Hell's Afloat in Lover's Tears (Open)

[Arsène]

((Open to whoever))

"So inappropriate."

Fields of wild flowers; for miles that was all there was to see. They carpeted the ground in a menagerie of color that rivaled anything mortal man could ever hope to achieve, and with each new breeze they sprung to life as their petals danced and swayed to a rhythm only nature felt. The sun above provided a bounty of light and warmth that bathed Althanas in its life giving rays.

However, the land held no merit to the one man there. His eyes seemed catatonic as they blankly looked out into the distance, contemplating some deeply private thought that teemed at the surface. His fingers groped at the single flower he held in his hand; one with red petals and a brown spotted center. Occasionally, he sent an awkward glance at it, only to look back at the horizon and the world he was leaving behind. He was the nobleman Arsène Laurent; and he was returning home after a short, self-imposed exile.

For a moment, his thin lips parted in surprise. A sudden updraft had caught the loose petals and debris and caused it to twirl in the air. And there was the figure of his betrothed, for that brief moment. Her short red hair that curled at the tips, her wide green eyes that held an endless depth, and her smile; a smile that could warm the cruelest heart, it was all visible for that second in time. And visible too was the brief, saddened grin the nobleman had through watered eyes.

The wind died down slowly, having the mercy to give Arsène as long a glance as it could offer. His smile died with that wind, as did the flower he snapped in half.

[Tiberius]

Tiberius Corvelus Maximentus sat staring blankly at the eight or so small black berries in his hand, letting the wind beat his body sized shield into his shoulder and nearly unseat him on numerous occasions. He felt his stomach twist and knot in on itself as he stared; he hadn't had anything to eat that day and these few berries were the first sign of food he had seen, or held all day. He wanted to eat the berries held in his hand but something, distant but constraining all the same, stayed his hand and held his gnawing hunger at bay.

Shifting his position on the rock he was seated on, Tiberius glanced up at the sound of yet another fast approaching gust of wind. He shifted his feet, and just in time, as this gust slammed against his shield and nearly unseated him completely. His hand convulsed by instinct and he felt a wet pop in his hand as the berries it held were crushed. The wind died away and he sighed in disgust as he opened his hand to reveal the blue-black mulch of what was left of the berries.

Cursed.

Quickly, before most of the juices could run out of the palm of his hand, Tiberius licked up and ate most of what was left on his hand, wrist and arm. He then wiped the saliva and small remnants on his tunic and once again studied the land around him. He was in a hollow, a great dip in the land between two rather large hills, so there wasn't much to see. Perhaps if he climbed to the top of one of these hills?

The wind will be strong up there.

Indeed, as that was half the reason he had descended from them only a half an hour earlier. The other half was because he had spotted that pitiful berry bush he had just finished pillaging from those heights and had come down to investigate. Now that the task was finished he had the choice of either remaining down in the hollow to seek out more food, or he could climb the next hill in his way and see if he could find more food. He gave the hollow a long look, then decided that it would be best if he sought out his food in a less nature ravaged place.

The trek up the hill was a short one, sixteen years of Imperial Army conditioning made short work of almost any climb, and when he reached the crest of the hill he paused to get the lay of the land before him. It was much the same as he had seen these last few days, in this strange land, far from his home. He wondered distantly how long it would be before he finally saw someone. Perhaps then he could gather his bearings, perhaps get some supplies, then ask where the nearest Legion post was. From there he would rejoin Army, serve out his remaining years and retire back to his manor with his wife, son, mother and father. Perhaps.

A simple task just thinking about it.

Shouldering his shield and Pila, Tiberius renewed his long march home and stepped down from the crest of the hill and descended into the unknown.

[Arsène]

The smell of flowers was pungent; as thick and rich as the field itself it managed to veil the scent of the horse Arsène now rode. It was an aged, decrepit thing with emptier eyes than its master. The creature just stood there, enjoying the feeling of its full stomach and quenched thirst, and waiting on a command.

"Come Softstep," said the man in a deadpan voice, tugging at the mane of gray hair in place of reigns. A few soft kicks from Arsène sent the horse moving forward, its heavy hooves almost dragging on the ground. "I hope you enjoyed that drink, we're not stopping again until we get to Ms. Meyet's cottage. And then..."

"Off to Serenti's port, and away from Corone forever." Nostalgia stirred within the man at that thought; a deep longing for the life he enjoyed only a week ago. It was a marvel how quickly things changed for him with Anastasia's death. But Arsène already had enough on his mind to keep him occupied.

The winds rose up like a demon, tearing through anything too fragile. Flowers were flung from the Earth and thrown into the air, scattered petals rained down in colorful snowstorm lost on the noble who simply steadied his steed and continued further forward without hesitation. Through some fearsome passion that only a grieving lover could muster, Arsène focused on what lay ahead and pressed ever forward. He knew that his destination lay just over the hill and through a small copse. It was a slow incline due to Softstep's age, but finally they made it to the top, the beast breathing heavily while its master remained still.

"Recover faster, I wish to leave this place much sooner." The world around Arsène was now seen through crystal tears forming at his eyes.

[Tiberius]

The land around Tiberius changed little in the way of scenery, elevation or temperature. Just rolling hills, covered with a heavy blanket of thick grasses, short shrubs and hundreds of thousands of wild flowers. A picturesque scene. If he hadn't in such a hurry to get out of it, he might have really enjoyed just sitting down and looking at it. He did however, sit down atop the crest of a rather tall, grassy hill, after having had to force himself to crawl that last few spans on his hands and knees. His armor dragged at his chest, his neck and his shoulders, and as he sat atop the hill with his shield propped against his left shoulder and his pila laying flat across his lap, he pondered whether or not he should have really kept it.

A lesser man would have surely abandoned his armor long ago, to lessen his weight and make his travel easier. Perhaps only keeping a sword, one Pilum and his shield, but abandoning the rest to natures wrath. Except, despite his calling from the plebeian class of Imperial Rome, Tiberius didn't see himself as just simply a 'lesser man.' He was of the Legion, he was more than a man. He liked to think of himself as a man who was blessed. Blessed to be a part of the greatest nation in the known world. Blessed to not have to fight those other men who were blessed, for he had seen those whom they had fought that were not blessed and whom of those most unholy they had left alive. It was a sight that any sane man, any lesser man, would feel nothing but pity for. But he, he of the blessed among men, could feel no pity! Feel no pain! Feel no remorse for those he had slain in battle, in cold blood, in rage or in any other manner possible. He was of the Legion!

A smile slowly crept across Tiberius's face and he heft his pile, shifted his shield and checked his armor. This, this being of the blessed among men, was why he had not abandoned his armor and thus his one true identity. He would carry this honor to his grave, be it in one day or one hundred years time, he was carry this burden until his last breath was spent, his last stab complete, his last throw followed through.

"EGO mos non of beatus vir , vado quiete per nox noctis!" He screamed loudly toward the heavens, raising his shield and two pila as high as he could from a seated position. "EGO mos non trado! EGO mos non tribuo in! EGO mos pugna insquequo meus permaneo spiritus est prodigo, insquequo meus mucro armo est prodigo quod meus somes est mortuus" He was standing he realized, his face pinched, his mouth opening and closing rapidly as words spilled from his throat in a loud rush. His arms upraised, his shield clutched in his left, his pila in his right, shaking hard toward the heavens. "EGO mos nunquam trado! Nunquam!"
Curses and other such on the gods.

That last was a pitched scream, his voice lifting his words to volumes as high as any man could reach. His arms shook toward the heavens one last time before slowly lowering themselves to his side. His head, still pinched and with his mouth still open, dropped to his chest with a clank. He inhaled slowly and let himself sink back down to resting on his ankles. A simple task, to yell and scream at the heavens about never surrendering, never giving in. Not so easy a task, when faced with possible starvation, death by thirst or death by some strangers blade. He let his eyes wander across the low flowing hills and flowers of the land around him, and thought of his perhaps very distant or even lost home.

So much like home, he thought as his eyes took in the hues of green, yellow, blue, purple, white and red. But so different it almost hurts to look at it. A heavy wind picked up and the land suddenly seemed to come alive, rippling and flowing like the waves on the lakes back home. A tear formed at the corner of his eye as he remembered those lakes, and the time he and his brothers spent swimming in them. The rafts of rough logs and reeds they had built, the thin poles and long pieces of twine they had used to catch fish and crab. He sniffed hard, in part to clear his nose of pollen induced clogging, in part because he could feel more than just tears forming in his breast, and then whipped his face with the back of his hand.

The wind continued to blow hard and he was just about to turn his back to it and descend back down the far side of the hill he was on, when a large spot of gray appeared on a hill not far from his. Normally he wouldn't have paid this new appearance of color any mind, but in light of the fact that land around him was filled with more happier colors, that large spot of gray caught his attention only because it was drab and of a deathly nature. He tried to focus his tear filled eyes on the spot, trying to make out exactly what it was, but the wind hammered at his face and only teared up his eyes more. He twisted his body so that he could lift his shield to bar the wall from his face, and whipped his eyes a second time, clearing any excess tears from his eyes. The gray shape came into view, focused and Tiberius saw for the first time what it really was.

A man astride a gray steed who had seen better days.

His heart soared for what seemed the first time in days.

His heart nearly burst with joy as he jumped and capered about, singing wordlessly to himself and shaking his weapons and shield about. He had found life! He was saved! His fatigue and hunger forgotten, Tiberius started down the hill at a steady, if not ground eating pace, determined to catch this soul while he was still within sight, and find out where he was, and if this man knew the way back to his home.

Tears once again began forming at his eyes but he left them be, instead of being filled with sad memories of that which he had lost, they were filled with hopeful scenes of joy and happiness when he returned home to his own life, his own wife and child, his own family. He reached the bottom his his hill and dashed across the long bowl like valley between two hills. His heart raced, his blood pounded, and his eyes streamed tears as he started up the side of another hill, drawing ever closer to the man that could, would, be the answer to his silent prayers of salvation.

[Arsène]

Silence. All there was in that field was a beautiful silence interrupted only by the strong currents of wind; which died down fast enough not to remain a nuisance. Arsène relished it; cherishing each moment that he remained in solitude to contemplate. Even Snowstep, his fatigued mount, managed to keep its heavy pants and grunts to a whisper. The feeling of cold streams down his cheeks, the smell of earth and flower; all of it seemed miles away as he thought of her; his Anastasia. Through tightly clenched eyes, visions of the fair maiden danced across the blank canvas of his mind like they had so briefly in that field. The noble could almost taste the sweet perfume and feel her soft porcelain hand gripping his own tightly. His lips trembled slightly, almost smiling, struggling to smile.

But that serenity was broken by barbaric babbles that echoed across the valley. Arsène's eyes shot open in an instant, his face gripped in a deathly pale. "Gutteral tongue. Some mad peasant in kneeling before his pantheon of gods and screaming to them for some small favor as he struggles to survive," thought the man as he steadied his startled steed. Softstep was never one to like surprises. "Of course his gods would want to disrupt my moment of peace, they always want more."

Then silence crept back over the land like the shadows from the scarcely existent clouds above. Arsène could once again take solace in his surroundings, one last attempt placidity in a land that gave the man only horror. But no sooner he closed his eyes did he hear the sound of moving metal coming closer. Softstep neighed wearily, the beast's large eyes searched each corner of the hill and valley. Its master just sat there, awaiting what was to come. The noble's imagination was in an uproar, weaving scenarios of bandit attacks and warring factions coming upon him like a horde of ants prepared to feast. A part of the man wanted it; wanted some excuse for death. If he couldn't go through with suicide directly, then waiting for his end unarmed seemed like the best alternative.

His attacker came quickly, dressed in light clothes and heavy armor and shield. Arsène wondered how the man managed to move with such vigor while so weighed down; he himself felt faint in the heat just wearing his tailcoat. With a strange bemusement, he eyed the intruder wearily as he calmed his mount with soothing whispers. Ms. Meyet's cottage was only an hour's ride away, and the noble intended on reaching her before he left, whether to Albaious; his homeland, or the underworld.

[Tiberius]

It took him longer than he had first thought to reach the mounted man. In his over joy at seeing another living soul, the Legionary hadn't taken the time to correctly judge his distance, so after sprinting for a good quarter mile, fatigue began to set in and he arrived slightly short of breath.

"Gratias ago deus!"
Give thanks to god.

He wheezed, stumbling to a halt just shy of the man on his horse. Sucking in air loudly, eyes wide and his face red, the Legionary began to speak in quick, clipped words.

"Sententia eram unus , mortuus pro certus! Dico extraneus , quod via Roma?"
I thought I was alone, dead for certain! Pray tell stranger, which road to Rome?

The Legionary stared expectantly up toward the man atop the horse, his face still red and puffed from his long run. His body was caked in sweat, dirt smeared on his face, arms and legs giving him the appearance of a man who had literally been through hell on earth instead of just a jaunt in a field of flowers.

He inhaled deeply, trying to regain his breath, and waited as another heavy gust of wind rattle his gear and set him swaying drunkenly where he stood.

[Arsène]

What Arsène found in front of him was neither a bandit nor religious fanatic. It was a man with a haggard face lugging around armor that wore at the very bones. His body was clad in thick coating of dirt; so thick that the noble could only assume he had risen right from the ground. Empty eyes met desperate ones as the two men looked one and other over. The intruder began to take in thirsty breaths, letting loose more of his foreign tongue with a guttural speech that Arsène couldn't even fathom.

"It's not like anything I've ever heard," he mused. The ex-lover had often prided himself on his knowledge of tongues. He was a master of none, but he could always attest to his ability to distinguish between dialects; a trick that comes in hand in the midst of court.

There was a brief and awkward pause as the wind wrapped around them in an unwanted embrace. Arsène had no idea where this man had come from; frankly he didn't much care. Though he had no reason to hurry, the prospect of lingering in Corone seemed to bring a shiver to his body. "Whoever. Whatever he is, he seems happy enough to see me, that much is certain."

With the glare from the stranger's armor growing more of a nuisance, the noble relented. He tugged on Softstep's reigns, and with a few tender but shallow words, he calmed the beast's fears. The mount turned slowly, its aged hooves hitting the ground in a heavy rhythm, as Arsène gestured at the man to ride with him.

"Ms. Meyet's house isn't too far off from the nearest village. At least there he could get his barrings, or find someone who could understand him. Corone gets one more good deed done upon its soil by me. It deserves none."

[Tiberius]

The Legionary sniffed, whipping the back of his hand across his nose, watching the man stare and then gesture. At first the Legionary was puzzled.

"Quid? Quis operor vos vilis?" He asked, tilting his head slightly to the side, studying the man.
"What? What do you mean?"

He then noticed exactly how it was the man was gesturing toward the road next to him and gasped in recognition.

"Vos volo mihi proficiscor vobis?"
"You want me to travel with you?"

He suddenly became hesitant. This man wasn't speaking; perhaps he was a mute? From another province? Another nation perhaps? A possibility, considering he hadn't yet answered his questions with spoken words. One question however, nagged the back of the Legionaries mind. Why would this man just allow him to travel beside him, on such short notice? With no spoken words. Why not just give his instructions and be rid of the Legionary? Then the issue of not speaking presented a problem there. If the man could not speak his language, then perhaps he was doing what he could. If he could not speak it however, how did he know that he was searching for the way home and offer him a traveling companion?

These questions and dozens more, ran through the Legionaries mind in all the time it took the other man to gesture a second time. The Legionary had better answer fast, else he would lose his chance to find home and roam this foriegn place for more days to come. Possibly until he died, until starvation or lack of water. Which ever came first.

Long seconds passed while the Legionary stared at the man astride the horse, finally, after what seemed almost a life time of thinking for the Legionary - a full eight seconds, he decided.

A smile creased his dirt smeared face and he hefted his shield onto his shoulder and traded his pilum from his right hand to his left.

"Veneratio is exsisto proficiscor vobis," he said as he extended his free hand up and forward, palm down, arm parallel to the ground. As sign of acceptance and respect, it was usually reserved for revered generals and men of state, but because this was the first soul the Legionary had met since his arrival in this land, he thought the man deserved such a gesture. A smile cracked the dirt on his face, as his sweat and mud was fast drying due to the periodic bursts of wind, and his eyes glittered with a deep sense of gratitude.
"I am honored to travel with you."

He held his pose for a full seven seconds before relaxing to a normal standing position. His smile remained however and he gestured toward the man to lead the way.

After all, this was the man who might know the way home.

[Arsène]

Arsène lead their small procession at a somber pace, allowing the man behind him time to follow. The steed the noble rode on was in no way swift, but the stranger behind him had more aches than his mount's joints. Many questions loomed in the air, but Arsène's mind still tangled around the thoughts of a distant land across a vast sea.

"Albious." His homeland. The very land he and Anastasia fled from those years ago. And with their paradise in ruin, Arsene felt a need to head back there. Not just to inform his love's family, but also cling to the only other life he had known.

As the pair set out on their short quest, the wind seemed to quiet itself a bit, leaving only an awkward silence between the guide and the guided; Arsène too polite to try communicate outside language barriers, his traveler too tired to put up much more of a fight. And at a snail's pace the two slowly came to the forest where the rolling fields of grass were replaced by dry brown soil. Branches and shrubs tugged at their clothes and scratched their flesh. It was dense copse, tighly packed in its small area and devoid of even the simplest forms of life. So close to Radasanth, it had been picked clean by any hunter with enough time on their hands.

Every few minutes, Arsène would give a backwards glance to make sure the stranger was behind him. His face never distorted, not even when the thorns from nearby brush cut his pants legs. So strange was the forest, that a place could only be peaceful when it lacked life.

((Sorry about the delay. Hope my minor bunnying was alright))

[Tiberius]

((Tis fine))

The going, for the Legionary anyway, was slow. Once the two traveling companions cleared the fields and hills, they entered upon a dense forest of trees, low shrubs, mid-waist shrubs and various vines and creep-crawlers of all shapes, sizes and colors. This might not, in normal circumstances, have bothered the Legionary as much, except that this was a foreign place and everything seemed to be riddled with thorns or else sharp branches. His armor helped a little, but did little to save his legs or face.

While he walked, and every so often danced around a fallen log or other wise dangerous looking shrub or bush, the Legionary took some time to catch the lay of the land - as much as he could see - and find out what kind of forest he was in. He soon realized that it was unlike any forest he had ever seen and that the lay of the land was relatively the same as in the fields. Low rolling hills with mountains far to the distance and obscured by low hanging clouds or mists. It was the forest however, not the subtle indifferences in the land, that began to bother the Legionary.

Alone, as the two of them were, and in a forest such as this, they should definitely be seeing some signs of wildlife. Birds, squirrels, small rodents beneath their feet, the occasionally passing glance of a buck or a deer, or anything! But, there was nothing. Quiet embraced the forest like a blanket around a young child.

The Legionary frowned.

This could only mean one thing. Either this place was completely devoid of all life and he truly was dead and in the after life. Or that they were near some sort of habitation, town, city or other wise and this place had been hunted out. Populations of more than one thousand tended to do that to the surrounding countryside.

The Legionary held his frown and turned it to the back of the man riding the horse. Wear exactly was this man taking him? And why had he not spoken? Could he not speak, or was he just choosing not to speak?

It was all a very stranger mystery to the Legionary and his already partially frayed nerves were beginning to fray ever so slightly more. At that very moment a deep, low and long rumble emitted from the Legionaries stomach and he was painfully reminded exactly how hungry he was. He hadn't had a decent meal in days, and almost nothing to drink. He could perhaps survive for six, maybe seven hours before collapsing in complete exhaustion.

A thought came to him then, if he was dead, why was he hungry? The thought replaced all previous thoughts in his mind and he pondered it for a few minutes before being once more diverted to another thought that had just come to mind.

Thus was the way he followed the man atop his horse, one foot steadily placed in front of the other, face constantly changing from slightly confused, to being lost, to being almost angry, back to being confused again. The forest, his feet, the bushes and his hunger, plagued his mind for many hours after that.

Would he ever get home?

[Arsène]

(((Remember when I said sorry before? Well, that was a lie. I'm sorry about the delay now though)))

The silence was deafening, deepening, and all around unsettling. Though Arsène first reveled in the chance at solace, the lack of human contact only deepened his melancholy at Anastasia's death. How he prayed for the memory of sound; of the songs he use to enjoy so much, to come back into his mind and soothe the fires of his discontent. Only the thought of the stranger behind him, the subtle mutters of Softstep, and the thought of home kept his mind from delving into dreaded madness.

The silence was gone, however, as they reached a clearing of dull brown grass. The sound of barking dogs could be heard in a nearby wooden kennel, painted as dead a brown as the ground, but far more chipped and worn. Under less grim circumstances, some sort of grin may have just blessed the noble's face. He knew Mrs. Meyet's cottage was only a few yards further, their view obstructed by the many willows the woman kept for pure aesthetic value. He stopped his mount just as they reached a worn dirt path, and turned to the stranger who followed him.

A deep lump slid down his rough throat, the sobs had left it red and sore. Arsène hated the idea of mistranslations, finding that they only lead to misfortune and misinformation. Still, he had nothing to lose; perhaps even the look on his face was enough to explain everything. He gripped the reigns tighly, his pale hands turning an even whiter shade.

"I am Arsène Laurent." His words were calm, cool and clear; a face as deadpan as the finest of carved works. He made sure to point to himself, trying his best to close any gaps. "Up ahead, food and shelter await you. I have business there. Perhaps in the morning I can arrange for you to reach Radasanth," he paused. "It's the capital. You'll be able to gain some information from there."

The dogs grew louder. They had heard the heavy approach of the pair, who had taken no measures to mask their presence.

[Tiberius]

The forest changed little during the trek, so much so that the Legionary eventually gave up trying to keep up with the changing landscape. Letting it instead just flow past him, a blur to his minds eye.

He stepped around large tree trunks, ducked beneath low hanging branches, stepped over fallen logs and dodged around small, prickly shrubs. He sniffed, coughed roughly and stumbled, barely catching himself with the leading edge of his shield, or his other hand, arm, or even his knees. He would look up at his mounted companion; he wouldn't see him, and as such, wouldn't stop. The Legionary would shake his head, silently curse himself, and push himself to his feet to continue.

This went on and on for a few good hours and toward the end, the Legionary was beginning to wonder how long it would take for him to finally die. He had been walking for a whole week straight, with very little food, even less water, and at least forty pounds of armor and weapons about his person. He knew that maybe he should have abandoned his gear, opting for a faster travel time and less weight, but he had sworn by this armor. He had worn it in battle, he had killed in it, he had survived in it. Besides, what if this place really was real, and what if it was hostile toward him?

No, he would not abandon his only path for survival. But, if he did not find food and water soon, would he even survive to be able use his gear?

The question pained his consciousness and he choked on tears and mucus, trying hard not to make any noise as he walked behind the mounted man.

Presently, his mind being alert at that time, they came upon a small clearing and instantly the Legionary knew that the time for his prayers to be answered was near at hand. He shuffled out from behind the mounted man, as there was now room to move around a little, and moved up to walk beside him.

Yes!

There they were, the noise he had heard upon entering into the clearing. Dogs! Four of them. Locked in a cage!

Civilization! And there, right in front of him.

A road!

The Legionaries heart soared and he almost raced ahead of the mounted man, just so that he could be the first to touch the road. They drew closer to the road and suddenly, the Legionaries heart began to sink. This was no road, this was just a path. Perhaps nothing more than just an animal track, used on and off by passerby and local trappers or hunters. The Legionary sank once more into his dreary and depressed state of mind.

This entire ordeal was looking to be hopeless. He hardly even noticed when the mounted man stopped, his mind was numb at that point and he honestly cared little of what happened next. There was a sound, something different from the bark of the dogs and the sound of the horse and the Legionary looked up. It was like no other sound he had ever heard before and he looked to the mounted man to see if he had heard it as well. Then it hit him.

The mounted man was speaking!

But, he was speaking in a language he had never heard before.

It abruptly hit the Legionary that he was traveling with a man who couldn't even speak his language. His heart sank further and his chin dropped down to his chest.

It was hopeless.

Abruptly the dogs ceased their barking and there was another sound. It perked the Legionaries ears and he looked up. It sounded exactly like what the mounted man had done. He squinted into the direction of the strange sound, words apparently.

Yes! There it was.

It was a person. A woman, quickly approaching them, her skirts hiked up to her knees as she ran. Where had she come from? The Legionary trained his eyes behind the woman, searching.

Yes, there it was. A building, squat and low beneath a protective canopy of these local trees. It was well hidden, and well off the beaten path. An ideal hiding place.

But what was this woman hiding from? Something seemed to punch the Legionary in the stomach and he looked down.

His stomach felt like a hollow, empty shell. It rumbled loudly. He groaned and swayed a little.

By this time the woman had reached them and she looked first to the Legionary, said something that he couldn't understand, paused and then faced the mounted man. There was a rapid firing of words between the two, the woman nodded and then turned around. A piercing whistle rose into the air and presently three men burst forth from the building, carrying between them what appeared to be a stretcher.

What was this? The Legionaries stomach rumbled loudly, and he was beginning to get dizzy.

It was because he had stopped. If he had kept walking, he might have lasted another hour or so before he finally collapsed. Because he had stopped, his body having been used to walking, was suddenly spent and dead from shock. Soon he would. . .

. . .Darkness rolled in abruptly and the Legionary fell forward heavily. There was a great crash and clang as his body hit the ground with all its gear and armor, and just before he finally lost consciousness, he heard the pitched yells of the woman who had first appeared.

Sound and sight fled and he fell into a deep, trance like sleep. Death silently waiting around the corner.

((Hope it's all right if I bunnied your character speaking for a bit. You may do what you wish with my now unconscious body. :p))

[Arsène]

"I hope this tea is to your liking, it's all I could manage to scrape together." Ms. Meyet's voice was a tender thing that managed to hold all the harmonies of well written music. Her skin, while wrinkled with age, still managed to hold firm to her homely face. She passed the chipped cup to Arsène, careful to keep her sudden shakes under control.

"It's fine Ms. Meyet," he said, taking a sip. The tea was in fact rancid; but with the upheaval in Corone, one could only expect as much. He merely swallowed the awful dose down with a quick nod to simulate enjoyment. "Please, stop waiting me and tend to the other man." The room seemed stifling hot already as the fire cracked away in a tight little corner. Beads of sweat rolled down the noble's brow, but his face gave no indication of discomfort.

Ms. Meyet gave just a simple, inaudible word as she walked off, complacent that, for now at least, Arsène was content. As the tendrils of the beaded curtain shook in her wake, the man could only lounge back a bit in his chair. Stress and melancholy seemed like constant companions; jilted lovers who never quite understood the word no.

For now, he took solace only that the man he met was being tended to, that Softstep was being fed, and that Ms. Meyet already knew of Anastasia's death. At least he wouldn't have to relive another retelling of the tale, wrapped up in tears.

[Tiberius]

It would be some hours still before the man woke up, so Ms. Meyet took that time to clean his clothing and examine his other personal belongings. The armor she paid little attention to, except perhaps to move it to a far corner and out of the way. She had had her fill with fighting men, she felt no need to delve deeper that just simply shoving it out of the way. His cloths were a disaster, they looked like they hadn't been washed in weeks! Months even.

"Tsk," was all she said though, as she neatly folded the tunic and various under garments. His sandals she tucked near the foot of the bed and then, after one more final check on his condition, she tucked the clothing under her arm and walked out.

*~*

About two hours later she reappeared, having washed and press dried his clothing until they were some what close to their original colors, and she placed these next to the sandals. As she bent to tuck the clothes next to the sandals she nudged his small hip bag and it popped open, spilling some of its contents out onto the floor. Not a nosy person by nature, Ms. Meyet simply bent to place the items back into the bag, but one of the objects caught her eye.

It was a folded piece of what looked like parchment and when she reached out to pick it up, she found that it was really two pieces, wrapped around a small piece of lead. "Oh dear," she said softly, taking the lead from out of the small packet. "That isn't very healthy. Perhaps I should get him a proper writing utensil." Then she stood and exited the room, returning a short time later with a long, slender wooden pencil. She carefully inserted it into the hip bag and then returned her attention to the parchment.

One of the corners had fallen away, revealing a little of what was written. She squinted at the words and then gasped. "Oh my," she said softly, her hand trembling slightly as she reached out to grab the parchment. “Oh my, oh my.” She said over and over again. A moment later, one of her companions entered into the room. He glanced once at Ms. Meyet and immediately dropped the tray he was holding onto the nearest table and rushed to her side.

“Ms. Meyet,” he said softly, grabbing her by her shoulders. “Is everything alright?”

Still a little shaken, as well as still shaking a little, Ms. Meyet turned to face the man. “I’m not sure Rodney, but, do me a favor, would you dear?”

“Of course Ms. Meyet, what is it you need?”

“My volume on ancient languages of the Albious Island chain.”

The man, Rodney, nodded and sprinted into the adjoining room to begin searching for the book. Ms. Meyet however, simply stood and stared down at the man she had just taken in.

“Where have you come from?” She asked softly, before exiting the room.