Open Chronicles Keep Off Grass

[Faurosk]

Faurosk eyed the strange elf with a rising sense of suspicion. As Zahar offered a seat, smiled, and went dead-pan once more, the mage carefully ran his hand over the collection of belt buckles at his front.

"Hate to say it, friend, but I, ah... I don't exactly eat meat I haven't prepared myself."

Copper? No. Brass? No. Silver? That's the one. Faurosk carefully tucked his thumb through his belts, resting his fingertips carefully around the edge of the silver buckle. If he'd need to weave up a ward, the buckle may just serve as the focus he'd need.

"Hazard of the job, you know?" The mage grimaced, briefly thinking of a dozen blight orcs all scorched in one blaze. The scent that had blown back into his face was awful that day, and he'd never been able to view a steak the same way since; As a matter of fact, the scent wafting from Zahar's fire was bringing up some rather upsetting memories the longer Faurosk lingered on it.

 

[Fieravene]

Fifi wasn't much of a doctor or a healer, but - "I'm trying my best with a smile on my face, dear Bruk."

The elf smiled, grabbing hold of the next proffered arrow and without preamble yanked it straight out. Bit messier this time, likely a bit more painful, too. Not much to be done for an arrow sunk into flesh other than a quick yank and a thick bandage. She winced as he hollered more words, pressing lamb's ear leaves onto the wound to help stem the flow of blood.

"Is that so?" the bloody arrow was given a wave, indicating for the orc to lean over so she could reach the arrows higher up. Hadn't foreseen being volun-told to help, but there you have it. Fiera bobbed her eyebrows at the notion, gripping the next arrow with purpose, "Well I do love the forest-" thhck, out came the third arrow, "and I am quite fond of Bruk. I suppose I could stick around for a spell, make sure Bruk stays in one piece, hm?"

By the time all the arrows were removed Bruk had regaled her of his love of flowers nearly thrice over. He was covered in lamb's ear gauze stuck in place by wetted gilly weed as they approached the fire again and Fiera had about a dozen high-quality elvish arrows to add to her quiver, not counting those yet taken from the bodies -

Odd, the bodies were gone.

Odder, there was another strange man in the group.

Oddest yet, a curious scent of arcane herbs were lingering about the campfire.

"All patched up," Fiera patted the orc's trunk-sized forearm, red eyes going straight to the meat cooking over the fire. The instant the smell hit her nose she knew exactly what happened to the bodies, "I see elf is on the menu tonight. I recommend loading up the spices and herbs," she aimed a sideways sneer at Faurosk, "these elves are as gamey as a lean hare. Root-chewers, the lot of them."

 

[Bruk]

Bruk couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed somebody else's company like this, or if he'd ever enjoyed somebody's company (well, beyond tearing his enemies limb from limb with his brother). It was an odd experience, a real change of pace for him but with a new quest would come new experiences, this was to be expected. Besides, there was no harm in having new friends that didn't treat him like an imbecile.

“BRUK WOULD LIKE DAT! BRUK GET MANY HOLES!”

As Fifi removed the rest of his arrows Bruk happily nattered (or rather shouted) away at her, telling her about every single plant he had discovered so far on his massive trek. The Orc went into as much detail as his limited vocabulary could manage but mostly he covered four things, what they looked like, what they smelled like, what they tasted like and last but not least what he had named them. It was doubtful that anybody would have the heart to tell him that they were all already named.

Who would be so cruel?

After he was entirely patched up they returned to the camp and to the blissful smell of cooking flesh. Since Bruk was banned indefinitely from starting fires he had been eating raw for quite some time now (one Orc cannot survive on vegetation alone) and he had truly missed the delicious taste of all and any cooked meat.

“DAT SMELL GOOD, FRIEND!” Bruk roared with merriment, grinning from tusk-to-tusk as he showed off all his patched up wounds, “FIFI SMART! IF SHE SAY SPICE AN' HERB, WE DO SPICE AN' HERB!”

It was only then he noticed the additional body at their meal alongside Zahar. Strange. Where had he come from? Was he another friend? Was he an enemy of nature? Hard to say since nobody had told him otherwise. So he asked.

“WHO 'DIS? NOTHA' FRIEND OR PUDDIN'?”

It was probably preferable that somebody advised Bruk rather than letting him come to his own conclusion.

 

[Rob Yew]

Zahar was chewing thoughtfully, gauging the newcomer and attempting to fathom a reply, when Bruk and Fi returned...

...And Fi immediately spilled the beans.

Zahar stopped chewing.

His eyes flickered, darting between Faurosk’s face and the positioning of his hands.

Then, abruptly, Zahar made a sharp, slashing gesture with one hand and darkness thick as fog suddenly erupted in great gouts from the earth, like scentless smoke. The unnatural darkness began to blanket the area, obscuring everything and leaving the others as good as blind, with only the sound of the crackling flame for guidance.

 

[Faurosk]

Faurosk was already on edge, and the appearance of two new figures around the campfire only resulted in an additional half step back on his part. If it was going to be a fight, the big green meanie would have to be the first taken out or the mage would surely be turned to paste. The wizard could only take a moment to think through an escape plan before his thoughts were cut off.

"Stun the orc, pop a ward, and leg it into the woo--" Hold on. Did the less-spooky elf just say they were eating rather local? That explained some things.

Shit.

Faurosk caught Zahar's gaze, first meeting it entirely before seeing him look down to where the mage's hands sat. Must be Treday, the wizard mused as he conjured up his willpower and forced it through his belt buckle-- He never could get the hang of Tredays. With little more than a light snapping sound and a faint flash, he found himself cloaked in an aura of shimmering prismatic light as pitch-black smoke coiled out of the ground.

The midday sunlight was soon choked out into nothing, and the mage felt terribly alone amidst the cold, heavy darkness. He stood his ground nonetheless, silently wishing he'd brought his rod of blasting on this branch of his trek.

 

[Fieravene]

If you asked Fi, which no one ever did, the best way to cook local Falwood elves was not on a spit over a fire, it was in a stew, slow-cooked for hours and falling-off-the-bone tender by the time it was ready. This whole business with fire and charred, tough, gamey flesh was just amateur work. Really, who did Bruk travel with? Savages?

She popped a brow at Bruk, idly picking remnant leaflets off her figure, "Puddin?" The elf's ears flickered in amusement, lips pursing as she pondered this for a name. Yes, that seemed to fit the man and his rounded corners just fine. Fiera smirked, "An apt monniker, Bruk. Well done."

And then things went black, and not just the pleasant black of alcoholic stupor or midday doom, but the tricky sort that was entirely out of place here by the fire in the bucolic early evening of Falwood.

Red eyes blinked into a baleful glow, vision cutting through the bleak to stare levelly at the caster, "Bruk, darling, will you give Fifi a hand? She's got to wake up her valiant steed while Sugarpearl here dances with Puddin."

Even if Bruk couldn't see, she could. No amount of dark magic would blind the she-elf. Fiera reached out for the orc's gigantic hand, tugging him along should she managed to capture it.

 

[Bruk]

An apt whattiker?

Bruk would have been very confused were those foreign words not followed up by praise. So really, at the end of the day, it didn't matter whether or not it was an asp monica because Bruk had done a good job. Somehow. He wasn't going to delve much deeper into it. Perhaps one day she would be able to teach him her strange language. Then if he ever went home he could proudly boast about his talents as a cunnilingus.

There was no chance for Bruk to bashfully accept the praise, however, because it was suddenly night time. This was very confusing for the Orc, because he was pretty certain that the sun still had plenty of time before it went to bed.

His brain hurt. Was he supposed to smash? Not possible, he couldn't see anybody to smash!

This would have been more upsetting had it not been for Fifi's voice cutting through the darkness, a comparatively tiny hand grabbing a hold on his and pulling on it, like a child trying to walk a very large dog. Thankfully, this very large dog was very trusting of this child. She had just spent the better part of an hour removing arrows from his bulk. Hey, you can't knock that as a team-building exercise now, can you?

“BRUK GIVE FIFI TWO HANDS!”

True to his word, he clasped his other giant weathered mitt around the hand that lead him through the shroud. He wasn't sure what a valient steed was either, but he did know that it was sleeping. Made sense now, because it was night time after all.

“IT OKAY! BRUK NOT SCARED OF DA DARK NO MORE!”

 

[Rob Yew]

Sugarpearl?

She had not even bought him dinner yet.

The other two made their getaway, the Dark Elf’s deepsight leading their way.

Zahar stayed.

The meddlesome human needed to be taken care of, wouldn’t do for him to run off to some Elven outpost reporting what he had seen. Would not do at all. Besides, he looked like a College mage. One of those Elbion types. And Zahar hated college mages.

With their upturned noses and their scrolls and their high lingo and their quills.

Zahar would show him a quill.

A spear of midnight black took form in his right hand, growing from the shadow all around them, through which only he and the dark elf could see. Both hands gripped a shaft that felt cool to the touch, like a smooth and lightless metal. His violet eyes fixed on the human.

“It’s rude to refuse hospitality.”

Zahar took two steps forward and thrust the spearhead toward the fellow’s midsection.

 

[Faurosk]

As Faurosk stood like stone in Zahar's cloud of shadows, he heard a pair footsteps padding quickly towards him. His combative stance dropped lower, and he threw his right hand to rest readily at his side. Something frigid pressed into his guts, straining to puncture his ward and stir up his insides.

The tragic truth most umbral magicians refuse to acknowledge, though, is that darkness is little more than the absence of light.

The shroud of shimmering magic that cloaked the mage caught Zahar's summoned spear and twisted it from his grip. With its job done, the ward- put simply -exploded. Blinding silver-blue light erupted across the spear, using its dark, cold form like a bridge. The impermeable shadows seemed to billow backwards like fog caught up in a gale, leaving the pale elf open for Faurosk to spot.

The shadowy cloud was quick to reform and fill the void left by an erupted ward, but the mage had his mark. His hand surged towards Zahar's forehead, and his willpower squarely focused into a rune tattooed across his index finger. Faurosk shouted out a single command, though his voice was far more shrill than he would have liked-- "Sleep!"

The syllable resonated throughout the darkened clearing, and stunning arcana licked off of the mage's digits as he went to grab the elf by his head.

 

[Rob Yew]

Light exploded, vaporizing shadows. Zahar’s eyes narrowed and he took a step back, throwing up a hand to shield his gaze.

Then the light was gone and the mage was reaching for him through the afterimages.

Zahar had no time to summon up more darkness or reconjure a spear, all he could do was reach a hand up and seize the wrist of the wizard’s outstretched hand before it touched him. Zahar held it there, a mere inch away from his face, wiry muscles in his arm standing taught.

“No.”

 

[Urberus]

Rob had seen a fire ahead on the road. Fire. Which meant travelers. Which meant people. Which meant coin.

His little feet, and they were quite little, made even littler noise as they padded along the road, growing steadily closer to the place where he'd seen the fire.

He sang a little ditty as he strung his bow.

"Give meeee yer bauble
Give meeee yer gold
Or an arrow ye'll gobble!
And yer body'll be sold."

 

[Faurosk]

Faurosk grunted as the tendons of his wrist seized tight. Energy flared through his clutching fingers, causing small arcs of blueish light to arc between the digits.

"Wasn't a request, friend," the mage growled out between clenched teeth. His free hand drew an old dagger from his hip, the flashing silver of its blade juxtaposed against the deep runes of basalt engraved along its hilt. The Templar blade spilt blood for the first time in decades as Faurosk flicked it up the underside of Zahar's forearm, releasing the pale elf's iron-tight grip on the mage's wrist.

That was the issue with fighting spellcasters; You never expect them to pull a knife.

With his stunning grasp released from Zahar's clutches, Faurosk closed the remaining inches and dug his fingers into the elf's scalp. In the moment of contact, it only took a minuscule flex of the mage's wrist to unleash a bound spell squarely into his would-be assailants skull. Memories assaulted Zahar's mind, flooding his perceptive nerves with stimulus.

Months in the Deeps, fighting for nothing more than the barest chance of survival.

Hours of lessons spent learning to bend the world's countless shadows to his will.

An afternoon in the shade of a willow tree. A kind woman's words, telling tales of The Way of Things and breezes gone by.

Not all of the memories were his own; Some bled through from the spell's caster himself. In any case, the effects were the same. With biocircuitry thoroughly fried, arm bleeding profusely, and scalp cut by the mage's clawing nails, Zahar fell like a leaf on the wind to persist on ground. If he were to wake at all, it would be with one hell of a headache.

As the mist-like shadows snaked their way back into the earth, Faurosk stood over the elf's crumpled body. His chest heaved, and his hand was bare due to the fact that its glove had exploded off into a spray of leather confetti. His sleeve had been burned up to his elbow from the release of stunning energy, revealing a forearm far too burly and tattooed to suit any self respecting mage.

"Could've-- Could've been a bit more friendly-like..." The warmage panted out between breaths, seemingly forgetting that Zahar had at least two friends lingering just out of sight.

 

[Fieravene]

Were Fiera present for the scuffle she might've remarked that she hadn't seen that outcome coming. Either way, neither Sugarpearl nor Puddin were exceptionally high on her list of priorities. They weren't really on the list at all, actually.

The darkness dissipated with the passing of the 'pearl, leaving the dark elf to blink away her farsight and the faint glow of her eyes. There before herself and the massive orc was the roadway from earlier littered by the unmoving corpse of her very dead steed.

Dead was a matter of opinion.

"Ah, here you are. Right where I left you. Now Bruk," she lead the great green brute, "I need you to very gently lift him to his hooves while I perform the necessary ritual to ..." the points of her ears flickered at the sound of ...was that caterwauling in the forest? It sounded like a wolf choking on a chicken bone trying to howl. Strange. "...wake him up."

 

[Bruk]

Just like that, it was day again. This was very confusing, Bruk blinked once, then twice and then inexplicably enough on the third blink his eyelids were no longer in unison, making him seem like a very large and very special frog.

The Orc nodded eagerly at his given instructions by Fifi, this was definitely something in his range of abilities, perhaps not the gently part but he would give it a go with all the earnest he could muster, which had to be said, would be a whole lot of earnest. He was, after all, quite the good boy.

The brief distraction caught them both, although with Bruk's hearing being far inferior meant that all he could glean was the far away sound of mating tortoises.

“HE ONLY RESTIN?!” Bruk inquired before scratching the back of his head rather awkwardly, “BRUK FOUGHT HE WERE DEAD! BRUK SORRY 'DAT HE WANTED TO EAT HIM!”

Without further performance, the Orc began his feat of strength. It was awkward at first, just trying to get a grip around the large four-legged beasts midriff for a start. Sometimes it didn't matter how strong you were if you couldn't get the proper purchase needed. Eventually, however, Bruk had managed to lift enough of the giant ominous horse that he could get himself underneath his tummy.

It was easier from there on out with the horse's midriff being balanced across the Orc's back and shoulders, although it did leave Bruk's head awkwardly peeking out between the front two legs of the sleeping (it sure felt like dead weight) animal.

“BRUK FINK HE ON DA HOOFS NOW, FIFI!” Came the roar from beneath the Elf's steed, his shouting clearly strained from his efforts.

 

[Urberus]

Rob Yew cheerfully plunged through a thicket and emerged onto a scene that had him stop dead in his tracks.

“Troll’s Tits!” He yelped, giant yellow eyes swiveling between a smug she-elf, a horse dominating an orc, a human in the distance looking bemused as he stood over a pale body.

Rob raised his bow reflexively, then lowered it. “Uh,” these sad sacks didn’t look like they’d four pence between ‘em. Yew decided this situation, whatever it was, had clearly gotten out of hand. He puffed out his chest.

“Wot in the bleedin’ bog is goin on here?”

 

[Faurosk]

Puddin' began to slowly edge towards the woods once more, backing away from Zahar's bleeding body. Neither the dark elf nor her hulking behemoth of a friend seemed to mind the potential murder all that much, and Faurosk found himself silently thanking the Fates for stringing his tale as one of survival. Finally reaching the trees, he turned on his heels and booked it into the woods. His path arched left to lead back towards the road, and his robed figure sprang from the treeline some fifty yards away from where Rob had met up with the other two villains.

He ran and ran, nearly running straight into a cart that had made the mistake of entering his path. His gaze flicked upwards, staring down the barrel of two sunken eyes and a skeletal face. Great. The Rogues' Gallery had another member. The cart's driver swung promptly into a high, crackling tirade as Faurosk broke off once more, hopeful to leave his run-in with Zahar well into the past.

 

[Fieravene]

"That's right, he's a very tired pony. Walked all the way here from Cree-" a fluttering of blinks interrupted the elf's words as Bruk casually scooped himself under her horse and heaved him over his shoulders. As if the steed were simply a rag doll. She smiled dolefully to herself, red lips twisted in contained glee, eyes round in wonder.

She'd seen a great deal many things before but this really took the cake.

"Troll's tits!"

"No-no, darling-" she gestured to Bruk with a distracted side-glance to the newcomer, "that's an orc."

My orc.

Fiera clapped at Bruk, "He most certainly is. Hold him steady now..." a swish of her hand through the air, an uttered few words in some strange, esoteric language, a few scattered souls from tonight's little foray in the woods including one Moonbeam later and the eyes of the exceptionally dead horse opened.

Putrid green glowed from behind them while bones snapped back into place. It gave a ghoulish grunt, tossing its head with a perturbed swish. Approaching, Fiera cooed at the undead beast and patted it on the nose, "Oh look at you, no worse for wear. Feeling better after your nap? Well done Bruk, you may put him down and we can be on our way. Now where is that cart of yours...you there," she was looking at the goblin now, "have you seen a cart with two cattle at the yoke?"