Fable - Ask Crypticism on the River Sayve

[Carmelea Nosfir]

Alisande Victoria O'Connor Lazarus Jeager Mordrith Nightbrae

Spoiler: Music

---

It was Alisande who brought them here; this crypt that was both ancient as the river stones yet so young a discovery. Financiers, warriors, men and women both human and vampiric had all gathered with varying degrees of truth and value to this expedition, some more than others.

They arrived by nightfall, whether by coincidence or purpose, guided by an old fishermen who'd seen the river slowly recede this drought with his own eyes, first to bear witness over the course of weeks as stonework rose from the retreating depths and it's fallen doors swallowed the river. He pulled his boat to shore followed by several others of the expedition, but refused to go further, gesturing with his oar just up the bank where the smooth stones met smoother stairs worn by current and time.

"It is a cursed place," the old man claimed, "no fish swim this far, nor beast prowl so close."

Naturally the expedition continued onward, some guided by torchlight, others suspiciously unhindered by the darkness. No matter who arrived first, the scent of fresh blood was hard to miss in the twin shadows of strange, hooded statues which flanked the entrance. Each figure held in their clawed digits an Ankh of sorts, dagger-like in their sharp, slender design, but their hoops were broken into crescents.

Most could not identify them, save perhaps Alisande if she yet remembered.

A symbol of the old world, of the elders who were already ancient when they built this tomb.

The blood smeared on these old works was only just beginning to darken, in long thin patterns which suggested something was violently dragged inside. The mercenaries exchanged glances and even muttered reservations, but still they would escort the expedition inside that water logged wreck.

Down, down and down they went, till neither moon nor sun could breach the depths.

They passed obelisks of unknown purpose, their runic inscriptions having long since faded into mundanity without so much as a whiff of the magic that once bound them to unknowable purpose. Blood continued to mark their path passed them deeper within, the passages becoming narrower, and stairs more common.

Downward, always down.

 

[Alisande]

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

 

[Lazarus Jeager]

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..."

 

[Hugo Farlance]

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.

 

[Carmelea Nosfir]

Two of the party examined the blood, two halves of a whole truth; Alisande would find the taste on her tongue to be human, or something closely related at least. Better yet it was sweet, something that makes the inner beast stir with greed...

...Mage's blood.

So too did it smell. of iron and something earthy, mushroom's perhaps? the sort witches and shamans might employ to enhance certain rituals. A scent Lazarus may have encountered before.

The party would be assaulted by new scents and tastes the further they ventured. Algae in varying states of decay, water that had since stilled, and rotting meat.

Too rotten for whichever poor soul had arrived before them, but it smelt of a battlefield weeks old.

It seemed to come from a doorway on the other side of a large chamber. The walls seemed to be lined with caskets, the lids of which were fashioned from glass. The torches showed they were all standing inverted, the skeletal remains inside having since piled to the "bottom", made from some sort of red steel which snaked out in veins into what had since become a pool.

The mercenaries had to wade through it, water up to their knees.

"Bloody fuck??" one of them shouted, abruptly stumbling back.

"What? is it?!" another snapped.

"Something brushed passed me leg!"

The band of warriors went still, eyes darting along the water's rippling surface until it stilled again. The pointmen both exchanged glances, till one of them began laughing at the other.

"Henrik, it's just a fish you chickenshi—"

A splash, the water turned red below his feet. The other man shouted in terror as his comrade was speared through the throat.

The perpetrator?

Reanimated bones wielding weapons rusted beyond recognition.

One of several now rising from the pool to defend their sacred charge.

Spoiler: Music

---

Alisande Hugo Farlance Lazarus Jeager​

 

[Hugo Farlance]

Lennis dropped his sack and fumbled for his weapon. His hands found a spade instead.

"Shit, bollocks, shit!"

A skeleton rose, stagnant water cascading down its ribcage. A rusty axe weeping the same water soon followed, swaying back for a blow.

Black cloth blurred in motion, followed by a dull thump and a splintering crack. The creature scattered in a spray of bones, plopping back into the water that had spawned it.

Hugo stepped up next to Lennis, warhammer in hand.

"Thanks," Lennis managed to gasp before a spear thrust out from the water, aimed at Hugo. The heavy axe of a bardiche chopped the spear in half, leaving the broken shaft to uselessly brush against Hugo's coat. With another heavy blow, Sten sent the skeleton back into the abyss.

"Back to back!" Hugo bellowed, his voice carrying through the crypt like a warhorn. "Protect each other's flanks! Shields at ready, diamond formation! STEM THE TIDE!"

Lennis and Sten placed themselves back to back with Hugo, a triangle of bared weapons, lacking a fourth to fill the last gap.

 

[Alisande]

The vampire exhaled sharply, her eyes rapidly turning to the grim visage of the mercenary being speared through the throat before falling face-first into the bottomless, murky water they waded through. As the mercenaries formed a semi-protective square, two skeletons arose from around her. With a fierce snarl, she backhanded one with a clawed hand back into the water and kicked the other into the trajectory of Lennis.

Or was it Sten? Or Hugo?

She did not remember. All those names became a distant blur in her ageless mind.

Alisande yanked the sword from behind her back and put it in front of her in a protective stance, creeping gradually over to join the three who were fighting for their very lives, and herself fighting for her unlife.

Ironic.

It was not the skeletons she feared. She'd fought them in aeons past, small embers of a past long ago; she remembered when they lived, when they walked and breathed the air. They'd been granted the respite of endless sleep and the embrace of death, something she'd been cruelly parted from. Now they rose again and again, much like Alisande did.

The group fought fiercely, Hugo and his compatriots knocking down the skeletons with brute force while Alisande moved in a graceful, almost inhuman speed, cleaving and hacking down the skeletons while remaining out of reach of their weapons.

"If you wanna bloody live, I suggest you all start fighting and moving that WAY."

She shouted angrily, gripping the skull of one skeleton, which she brutally crushed with her hand before throwing the rest of the now headless skeleton into the crowd of enemies blocking their way to clear a path.

Hugo Farlance Carmelea Nosfir

 

[Lazarus Jeager]

The seemingly ever present smile adorning the face of the skull clad man behind the group had since faltered, falling into something of a scowl at the sight of the skeletons. At first glance one might assume he was angered by the fact that these would be attackers, something he himself could conjure up if he had too, were being destroyed. It would make sense given his magical practices, that he would have more affection for the undead than the living, however that wasn't the case. The scowl and low hum of disapproval was not from such a matter, but more so the nature of the binding used to bring these long since resting bones back to the world of the living, it was against their will and that, he could not abide.

Keeping at least a body or two between him and the approaching pack of undead, Lazarus would fetch a small bone from within the confines of his robes, sharpened at one end to a fine point. As he chanted in an old, long forgotten language, the symbols and writings across his body would hum to life with a sickening black energy, an energy entirely foreign to anyone who didn't understand the ancient old beings that once walked the lands fluttering across his skin. Bringing the bone to his palm, the necromancer would pierce his flesh and cup his hand, allowing the blood to pool as he chanted in that unknown language, his voice deeper than what might match his appearance, all the while the crimson blood in his hand darkening to a viscous black substance that would leave the average man questioning his own sanity. If there was anyone who might be able to pick a word or two from what he was speaking he assumed it might be the one being among them that had a lifespan unending, though it mattered not to him if they could, as the curse he was formulating was not for them, but the things they were fighting.

"Ctkulakta, vhekvl nyktblu sol ubdyn ra flekt ounib, katryn-echt'roir."

As he finished his chanting, Lazarus would step around one of the mercenaries and cast his hand outward, spraying the pool of black ichor out into the water below. For any who had the sight for it, and weren't going toe to toe with a skeleton of their own, they might witness the droplets fall into the water, and just as quickly start spreading like wildfire across it's surface. The curse he had imbued his blood with would search out any being that had a soul bound to it, either their own or another's, through magical means, and seek to restrain said being. As the curse found it's first victim, the ichor would serpentine it's way up from the water below, cocooning the skeleton in strands of ebony fluid to keep it from being able to move freely. As the curse spread through the water, each skeleton would fins the same treatment, each being restrained by an ichor unnatural in form, meant to incapacitate them long enough for someone stronger than himself to dispatch the threat. If anyone was to look back at the Occultist they would realize why he hadn't entered the fray himself, outside of the fact that he was frailer in appearance from his outstretched palm. As he stood in the water with them, the curse did not discriminate friend from foe, and he too was bound by the ichor he had created, palm held out dripping the ichor as the wound slowly stitched itself closed with each passing moment. It was less trust and more a hope that they wouldn't leave him for dead, but he would be immobilized all the same, so as long as he maintained the spells effect, he would have to rely on those ahead of him to keep any skeletons from breaking free and reaching him.

 

[Hugo Farlance]

Spoiler: Music

With Alisande forming the last corner of their diamond, Hugo didn't know whether to feel reassured or disturbed. Her inhuman strength and speed tore the opposition to pieces — yet ants of dread crawled down his spine at trusting his back to her feral defence.

Hugo pushed back two skeletons and smashed one into the other with his blunt weapon, before twisting his head sideways, looking in the direction indicated by Alisande. A great portal of vaulted stone opened its maw at the other end, barely visible in the glow of torches. And while the mercenaries now held their ground, the inexorable tide of undeath kept washing over their formation, hammering, jabbing and swinging with abandon until one of their rusty weapons might find a gap, a chink in their collective armour. Even as he looked, he could see the creature he had first felled beginning to reassemble itself, coils of dark energy knitting together its bones like fresh mortar between bricks. They would never stop coming.

Alisande was right. The dead outnumbered them tirelessly. And they had already lost some of their number, their blood merging with the water. He wouldn't lose a damn soul more.

Lazarus' magic paralysed a slew of the horde, yielding a rousing cry of courage and glee as the warriors tore into inert opposition. While it worked in their favour, the corner of his eye widened in alarm at the dark magic on display. But beggars coudln't be choosers. Right now, it worked to their advantage. And it opened up a gap among the ranks of the dead, granting them a clear shot to the other end.

"Push forward!" Hugo roared, pointing his warhammer in the direction of the portal. "Stay together! Bring the wounded to the middle!"

His body reacted before his mind knew what was going on, ducking aside. Air warbled and hissed next to his right ear, nearly knocking his black beret off his head, strands of straw-coloured hair whipping to follow his quick movement. After a lifetime of war, his reflexes against surprise missiles had saved him more than once. He caught sight of the spearthrower, standing next to one of the inverted caskets, drawing another shaft from a hidden repositoire. It would only be a matter of time before it found its mark, either in him or a comrade.

Unwilling to break the line, Hugo hefted his warhammer in a low grip and flung the weapon with all his might. It whirled once around its own axis before smashing into the spearthrower like a battering ram, caving in its chest and collarbone.

Disarmed, Hugo barely managed to draw one of his swords in time to deflect another blow from a rusty axe, catching it by its shaft. His weapon locked against his attacker's axe, keeping it back. He could see their line moving forward, about to leave Lazarus behind.

"Bring Lazarus and Henrick to the middle, you nimrods! Cover them, damn it!" He yelled over his shoulder, catching the claw of his assailant by its wrist with his free hand. His repeated insistence caused one to pick up Lazarus and Henrick like sacks of wheat, seeking the safety of the middle, but that was beyond Hugo's current concern. Now entangled with this skeleton, its skull leaned over their grappling weapons and hands, jaw clacking and snapping at him. Black mould sprouted from its cracked and yellowed scalp, and something wriggled deep within the cavity of its eye-socket like an ecstatic maggot. It wasn't the first time he'd stared down a grinning skull, mirroring his own inevitable end. He snarled through clenched teeth: "Sard, you're an ugly piss-bowl—"

Since he wasn't getting free from its insistent embrace, he lifted the whole creature and spun it around him like in some macabre dance, offering its exposed spine to Alisande.

"Alisande—" Hugo managed to spit out, face flush with exertion.

Alisande
Lazarus
Carmelea Nosfir

 

[Carmelea Nosfir]

Feral strength, dark magic and militant discipline. They fought like heroes all, slowly parting the tide. Though skeletons aplenty remained, each cracked bone chipped away the tomb's defenses until ancient warriors were too broken to reassemble, for what good was a swordsman with no arm? An archer with no head?

Still it cost them.

Two men had fallen since the battle began, joining for a total of four lost to the pool.

It was Alisande who'd broken the most of her former "comrades", splintered bones beyond repair and thinned those flanking the party, but it was Lazarus who truly stemmed the tide. Lipless mouths chewed to no avail on inky tendrils, only to be smashed away by rallying mercenaries desperate to take advantage of this dark boon, wherever it came from be damned.

There was however, a complication.

Beyond the doors to salvation, black obelisks encrusted with ancient runes came to life, gleaming baleful purple in dread slivers along the water's turbulent surface.

One of the fallen mercenaries sat upright, his half-drowned gasps audible behind the party's flank.

Then another. And another, and another, until all four were standing as though their commander had ordered them back to their feet!

One by one they retrieved their weapons, stumbling towards the party.

A young archer went to assist his wounded comrade, and was quickly bit in thanks. His carotid artery spilt, and he was dragged down by the man he'd come to help.

He would rejoin them soon enough.

---

Hugo Farlance Alisande Lazarus Jeager​

 

[Alisande]

"What th-"

A cold hand gripped the woman's leg, causing Alisande to stumble forward as she shot a look at the reanimated corpse rising next to her. A dull stare, jaw hanging from where the spear had cut clean through, he'd been one of the pointmen who fell first.

The corpse rose to and swung absent-mindedly at Alisande, who ducked rapidly and shoved the revenant into a pillar to gain respite. She quickly brought her sword down and skewered the revenant in place before being caught off guard by a second reanimated mercenary who lunged at her. In a blur of motion, the pair struggled in an embrace as the revenant tried to bite at the vampire's neck. But the revenant was not prepared for the inhuman speed at which Alisande rapidly twisted out of the struggle, kicking in the creature's knee as it buckled to the floor. Before the revenant could come to, white fangs sank into its undead neck as Alisande forced them to the ground.

The vampire drank deep, ignoring all the commotion around her as she drained the undead corpse dry. She felt the beast inside where her heart had once been, and she could not repress a self-satisfied chuckle as she rose from the corpse and wiped the blood from her lips. Alisande snapped back to her senses, clutching at her stomach in discomfort as she walked over to the humans. The taste of undead blood's after effect was vile to the vampires' being and tasted like gone-off swill. Alisande kept a strong poker face, but the smell of garlic from the mercenaries caused her to break from the party, running off to vomit from the bad blood.

Hugo Farlance Carmelea Nosfir Lazarus Jeager

 

[Lazarus Jeager]

Having gotten enough use out of the curse as possible, the ichor would start to subside, churning in the waters they dredged through to dissolve into it. Lazarus, having now gained the ability to move once more as a result, would take the opportunity provided to him by the soldier carrying him, to instead focus his efforts on a different kind of spell. Not having to worry about movement, he would bring his palms together around one of the silver trinkets that he had been crafting during their voyage here, sapping some of the necrotic energy from the surrounding crypt as fuel for what he had in store.

Instead of using a curse, which could have a detriment to himself, Lazarus opted to craft a spell with a more accurate detection of it's targets, one that would assault only those who were truly no longer of this world, who's bodies were being reanimated. A sickly emerald and ebony glow would radiate from within his palms as he charged the trinket with energy, muttering small words to himself and the tool of his craft, somewhere among those utterances there was a small "may your souls find rest".

Once the trinket was properly wrapped in necrotic energy, and the linchpin for the spell set, Lazarus would brace himself on the shoulder of the man holding him, and with a grunt he would chuck the trinket to the center of the most crowded of area's. As the trinket spun through the air it would warble with necrotic energy, once it met it's target location, the necromancer would clasp his palms together once more, holding them firm as he activated the spell and held his mind on it to keep it persistent. As the trinket erupted with the power of death, it would stay hovering in the air within the crowd of undead, waves of magic radiating out of it every second or so. this spell was designed to disrupt the souls bound to the animated flesh, every wave that would pass over the bodies would weaken the binding of the animation, working to make it harder for the corpses to move and, given enough time, hopefully free them from their forced animation altogether. Given his current position, Lazarus had to devote his whole focus on this task, otherwise the spell wouldn't last, once again putting his trust in the people around him to keep him safe while he worked to further their advancement into the crypt.

 

[Hugo Farlance]

Their line moved forward, laboriously, but undeniably. Organisation. Discipline. Cooperation. These were the cornerstones that won the day on any battlefield.

But this was not a regular battle. Every fallen comrade turned an enemy. The very architecture burned with sickly energy, as if the walls themselves spewed hostility. And Hugo dreaded to think what other traps might await them ahead.

Lazarus' second invocation slowed down the approach of the undead, allowing the back of their group to catch up and slip out of the pincer of enemies, scrambling free.

Sten had liberated him from the grappling skeleton and thrown it off, letting it sink into inertia under the hovering talisman, while Alisande engaged in her own wrestle. He saw her lean over Lars, back from the dead, but he didn't manage to glimpse the end of her duel before their line crossed the boundary of the portal. Black obelisks, shimmering and humming with purple, unnatural light, surrounded them.

"Shields, at the opening, be the wall," Hugo commanded, breath ragged, hunching over himself, pointing there with his blade. He stood up straight with some effort and went the rounds, clapping three mercenaries on their shoulders, one of them being Sten. "You, you, and you, heft polearms and support them. Keep the clackers out. The rest of you lot get to eyeball this stinking pit with me."

He drew his second sword in a raspy hiss of steel, favouring dual-wielding rather than a shield. Lennis came up next to him, peering at a glowing obelisk askance.

"Well, aren't we flaming fortunate."

Alisande
Lazarus
Carmelea Nosfir

 

[Carmelea Nosfir]

<<"...n i x a l ... k a g h ... s l a t h a l i n...">>

("Stand and fight."), came a wry voice, one which only Alisande could hear.​

​

The others were met only with the din of battle and sorcerous phenomena. There was indeed necrotic energy aplenty for Lazarus to wield against his enemies, but not all of it came from the undead themselves. Behind the forming line, violet light dimmed and flickered and ancient structures groaned like dying beasts of stone and spirit. Dark magic was ripped from the obelisks in brilliant spirals of purple mist and cold fire as the spinning trinket sapped centuries of death and despair.

One by one, the newly risen dead fell into inanimacy and battered skeletons stopped climbing out of their wet grave.

The backline was now secure, leaving the mercenaries to form a shield wall on Hugo's orders. The room at their backs held only spent enchantment and bones that could no longer flank the party as intended, defeated before the living could even encounter them.

Once men with poleaxes and halberds joined the line, these mercenaries began making quick work of the remaining enemies.

With the last bones cast back into the pool, it returned to eerie stillness.

The rooms beyond were dry, the party having now fought through the emergency drainage, though the trail of fresh blood continued down another corridor, joining several more streaks of dark crimson, long since dried.

Though the mercenaries smelt strongly of garlic, it only did so much to cover the smell of what awaited them. The rot was strongest in these lightless depths, and they were getting closer.

So very close.

Spoiler: translator if anybody wants it!

Link

---

Alisande Hugo Farlance Lazarus Jeager​

 

[Victoria O'Connor]

Just after the last member of their party descended into the tomb, and the old fisherman was left alone in his boat, a second craft appeared out of the far-off mists. Following invisibly, it carried another seeker who preferred her privacy.

The boat was small, just large enough for Lady Victoria and her two attendants to be comfortable while the captain led them down the river. It reached the shore silently, and after placing a rough plank to serve as a walkway, the captain extended a hand to help the tall, red-haired woman disembark. Victoria did not take it, and stepped quickly onto the damp bank in knee-high boots of supple and expensive leather.

"Stay here," she told her attendants, two young apparently human women with glassy eyes and modest cloaks. "Pay the boatman his fee. Pay him the same amount upon my return." The man appeared pleasantly surprised by this news, and it almost erased the fear his face held for this place. Almost. While the maids traded golden coins, Victoria entered the tomb.

She needed no torch to see within, but she could feel a darkness to this place that no eyes could detect. Something old and powerful. Maybe old and powerful enough to give her what she needed.

She could also detect the sounds of battle, the scent of spilling blood (both fresh and stagnant alike), and the metallic tang of necromantic power. It was the latter that concerned her most, being undead herself. She tended to avoid those who tossed the souls of the dead around for sport.

She advanced forwards as silent as a wraith. She was not wearing elegant gowns of lace and silk today, rather well-fitted cloth and leather, of similar exquisite quality to her boots, dyed inky black and laced securely. A heavy black cape draped over her shoulders, flashing scarlet red wherever the inner lining was exposed.

Speaking of the dead, it seemed someone had already taken quite a few liberties with quite a few souls. As Victoria descended into the water-filled cavern she immediately saw the army of bones swarming around the tomb-raiders, and the decidedly fleshier assailants at the far end. She took a moment to assess their progress, but it became clear that if she hung back to let them clear the cavern... they may not survive to do so.

She stepped forward, but her foot hardly touched the cavern floor as she bolted over the water. She swerved around a few straggling skeletons, their blades swinging through the air in her wake. The zombies seemed to be the larger threat here, and so Victoria the shambling corpses at the end of the room.

She swerved away from Lazarus' pulsing token, feeling a nauseating wrench on her essence. She was not mere animated flesh, and thus not the spell's true focus, but she did not want to gamble on the magic's distinction between herself and some skeletons.

Upon reaching the undead husks, she flattened her hand into a blade and went to drive her fingers through one of the zombie's skulls, attempting to obliterate its putrid brain.

 

[Lazarus Jeager]

After they had managed to make it to dry land once more, Lazarus took to wringing out the bottom of his robes, the dark and dank water dripping from the cloth of little consequence outside of weighing down the fabrics, something that could end up being detrimental later if left unattended. Once he had gotten as much water out as he could, he'd take a moment to mutter to himself, taking some of the ambient magic in the crypt around them to cast a small spell he had learned long ago, when he was a young boy who wished not to do chores when told. As he waved his palms over the fabric is would go from damp to dry, and the scent of the water would leave the cloth as he did so, his palms now appearing like he had just handled rust and moldy water, but even that would crumble to nothing after a moment.

"Much better, anyone else? It's no trouble at all really." He'd ask holding his palms up as if he were offering some sort of free tailoring service to the group at large, though by all accounts he was likely no the driest and nicest smelling of the bunch, even while wearing the skull of a deer on his face. As he held his palms up the sleeves of his robe would slip down his forearms a bit, revealing more of the writing across his body, the forgotten language appearing alien to most as it ran this way and that across his form. It would also be apparant that he was lean, his arms slender for someone of his height, it was clear he wasn't one to work on his muscles, though the reason why was left unknown. Looking to Hugo first, Lazarus would step closer while holding his palms up, trying to show his appreciation for not being left behind, but he'd understand if the man wanted to keep the grime and grossness on him.

 

[Hugo Farlance]

With the immediate danger receding and weapons lowering, Hugo's attention went to another, more mundane concern.

His feet were wet, boots sludging and squelching with stinking crypt-water.

He hated having wet feet.

Meeting the eye of Lazarus, Hugo raised his chin, squinting an eye and cocking the brow of the other, affording him a rather lopsided face of scepticism. The sorcerer had turned the tide of the battle, no doubt. But Hugo's gut still didn't trust him. The esoteric writing on him, the skull -- it all stank of dark magic. Nevermind the actual stench haunting them, at least that was something of this earth, something he could understand. And here Lazarus was, waving his hand and making it disappear as if scrubbed for hours with soap and water, then dried for a full day. Unnatural, indeed.

In the end, he decided suffering damp boots would be better than to be touched by strange magic.

"I'll pass," Hugo grunted.

Pointedly, he sheathed his swords, one at a time, once no immediate danger reared its head, knelt and pulled off a boot, spilling out a small bucket's worth of water, repeating this ritual for his other boot. By the time he was strapping them on again, Lennis had approached Lazarus, raising his hand like buying something at a market faire:

"I'd like a turn, thanks."

Hugo could only shake his head in disbelief, pulling up his last, moist boot. At the pronounced crack of a skull in the watery corridor behind them, he quickly jumped to his feet, and weapons rattled once more from their party.

"Bloody nether, what now?" he snarled, reaching for the hilt of his sword again.