

[Rhiannon]

Rhiannon followed the gentlemen out the doors, knowing a great adventure was at foot, or disaster. These men before her were the ones she’d have to work with in order to survive, which meant that she needed to build some sort of trust or partnership with each of them, even the bitter old man Knave.

As her foot steps moved passively along side the other men, her eyes took a long gander up at the stars, scanning its unknown patterns and shapes. They were much different than the ones from Earth. Wow, Althanas was already messing with her head… The stars here were not like the ones from Home.

Nearly at a whisper, she squinted a bit before her eyes snapped at the old man beside her. “They’re beautiful, but unfortunately they make no sense to me. Nothing of Althanas makes sense to me, for I was birthed and raised in another world much like the one we stand in now..”

Not sure if Knave or the others were really interested, she continued to speak to break the weary silence between them all, for what was ahead of them was to be far wearier. “In my world, the stars are differently aligned, creating constellations and zodiacs that pass through the seasons. There are twelve zodiacs, each set to a certain date in which we are all born under. They say that each person born under the sign carried a lot of its traits in personality. Some see it as myth, where others follow it like a religion. Each sign also is dedicated to certain elements and planets in our universe.” The woman let off a small chuckle, “I could talk about it all night, really. Leo would be considered my zodiac, my sign. I am curious as if the people of Althanas have similarities..”

“One of the constellations known as ‘the big dipper’ was also said to lead men of slavery to freedom. My world, Earth, has evolved around the stars above us. Every religion, race, and country somehow has a connection to the twilight above us. They lead to legends, gods, and goddesses. There are people who believe that it is all science, not being created by a higher power like a god. It’s called the ‘Big Bang’ theory.”

Rhiannon grew silent for a short moment. Her secret was out and she had to admit it made her feel a little uncomfortable. “I lived in a year known as 2011, meaning the swords are old fashioned and no longer really used other than ceremony. We use guns, such as this one.” From her leg she pulled out her 9mm pistol, revealing it to the others, offering to hand it over if any wish to observe. “When I passed through a portal into this world, it broke, warping some of the metal that’s crucial to its structure.”

[Amen]

Marcus followed silently as Herobrine challenged the party for noise, and found he could think of nothing to answer with. Book could never be accused of talking too much. He preferred to be seen as someone large and stupid, as people seemed all too ready to assume of him. It served his interests: he didn’t have to make small talk (he was terrible at it), and it worked to his advantage when his enemies assumed him dim.

Thankfully, Rhiannon took it upon herself to answer Herobrine, waxing nostalgic about stars and other worlds. Between suspicious glances at the woman from the corner of his eye, the paladin took brief, curious glances up at the sky. He did not, in truth, know anything about constellations or the heavens. Having heard his fair share of scholarly and religious debates on the nature of the night sky, he figured nobody really did, and found that he did not care. There were mysteries enough where men could walk and climb, why wonder about things beyond one’s reach?

Book was on the verge of doubting Rhiannon’s sanity when she produced a strange tool and began to hand it around. Marcus accepted it cautiously, having some small experience with guns, and considered it while keeping the business end pointed toward the ground. He did not trust it, broken or no.

“Heavier than it looks,” Marcus grunted. “I’ll keep my sword. I know how it works.”

He handed the weapon back, taking care not to point it at its owner or himself in the process.

“Our worlds must not be so different. You speak Trade as if it were your mother tongue, as far as I can tell,” the paladin said, having no idea his Salvic accent was not horribly unlike an eastern European accent to Rhiannon’s ears. “Strange that your weapons are so much more complex, though. You say your civilization is at its two thousand and eleventh year, but it is said the elves built the first city in the north of Althanas some fifteen thousand years ago. You must come from a clever people.”

After a thoughtful pause, he continued: “You know, the elves of Alerar have their own guns. Not quite like yours, but they are more likely to understand it than anyone else in Althanas. If it needs repair, that’s where I would take it.”

He grinned, “Of course, that assumes you survive the next few hours.”

[Knave]

The old man ruffled scratched the rough of his neck, and listened intently though his head and rarely turned from their due destination—his interest covered by a stiff, feigned disposition of body and mind. ‘And there is the value of small talk.’ While his smile looked strained and foreign to Herobrine, and in fact it was, there was a reality to his interest as Orris was quick to speak, and reveal things which were best kept quiet. “I see.” Herobrine said, with a politeness often offered to the dim and delusional, he did not need to look back to and share glances with either of the other two about Orris’ origin and doubts of it.

He was a lie on the surface, a phantom whose boots left deeper prints in the ground than his large form suggested, and he scoffed. It was a laugh only audible in his sudden exhale, and the chuckle trapped in his chest, and why wouldn’t he? He had seen something demonstrably alien, it had touched him and broken him any way worth mentioning…and here was something soft and human and familiar in its varying shades of pink.

The soldier by her side was polite, and simple with his reply, something changing hands behind Herobrine’s back as the troop made its way through the streets. The various shops fell back to small homes, and the distance between that had previously increased by inches grew to entire feet and yards. The fog that crept down from the mountain’s base came from North and East, and though it was dark, the best of eyes could see the green corruption that was disturbed by their steps.

Shifting the barrel to his other, Herobrine wiped at the clinging sensation of terrible things creeping and clinging across and to his face. He could taste it—bubbling ,fermenting decay!—it made Lawrence’s saliva thick and, though he knew it was impossible, it felt like the very knowledge of germinal and riotous rot was crawling into his gut to choke him. Earlier that day, Lawrence had attempted one last measure of preparation, abandoning his senses. No amount of alcohol was enough though, and when Orris approached the shapeshifter as his eyes watered and panic seeped into his secret soul, he looked changed. His eyes were dim, face slack, and feet dragging.

And when he finally saw her through his own blinding chagrin—cursing Killy, sure that he watered his horse piss down for even the best of men—he came back to himself and who he knew he should be. “Interesting.” He took the gun by the handle and examined it with his publicly good eye. “I’ve seen the like of these before, ‘course, if you want it repaired you’ll no good deal among the elves. Vain and capricious things, them; pretty girl or paying customer, you’ll be judged by their whim, something usually dictated by how much fun they get out of comparing you to the ape and asking about body hair.” They were clean though, and usually somber with the sobriety that came with knowing one would have a long life, hence why Lawrence preferred them.

"For whatever reason, a guns only as good as the bullets it fires, the speed of reload, and the eye that can all of those things to use...I don't know the make of this 'weapon' specifically, but I doubt you can't see why these things got no value these days." It was almost a joke, barely, it scratched the surface as one, and in fact, the casual observer might think Herobrine's usually expression lightened with that expression. "Don't think too highly of special toys, in the right hand these things are the touch of death, as good as flaming sword, but for the daily grind so is a small blade or cudgel."

“Now the most obvious question, to me, is,” he handed back the gun with a look of increasing disappointment, “is that your only means of defending yourself?” Marcus was armed with spell fire, and Roberto carried himself with enough pride that Herobrine was unconcerned about his safety for more reasons of his own than he cared to think about. While the sword hung from his belt, a knife was clearly settled against Herobrine’s left hip just beneath the black suspender. He did not offer it. "They teach you how to fight in your little fairy world?"

The town was slowly disappearing, the cobblestones long gone, and beneath the starlight all was mist and shadow. The fields were still a ways away, and moon sat upon its throne, huge and golden, pockmarked and scarred.*


*The story goes that the moon and sun had once been equal in radiance and beauty, but soon grew vain as their dance dominated the sky. They bickered and soon preyed upon one another as women millennia later would do. (“You look so warm and round; tell me, sister, how do you do it!”) Soon they came to blows. Their battle scattering motes of debris wherever they passed in their struggle. In her wrath the sun set struck the moon, and like the harsh beating of a child knocked all the brilliance from her and left her dim and stupid. Hence, as Akashiman legend goes, the two are forever divided, the moon jealous and angry, and the sun still sure having won the battle. The proverb best tells the moral: even the moon learned humility on her knees.

[Rhiannon]

Disapointment roamed Rhiannon's eyes as this Paladin nor Herobrine found the gun 'modern' or any 'better' than a magical weapon. Her gut quenceh, as she wanted stronlgy to disagree. Bullets were powerful, penetrated armor. They're even faster! Before the water could start to boil over, the temperature changed with Amen's last words. "Elves?"

The woman fell silent a moment before she spoke again, this time with great interest in her voice. "You mean to tell me there are guns here? Perhaps I should go to these elves after we complete our mission with Orox." The thought seemed like a grand idea, at least until Herobrine added of how judgemental they may be to her being human, plus the repairs being over priced. "Hm."

A small chuckle would escape her lips as the older of the three spoke out of convern for her well being of defense against the undead. "Now now, Mr. Herobrine. I'd be a fool if I intended to proceed this mission with only my bare hands... Though.. My hands are equally lethal as these." Bringing her electro baton from her hip, she swatted her hand out, causing the weapon to extend. "This weapon is light, very durable, and shatters bones with serious bluntal trauma. What some in Althanas would call it enchanted, it can also conduct electricity to shock my oppenent. A combat knife remains paralell of my boot. Quick, silent, and Deadly." Pursing her lips, she smiled, having a good feeling that the man would be satisfied.

Rhiannon would never admit she lacked the experience of fighting a being that was already dead, but one thing she did know, It would be awfually diffacult to fight with shattered skulls and limbs. Her fingers played at the ring that Roland had given her before leaving the Underwood Patrol Quarters. "And there is this... Roland told me that it may assist us.." Folding out her hand infront of the party, aiming to the ground, she turned the ring to reveal the tremendous bright light (green) before them. "Seeing we won't be wanting to be detected, it may not serve us any good purpose at all...."

[Amen]

Book was beginning to grow…uncomfortable. He saw no evidence of death and corruption, not yet, but he was beginning to feel it in that same imprecise way he felt all magical pollution. For the first time, Marcus was sure the stone existed, and it would not be much different than the rumors described it. At the same time, he was thrilled that his hunt was over and the time for action had come.

He listened to the interactions between Rhiannon Orris and the war dog Herobrine, dedicating his eyes to watching for danger though the way was, as yet, clear. At Herobrine’s estimation of the elves’ common treatment of humans, Marcus had to cede the point with a shrug and a nod. His own exchanges with them had been blessedly short affairs at that point, but long-eared aloofness was considered a common evil.

It seemed Rhiannon had no shortage of toys. Next she produced an extendable baton, which drew more than a passing glance from Marcus. He listened to her description of the tool with some interest, and his eyes lingered a moment before resuming their search for stray shamblers.

“The baton will be useful,” he said, without breaking off his search. “Dead muscle is loose, flimsy, and necrotic, but a lightning’s charge still causes it to tense. Hell, if the charge is strong enough you might light one on fire.”

Marcus did not see fit to look when Orris produced yet another toy, until there was a sudden burst of green light illuminating their path. This was, amusingly enough, less alien to Book than the gun or the baton. “It might not,” he said in response to Rhiannon’s doubt, “but you never know.”

[Knave]

The shifting stones of gravel under foot soon began to give way to grass the rustle of grass grabbing at the knees and more as it grew. The once beaten path Herobrine and crew walked was in the midst of wild revolt, small beasts in the distance pricking their large ears for the resonant cries of the owls, and the tiny, shrieking bats.

Herobrine’s dark expression never altered as he gazed upon the woman as she demonstrated her wares and equipment with an attitude seeking some vouchsafed words of approval. Unable to smile without a sneer, Herobrine gave her what she wanted, “All your tricks and skills are about to find the best test of all. I cannot wait to see them in the tangling, thick of action.”

Sarcasm aside, did anything Rhiannon offer strike the sage as worthy of his amazement or surprise? Only so much as a magician at his trade who observes another, or any other traveler who might have been rewarded on his endless sojourn with the power of a legendary spectacle.

“Forgive us our lack of awe, but the magic you bring to bear, though magic it may not be, is the stuff of nigh common expense rather than simple rarity. Consider yourself blessed, the most dangerous rarities prove the most volatile, as Orox was fool to demonstrate.” Teeth in obvious decay gave a grim yellow to a bitter smile as an afterthought and glance from Gilberto to Marcus showed some playful suspicion “Of course, some wanderers on the offensive see great men’s failures as signs, either of danger to be amended or simple plunder.”

Of course, Herobrine explained nothing new to his companions, only the base nature of heroes without the moral constraints hurled upon them by so many who knew the adventurous by story and opinion rather than from the people themselves. Villain was a newer word, and Herobrine paid it no attention in any of his forms, and so when he thought of danger and those who would approach it, he had to wonder why before he could begin to fathom such a person.

“The time for talk is soon at an end, but tell me, Orris,” Herobrine whispered, slowing the pace which had placed him at the lead of this pack, “there’s gold and sorcery to be dealt with, are you out for your job alone, or something more?” He said it with a word of awe as he turned his highbrow to the sky, and his stiff expression took in the imminent distance. “Just keep in mind the toll.”

Down the unruly path, over far flung branches and deep into a small pocket of a valley was their destination. Death brought out the cannibal nature of life, and the carrion eaters lusted quietly in the ever approaching trees. The fields were tall with their bounty, a miniature forest reminiscent of red nettled pines, and above, in silent, nebulous clouds, flew a vast host of vultures.

Herobrine raised a hand to call for silence, and with the hush of absolute seriousness he spoke, “from here we proceed with absolute caution. I ask you now, for the sake of preference, do you desire to continue together into that place or depart, or to work by pairs or alone?” His stomach seethed at the thought of entering at all! Though he kept it down, his gut churned violently with every use Herobrine made of his nose. At any moment he suspected it might heave itself out of his mouth for want of sweet sensory escape from pestilence.

Even to common ears, the hum of flies by the billion gently thrummed through the air, the beating of those wretched wings an evil omen.

[Rhiannon]

Rhiannon gave the burly Amen a nod of understandment as he explained the benefit that her blunt dealing weapon would cause quite a bit of damage to the undead. So the undead were indeed dead tissue and muscle, though they still moved, fought, and even talked from what she gathered. This would mean they would indeed still know how to swing a sword. "Whatever happened to the likes of rigimortous around here?" she replied under her breath.

Her boots rustled in the grass beneath her feet. There was a weary feeling rolling up her spine that they were getting close. The faint smell of death consumed her senses as a small wind traveled by, carrying the vile scent with it. The cool, undertoned words of Herobrine struck her attention, her brows curling in confusion. "I don't suppose I understand where you're getting at, Herobrine. The reason I am here is because I swore an oath to the Underwood Patrol. That's why- oh my... We're near."

Putrid.

The women shook her head and looked flat out digusted as they grew near. The women couldn't help but wonder how many, or how long they have been rotting. Either way, she wished nothing more than to vomit. With a tear in the eye, Rhiannon listened to Herobrine's words, and stepped in with an offer. "We can not assault what we don't know. Perhaps we're better off at scouting the area first. I could approach by the smell of it, the undead clan's location and climb a tree to see what we're dealing with here. Seeing that I'm more mobile and less burdened, I feel I would be the best fit to get through the heavy brush. We don't need Book here taking out trees with his shoulders. "Jokingly, she patted Book on his armored shoulder with a smirk. "After we see how many there are, we'll be able to know for sure what kind of assault would be the most profecient."

"Any other ideas, gentlemen? After

(I got a new computer and it doesn't have word :/ is there any other form of spell check I can use? This word pad doesn't seem to have one either.)

[Amen]

Orox’s dread stone was near. Marcus felt it the way a storm can sometimes be sensed scant seconds before the first drop. Of the walking dead he saw and felt no sign, but he wasn’t surprised: the stone itself emitted such foulness as to overwhelm the individual putrescence of the shamblers near it. The sense came, as if it often did, paired with an adrenaline rush.

The fight wasn’t far now.

The sword would be of limited use, he knew. It would serve if needed, but the walking dead were far less susceptible to bleeding out or pierced organs. Instead, the young paladin unstrapped the mace fastened to his belt and swung it once or twice to reacquaint himself with its heft. As he did, he spoke with a whispered half-grunt, which was nearly drowned out beneath the distant drone of unseen flies. If the surrounding stench and corruption of the place unnerved him, he did not give sign.

“Scouting is a fine plan, but there’s the risk you’ll be caught alone and surrounded. Or worse, they’ll spot you and follow you back to where the rest of us are waiting,” he said. “Perhaps it would be best if we put both plans into motion at once? Someone will go with Miss Orris to watch her back, while the other half of us will go around to the opposite side of the stone. It’ll be suicide to fight them grouped together, no matter what you see. If we separate them first, they’ll be more manageable.”

Satisfied with the mace’s balance, Book let it come to a rest and looked at each of his companion’s faces in turn, momentarily lost in thought.

“The dead are slow,” he continued after a pause, “and if what Herobrine told us about their state of decay is accurate, they should burn well even with the moisture on the ground. I propose we put your swill there to good use immediately. Soak an area of the ground here with it first. Then Rhiannon and one other creep closer to scout how the dead are arrayed around the stone while the second team sneaks around to the opposite side, as I said. Once we know how the dead are positioned, both teams will get the attention of the dead, then lead them back here, with one team returning faster than the other. Once the first group of undead is back here, you light the alcohol and catch the shamblers in the blaze. Once the first group is burning, the second team will lead the second group of shamblers through the fire. At that point, it’ll be a simple matter of avoiding the burning shamblers, then mopping up the stragglers.

“Herobrine is clearly best suited to lead, and I have the impression tactics are not strange to him. I would suggest that you and Rhiannon compose the first team. She climbs the tallest tree you can find a fair distance from the horde, then reports what she sees to you. You decide the best course of action, and then she climbs the tree again and signals Gilberto and me with her ring. Simply sweep the light over the path we should take. In my experience, the undead rarely look up, so the signal should literally go over their heads, yes?”


http://freespellcheckers.com seems to work, Rhiannon. Google Chrome has a built in spell check as part of the browser, so that might be an option too (I'm not sure if other browsers do or not anymore, I've been using Chrome for awhile now).

[Knave]

The time for talk was over, and preparation was limited to what each of the party carried. Herobrine turned his head, and cast a brown eye to the left, watching Marcus Book’s purposeful swings of his mace. Doubtless, brain matter would spatter the earth in shades of rotten gray—perhaps it was time Herobrine unsheathed his weapon before the attack and the enemy rather than amongst that chaos. Pardolaes had been chosen well from Lawrence’s ever growing stock of weapons, chosen above daggers and spears, chosen the fact that when the blade swung it cut wide and immediate swathes with even the most conservative of swings. Still, Herobrine was hesitant, and there were other things to do.


Marcus Book proved himself every bit the soldier as laid down logic with not a hint toward shaking of his own nerve. He stated scouting to be a task most lethal, but he gave too much credit to the intelligence of this particular evil. A grunt—hrump—the usual unimpressed eyes remained without either sparks of interest or insight, features still and expectant as though he’d heard it all before. “In pairs, or as a group, you forget that we face a larger enemy and to judge them shamblers before we’ve seen the truth of their corruption would be the greatest mistake.”

And to Orris, “I’ve gather the lot of you, picked the time if not place; I’ve seen the maps and then the land with my own eyes. The enemies, witless as they are, stumble without motivation or order; as sure as Orrox is dead among them, they lumber alone, blind to anything but the objects of their violence.” He said all of this while taking to the head of their path, and turning his back to the moon above and fields below, his figure the aphotic silhouette of someone more alive, someone whose posture had not been bowed by time, and whose attitude was one of neutral resignation.

From that stand shadow he continued…and respectfully conceded that, “Entering that place by two’s however would make a better start than all together or all alone, but I’ll say it again so that you know I am speaking to you, those sentries wander and never leave that field… and this alcohol,” He jostled the barrel ‘neath his arm, heavy though it was, there could never be that much, “even if the earth’s thirst is turned by the taste of it and we’re left with enough to start a bon fire, why in the world would something unsullied by the weight of death stop moving because it is on fire?” He had thought it clear—obvious—before, that the initial dispatch would have to be done by hand: he was wrong.

“Now,” He the darkness shifted as Herobrine laid hand on Pardolaess’ wooden hilt, and drew forth a blade the robed itself in light for the instant, and was thrust downward a second later to stifle the proud blue sheen of mythril, “let it never be said I did not give a man his due, or said nay without either reason or alternative. Earlier, when we spoke at the beggars house, we spoke of stealth and simple measures to render the dead properly still. I would hear your objection to that when so long as they are unaware they are docile—like cows—docile even before the slaughter.” Herobrine’s plan hinged on careful action, but to the core it was founded on distrust, Lawrence trusted no plan but his own, and in fairness, his logic was all encompassing in its simplicity.

[Rhiannon]

Rhiannon listened to the aged man Herobrine speak of matters that would be before them. They indeed couldn't rush to judge these creatures without proper percaustions. Stealth was the key for now, and that's what the woman was going ot go by. Keeping her baton close to her hip, she headed for the woods to find a good tree to scout.

"Gilberto, you can come with me incase there's an unexpected ambush or if I happen to be detected from above." Her eyes fell on the young scholar before they quickly glanced at the other two, giving them a nod.

With that said, she proceeded into the woods, letting her senses take over. The rustling of leaves and twigs could be heard as they startled a rabit and a few small critters along their way. The woods were dark, more shadowed to have any sort of comfort, making the woman feel a little uneasy as she cautiously made her way toward the smell of rotting flesh. The moon would have to be her only means of light, for the ring may be too bright and would alert the undead of their coming.

"Something gives me a dreary feeling about this, Gilberto." the woman whispered, "Lets just hope the others know what they're doing. Ugh, the smell is getting really bad.."

Suddenly the woman stumbled as a branch tripped her from under her feet, causing a minor stumble. Cursing, she kicked the branch aside and realized it wasn't a stick at all but was once a man's arm, which was only leftover bone now. With her heart beating like the legs of a race horse, she looked over to see the skeleton on the surface, partially fleshed and shredded apart by wolves. There was a sword and sheild left, but nothing more than that but ripped leather and cloth. The smell along with the site made her want to vomit right there on the spot.

"Gilberto.. I don't think this man belonged to Orrox.."

[Amen]

Marcus watched Rhiannon and their suddenly-silent fourth fade into the fields surrounding the as-yet unseen Dark Stone, and steeled himself. There was merit to simplicity, though he did not look forward to the ache in his arm come morning. With a nod of complicity to Herobrine, he took to the fields in the opposite direction.

Book was careful that he did not let a great distance grow between him and the old salt, but he did not directly follow or lead. He could hear the man somewhere forward and to the right, and kept his ears perked for any signal or sign that indicated he should adjust his course.

The malodorous cloud thickened as the pair went on, and in time Marcus could hear bodies slowly moving. Every so often he heard a breathy sigh or moan, and the rustle of bodies moving without direction amongst the gresdah stalks. Abruptly, and with his breath caught in his throat, the young paladin stopped and crouched low to the ground.

A dark figure loomed not a yard in front of him, momentarily concealed by the swaying stems that surrounded it. It was a man, shoulders slumped and head hung, and the smell of rot came off him in fierce waves. He leaned very slowly from side to side as if enjoying music only he could hear and as Marcus crept forward he could see that the man’s jaw hung at an unnatural angle.

There was little doubt that he was dead. The warrior gripped his mace in both hands, stepped in behind the walking corpse, and crept forward. It never saw him coming, and there was no time to express surprise or alarm or whatever equivalent the dead were privy to. The mace whistled, the skull cracked sonorously, and the body went down with a rustle and a thud.

And then there was just a chill wind in the gresdah.

[Knave]

All argument was said and done, and the tacit approval of easy comrades saved the silence for the deeds that would be done this night. With the others, weapon drawn, Herobrine descended upon the fields to reap a foul and fetid bounty.

Eyes familiar with darkness, eyes that could see with lightless clarity, scanned the nearing crop, and noting the way the tallest of them shifted, swaying. “Hmm…” Perhaps the enemy would provide more clues—the wind stirred to grab hold of a hundred different rots, passing in a moment to buffet the old the moustache, and reminded the man that witless nature played people for fools as much as fate. The rustle of leaves was no sure sign of anything.

Never one to reveal himself for what he was, Herobrine in truth, Lawrence in fact, the dark man made use of that skill left behind when he had been robbed of his humanity; his form vanishing as the darkness hid him in its heart. He was still there, some presence as much standing upon the ground as in the air, a presence which by instinct turned the eye and told the mind there was nothing. No man, no name, no friend, no foe.

With Marcus Book at his back and to his right, Herobrine stepped into the fields, and looked down the rows, which only offered space, space upon space as the lack of light left distance without definition; an infinity furnished by barbed tower fences, and a world turning without direction as the ground rose up to drag Herobrine down. Pardolaes sank seven inches into the soil to ward it off, and Herobrine, his legs almost lost to him, perched upon its handle, breathing hard, and feeling worse for it as his head swam. Not many people really knew what that phrase meant, to find one’s eyes blurred, all sound distorted so that the cruch of companion’s feet were like the crunch of one’s own teeth into flesh.

‘I’m in the thick of it now…’ He thought, and followed that thought wit a pause a moment of silent, bitter laughter at the idea that he had meant to find the fact reassuring. Skin seething, senses reeling, he heard the rustle of blades and nettles, the shuffle of dragging feet, spoke of a movement there nearby. Herobrine raised his head, wreathed with an extra layer of shadow, he saw it—her.

Standing, though his height diminished, Herobrine chanced a glance at Marcus, and seeing him steady and still, took the lead at what might be minutes or hours of work. The darkman stepped between the gresdah, silently raising an arm toward the nettles away from his face and uncovered skin. They were passive in his passing—which was good as he could not fathom what their sting might do to his eyes. He went for the first kill.

The first sign of the enemy stood dumb and pale, her pallid complexion yellowing as she stared, and slack jawed her mouth hung idle, and the tooth torn tongue that remained fell upon the edges of her lower lip. At the start of this last event, Herobrine had wondered what it was that the dead sought from the living, and here before his eyes he saw that it was no flesh, she still had some. Her filth stained dress was tattered as time would do, revealing the hollow of her breast where the lusty devils had set their teeth and made a sport of spiriting away huge mouthfuls, leaving a yellow and black crater. They had worked over her shoulder, disemboweled her to leave intestine draping over her fully exposed left leg. She was a horror, but her face remained fresh, and with an empty smile she lurched through night like she belonged. The birds had pecked out her eyes. She stood staring at what might as well be called a wall.

She never made a sound as mythril blade lanced her skull to abruptly rise from her cheek, and an unearthly strength kept her standing when the other fled her. Herobrine tilted the sword back, her head with it, and laid the corpse out upon the ground. He then hacked away arm and leg until the body, the head and hands, were reduced to broken bits, the only sound the soft thump and thrush of soil.

One down.

[Rhiannon]

Beofore much elase could be said, a whisper spoke out from the dreary air, a whispered chanting. The voice couldn't be pinpointed, it spoke through the trees, rocks, and the gust of light wind passively passing. A black fog started to seep through the roots and vegatation of the Earth's crust, swarming like a pool of black tar within their perimiter.

Rhiannon's jaw fell open as she qucikly tried to move away from the swarming black mist as it remained to grow no higher than the knees. The chanting continued and Rhiannon's ears tried their best to listen in, but once again failed to find the voice, though it belonged to an aged man by the ounds of its low tones. The series of dead corpses around them began to tremble and shake in seizure, letting out gasps of dry stale air, and muscle tissue started to manipulate and pulse violently. Bones rattled violently as the bodies seemed to be coming alive. The woman's eyes fell up on the full moon, its light beaming down on them through the thick night clouds.

"They're coming alive!" Rhiannon shouted as she took another step back, letting her baton whip out into action as she prepared herself for battle as the corpses started to rise from the fallen warriors.

From the forest a green light flickered in the air, blinking in a pattern that could be seen from Gresdah field. Hopefully Marcus and Herobrine would see the alarming signals as she turned the ring off, looking into a rotted eye of a man's face as it approached her, a heavy iron claymore dragging against the soil. Rhiannon's heart raced as the looked around that the group of five circling her like a pack of wolves.

The claymore with tremndous power rose from the ground, striking down at the woman with heavy death bringing fury. Graceful, Rhiannon rolled to the side as the heavy iron blade planted itself in the soil. Bringing her knife from her boot, she growled as she stood, slamming her baton down on the sword, preventing it from moving any further as her left hand wielding the knife slammed into the side of the undead soldier's head. Ripping the blade out, brain matter oozing out from the skull, she jumped back, only to see it look at her.. Its jaw loosening wide as it tilted its head and approached her once more.

Yeah.. This wasn't Hollywood.

Her lip curling into a snarl, readied her baton as she lingered back a little further away from the party of warriors. At least she managed to roll out of being circled. "Gilberto, we need to stay back to back." but there was only the sounds of groaning corpses and clumsy footsteps. "Gilberto??"

He was gone. Nowhere to be found. The feeling of fear started to flow through her veins like a venom, making the hairs on the back of her neck rise, chills running up her back. Run!Rhiannon's long legs darted through the forest, the pounding of boots and shrieks following close behind her. Her breaths became heavier as she ran, eyes squinted to see her path, for the moon didn't provide her with much light. But if she couldn't see... Quickly, the woman placed herself behind a tree, her chest expanding multiple times as her lungs fought to keep her breath. 'Marcus, Herbrine, where the hell are you?'

Only one straggler proceeded to move forward, its head shifting to the left and the right. Rhiannon could clearly smell it from the other side of the tree. Its raspy crude voice spoke out. "You can't hide forever you little bitch! Now come on out and make this easy for the both of us... Heheh you smell so good.. Come out come out wherever you are!!"

Closing her eyes to take in one more big breath, they opened again as she reappeared from behind the tree, bashing the steel rod hard across the back of the man's skull, most of the cranium making a home run into the forest brush. Thick tar like blood splattered everywhere as Rhiannon violently brought down the zombie, bashing it a total of three times until there was nothing but puddles for brains. Wiping the blood from her sharp featured face, she listened in for the others. They were close.

[Amen]

Marcus dropped to one knee as his enemy fell unmoving, and the tall stalks concealed them both. He watched the corpse for a short time, verifying that it did not rise again. Meanwhile, he heard movement and the sounds of moist violence, but did not rise again until he was sure where his friends and enemies were.

Too much distance had grown between him and Herobrine, but the young paladin did not concern himself. His companions would need to be able to take care of themselves, just as he would. No matter the plan, the horde would need to be separated to remain manageable – gathering together would be momentarily advantageous but would ultimately lead to their failure.

That thought was shattered by desperate flashes to Book’s left, the familiar green glow from Rhiannon’s ring. It was impossible to tell what the signal meant in full: did the number of flashes matter, the shifting direction, the angle, or just the implied panic? Marcus paused to consider it, and finally shot off through the field with a crouched gait.

It was stupid, but it’d be a shame to find her ripped to shreds later - or to have to put her walking corpse down himself.

He came upon her just as she was rising from a battered body. She wiped congealed blood from her cheek as the shadows loomed over her from behind, and Marcus shot past her with his mace swinging. The flanges met the shambler’s nose and pulverized the rotting meat, sending the body down limp.

Book scanned their immediate surroundings.

“Where’s Gilberto?” he whispered, but before Orris could answer, more of them began to stumble out from a loose copse of trees.

They were beginning to swarm.

“Go left!” Marcus said. “Watch your back, signal again if they start to surround you, and keep moving. Head around the stone and away from it, we’ll thin the herd. Divide and conquer.”

Book ignored the realization that they were being divided just as surely as the zombies, and strode off to the right and toward the stone. He yelled for Rhiannon to go while he lifted his mace high overhead, and at the highest point the head burst into blazing hellfire so that it seemed Marcus held a torch of roaring sunlight.

He watched as dozens of dead, gleaming eyes were turned to regard him hatefully from between the swaying stalks, and he set his jaw.

It would be a good fight.

...but he still hoped a few of them followed Rhiannon and Herobrine.

[Knave]

So much neglect, sorry, sirs. Back in action, and I'm glad to see we've gotten to the action. Feel free to run around performing feats of violence, just leave Orox for last.

Lawrence, lost in the fog that hid him, heard the shouts and the rushing dead, the night alive with action and distorted. For all the safety the distortion of appearance offered, it offered it’s offered its own dangers; it tore away the illusions, made the man shed his skin to reveal the nothing within.

The zombies fingers flexed and grasped at the air, the arm it was attached to still spinning, falling. The owner raised his head, a mask of slack-jawed, empty anguish. Nature, birds, beasts, and bacteria, had turned the hollows of the eyes into meat caverns. When it looked to the source of its misfortune, it saw with something more than eyes to see the ever present darkness unchanged. Yet the blows continued, the stroke of a blade glinting and dancing before its ruined eyes. It fell to pieces before something not unlike the wind, and in passing there was only the sound of boots, and the spray of warm mud.

The scenes repeated in blurs, bodies cast against a black expanse as something moved past them, cold blue light shimmered in the air, and bodies fell where they stood or slid to the ground in whatever motion they were in.

Herobrine ran on, hardly aware of his condition, breathing in an air that fouled his skin. The old man’s breath issued in heavy gasps, the environment sapping his energy. Everywhere he looked, under the light of the moon, his vision seized to sickening clarity, then dwindling to nearly nothing, the scraping of needles the only sure sign of which way not to go.

All the good it did him.

‘They just keep coming; they won’t die fast enough…’ Herobrine thought to himself, running…stumbling through hell. The next horrors came sprinting, four of them in the direction Herobrine was determined not to go—that place with its blinking lights, and fatally attractive voices—but between there and there, there was Herobrine square in their path. They unaware, him unable to slow once he was, the five of them collided into a body of groans and outstretched limbs as they tumbled to the fertile earth, Pardolaes falling away.

“Gara…ha…aaaah…”

The only sound coming from the old moustache was the silent gasp of dry heaving. He rested on his hands and knees, and between them was a woman. She was wet, sticky in ways unimaginable to Herobrine as he stared down at her skinless form. The others were in forms of extreme undress, clothes torn open to reveal once beautiful flesh that had gone to waste, and they clutched him curiously, but she lay smiling with a mouth empty of teeth, and a head surrounded by a halo of filthy, golden hair. In the depths of her eyes a purple glow shone, seething within her, the light of Orox’s stone.


The skinless horror, all black and red and green, a terrible and freshly festering thing, bucked her hips, and wrapped her thighs about Herobrine’s waist, legs slipping against one another freeing dirt and dried blood as her ankles attempt to lock. Hands reached for the shocked elder’s neck, fingers digging in as they sought to hold and choke. She held him so that the others might settle.

Herobrine never moved as a child, hugged Herobrine leg. He never moved at the curious touch of a young girl raked his side, and her heavy head came to rest against his arm. He never moved as the weight of a man settled on his back. He never moved because the world he inhabited was growing increasingly dark and full of terrible things, all space filled with stink and clutching hands, and things that appealed to remnants of his humanity for tears, and from it all he gained panic and confusion. There was no more time for acting.

The hidden giant on Lawrence’s back dug its teeth into his shoulder; all of them tore into his body.


“HAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!”

Lawrence neck snapped back, the weight of the four unable to hold him down as his. The zombie beneath could make no expression as she was lifted from the ground, starring glassily he brought the broad hammer of his forehead down, crushing her skull inches into the earth with a final, and permanently fatal “crunch.”

They hung from Lawrence as he rose to his feet—leeches! His hand came, hateful and grabbing at the pale, fat slug resting on his back. He gouged the man’s eye to grip his head, and turning, ripped the undead over and down onto the earth. Lawrence’s first step formed the image of a boot stomping down on a dead man’s face.

The girl, blonde and dead before her time, stood with Lawrence, holding his even as her teeth chewed deeper into his bicep. There was innocence about it, a gesture almost human if not cloth bunching at the edge of her jaws and the blood fresh on her lips. He shook her off as though she were still a child, she returned instantly only to have her head turned backward upon her shoulders as the back of his hand met her cheek. She fell limp, though not finished, her spine broken, but the source of her life ever present. What should have been lethal was only crippling; she her limbs still trying to raise her.

The child came next, pulling free by its leg its teeth choosing to remain. Holing it aloft, Lawrence took from his belt his knife, Virtue, and plunged the blade into skull, repeatedly, until the brains had been addled and stirred to the point where even magic failed.

Unaware of it, Lawrence had ceased to breathe, though the ones that had assaulted him were well beyond moving, he could hear more coming, footsteps without stealth coming in his direction. Finding his sword, seeing the dead approach, he knew two things. ”So stupid, I have been so stupid.” The old man’s rasp was gone, just the labored hiss of something that rarely used its own voice. “I could have done this alone.”

“Then why don’t you try?” The reply was sneering, a cockney twang at the end to mark a questions Radasanthian’s question.

Through the gresdah, unimpeded by nettles, came three more of the dead, each armed with rusting sabers and hefty clubs of wood. They were war weary, the battle they had fought, the battle they had lost, evident in the shreds of skin that hung free, and the entrails that would have trailed along the ground had they not been purposefully shorn off. They were goons in life, and so they remained.

“Sorry, son,” the largest of them said, stepping forward with weapons and smile ready, “but you’re on our turf; in Alerar they do as Alerarian’s do;” the man turned his head, the gaping hollow of his throat offering no explanation to the voice with which he spoke, and thinking himself clever, he finished, “we learned our lesson, and so will you.” The words spoken were punctuated by the blade of virtue flying into the zombie’s eye through it to the brain.

“Shut up!” It was frantic scream, followed by hurtling body as Lawrence rushed the two remaining, his body airborne and the mythril blue of his sword a flashing arch.

“Shit!” Lanky, sword at the ready, the ex-mercenary to the right saved himself and cursed, his hand shaking violently, and his balance thrown to send him skittering backwards, his friends soon to follow as Lawrence sword was indiscriminate, attacking the nearest with the all the finesse of a hammer. Lawrence at best knew how to fence, but with his over bearing height, and powerful limbs, it did not matter whether he struck them with the blade or flat of his sword.

Crack, chaa, ping.

Broad strokes met defending swords, chips of inferior steel flying, each sword threatening to break or fall back, crushing into their wielders already shaking bodies. All the while, Herobrine’s face wore a true expression—wide, crazed eyes, teeth bared as weapons, ready to be used at any point—trails of saliva hung in the air as he chased the dead and reminded them of something they had almost forgotten: pain and fear.

[Rhiannon]

Rhiannon nodded to Book as her mouth fell open, large gasps of restlessness escaping her lungs as she sprinted to a group of three who charged with weapons high. There was no running, not anymore, a battle was to be waged. With a great fierce battle cry, the woman charged forward, electricity hissing violently from the steel rod which she wielded firmly, raising it as she drew near, clashing firmly with a heavy broad sword.

Such power, it nearly made Rhiannon fall back, but it did not bring fear or lost hope, only determined eyes. Forcing the blade at their feet, a strong back fist smacked the undead man across the jaw, causing unbalance to his stance. With brute force, the rod flashed off his torso, sending him back a few feet, fire igniting on his clothes.

Only problem was, the leaves of this tainted land was dry as the bitter bones of the deceased....

Two more approached, fearless, strong, and fierce as barbarians. One was brute, holding before him a double edged axe, the other wielding twin blades. They circled Rhiannon as she watched closely, standing a wide stance, her hands out in a defensive stance. Light began to glow in the forest as the flamed undead crawled, screaming in agony as he slowly rose to his feet, flailing blindly at the air, limbs growing weak and falling from his corpse.

The sound of battle lit the air once again as a single blade came down at Rhiannon, her steel rod meeting face to face with it, though the other blade skimmed across her stomach, opening a painful wound. Rhiannon let out a cry of anguish as blood bled from her new wound, her weapon being forced away from her.

There was no more time to think, she had to act fast. The brute charged from behind her, axe raised above his head, swinging down to split her like firewood. Rhiannon's hands slipped up and used the brute's own momentum to bring him down over her shoulder, his heavy body bouncing off of the Earth. Immediately a series of blades slashed out at her in a skillful manner, causing the woman to move back, leaning away from the twin blades of the other warrior. He swung with great speed, nipping at her hair as she kept distance to the best of her ability. Waiting for her opportunity to move in, she found his chance as he swung down with both weapons. Placing her arms in a cross block, she caught his arms, separating them so her foot could kick the man hard in the torso, sending him back onto the soil.

Fire started to linger the area, bringing great ease to the woman as she nearly stepped back into it, feeling its hot breath breathing on her back side. Shit. Her lips curled in frustration as she moved forward, barrel rolling under a mid swing from the Brute's axe. Picking up a broad sword at her feet, she slashed the Brute across the tendon behind his knee, slicing easily to the bone, and proceeding to send the blade into the monster's back. Old half dried blood seeped out as she twisted, ripping the blade from the undead creature's back, and with a spin, the blade cut through the Brute's neck completely.

Now time for a little game of what we call kick ball at home. With a thrust of her hip, Rhiannon kicked the severed head right into the bladed warrior, hitting him square in the face. It was enough distraction for her to move in, connecting swing for swing with the man. But she had one advantage, her legs. Kicking him in the groin, he leaned and her knee came hard across his skull, causing the face to cave in, bringing him down for good. Planting the sword into dead man's skull, she retreated, scanning for her electro baton. Upon finding it, she ran back to where her and Book separated, but something stopped her, a scream from the fields. "Herobrine..." Her eyes looked over to Book fighting fiercely and out numbered, and then to the mysterious fields. Book's hell fire was doing quite the number, so her concerned remained on the elder man and ran in the direction to his screams. Hopefully she wasn't too late.

[Amen]

“Between wolf and man, who would you guess has the stronger bite?” a teacher had once asked him.

“The wolf,” he’d answered.

“And there you would be wrong. It is folly to say man has none of the beastly strengths. Now take a good set of developed jaw muscles, and subtract fear and pain and self-preservation, and there you have all the threat the living dead need.”

The merchant closed his teeth on the steel shaft of the mace and snarled. Marcus punched him in the nose twice, but the dead man did not budge. He swung the mace and shoved the shambler, and released his weapon so that the zombie would collapse against one of his comrades.

He drew his sword over his right shoulder with one motion, and took the head off a lipless child with the next. He danced away from a lunge coming from his left, and then hacked a leg in two at the knee. When the corpse went down, he drove the point of his sword into the back of what turned out to be an old man’s neck. He didn’t sever the head, but the spine was enough.

His next swing met steel, and Marcus cursed. That shambler was dressed in full plate with a gorget, which in theory was a good idea for hunting the undead, except for the weight of the armor and the threat of exhaustion. Book could not see how the knight had died, but now he made an armored zombie.

Thankfully he also made a particularly slow zombie.

The paladin hacked off the merchant’s head, and then retrieved his mace where it had been left on the ground. He fought with a weapon in each fist until he bought enough time to sheath his sword again. The mace ignited once more, and each blow brought hellfire and battery together. Corpses went down smoldering, and did not come up again.

Rhiannon.

At first he panicked when he saw bodies where she’d been standing a moment before. Had she fallen? Were they bent over her, pinning her down as they took chunks off her? But no, they were true corpses and she was gone. He could only hope she was finding her way to Herobrine, and hadn’t met the grisly end he feared for her somewhere beyond his sight.

He hopped and spun before landing a brutal back-handed swing, and a skull exploded like a melon before the mace’s burning flanges. He let the momentum carry him in a sort of horrific dance, a second skull here, a knee there, an extended hand, and then a jaw, and then a flourish before he brought his mace down on the prone man like a sledgehammer.

The bones were brittle, and split with muffled cracking noises.
Whatever magic it was that animated them burned bright, and the light dazed the yet unburned, buying Marcus precious seconds now and again. His upper arms ached with the bloody work, but it was a satisfying pain. Every impact was like curing disease with anger, every flare of hellfire an avenged murder. It was good work.

And yet, they kept coming.

Marcus growled and pushed the armored zombie over and almost laughed when it struggled to get up again. Instead he sneered, and thrust the burning end of his mace into the faceguard and held it there until the monster inside caught in holy flame. It cooked inside its armor, and then fell still.

And that gave Book an idea – a reckless, dangerous idea. Those were often his favorite kind.

He dodged away from another lunge, and then sprinted away from the shambler and toward the center of the field. He spun, pranced, dodged, shuffled, and struck his way between the horde, hellfire leaving a stream of fading light in its wake. The horde grew thicker the farther he went on, but it was only a matter of getting them to chase him one way, then dodging back the other before they could recover. They were gathering behind him, yes, surrounding him, but if his gambit paid off it wouldn’t matter.

The Dark Stone loomed, pulsing with dark magic. It had tendrils of it, thousands of invisible fingers stretched over the field, all stretching from a dense, malignant center. It was a remarkable piece of magical workmanship, and for the briefest moment Marcus thought of all the wizards he was about to disappoint. Then he smiled, broke a skull, and then leapt forward and swung his torch to shatter the Stone of Orox.

At first he thought it was the wind, because the air roared across his ears and ripped at his clothing and resisted the swing of his mace. He saw then that the zombies were not similarly afflicted – indeed, the air around them seemed still as…well, a corpse. He retreated a few steps from the artifact, shoved an attacker away, and then summoned up a fresh burst of hellfire before he swung again with all of his might, screaming.

This time, his mace did meet the Stone. The zombies around him tensed, and a potent wave of foul energy washed over the field toward the rock. It did not shatter, but instead glowed, briefly reclaiming the power it used to animate the dead. With that power, it pulsed with an audible hum, and sent Marcus Book and his burning torch soaring bodily overhead and across the field.

He landed hard and rolled with a harsh grunt, jarring his left shoulder. Though there was a dull pain in his left hip and shoulder, he forced himself quickly to his feet. For a moment the dead were frozen, their bodies rigidly tense, and then the tendrils reached out across the field again and they became animate once more, starring about themselves dazedly.

Book cursed and searched for his mace, but it was not at hand. He drew his sword again, and took a steadying breath. It seemed the stories were true: the stone could not be destroyed, even by hellfire, so long as it had power to draw from the dead. He counted himself wiser, and hoped that the brief moment of respite had been useful to his allies...if they still lived.

Then he started his bloody dance again.

[Knave]

Man alive, the crash of steel upon steel gave chase through the night, hot on the turning heels of the sane undead while at the same time approaching the wild, glassy eyed corpses that crept upon their bellies where once they had walked in life. The elder dead, animated only so much to crawl were stepped on, boots stomping down on faces and limbs, boots tripping backwards faster and faster; monster and fiend!

Biel Poundmax bearing cudgel and short sword raised his desiccated arms as shields to ward of steel lightning. His associate in life, and only friend in death had been severed from stomach to spine by the giant’s long sword, and the rasping cries to do the impossible and save what had already been lost mingling the buzz of insects that flew around and crawled within him.

“Run, Bee, Run!”

The giants sword, a blue streak that struck wide from every angle it went was deadly, and deadlier with all the power and speed behind it, but the dark man, the lumbering and cursing demon, clearly had only the rudiments of knowledge in the swords use…wild and dangerous, and more still, and with death behind him Beil admired that power, he had thought it his, but, then, he had been wrong. The strength of necrocity, he thought again, would make him strongest, but, now, he was wrong again. But a life of violence romanticized into action alone brought as much knowledge and skill as pain.
Perhaps it was the magic in his limbs that gave Biel the strength to not to fall, or natures last gift of rigor mortis making his joints more stubborn than his soul, but whether it was the magic that kept it him standing, it was the magic that took away his option to flee. And so…he must fight!

The demon raised his sword high, and glittering in the sky like a fell star it fell, but Biel was as he had been so many times before: ready.
Turning, he brought his sword up, cudgel pressed behind. It was no wild block, but a silent parry as the zombie, Poundmax, shift the sword soundly, soundlessly to the right, and the sword to the left, and thus it was that the darkman, our Herobrine for the moment, found a zombie between him and the sword in his own hands. Had Biel lips to smile with, or a jaw with which to laugh, they would be victorious, but having neither, the sword shot back up to slit the giants throat and make due…

But short sword stopped short, and Biel unfeeling forearm locked in the vice of the darkman’s grip. A sigh? A scream? A grunt of resignation? Even Biel could not interpret the hissing sound that issue from hollow of mouth, or the reaction that after a lifetime of petty gains and grand losses, he would be denied this great victory. And then came pain. From the palm and grip of that hand, life surged, and muscles that had long lost their heat and blood in that arm thrashed about in Biel’s skin, pulsing with a horrible, irregular rhythm.

“Agw AH!” The zombies screamed, strangled and wet sounds that that continued when Biel was dragged near horizontal from the ground, the joints of his skeleton used against him. Even flying in the giants grip, Herobrine stood above him, moon light and contempt radiating from his face. Long sword abandoned, a huge right fist eclipsed all, and pounded Biel’s skull into the soil. Herobrine knelt over his would be killer, not focused on the incoming enemies, but the one he had now.

The blows followed, quick, hurried, eager to usher another unsightly life from the world with the crunch of bones, a body before a crater, and the body’s head within.

Standing, Herobrine failed to look about for danger, and instead flashed from his hands clumps of earth and lumps of things unrecognizable from his hand. “I came for the stone, to hell with these things and these people and these stupid, stupid hillbillies.” Turning his head up, he finally saw them. Proof that what mystics and philosophers might have some validity,that at his base man is an animal, only a little separate from the apes.

The next that came was built with a deformity, a prodigious host of muscles, and huge limbs that shuffled and dragged on through the fields. It lumbred with its head bowed, a wide brow and tiny eyes suggesting some simple man, but no, in those eyes there was only darkness and fey fire. Like the flayed woman before, Herobrine suspected Orox had done more evil in the world than simply making the stone.

[Rhiannon]

The pain swelled up in Rhiannon's abdomen as blood started to soak through her T-shirt, causing her hand to clutch the wound while her teeth clenched together. Light headedness was slowly starting to kick in as she got closer to the fields and could see the aged man Herobrine from a distance. His sword was held high as fiends approched and were brought back to death by his dnacing blade. He was almost graceful with every move he made. Seemed that Rhiannon had misjudged him by his looks, he was a great swordsmen.

Rhiannon started to pace herself quickly toward the old man before a distraction attacked her from behind. A young, child like undead jumped on her back, letting out a blood thirsty shriek as it fought to sink her teeth deep into Rhiannon's neck. The struggle wasn't easy as Rhiannon growled, fingernails scratching through the skin across her cheeks as she tried hard to throw the creature from her back. Grbbing the undead woman's hair, Rhiannon grunted as she thrusted forward, bringing the dead wman down on her back. With a jerk to the left, and then an exagerated to the right, the spine twisted and the neck cracked out loud with a bone splintering nok.

Deep breaths escaped Rhiannon's lips as she glared down at the dead woman. Using her fist, Rhiannon wiped the blood from her lip as she looked up once again at the stubborn Herobrine swinging away with bloodlust it seemed. Taking her rod from where she had dropped it, she jogged his way, bringing the rod down at her side. Green light flashed on the on coming creatures to get their attention and blind them as she charged in, sending chunks of bone and tissue into the night sky as the rod sounded like a war drum from beating off countless torsos. When were these creatures going to stop, would their numbers ever weaken? They were ruthless and continued to come in by the numbers. Perhaps this Orox fellow was a little stronger than intended. Then again, there were the groups who have never even made it this far..

"Herobrine!" Rhiannon cried out as she took his side, helping him counter, beat down bodies, and snap limbs, "I think our friend Book may of found the Orox Stone."

(Alright guys, sorry for the short post but I wanted to get one small one in before I'm on my leave for 8 days. Feel free to use Rhiannon as if she were an NPC or whatever. See you guys later on.)

[Breaker]

Nine days passed between posts 33 and 34, making this a failed attempt. This thread may be moved to/completed in the appropriate regions forum if so desired.