Open Chronicles Astray

Nuir
Location: Slave cells



There was nothing to herald their arrival. No sound or flash of light. A small group appeared in the middle of the corridor in an instant.

"Hey!" cried one of the guards.

Aurra had been listening to the ogres that guarded the cells. They had been finding all the spots people appeared. The one outside of their cells was the most convenient.

As the small travelling group looked around in confusion, a group of ogres encirled them and lowered halberds.

"Weapons down!" cried an ogre.

Aurra had been in her cell for two days. Arriving with a weapon, she had been chosen for entertainment in the fighting pits.

She didn't know if the alternative was worse. This was likely to lead to a very brutal end. She could have lived a longer life as a slave in the mines, or doing worse, but the quick death would perhaps be a mercy.

Aurra stepped up to the bars to look at the new arrivals.

One minute he had been marveling at a the long forgotten intricacies of the ruins. The next he had found himself not at all in the city of Elbion. Or at least he assumed the city wasn't supposed to be this bleak.

Nuir had arrived in another part of the fortress only a half day earlier. Confused and unaware he had quickly found himself at the end of a halberd just the same as the group now arriving by the cells. Still he'd had a small chance to get some notion of the layout. He saw the group of arrivals as an ogre, half walked, half dragged him toward the cells.

To his surprise there was a familiar face though not the one he had been looking for. He had some notion that Haydn the hunter might have been caught up in this as well. However, he hadn't been able to confirm that. If he had also been dropped here instead of his destination then they had been separated.
"Miss Brylee!"
Nuir felt the first emotion other than dread and anxiety since his accidental arrival. Not that he had been in this place long enough to have any real taste of despair. He allowed himself to be shoved into the same cell as her. He hadn't seen Aurra Brylee since their adventure in the under dark. He was quite happy for the reunion even if it was under somewhat dire circumstances. He gave her a small smile and a shrug.
"I don't suppose you have any idea what all this is about?"

Cerak should have been the place that was a get in, get out situation.

She had been here more than a few days, long enough to hear the commotion of new arrivals, but that was only just a rumour. Carling simply came to deliver the head of whatever that monstrosity was called, but killed it nonetheless as was contracted, and waited for her coin for carrying out the deed.

However, it seemed Tall Teddy was friends with everyone here in Cerak.

A month ago, she had commandeered a carriage last time she was here, stealing the ride right from Tall Teddy's grasp on a rainy day. The orc aired his grievances to her, but despite paying him for his inconveniences, each time she saw him on that trip, it went horribly wrong. Spilled a drink over his boots. Shouted him a round of drinks of the most expensive bottle... but the bottle went sour.

There was no need for wanted signs to be put up. Not that they would even replicate her likeness, but word and infamy held strong here in Cerak At'Thul.

The fighting pits was surely Tall Teddy's idea, but it was his friend that insisted Carling marred the bloodied head of the what'sitcalled when the instruction was different. Surely, a week in the pits would teach her a lesson. Carls didn't bother to fight this, of asking for help out of this situation.

Not when the jailer decided to bet on her.

But in her nicer cell, the rumours of different people showing up out of nowhere reached her. Was magic at play? Was she fighting them, or creatures?

"Fiddleshits." Carling whispered, realisation circling in her thoughts. She had thought she had the upper hand coming into this... but it seemed all of this was a larger game to play.

Nuir Aurra Brylee
Afanas pushed himself up from the cool floor with eerie calm. He was towering, unnaturally poised, with flowing dark hair that stired ocassionally as if moved by an unseen wind. His skin was pale, like carved marble, and his angular features carried an elegance touched by something inhuman. Chains and delicate brass filigree coiled around his slender waist like creeping vines, glinting in the dim torchlight. A wide-brimmed hat shadows his face, which at the moment carried a neutral expression, betraying neither comfort nor absence of it.

His sword remained slung horizontally across his back--broad, ornate and untouched for now.

Around him, the dungeon flickered with torchlight, casting shadows that danced across the stone arches and barred cells.

Afanas tilted his head. His gaze, cold and calculating, scanning the cell-lined corridor. He took a single step, the clink of his belt and boots echoing unnaturally in the quiet. He watched as the ogre guards brought up their weapons, before shifting his gaze to a handful of people in his general vicinity, some in cages, others free, like him.

“This,” he said, his voice smooth and unconcerned, “is not where I intended to arrive.”

Hazen had just been having a piss. A well-earned piss, at that. He'd just helped liberate a merchant caravan of its burdens (namely gold, silk, and ego), and was riding the euphoric high of a job well done, bellied up in a roadside tavern with two girls and a bottle of something so strong it had singed the hairs in his nose.

He’d leaned one forearm against the cool face of a massive boulder outside, other hand handling his business, boots spread in the practiced stance of a man who didn't care to get his boots wet. His head lolled forward, and he muttered something incoherent under his breath, a song maybe, or a threat to the rock.

And then, everything shifted. No sound, no warning, just a sudden lurch, like the whole world had hiccuped and spit him out somewhere else.

His forehead thunked hard into iron bars.

“Ugh—fuckin’ ow,” Hazen grunted, still mid-flow, boots thoroughly splashed. "Shite."

There was a clatter of chains and low groans nearby. The air reeked of blood, piss, and damp. Dim torchlight flickered against damp stone walls. A rat the size of a small terrier stared at him with a judgey expression. Hazen, still peeing, blinked at it.

His eyes slowly tracked up the walls. Bars. More bars. Moaning. Screaming. A guy coughing up what sounded like part of a lung.

He hiccupped. Adjusted his breeches one-handed, wobbling slightly.

Then turned in a slow circle, scratching at his jaw, taking in the dripping walls, rusted manacles, and the clear smell of something dead just out of sight. He gave the bars an experimental rattle. Solid.

“The fuck kinda latrine is this?” he muttered aloud, genuinely perplexed. "Wench!? Another beer." he called, trying, and failing, to snap his fingers.

Nuir said:

"I don't suppose you have any idea what all this is about?"

Click to expand...

"Nuir!"

For a fleeting moment, she smiled. It was nice to see a familiar face, but then came the realisation that someone she liked would be suffering the same fate as her.

Afanas said:

“This,” he said, his voice smooth and unconcerned, “is not where I intended to arrive.”

Click to expand...

She glanced through the bars. A new arrival was almost a break in the monotony. She hated herself a little for that thought.

More ogres came. This time not for the new arrivals, but to start picking out some of the prisoners.

"Stay close," she hissed at Nuir.

PATH 3

The dingy light bounced off Nuir's white hair and cloak in a soft glow. The delicate undamaged and relatively spotless quality of his clothing was a testament that he had not yet suffered any of the rougher parts of Cerak At'thull. Nuir was more than a little keen to be away from the smells and dirt of this place. Now that he had at least a friendly ally in this place he was feeling less apprehensive about being caged in.

He too looked towards the new arrivals. His mismatched eyes following along the pointed spears to the stranger. Nuir's face was blank for a moment in thought. For a moment he had this nagging feeling he had seen the tall one before. It was a striking visage so he was certain he couldn’t be mistaking the stranger for someone else. After a moment it came to him. “Ah, the man with the interesting sword.” He said aloud more to himself than to get the man's attention. He had tried to forget about the crazy one that barked at the sky. There was little that truely unsettled Nuir. Whatever that one had called did unsettle him. He might have been inclined to call out to strike up a friendly introduction under different circumstances. Seeing as there was a set of bars and armed ogres between them it didn't seem like the right time.

His attention was likewise moved to the approach of more ogres.
He met Aurra Brylee 's hiss with a small nod. “Ok” , his tone quiet and calm. He likewise wasn't keen to see one of his acquaintances suffer. Nuir couldn’t help much in the way of combat. He had little more than a long knife on hand for defense. Nuir hadn’t put any new efforts into learning any weapons. He could at least ensure that no injuries she sustained were permanent. He was more than happy to follow along her lead. In that way it was much the same to their previous adventure albeit that one had been planned. Here he was again having stumbled into a place he had no place being and about to be in danger he wasn't even a little equipped for.

Afanas

Nuir Aurra Brylee
Odessa

Laying horizontally over his broad back, his scabbard trembled — then erupted with a flash of pale blue-green light. The sword didn’t so much draw as launch itself free, guided by invisible force, spinning with purpose into Afanas' outstretched hand.

It never reached him.

Afanas’ fingers curled in the air, and the weapon halted mid-flight, hovering. Power surged around it, thin tendrils of arcane light crackling along the blade’s surface. The runes etched deep into the dark metal pulsed, each one igniting in sequence like a chain of sparks. Then the blade moved.

It shot forward, a blur of steel and glowing script.

The first ogre raised his polearm, far too late. The sword split him from shoulder to hip in a single, fluid arc, trailing mist and blood. There was no clash of steel or spray of sparks—just the soundless whisper of air parting as the blade passed through flesh, bone, and armor as if they weren’t there.

The second ogre roared in fury and brought down his halberd with the strength of ten men. But the sword twisted midair, feinted like a duelist, and drove itself into the creature's barrel chest, hitting point-first while spinning like a high-powered drill, bursting out his back in a spray of gore and steam. The ogre sank to his knees, gurgling, and then was still.

The blade hovered in the air a moment longer, still humming with residual energy. Then, as if responding to an unspoken command, it glided back toward Afanas. It didn’t return to its scabbard—just floated near his shoulder, tip angled slightly downward, its edge releasing small bursts of green- no, teal-colored energy that looked like both flame and lightning come together, but also neither at the same time.

It circled him slowly, a silent sentinel in motion, tracing glowing arcs through the air. Afanas didn’t move. His eyes were already upon Nuir and his cellmate.

"You..." he drawled, "where are we and what are you doing in that glorified cage, elven boy?"