Open Chronicles Beneath Us, Shadows

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Knottington, The Spine.
​

It had been nearly two years since Arnor, son of Skuld, The Axe of Knottington- had returned to Knottington. The world had enveloped him in it's mysteries, it's travels- and his people had claimed much more of his time than he even predicted. But it was time to return, to see how the town had prospered, how it had changed. And to return the blessing of the Axe of Knottington itself, not that five winters had passed, even. He was simply a practical man, and wanted to see if he could get a headstart on the blessing.

Besides, he wanted to see the Cleric that produced him such a fine weapon, along with the blacksmith that made it. He had many things to bring them back. Rhi, his horse- trotted slowly down the path while Arnor whistled a lonely song.

The Spine wasn't close to him, but the terrain matched it somewhat. What it lacked in cold, it made up for in hills and valleys, and on two occasions, bandits. One instance, Arnor was able to persuade them to simply give up their life of petty crime, and the other-

What made the grass grow...

It was simply happenstance that Arnor did not come a week, three days, or even a month earlier. It was happenstance that he spotted the town laying in ruins. Arnor slid off his horse, expecting to see anything from his perched and elevated position. But from the hill overlooking the quiet village- which had grown exponentially since his departure, Arnor could see no marks of battle, no fallen soldiers or town guard. Rain pelted at Arnor's chainmail and leather cuirass, while his eyes rapidly darted from side to side, as if to find some reason to what he had seen. Even through the thick rain, Arnor's well trained eyes could only determine one sole factor, and one alone.

The town withered away and died. Abandoned.

His first thought was plague, and he should warn the nearby villages all the same. Arnor set out to warn them, or seek as to what happened to the once-inhabited village of Knottington.

The part of him that was usually rightfully afraid or fearful of the worst began to stir.

A few hours ride north was the village of Skell's Hand, a smaller mining community that was known for it's high production of well-burning coal. Tucked away underneath a cliffside and beneath the foot of a mountain, Skell's Hand was a prosperous, if small community. The rain had stopped for the time being, but the heavy gray clouds remained overhead, threatening to dampen the area with their unrelenting tears, and making Arnor grumpiuer than usual, and Rhi more thirsty than usual.

All communities, large or small- had men. And men had a commonality amongst every creature, social level, and status.

They all liked to drink.

And men usually drank, as women did, together.

The tavern was clearly the life of the town, as was the case for most small places with not much else to do. There was peace, there was liquor, and there was ale and mead to be drank and songs to be sung- why not gather every night, or every other night? It was when Arnor poked his head in, that they stopped and turned to face him- for the most part only giving him a once-over. Passerbys were not uncommon- but they were noticed, due to the lack of main roads that directly lead to the village. His horse was stabled outside, and a handsome few coins were given to the stablehand-

Along with the odd request of a heavy bowl of beer for the horse. Some say Arnor's horse smiled when he stopped and the horse got to drink beer, mead, wine- whatever was on tap. Arnor didn't believe them.

He knew for a fact that Rhi could only grin.

The Innkeeper was the first to greet Arnor, a friendly Dwarf that reminded him of a certain someone a great while ago. He was friendly, waving him over to the bar, where he happily stood on a wood platform. Arnor was impressed, the Dwarf seemed to have made the entire structure around his height, while keeping the human and nearly human populace able to fit in quite well as well.

Arnor was happy to point that out.

"Quite a feat of handiwork, even for a simple tavern."

The compliment nearly made the Dwarf blush. Arnor knew to get to a Dwarve's heart, was to compliment their handiwork.

"Just the odd few hour here and there... what can I get you? Besides o' course what you asked for your.... horse."

Arnor smiled and pointed at a bottle of brown liquor. The Dwarf cocked his head, as if to ask "the whole bottle?" Arnor simply nodded in return.

"What brings ye to our part of the world? Don't get too many Bear-folk anymore, though I... Nevermind.""

Arnor took the bottle, unscrewing the cap and sitting down on the barstool, adjusting the swords on his back to accommodate a relaxed posture. Arnor motioned for him to go on.

"We had a few Bear-folk, your kind in the Spine not too long ago- though great while ago, we heard about a Naga attack on the Spine. It seemed to be thwarted by a wayward band of your kind, plus some."

Arnor smiled and reached to his waist, laying the Axe of Knottington on the bar. Instead of the happy reaction he was expecting, the tavern all seemed to fixate on it at once.

"That the seal there?"

"That's the seal of Knottington, that is-"

"You know what happens to people who speak that fucking name you dolt-"

"He's one of 'em!"

Arnor turned to the commotion of the table behind him, a hunched collection of miners. Strong forearms and backs, but even the toughest most gruff men of the Spine had been brought to heel by a seal alone. Arnor turned his head to the equally frightened barkeep.

"What happened to Knott-"

He noticed the fear of the name alone.

"To the town."

The Innkeeper gulped, and the townsfolk behind him hunkered together, as if to be protected by the words of the Innkeeper alone.

"I will say this but once, friend- what happened to Knottington was no plague, was no curse. It tweren't nothin' but the devils they found. The devils they made deals with. They collected." Arnor leaned forward, eager to know.

"Collected what?"

"Their souls, friend. The only thing you'll find in that place is Ghosts- or worse."

The Innkeeper leaned back, pouring Arnor another drink.

"You can stay here for the night, but you must be off in the morn'. You already scared half the town."

Arnor rose to a stand, taking another swig of the drink he poured himself. He set his payment on the counter, enough to cover two nights. He dropped a letter on the counter.

"If I do not return, in two days time- see to it that this letter is delivered to my people. The Queen herself will want this."

The seal on the envelope- his, gave weight to that statement. And no one dared lied to have business with that Queen. Maude would personally see to any skinning, maiming, or bludgeoning those who wasted her time. But a letter from Arnor? That would be well worth her time, especially one marking his demise.

Arnor stood and made for the door, mounting Rhi, who was half on the wagon. He patted Rhi on the side.

"More Ghosts for us, friend."

And with that- Arnor began to trek back to Knottington, intent on finding out if there was something as sinister as Devils lurking in the town he once called home- or worse.

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon really did think himself above this sort of thing. He didn’t think he would be a vulture plucking at the dead but here he was, sifting through people’s homes for jewelry. It was bitterly cold in the town, and lighting a hearth in the ruined fireplace really didn’t heat things enough for the dragon. It was warm enough for a human or other mammal, but it barely scraped the surface of the heat he needed. Nonetheless it gave him the ability to search for ore and minerals, and that was what he needed.

Chaceledon certainly looked like a porcelain teapot in a mine. He was tall, slender with perfect skin. His long copper hair was pinned up with jade. He was roughing it, of course, so they were just finely scrolled brass and exposed stone. He wore kohl around his eyes with gentle moss green above the lids, and only a specking of gold leaf. His nails were shorter and rounder, complex visions of glass with tiny paintings of forest scenes and moss.

His robes were comparatively simple. Soft green tones, and only five layers today. The top layer was crocheted wool, with a fine collar tipped in long reindeer fur. The under layers were progressively thinner, with the last layer diaphanous silk. He felt rather rugged today; his face wasn’t even powdered. He had boots on; actual boots made for the outdoors!

Oor had cut him off temporarily, and the dragon sought to spite him. Oor didn’t think he’d rough it going to a mining town to seek metal scraps and gemstones. He sighed and picked up a cute little brass bauble from an upstairs bedroom. The glass was cheap. He brought it close to his delicately rose stained lips and blew.

A purple tongue of flame licked the glass, and shattered it. Dragon flame was much hotter than man made fire, and the temperature difference was too much for the ancient piece. Chaceledon shook the glass shards out and examined the setting. Ah good, real gold. That he could work with. He added it to his bag.

Chaceledon picked up the bag and tossed it over one shoulder, stepping delicately out of the house. A little kiss of flame, and the doorframe was marked with charcoal to indicate he’d already raided the house.

Sixteen more houses to go, but first the blacksmith. He eyed the forge. He’d set the forge alight and kept it warm. He used the old molds left behind to make ingots, slowly warming the jewelry in a crucible and pouring it into the moulds.

See? He didn’t need that horrific wraith for lapidary supplies. He’d just make his own.

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

The wind blew through the decrepit buildings, and what Arnor could've sworn was moans. Rhi, ever trusty, snarled more out of contempt of their invisible foe, than fear. The horse had remarkable strength and courage- for a horse. Rhi had his limits, surely, but they had not been met quite yet.

Arnor stopped when he entered the town- seeing moving shadows- multiple forms dart from windows. Black and oily shadows seemed to linger in the air. Night was beginning to fall, and Arnor had a sinking feeling that Knottington had not quite yet fully died.

He turned his head towards the Blacksmith, home of the one who made his axe. He looked down at the small axe at his side, bearing the insignia that hung outside of the shop. It wasn't the seal of the town- inscribed on the actual head, but the blacksmith had been so guile to put his own mark on such a weapon on the handle. Two trees and a sword in the middle- he never asked what it really meant, but it meant quite a lot to him.

Or at least, it did.

But that did not explain the sounds Arnor heard or the smell of fire. He turned his head towards one of the buildings, stepping off of Rhi. The brute of a man ran his fingers over the charcoal etching. He smelled it. It was still warm to the touch, even in the cold. No beast he knew, or monster that he had yet encountered, left their mark with charcoal. Not even demons- to his knowledge.

Arnor's footfalls were not light, his presence was not sneaky- he simply strode up to the blacksmith upon hearing the sounds inside of tinkering. He thrust open the door, nearly knocking it off it's hinges. Arnor's massive frame stepped inside, the Nordenfiir brute staring down at the man...melting down jewelry.

Arnor probably wasn't wrong that he was a robber or a picker of some kind, but even they had good sense once and a while to not venture into cursed places. Unless this particular robber didn't believe in curses. Arnor didn't say a word, crossing the room until he found himself a chair that had not been lost to time. He calmly laid his fine steel sword across his lap.


"You're not the Blacksmith I knew."

The way Arnor said it, it might as well have been a 'fuck you and who are you' but- oddly in a nice way. Arnor was rarely rude, if ever- especially not to strangers that he had no idea who they were.

But the fact he was starting a fire and pilfering... jewelry, well, that struck Arnor as odd. Especially since he was melting it down, or at least, attempting to.

"It would take hours, perhaps days, to get this forge hot enough to begin to work with jewelry, by the way."

Arnor didn't sound angry that this man was pillaging his beloved Knottington's corpse- moreso... disappointed.

Chaceledon

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon didn’t mind the shadows, honestly. It wasn’t mere arrogance, though as a dragon he had that in spades. He had been kidnapped, tortured in the worst ways, and forced to raise generation after generation of men bred to kill. He had raised sweet and innocent boys to cold murderers, chained to the same captor. All of them had their quirks. Ferenzi Volker had been as elegant as he, while Klaus had been a brutal killer from the beginning. All had begged for escape, tried to run, or had tried to free Chaceledon in doing so. All had failed.

Shadows, quite simply, didn’t scare a mother of madmen. Nor would a man who had been forced to bed a wraith for centuries be particularly complainant of death.

Chaceledon looked up from his work when a man entered and crossed the room. He’d heard the footsteps, heavily armored. He had assumed he was another bandit, someone who objected to him taking spoils. The other sat in a chair, blade across his lap, and spoke.

So he’d known this town and the smith who’d worked the forge. Dare he criticize a dragon about warmth?

“Men think they know everything.” Chaceledon sniffed. Gold had a high melting point, but the dragon could feel his strength returning. It wasn’t enough to transform and fly, or turn the small flame he was able to conjure into the maelstrom his kind was known for, but it was enough to defeat gold. He took a deep breath and blew over the crucible.

Chaceledon was refined about such a procedure, looking more like a noblewoman cooling a cup of tea than anything else. His flame melted the gold bauble down like butter. He poured it into the ingot mould with a gentle turn of his wrist, and a finger reached in without fear to usher any beads of gold out of the crucible. Another blast of flame cleaned the ingot, bubbling out impurities and incinerating them. Chaceledon set the mould aside to cool and pulled down another.

“And no, I didn’t kill the man who owned the forge. Don’t be ridiculous.” Chaceledon took a moment to unpin his hair and repin it, brushing up stray strands of copper beauty. “I’m sorry for your loss, dear. Do put that pigsticker away, it won’t do you any good here.”

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

"If I wanted to hurt you- I assure you the sword would be the first thing to go if it was not to work."

He cocked his head. He did not smell like a normal man. More than likely wasn't. Maybe was a mage of some kind, but even they had their own... smell.

He smelled like a lizard.

"And frilly dressed men like to poke through ghost towns for scraps- it's obvious you aren't from around here. If you expect the forge to keep you warm, it won't last through the night-"

Arnor cocked his head. He seemed more afraid of the cold than most. Mankind could survive with a small fire and the amount of clothing he had on combined. This meant that he was rightfully afraid of the cold- but moreso than the regular humans of the Spine.

"You don't belong here."

Such a simple statement- but also a leading question.

And somewhat of a thinly veiled threat.

Chaceledon

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon gave the other man a look. Frilly? He’d been called elegant, beautiful, graceful, but frilly? His observations earned him a chilly glance most people cringed from. “I can keep the forge going through the night then be on my way with the ingots. If you object, I’m sorry. It would either be me or some other man intent on picking through the bones. At least it won’t be sold for coin.” he replied archly.

The other mentioned the forge wouldn’t last the night. Chaceledon was slightly worried about such a thing. Without the warmth he was reduced to mere parlor tricks. He looked at the forge and stoked the fire, sighing and looking at the stranger again. “Well if you’re not here to plunder and you clearly didn’t live here...I suppose you’re here to find out what happened to your blacksmith. I haven’t seen a soul, nothing more than shadows.” he mentioned as he melted another bracelet down. He handled the molten brass just like he had the gold; with no fear whatsoever of the burning metal.

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

"I have no time for gravediggers and thieves- you, or some other cretin my reaction would be all the same."

Arnor was about to continue, but he stopped- putting a finger up.

Footsteps. Several. Dragging feet. Heavy weight. Not armored. Slowly walking.

Whispers. Ethereal, like fog, not like spoken word. The wind picked up, cutting through the broken beams of the house. Frost creeped around the door and around the outside- trailing like someone was walking along, running icy fingers around the outside. The voices and steps grew louder-

Then it was still, no air moving. Not a sound. Arnor's eyes darted around, watching every which way.

Then, a blast of wind so fierce that it knocked Arnor over and ripped off what remained of the roof cut through the air, sending Arnor crashing against the wall. The Nordenfiir broke what remained of the wall, crashing through to the outside.

Arnor looked up quickly, grasping his sword tightly, clamoring to his feet. But still- silence.

Something was telling the pair to leave- and in a not-so-subtle way.

"Are you alright, thief?"

Chaceledon

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon set the mould down with a sharp rap on the stone. “At least I don’t stink like one of the citizens’ corpses. If I didn’t know better I’d say you were one of them, propped up and drooling, half-feral with your only solution a blade.” he snapped. “I do not have the option of strolling to the nearest lapidary and browsing wares, you idiot brute!”

Chaceledon only grew angrier when the other held up a finger, but he caught the sound of footsteps. With a raise of his chin and a look down his eyelashes he considered withering enough, he knelt to browse the rest of the blacksmith’s tools.

A sudden blast of air tore the damn ceiling off, showering him in shards of stone, wood and thatch. Chaceledon cried out and put his arms over his head. He heard another loud bang, and the sound of the warrior’s voice.

“I am not a thief.” he snapped back. “I am fine. What happened?”

Chaceledon straightened and looked around. The forge was squashed under the remains of the roof, and he sighed angrily. Wonderful. He looked around, brushing his clothes off and picking his way delicately out of the rubble. The spirits here were angry, and they had just given a very strong eviction notice.

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Arnor took a moment to gather himself and let the pain subside- armored as he was, even getting blasted through a decaying wall was not a very pleasant experience.

"If you know another name for those that take what does not belong to them for their own gain... do tell."

Arnor stood tall, brushing himself off- making his way up to the... man.

"Clearly you do not do well with spirits and ghosts- you must've angered them beyond belief."

Arnor stood, but glanced around. The tools were scattered around- but orderly, before the roof was stricken off. He opened what remained of the door, glancing to the street.

Arnor crossed the street in a hurry, motioning for the other man to come along with him. He made his way into the tavern, glancing.

It was as Arnor feared-

The tavern was as it was if thirty people were sat in it still. Cups, mugs, and beer glasses were lined along the tables, and on the bar itself. The fading light of day made Arnor roll his bulky shoulders.

"Like they were lifted away in an instance-"

He turned his head to the side. Not even his previous encounter with the undead was this... unsettling. Something was watching them, from the shadows. Something sinister.

The shadows in the town outside of the tavern seemed to move.

Chaceledon

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon rolled his eyes. Well, at least the other man was fine. He was covered in dust and filth, which was probably the quickest way to earn a dragon’s ire. Not only that but the ingots he’d been working on were buried. He despaired of ever finding them in that absolute mess without his magic. The cold was already creeping in, stealing what little power he had.

He shook the dust out of his hair and clothes. He stared at the other. What? He’d angered them? “I’m sorry, I was doing just fine until you showed up. How do we know it wasn’t your filthy hide that angered them?” he said sharply. “I may be wraithtouched but I was getting around just fine thank you.”

Clearly he’d been a captive too long if his captor’s influence was beginning to stain him. While he dismissed the man’s concerns, he was worried. What if it was because of him, and perhaps the spirits had just taken a while for their patience to expire?

He followed the brute into a nearby tavern. It did look as though everyone had just packed up and...left. Chaceledon frowned. The liquor had long since evaporated in the glasses; the beer mugs were moldy. How long had these people been gone?
“My name is Chaceledon, by the way. I’m not a thief, I’m an artist with no supplier.” he added, a bit miffed to have that title bestowed on him.

He was also getting the distinct feeling of being watched. He rubbed his arms, looking around the tavern. There was something here. Not necessarily wraith, but something bad. He tended, and unconsciously drew closer to the other.

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

"I am Arnor, son of Skuld."

That name probably did not carry much weight- his father's at least. But Arnor was a well known mercenary in and around the Spine. Arnor ran his fingers along the tables, the backs of chairs.

"You're right... they did not act up at all? How long have you been here?"

Arnor inquired, casting his eyes around the tavern. He blinked, taking it in for what it was.

"Wraith-touched?"

Arnor stopped, turning to face him- realizing something about the tavern.

"No bugs, no mice, no rats, no birds, no spiders- life itself has withdrawn from this place. More unnatural by the minute."

Arnor stopped and turned over, sitting in the chair, running a finger over his face in quiet contemplation.

"Not even the creatures have returned to this place. So something is keeping them away-"

Shadows moved again. This time, there were footsteps and whispers outside the tavern itself. The whispers were not kind either- angry, full of hate. They were audible and ethereal, but indecipherable to the pair. Arnor withdrew the silver sword, holding at the low ready.

"While trying to keep us out."

Chaceledon

 

[Chaceledon]

“Chaceledon.” Chaceledon frowned as he looked around. He stepped into the back briefly. The food stores were rotten but untouched. That was strange in itself. Who left a bunch of pub fare to mold? Why hadn’t rodents or insects gotten into it? The dragon raised an eyebrow and circled back to Arnor in time to hear his question.

“No one’s bothered me.” Chaceledon said. “I’ve only combed through a few houses.” he sighed and shook some of the dust out of his long copper locks. “The kitchen...the food there’s rotten but there aren’t any flies. Just mold.” He agreed. No detritivores had come to this place. It was abandoned in the worst way.

He took a deep breath and rubbed his arms. Whispers outside. Angry whispers. Chaceledon felt anger spark in his chest. Those ghosts had stolen his ingots and messed up his hair. Most importantly ruined an outfit. He eyed Arnor with this blade drawn and rolled his eyes, marching over to the door.

“For lord’s sake. Come in and talk about this like gentlemen.” He snapped. “If you want us gone you’d best explain what happened here to make you so angry. I’ve been a wraith’s slave since before humans got down from the trees; you aren’t frightening me with this song and dance. So come out, sit down like civilized people and explain.”

It was mostly a bluff. Chaceledon was terrified. He was just good at hiding it.

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Arnor simply nodded at the time- he wasn't going get that right, not at least for a while. He'd be polite and not attempt it.

A dozen shadows moved in around the dragon- oily shadows, humanoid and worse in form. They were converging. The air around the man grew cold, lifeless. All hope had gone from the air around him, the inescapable sense of dread, impending doom.

And the smell of sulfur.

The shadows converged around the dragon, intending to do whatever they did to the rest of the town-

Before a strong hand, stronger than any human in the Spine's, grabbed onto the dragon. With a feat of strength only a Nordenfiir could muster, he flung him back into the tavern, slamming the door shut. Arnor quickly paced around the tables, grabbing a salt bowl, finely placing it in a line in front of the door.

"Hell. Those things- I've seen them before. They're not ghosts- not those things. They're far worse."

He said, hurriedly moving about, setting salt along the doors and windows.

"They care not for who you are- only that you're here."

Arnor stood tall, remembering the words of the tavern keeper at Skell's Hand.

"Demons."

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon waited, arms across his chest and a distinctively matronly look on his face. The room began to grow colder. He shivered uselessly, feeling the strange fog sprout in his head. It was too cold. Far too cold. His body was screaming for heat. The scent of sulfur was comforting...but it didn’t come with the rush of heady volcanic air that dragons knew and loved. It was cold, so bitterly cold, and Chaceledon found he couldn’t yell at the shadows coalescing around him. His rage was there. If he could transform they would all be ashes. But he couldn’t, and it was getting colder.

A strong hand grabbed him and flung him back into the tavern. Chaceledon stumbled and grabbed onto a table, his nails squealing on the wood as he scrabbled for purchase. He fell on his back, blinking as tiny fragments of warmth bled back into him.

The dragon slowly sat up, shaking his head. He looked down at the shattered remnants of one of his jade hairpins and gritted his teeth in fury. He climbed to his feet and dusted off his outfit, rage-filled eyes fixed on the door. Demons? They didn’t know anger. He was anger.

“Demons is it? They’ll regret pissing me off!” he snarled, marching to the fireplace and beginning to throw wood in. He had to get a fire going. He broke apart some of the furniture and tossed it in, striking an old match he found behind the bar and throwing it into the fireplace. Whiskey acted as an accelerant, and soon the fire roared angrily in the hearth.

Chaceledon pulled the rest of the pins from his hair and set them on the table, letting the long copper strands cascade down his back. “I am going to make them regret messing with the house of Peridot!”

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

When the task came to investigate Knottington, the monster hunters nearly rejected it outright. Their organization slays monsters and roots out evil, but ghosts hardly fall under their purview. They wouldn’t have had the resources to throw at such a problem normally. Fortunately for the contractee, a recent unusual recruit would be well suited for the task at hand. They had in the prior months managed to recruit a priest – An Annunaki priest to be precise; whom, for reasons the organization neither knew nor questioned, had taken up career with them. It was unusual for a priest to join the ranks of mercenaries, but he made a convenient addition.

That the monster hunters didn’t ask too many questions definitely put them in high regard with Kiros as well.

Those within the ranks of the Monster hunters had little fear of undead or dark magic. Yet, ghosts had the tendency to spook even the bravest of souls by their incorporeal nature, and association with the underworld. The sight of an otherwise gruff warrior turning white in fear at their was one Kiros had seen several times throughout his adventures already. It was rational fear to have. Though he was known for his steady nerves in their presence, truth be told, he held just as much fright as his companions in those instances. He merely had the willpower not to show it.

Naturally, Kiros was forefront in mind when the hunters took on the contract. Normally such a job written for one and only one individual would spark fights over money and favouritism. Especially for a hunter as new and green as he was. Yet when the job was announced none appeared jealous, no one in the room wanted to deal with spirits at all.

He was apprehensive about taking it, but he wouldn’t decline outright. Were he to pass on this job, he worried, he may be robbed of opportunities to accept future jobs. Instead, he began to haggle in the hopes that higher pay may motivate enough interest for another to seize the offer. None were swayed; and in the end he agreed to head off with his reluctance hidden, and a sizable reward waiting for him on his return.

If that would happen.

* * *​

The travel to the town was uneventful, yet filled with unending tension. The anxiety weighing down upon the priest grew heavier upon sight of the town; the decrepit building dead and devoid of life, yet standing. The sight of a town ravaged by war was ugly dreadful, but the sight of Knottington was downright eerie. Though it gave him pause, it wouldn’t stop him.

Kiros moved from building to building, robes flapping in the heavy winds that bore down on him in his treks between the ruined structures. He carefully investigated the contents within each, invoking his powers of insight to see what he could learn about the town. None thus far seemed to hold meaningful answers, but there remained many more to search.

With another building yielding no information he set out again, cursing the winds that burdened his travel through the abandoned town. Howling winds slowed his walk more and more until the priest was slowed to a stop in struggle to remain on his feet; a struggle ultimately failed as the gale knocked him over. Kiros was sent tumbling a short distance over the ground until collision with a building brought him to a painful stop.

With a cough, Kiros grabbed his staff and rose to his feet before a sense of dread gave him an immediate pause. The chill down his spine told him of the presence of something phantasmal, yet whatever it was evaded his other senses. He needed only look about for a brief moment before the sight of moving shadows near the tavern caught his eye, and caused him to make immediate entry into the very building he had crashed into. A shove of his shoulder jammed the door shut within it’s weathered and warped frame, and Kiros nervously made his way to the upper story of the building. With slow steps, he approached the window to get a better look at what he had spotted before; albeit from within the perceived safety of a house.

Even with a better look at the shadows that moved about, now numerous and surrounding the very tavern, told him little else. But from within, he could see figures moving about – there were two men alive within it.

“By the gods, what are they even doing here?” Kiros wondered in astonishment. He hardly expected to encounter others in such a foreboding place, he could only wonder if they were aware of his presence. He continued to watch on as the shadows grew more and more agitated as they moved about. Ultimately, he watched a moment too long and one of them froze and appeared to return his gaze. The inquisitive priest jumped away from the window in the blink of an eye, with frantic worry that he had just invited their wrath.

With his back to the wall and his staff held in hand he stood frozen and still, his ear listening for anything that might confirm his fears.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Arnor turned his head to the man, rapidly enraging himself. Arnor deduced that based on the man's actions, he was a magical man of sorts- and fire seemed to be a source of comfort, or power. The way he was desperately lighting it, made it seem as though it was a drought of power moreso than anything.

"We should be as so careless as to be making ourselves an enemy of something we cannot fight-"

Arnor went over and stood before the poshly dressed jeweler, staring down at him.

"We cannot hurt them, kill them, or send them back without knowing why they are here. I could be wrong, they could be something much more sinister than that- if it is even them that did this in the first place!"

He stopped, sniffing.

Another person.

Not sulfur.

No, wash.

Leather.

Fabric.

Smell of metal.

"There's someone else here. Not one of us-"

He put a hand up, smelling some more.

"Just the one."

Arnor turned his head back to the jeweler. He knew he was not one for fighting- while Arnor's hair was long, it was braided and only at the shoulder. Any longer than that, and it was a liability in close quarters.

"They will come to us- one way or another. The frost will set in soon. The cold air rolls in from the water- freezes nearly instantly on land, this high in the mountains. You seem wary of the cold, so I suggest we stay here for the time being, or at least the early morn... and we wait for our new friend to join us. Provided of course, those shadow creatures don't get to him first."

Arnor sat down in front of the fire, thinking.

Rhi was not to be bothered- he had incantations on the saddles that kept even the mightiest of devils away. Not that demons and devils rarely bothered with the horse. If Arnor had to guess, Rhi was probably asleep in the same stables that he left him in, tucking away for the night. He knew Knottington well, and it was probably familiar to him.

----

The creatures of shadow screamed an unholy scream after a few minutes, retreating- actually sinking back into the shadows of the town, as if called back to whence they came.

For the time being.

"That fire might keep us alive for the night. Or you, at least."


Chaceledon l Kiros Rahnel

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon threw another piece of broken furniture into the flames and looked up at Arnor. The heat was settling back into his bones and he felt a little better. He wasn’t nearly as warm as he wanted, but he could feel some measure of power come back to him. Enough to conjure a flame and not feel so damned sleepy. What did Arnor mean that they couldn’t fight them?

“They’ve tried to kill you and you’re telling me not to make an enemy of them? As you said, they want us dead.” Chaceledon said sharply, sighing and looking at his nails. Wood splinters had caught under them, as well as bits of grime from touching the filthy furniture. He blew a lavender flame over them, burning away any dirt to ashes. He settled in front of the fire, trying not to think about how disgusting his robes were getting. He sat next to Arnor, soaking up as much of the heat as he could.

Someone else was here? He lifted his nose delicately to the air. Not another ghoul, but definitely human. “Another of your kind, I’d wager by the smell. That metal he’s wearing is about as bad as yours.” the dragon sniffed. “The fire should keep most of the cold out. Especially now that I can do this.”

Chaceledon leaned over and breathed into the fire. Purple flames, twice as hot as any campfire or forge, consumed the human made fire. They wrestled for but a moment, and the purple flames scorched the brick and sent warmth flooding into the room. Dragonfire.

“I don’t suppose there’s a way to get the poor fool to come in before he gets killed?” Chaceledon asked.

Arnor Skuldsson
Kiros Rahnel

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

It was quiet and tense within the abandoned household, with only his anxious breaths breaking the silence. He had come expecting trouble, and was prepared and well-equipped to handle whatever incorporeal horrors had spurred the contract. Yet, the sudden presence of so many posed a threat greater than he was confident could be faced head on. His eyes turned to the nondescript pack he had carried with him, making a mental run through of the contents in effort to plot how he could secure his own safety in such perceived dire circumstance.

In a short moment, the priest had formed his plan and unlatched the pack with haste, pulling out eight candles from within. Six were golden yellow in hue while two were white; and all were simple and waxen. Quickly but carefully, Kiros made his way through the house, surveying the interior to find the largest and most suitable room for the ceremony. There was but one room that could be used, yet the furnishings that cluttered the room would prove an obstacle. There was little time to waste however, and he immediately set about laying down the candles in an octagonal formation, hurling a chair across the room to clear space as he did. There was no set instructions for creating a shrine; She had made none, so he constructed it with some lenience. Recognizable enough to be a shrine; yet subdued enough that She might not notice. With the candles in formation, he continued to clear out the room of smaller clutter before approaching the hefty and solid stone table in it’s centre.

With his staff clutched tight and quiet words of prayer, Kiros invoked the blessing of might upon himself before allowing the wooden staff to fall to the floor with a clatter. Both hands gripped the edge of the stone table tight as a soft glow emanated from his robes. Empowered by divine blessing, he threw the table clear through the wall with a wooden crunch into it’s new resting place the next room over.

With the stone table moved, he began construction of a holy altar in it’s place. It was shabby and hastily constructed from whatever materials laid about as they most always were, but it would work. If he had to use it. He feared what was outside. He also feared his own deity’s fickle wrath, holding doubt that She would be even be helpful. By now he had known well that She often wasn’t, and he expected it to be far more likely that She would simply smite him where he stood. The shrine should keep those phantoms out; only if that failed would he take the risk of seeking direct divine aid.

Her aid would not be a gamble he would take unless he absolutely needed to. With the candles lit and the altar set, he sat before it in silent listening for any sign of the figures that caused him such fright as he had done before. The silence was chilling, but as it continued it brought reassurance. With his security fortified as best as he could, his concerns turned to the figures that caught his eye in the next building over.

He couldn’t fathom what would bring others to this place. As much as he wished to know, he was reasonably hesitant to venture out into the night and see. He was doubtful his spell of insight would provide any information on matters not arcane. Still, it was by far the safest means of obtaining it in a situation he still truly knew little about. Invocation by invocation, Kiros began to probe the house with his subtle magic; and stricken with trepidation sensed a magical entity within, seemingly swelling in power from a nearby source. The spell told him not what it was, and he could only imagine under what circumstances such an entity would be present; none of them good.

But better to know for sure than wonder, and with Chaceledon as a known magical target to direct his powers of insight upon, he did so.

* * *​

For Chaceledon, a chill filled the room, eerie yet of far different tone than the ghosts they had dealt with moments prior. Someone was up to something arcane within their vicinity, exactly what however, remained unclear. But there was a disconcerting sensation of being watched and observed.

It would be another moment before the next sensation struck the magically sensitive dragon and this time the feeling of observation was unmistakable, boring into his very essence, glancing at his soul and peering into his very being. Of something he could sense but not see - until he could see clearly the projected image of a divine eye leering at him until finally vanishing into nothing at the spell’s conclusion.

And then silence.

Arnor Skuldsson Chaceledon