Open Chronicles Blood Trail

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Cal

The Failure
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West of the Spine - The Abandoned Town of Kuk'rik

Cal held his side with a grimace, pulling away his hand for only a brief second to see the blood slowly seeping into his tunic. Lips thinned, and he could feel himself getting woozy as he slowly leaned against the wall.

This job was supposed to have been easy, simple.

The old Dwarven town had been abandoned for more than two centuries, longer by some claims. It had all been picked clean by treasure hunters and adventurers. To most it was worthless, just an empty husk of stone buildings and drained fountains that hadn't held water in generations. Yet what was a waste to some, was an opportunity for others.

Bandits had taken up residence within the city, a small band numbering less than a dozen...or so Cal and the others had been lead to believe. When they had taken the contract, all signed individually, the citizens of the nearby town had assured them that there was no more than twelve Bandits. What they had found instead was ten times that number.

More than a hundred of those bastards had made their home here, and more than two of them could do magic of some sort.

The mercenaries Cal had come with were all but scattered. Most of them had been killed, though some might still have been alive. He had dropped his crossbow somewhere, though still held on to the two knives on the small of his back. They were the only weapons he had left, aside from the few bombs he that still clung to his vest.

Not that it seemed like he'd get a chance to use them now. "Fuck, gotta find a way out."

The no mercenary said to himself quietly as he looked down at his wound again, wondering how long it would take for the Bandits to send out search parties to find any survivors.

Bastards weren't exactly known for mercy.
 
Orion held his new friend close, reveling in the heat of another against him for the first time in what felt like ages. It made him laugh a little, how strange the world was that you could meet new people in the oddest of locations! Why, only a moment ago this fellow who now cozied against his left side had taking a swing at him, thirst for blood in his eyes.

Now, here they were. Hand in hand, and talking out there differences. He outstretches his large hand, gesturing towards the old, dilapidated city with a contented smile.

"These are the types of sight I live for, friend. Look at these walls, coated in the black scars of memories and conflicts long dead in this world. Do you suppose they look down at us and laugh as we make mockeries of their legacy? Use their cities as pawns in a chess game?"

He closes his pale, blue eyes. A sharp, brisk wind passes over his unshaven features, blowing the raven black mane of hair back as though it were a flag bearing his message. His arms wraps tighter around his friend's waist.

"I wake every day and wonder what those who we cannot see must think of us. It's silly, I know. I've done some terrible things in my life, friend. I've committed sins that most rot in a dungeon for, and the guilt follows me like the sky above our head. The sky my supposed Gods roam with a spear of great malice aimed at my heart. Do I run from such a fearsome judgement? No, I embrace it. I embrace it because I know that I am in the right, enveloped by my love for Arethil and it's peoples. What do you think?"

He finally drops the corpse he'd been holding close.

"I know. I'm sorry, friend."

The unfortunate bandit's corpse must have been dead for at least an hour. Oddly though, there were no signs of injury on his body. His killer, clad in a long black cloak, squatted down beside him and closed his eyes.

"Rest arrives for you, but my job has yet to be finished."

He felt the presence of more life here, dim and fading. Perhaps he was not the only one who had gone sightseeing today? It was splendid, the idea of seeing others to share in his own idea of Hell. He found him rather quickly, wounded and bleeding. He was bracing himself against a wall, moving away from the city.

"You're too wounded. You won't make it far without help, you know..."
 
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Palmyra had arrived at a small village in the Spine she had just learnt. Her head and face were mostly covered by her linen wrap, she'd been on the run and showing her face in new locations was a bad idea. Sadly it took her being drug home by random villagers a total of 3 times within the past year for her to finally clue in. Yet it seemed running in a new direction her husband didn't expect meant she had outrun the reward posters for now.

She listened to the idle talk and gossip of the townsfolk about some bandits and a few mercenaries. Palmyra eavesdropped more and more and pieced a story together the best she could. It seemed this town had been plagued by raids for years, a band of bandits started out small and grew more and more each year. The townspeople requested many many mercenaries but nearly all declined due to the band's numbers being too high and too savage for any sane man to take on, so when the town saw the opportunity to decrease the band's numbers by even a little they leapt at it; lying about the band's true numbers. Palmyra tried to understand the desperation yet she knew the town had just sentenced men to a death sentence for their own selfish desires but she couldn't. Despite being no stranger to desperation, or the things desperation made one do.

Palmyra wrapped up her face until just her peridot coloured eyes peeked out. She refused to be forced back to servitude beside her husband's side and if looking strange and exotic helped protect her so be it. She walked up to the woman Palmyra had placed as the town idle talker. She waited patiently for the group of women to acknowledge her which didn't take long at all before she explained she was a healing woman and should any of the mercenaries survived they should see her free of charge for proper care. She knew it wouldn't be long before talk got out of the strange short healing woman who covered her face and wore a thick gold shackle around her wrist, but talk is what Palmyra wanted.

She was right about it not being long as a squat man jogged behind her, she stopped of course and wished him a good day. He was a kind man and he offered her a room above his tavern for her healing in exchange she worked as a wench downstairs. Naturally Palmyra accepted and she bounded off happily to set up shop in anticipation of hurt men pouring in through her doors.
 
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Orion Spawn-Of-Man | Palmyra Creze

Cal practically jumped out of his skin as the other man spoke.

He'd been so trapped in his own haze of reality that he hadn't quite heard the man approach. His knife instantly flicked forward, though his wrist was half limp as he noticed the corpse of one of the bandits sprawled on the floor just behind the stranger.

It was a good indication, he hoped, of the man's loyalties. Another grimace crossed his face as a wave of pain shot out from the wound, as though the strangers mentioning of it somehow brought the pain back. His skin paled, and he looked down at the blood on his hand. "Yeah."

Cal agreed with a grimace.

"I'm vaguely aware of that." More than vaguely really. "Don't suppose you'd help me get back to the village?"

Right now he cared less and less about the Bandits still lurking within the abandoned city. As far as he cared they could all rot. At least he was sown up and back on his feet anyway. His hand pressed on the gash over his ribs, trying to stem the bleeding as best he could as he shifted himself to take a better look at the stranger, knife barely clasped in his other hand now.
 
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Orion crossed his arms. No... it was more like he was wrapping them around his own torso. His eyes turned somber, following the trail of blood the wounded fellow had been leaving behind him.

When cornered, wounded animals had a tendency to lash out with astounding aggression and strength. Had such power willed him to survive? If he pressed down on the chest of this wounded bug, would he explode? Erupt into death and blood? There were voices inside of him that wanted to find out.

He approaches closer, murmuring something under his breath.

"Is one ever the same after seeing their own essence leak from their shell? I wonder, does one ever regain that life that they lost, poured upon the ground like the spilled ale of a drunkard?"

His large hand reaches for the back of Cal's neck, fingers wrapping around his nape as he tugs him haphazardly closer so that he could see the wound clear. It was a deep, heavy wound. Pity briefly flashes across his pale eyes, and his hand releases it's tight grip on him. For somebody who was evidently on Cal's side, he seemed entirely nonplussed about the severity of the situation.

"We could try to reach the village, friend. I won't mince words with you, though. You need a healer sooner than it will take us to get there, or you are very much going to die."

Cal
Palmyra Creze
 
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Palmyra had just finished placing out her herbs and other supplies when she heard a knock on her door. As the heavy fist thunked on her door there was a moment of panic as she shuffled around looking for her head scarf to cover her face. Alas after 5 thunking knocks and a “Miss Palm?!?” She finally had thrown the shawl across her head and face until her khol lined eyes peaked out. She strode towards the door stubbing her foot as she did so and let out an “I’m coming! I’m coming!” in an exasperated voice. She was embarrassed by the shuffling and scuffling that might have been observed outside the door. Finally she opened it to the stout man who offered her this abode.

The man had a soiled letter from the bandit hideaway about how it was utterly urgent she make her way to the mercenaries rather then them to her. She grimaced a little as she had hoped not to go to an active fighting area but told the stout man none the less once she gathered her things she’d some transportation. The towns people had matched her kindness with their own and for that she was ever grateful, she couldn’t comprehend these people she’d become aquatinted with sentencing a group of mercenaries to early damnation.

Palmyra threw some of her newly placed out medical supplies back into her leather satchel quick as a bunny before she burst down the tavern stairs to meet her transportation. They’d organized her a carriage which she had not been expecting at all, Palmyra gave the tavern owner her many thanks as she climbed in and proceeded to thank him as she was driven away screaming it out the window as long as possible. She hoped they had some sort of tent set up for her or at least a safe area that she could do her work.

Cal
Orion Spawn-Of-Man
 
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Cal grimaced as the man grabbed him and drew him a bit closer, clearly uncomfortable with the touch but not in any real position to argue.

No small part of him thought the man was about to take out a knife and shank him in the stomach. It would have been a fitting end to this shit pile of a day, and Cal wouldn't have even blamed the stranger for doing it. Instead of finding a knife in his belly however the man simply pointed out a fact that Cal had hoped wasn't true.

"Shit." He said quietly, looking down at his bloody hand.

Quietly he cursed himself for not guessing the truth of the matter. His eyes folded closed, and he said a quick prayer to the Tribunal. They had never much helped him before, but perhaps they would start now when he was on deaths door.

"Well I don't know if you know anyone, but I doubt the Bandits will help." Cal joked, trying to inject some humor into the situation. "They're more likely to finish the job."

Slowly, he would guess. "Best I can do is try to make it back."

He wanted to shrug, but even the attempt sent surging pain through his ribs.
 
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The problem with the Spine, she was often fond of saying, was that it was cold, bleak, and dangerous. Yet she still found herself wandering nearby at some point or another each year, though with a wide berth away from Molthal. Not that the place wasn't a pretty city, in its own way, but because she'd discovered more ways to get herself killed there than any other place on the continent and that was including the the time she was abducted by a cannibalistic cult and the time she'd been lost for two weeks in the Bayou Garramarisma complete with fever.

Still, though, the Spine had all sorts of ingredients, trinkets, baubles, and lost artifacts to make a girl with a gift for magic all giddy which meant that despite the dangers and her dislike of the place, she found herself in the area relatively frequently. Her current excuse to herself was she needed to replenish her stock of peak moss which, oddly enough, did not grow on mountain peaks (she'd discovered that nugget of information after a month in subzero temperatures hopping along mountaintops) and because she missed the local cuisine; namely the rather strange, yet oddly spicy and savory dish of Sheep Spine Stew which, again, did not actually have sheep spine as an ingredient.

Unfortunately, she'd opted to take the road through the locale occupied by abandoned towns thinking that, for once, bandits hadn't taken up residence. Fortunately, she'd not been captured, killed, or - worse - robbed as of yet. Unfortunately, she'd managed to wander into the exact same 'abandoned' town that was immediately attacked by ill-fated mercenaries. She had attempted to go unnoticed and slink away to continue on to a village she knew was at least marginally safe, but had been spotted by what was a bandit mage if the stray lightning bolts were any indication. Thankfully, the bandits were, for the most part, too busy chasing down mercenaries to worry about some random traveler in robes and a hat, but unfortunately, she'd managed to piss off a few very angry and very hungry wild dogs in the process of escaping.

Which is precisely how she managed to wind up hauling tail down the path occupied by two men, one bleeding heavily, which wouldn't have been too bad a thing as they'd help with the dogs (though from the amount of blood the dogs would really only be marginally distracted for a minute or two) if it weren't for fate or luck intervening for yet another laugh. Bleeding people left to their own devices tend to leave blood on the ground or general area of their person and, physic and chemistry being what they are, blood left to sit tends to be sticky and slick until dry. With a sudden cry and a loud series of thuds, Tess' boot slid out from under her as she hit the blood trail and bounced, pointed hat and all, a good dozen feet to a skidding stop as the baying dog pack closed in for the kill.

Cal Orion Spawn-Of-Man
 
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Tieland had long considered which route to take down from the Spine, wandering through the mountain passes, sheltering in the hidden enclaves of the Fyiama whose forefathers he had befriended on his last voyage. They knew little of what progressed beyond the shoulders of the mountains, and he chose to go West, hoping to meet some of the clans of Kuk'rik he had met on his last voyage. His wooden training sword echoing off the stone as he came to the entrance.

Sadly, it was clear the town had not done as well as others. A deep frown etched across his face as he considered his options. The chances for a rich Dwarven feast to savor along with old friends was apparently no longer a possibility. But the sudden and unexpected crack of a mage-induced lightning bolt caught his attention. That hardly seemed like Dwarven magic. He tilted his head slightly and inhaled deeply, letting the air and its energy suffused the entirety of his body. One closed as he concentrated.

Faintly, just faintly, he could make out the sounds of scattered blades clashing and screams of combat echoing up from the streets. Tieland shook his head sadly and ambled further down the path into the entrance of the abandoned town.

The place was inhabited, but not by any folks decent to fix it up properly, or make much of an attempt. Brigands? Outlaws? Exiles? Travelers too tired to travel further? He could make no sense of the matter as he slipped carefully through the streets. His slippers made no sound on the stone.

Clumps of fighters clustered around important intersections and buildings, and he simply squeezed his round form through cracks in walls and crept through towards the other side. So far, he was in the clear, and on his way towards the far exit, when he began to hear the baying of hounds on the hunt and rushed footsteps. Wild dogs? Wolves? Dire wolves? Werewolves of the non-lunar variety? The possibilities were endless, although he had no intent of killing any creature in search of food if it could be helped. He had a honeyed ham with him that he could perhaps sacrifice.

One hand wrestled it from his satchel while the other kept the wooden sword ready. Blood on the pathway, he noted, and certainly human or humanoid. He frowned and wished he had a few extra hands, but he did not.
 
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A smile plays gently at the corners of Orion's mouth. Even at the door of death, this fellow was determined to fight his fate and claw himself to whatever chance he possibly had of life. He always admired such willpower in his fellow man. He'd had that kind of will too, once upon a time. How could he not help the man?

Placing a hand on his back, he hums lowly underneath his breath before coming to a conclusion. "You are determined not to die here. The least I can do is offer you some assistance, so we will work together for the time being." It wasn't an offer; He was stating it as if it were fact. "Remain still for a moment, I can lessen the pain and allow you to move a bit faster."

A comforting warmth would spread throughout Cal's back from Orion's hand, flowing through his body and focusing on the wound he clutched at helplessly. The deep throbbing pain that shook the man's form with every heartbeat would recede, and if Cal were to look down at his wound, he would find it gone.

Of course, it was an illusion. The wound was still there, and not getting any better. Orion's illusions were very powerful though, and Cal's body would be fooled for a small period of time. Orion lifts Cal's arm around his neck and begins to move away from the cursed place.

"We must be prompt. That magic will not last forever, and it's only a very temporary fix. Mayhaps we will meet somebody who can better help you along our way."

Cal Palmyra Creze Tielan Kiertan Tess
 
Palmyra’s carriage halted at a stumbling man being carried by another and a pack of dog appearing creatures. The carriage that had been supplied wasn’t fancy but it should fit another four and she’d be able to help the stumbling man. She wrapped up her face and called out in her thick accent. “There’s a lot of pack of wild dogs and I’m a healer! Do you wish safe passage??” She unlocked her door and rearranged a few things she’d fit them well. Plus based of the one man’s wounds he shouldn’t have been walking. She determined she could not wait for her offer help to be accepted and ran out the carriage.

“This man shouldn’t be walking, it’s ripping at the wound more.” Without asking she started removing the rugged man that was assisting the wounded man’s cloak so she could tie it around the bleeding man’s chest. “ This will stabilize your bleeding and keep your dirty hands off the wound.” She flagged a hand over to the two other people “Help me carry this man yes? I will help him more in the carriage with my things.”

Cal
Orion Spawn-Of-Man
Tielan Kiertan
 
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Magic.

Cal wasn't entirely sure how he felt about magic. He had grown up in the city of Rhagos, a place where mages were not only disliked, but outright reviled. He had seen them do their tricks before, had watched as they performed their spells.

It was never any easier.

The fact that this time it touched him made him want to vomit, if only slightly, but he somehow kept his composure as the man before him did his thing. He was about to open his mouth to speak, though whether in thanks or disgust he wasn't really sure.

Before he could voice a single word however the sound of a carriage echoed out beyond the road. His head snapped up, and a woman appeared.

He moved to talk once more, but quickly found his words dying on his tongue as the woman practically ripped his clothes away to get at the wound. "Wait wait wait."

Cal urged.

"There's bandits, it's not safe to stay he-" He was interrupted as some of the pain lanced from his ribs and he nearly collapsed.
 
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Tieland was on tip-toe now, resting carefully on his toes as slow, cautious steps in his slippers crept through a narrow alleyway. The stone pressed uncomfortably against his form and the sound of shouts and weapons was uncomfortably close, perched on the rooftops just above him. His cloth robes scraped softly against the stone and he stopped, inhaling deeper to squeeze himself smaller.

But it was not enough. Two faces peered down from above him, rough men with alcohol-reddened cheeks and pox-marks.

"Eh, what are you doing there?" One asked. The other poked the end of a crossbow down into the gap between the buildings, its gleaming head pointed down towards him.

"Looks a bit fat and old to be one of the mercenaries, doncha think?" The second asked, after a moment. The first considered for a moment, scratching at his nose with one finger while he held a dagger in the other.

"I mean, he's got three swords."

"Well yeah, but one's wood. What mercenary carries a wooden sword?" The two bickered in whispers that Tieland couldn't quite keep track of, even with Elven hearing.

Tielan cleared his throat after a moment. "Gentlemen," he finally wheezed out, trying to keep as much air in his lungs as he could, but also unable to breathe deeply from how tightly the walls pressed against him. "If you could perhaps pour some water or oil down the wall, I would be greatly appreciated."

"Sounds like a basting," the first mercenary said after a moment, picking his teeth with the blade. "Maybe we should eat 'em."

Tieland considered and shrugged. "I do have some excellent cooking spices and herbs with me."

"We should shoot 'em first." The second said, adjusting the crossbow. Tieland tried to raise a finger in protest, but the twang of the crossbow interrupted him.

He released the breath explosively and closed his eyes. His body moved instinctively, and when he squeezed one eye open, he could see the bolt sticking in front of his face and feel the metal caught in his teeth. He coughed and spat it out so it bounced off the stone to the ground.

"That was quite rude of you," Tielan said, pushing himself against the wall and shuffling his knees in front of him to start inching forward. "And you better hope you're not there when I reach that rooftop."
 
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