Fable - Ask Crypticism on the River Sayve

She kept to herself, standing silently at the prow of the boat as it glided through the murky depths of the river. Alisande had walked in the shadow of the river and its banks for many years, decades and centuries. And yet, it still maintained that suffocating underlying sense of fear and suffocation that she had known so intimately well. Alisande knew the fisherman who guided them there; she'd known him when he was young, and his father, and his father before him. Generations of fishermen worked this river, and though they had all grown old and passed on, she had remained ever more the same.

Alisande paid the fisherman with coin, and bade the expedition follow her deep into the deep dark. The group walked down the halls, stricken by cobwebs, dust, and fresh bloodstains. Alisande pressed her pale finger into the blood and tasted it, smiling slightly at the humans present in the party as she gestured for them to continue onwards.

"Don't worry, there is nothing but the dead and those who sleep still down here."

Though many centuries old, the vampire still retained elements of her own humanity, including a talent for smiling at awkward moments, revealing an impressive set of fangs that had sunk into many a neck over the centuries. She had kept contact with the world of the living, skirting the periphery of human settlement. Alisande performed mercenary work for local lords and rulers, keeping an ear to things going on and reporting to her kin who still hid in the dark.

Alisande sensed the fear and apprehension among the living, and if she could still feel some way. She'd share in their fear, too. This place brought nothing but terror and sadness for her.

Carmelea Nosfir Victoria O'Connor Lazarus Jeager Mordrith Nightbrae

It was an odd request placed upon him, that was until he was given the details of the task at hand. It would make sense that his services might be required for a place such as this, his mind wondering about just what this sunken crypt might hold for them. An occultist by trade, among other things, Lazarus fancied himself an expert in such regard. Having taken the offer bestowed upon him for reasons he might never speak aloud, the eve of said job would find him sitting by himself on the boat. He could hear the hushed whispers of the people who dared not sit beside him, either due to his appearance or his attire it mattered not, for he was busy preparing himself for the possibilities that may lay ahead of them. While some of the mercenaries talked between each other about his robes and his mask, the occultist busied himself with making small trinkets of straw and silver of various shapes and symbols, one even looking like that of a puppet of sorts.

Amber eyes swept over the land from behind the skull adorning his upper face, the antlers ending in sharp and jagged points, as if gnawed or broken at the tips. The air was thick with an energy he knew all too well, the presence of death clung to the dirt and stone as they began making their way inside, the seemingly fresh blood a confirmation of what he had sensed. As someone who rubbed shoulders with the things that go bump in the night, there was no surprise in his features at the sight of those pointed fangs, their guide into this tomb could very well be leading them to demise. All dubious thoughts that passed fleetingly across his mind as they continued further downward, thin fingers traced the walls as they walked on, tracing the imperfections in the stone, silently searching the stone for the magical energies that death may leave behind. the small trinkets of straw and silver would clink against one another as they trekked on, worn about his neck and chest like some home made wind chime or relic one might find on a long abandoned porch, forgotten to time.

There was something about this place that made the magical markings across his skin itch, the sensation of endless little somethings crawling about his body the deeper they went, a side effect of the curse that plagued him. Any who would turn their attention to him would find the faintest of smiles across his lips, present since the moment they left the boat, as if he knew something they didn't. In truth there was just an excitement for the adventure into the abyss below, the idea that there may be knowledges down below that haven't been seen in centuries, or even more than just knowledge, it evoked from him a sense of passion and anticipation. Dragging a finger through some of the blood marking the wall, he'd bring it to his nose and take in a deep breathe, speaking so softly one might think they hallucinated the words that escaped him. "Who might you be..."

It wasn't the dead or the sleeping that worried Hugo presently. Rather, Alisande's fanged smile caused his knuckles to whiten, clenched tight around his torch. The presence of the elk-skull hermit was little better -- Hugo's oak eyes followed his every aberrant motion like a hawk.

"Oy, you heard that? Not just daisy-pushers here, but sleepers. Reckon any of them will be them sleeping beauties?"

The voice that tittered through the darkness belonged to Lennis, the youngest member of the band of mercenaries. He was first ignored, save for a restrained groan or two, but then he went on:

"They say sometimes them blue-bloods put their daughters in, em, caskets, innit, or glass and suspend them so they never wrinkle up like them prunes, you understand. Think I might wake one up with a kiss, eh?"

"I think whoever you wake up is more like to snap your neck. Princess or no princess. I know I would," Sten said, a six foot fiver who towered above them all, heavy bardiche leaning against his shoulder.

"Aw, didn't reckon you thought of me in that way, Sten. A kiss for good luck?"

"Shut your gob."

"Not for you, I won't."

Hugo smiled faintly at the banter and a few telltale snickers rippled out from the men-at-arms. He knew their humour for what it was. A bulwark against their fear. As the darkness grew ever more oppressive, so too did their need for reassurance. A jest or two granted the illusion of control. Blast, some of the best jokes he had ever heard had come right before a muddy clash of infantry, before the storming of a castle's walls, or just before an ensuing rainfall of arrows.

Soldiers needed all the courage they could get. Who cared where it might stem from?

"So long as you keep those tools ready, Lennis, I'm certain a lass or two will endure your garlic breath when we get back, even if Sten won't. Villagers got terrible taste, after all," Hugo added. A few chuckled, even Lennis.

"Avoid, sir! I take offence to that. So long as my breath is better than yours, Sir Pitch, I'll take it." Lennis hefted the aforementioned tools, a sack of crowbars, mining picks, hammers, pitons and spades. All the tools a graverobber could wish for. Relegated to the role of a porter, no doubt he felt the need to snap out his frustration. He wasn't entirely wrong though. All of them had eaten inane amounts of garlic, so no wonder if they all reeked. That was but a small preparation on Hugo's part.

His hand drifted down to his bandeliers and belts, reassuringly patting his sharpened stake, hidden in the folds of his tatty officer's coat, then his fingers drummed on the cork of his flask of holy water, blessed by a dubious and drunken priest, before clapping the rattling scabbards of his dual shortswords and finally adjusting his sheepskin-wrapped elixir, carrying a solution of highly flammable pitch and sulphur. Half these preparations were based in nothing but folklore, but if even *one* of them would work against any creature down here, he would gladly carry them all. And in case all these implements failed; the comforting rhythmic clap of a warhammer against his back told him he could certainly break a few bones, animated or otherwise.