Legend Event On Hallow Ground [Halloween Mini Event - Ixmus Graveyard - TBS]

[Velaeri]

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Characters selected for this thread are: Nere Ashorn Arnor Skuldsson Kiros Rahnel Delaney Lennox Yangcong

The Ixmus Graveyard

You awaken.

You know not where you are or how you got there, but you know that you are not alone.

Nearby there are others, rousing from their own strange sleep.

You remember a dream, but the details are faint. A ghoulish figure in chains and tattered robes, a foreboding and miserable sound like a ghastly murmur.

You don't know why, but you feel the figure was speaking to you. Even though you could not understand what it might have been saying, your soul translates an unknowable language of feeling.

You have been chosen.

There is something you must find and you must find it before the night is done.

You don't know what or where, but you feel an intense pull on your mind to delve deeper into this eerie landscape, for surely it hides a secret...

... something of great power and value.


But these lands also hold great dangers.

Do you accept the help of the others and work together to solve this strange mystery? Or do you forge ahead alone and claim this dark power all for yourself?

All you know for certain is there isn't much time to decide...

 

[Twisted Teller]

The mists of magic diffuse around you as you awaken to a dead land, scarred by the taint of old curses, pestilence born from greed and violence that sprouted from foul seed. The stench of sulfur and ammonia thick in the cold clingy air that veils every inch of bare skin. How it sticks to you, its rancid taste, like milk gone far sour, sickly sweet, coats your tongue. It is a grayed and bleak terrain, where the bones of ancient leviathans stand in stark defiance to any rest they would find beneath the earth.

Across the barren scape there seems to be a river, slick and glittering beneath the pale light of the sister moons, it ebbs and flows, it pours out from the mouth of a titanic skull, like so much rejected drink. The long dead creature’s maw hangs agape, a cavern all its own, its shattered spine and fractured ribs like canyons and mountains behind it, lit by an avaricious light that flicker and wane across high pale walls. The hollows of the dead leviathan’s eyes stretch wide, as its long toothed grin spreads to greet you.

As your sight becomes more clear you see that the river, that does twist and turn before the skull's mouth, is no true river, but a mass of many bodies. Undead soldiers and chosen heroes past, lost souls all, whose twisted fate saw their end come here, locked in futile struggle. Old instincts still in their bones, animated by a dark magician’s call, swing blade and lift shield in a shambling mockery of what they once may have been.

On the wind you hear voices that swirl like smoke. Two, whose droning chants seem to duel across the wind. Two whose calls pull those strings that set the dead to dance across this wicked stage.

They stand before you, that churn of the dead that struggle on, heeding the calls of their hidden masters. And you, chosen heroes, feel that to escape this place, you must venture forward. Across the ebbing dead who wage war, and into the mouth of the fallen leviathan.

 

[Yangcong]

Yangcong had awoken, the smell was horrible and the atmosphere just reminded him of the Blightlands but twisted in a way. He had no idea where he was but quickly noticed a few others that were fairly close to him from a distance. He rose to his feet and cautiously started to look around as he gripped the hilt of his sword and didn't drop his guard one bit. He quickly pulled out his scroll and immediately began to smoke his cat companion who immediately looked around and smelled the odor of the dead. Yangcong was quick to ask his companion a question.

"Where the hell am I?"

Not even his companion knew, this was foreign to him as well. The only thing that wasn't foreign were the smell of the dead that were all around them.

"I have no idea Yangcong... but... there is dead bodies and perhaps other things around this area."

Yangcong looked at the man who spoke, slightly squinting his eyes as he spoke to him, or rather, everyone who was in the area. He spoke of finding something of value and power and yet... his last words was stuck to him. There isn't much time... what did that even mean.....

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Naturally, Arnor ended up in a place he did not remember how he got there, and did not know what he was doing. But, instead of the familiar sting of a hangover, he found himself just.... confused.

Something told him to push ahead, push forward and find the mystery. But mostly that was his desire to... get the hell out of there. He didn't want to be there. But, perhaps, there was a chance to make a good bit of money. Or at least, find out why he was here. And how he got here. And what he was doing.

And who brought him here.

His clarity of mind returned as he rose to a stand, noting other people around him, somewhat also in a trance. He rose to his feet, checking himself. Both of his swords, his gear... no horse.

The dead were all around him, and he drew his sword for good measure. It was a sickening place- something from a nightmare.

Including, a literal giant fucking skull.

"Perfect."

He said outloud finally, holding his mighty sword in his hand, the blade behind his shoulder, curled back with a turn of his hand. A rather calm position for a sword, given the situation.

 

[Delaney Lennox]

Delaney's purple eyes took in the area around her. She had been drinking but she did not think it was enough to black out and end up...somewhere. Fuck, she thought and rubbed her forehead gently. She had been with Gaage and she quickly realized that he wasn't here with her.

Strange.

The Dreadlord was used to being pushed around by her shadows so she chalked the feeling that were currently flooding her brain and body to them. That wasn't until she clearly felt you have been chosen that she realized it was not her powers that were speaking to her. It was something else completely.

There was a giant skull that seemed to call to her and she took a few steps before she realized that there were reanimated dead bodies all around her.

Fuck.

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

When Kiros woke, he woke to cold air in a strange land. The night had been uneventful, but the sleep that followed was anything but. The visions he'd experienced were nowhere near as vivid as when he'd dreamt them, yet he still had a faint recollection of them. A skeletal figure shrouded had imparted a message, and it was a message he knew to be meant for him, but Kiros hadn't a clue what had been said.

He did have a sense of what had to be done, and he had until the end of the night to locate whatever it was.

Part of him wondered whether this was the doing of Itra, though he soon concluded that it couldn't be so. Not when his task seemed so clear to what She commonly assigned him, and not when he'd been delivered to his destination. He may not know precisely what it is he needed to seek, but this was already far more direction than he'd ever had on any of Her quests

Once he'd fully roused from his slumbering state, Kiros surveyed his immediate surroundings. Sure enough, by his side was Heirahit laying upon the ground. Kiros sat up and dutifully grasped the staff before rising to his feet and looking farther beyond to assess the landscape he'd been unexpectedly delivered to. A giant skull was the first to grab his attention, with a river that flowed forth in strange motion. But it was no true river, and rather than water masses of undead spilled forth from its open maw. Voices in the wind spoke to him, but they too were as indecipherable as that of his dream.

All the while Heirahit hummed with the sensation of magic, though he hadn't a clue where it came from. All Kiros knew was that these lands were far from mundane. He had no idea where he was beyond that, and he wasn't alone in location and unawareness. Another had the same question, but the companion he posed it to held no further insight, either. Yet another had but one word to speak.

"Perfect."

Little was clear, but it was obvious that there was no time to sit idle. Kiros knew not why these undead were present here, nor did he truly know why he was here. But the nagging feeling that he had to find the unknown object of his search spurred him foward, his hold on Heirahit steady and an incantation primed on his lips.

 

[Nere Ashorn]

Nere woke up with a ringing in her head and the resounding intentions of Someone Else echoing through her. As her vision returned to her, she thought at first that she had been dragged to some far corner of the bayou - but the air was too dry, and there was no bubbling sound of wildlife. Instead, the clamor of battle rung out in the valley below her. Undead swarmed, she could feel them already, the cold echo of life that repeated the same steps and swings that'd gotten them killed in the first place.

There were others next to her, already venturing towards the great maw that seemed to be the source of the violent font. She looked to them, and thought of asking if anyone knew more of what was going on, but the words of the stranger came back to her then - forge ahead alone and claim this dark power for yourself. What if the others had been given similar intentions? Nere didn't want to get in anyone's way, she would much rather avoid making herself a target by speaking up too soon.

But, well, there was something in that big skull, and this undead problem ought to be cleaned up at least, so she pressed forward. There were no weapons at her side, but Nere did roll her shirt sleeves up, and the runes upon her forearmed glowed hotly against the chilling air.

 

[Edward Lorain]

Edward awoke to a ringing in his ears and the smell of alcohol on his person. He half expected to wake up in some putrid alleyway near the docks. Then he remembered the dreams, or at least, he thought they had been nightmares brought on by too much booze. Damn, why couldn't it have been the booze?

Before registering the people, undead, or even much of the landscape, the first thing Edward noticed was the wind. It was theirs, but...wrong. Ed could feel the corruption on the wind. He could hear the voices, but the true voice of the wind was barely a whisper. She wasn't here, or she was not fully here. He needed to be careful.

Next was the undead, fuck that was a lot of them. He scrambled to his feet as he reached for the dagger on his belt, but it wasn't there. No weapons and weak winds. This place sucked.

At this point, it did not even matter who the others around him were. All that mattered was that some of them looked big and they were holding weapons. That was good enough for him.

He hurried off to follow, partially out of fear and partially out of the pull that they all felt to move forward. The latter feeling was nothing new as he was always looking for the next prize, his next big score. He could tell this might be it. Mixed in with the smell of death and decay on the wind was the smell of power and potential.

"Wait up for me."

 

[Twisted Teller]

Fate pulls at the chords of your soul. Venture, forward or be lost to the shadows and darkness you know so well. Be it alone, or in tandem. Only you may decide, for the pull of power is there, its hook in your heart, and its line come reeling in. What is true for all, is the stench of a death beyond death. Where no soul knows rest.

Might be, yours joins the churn of the river next, made to stir and clash with rattling steel.

For he who follows the cat​

The dead wage war with all that moves. Though it is not just their hollow eyes and putrid stench that strike fear in you. Visions of violence play before your eyes from memories long past. Goblins, orcs, rip and tear at those who fled and cowered around you then, before your chains. A sense of powerlessness binds you, like icy iron fingers come about your throat. They do not squeeze, but hold shut about your neck. One zombie falls before you. Another turns to follow it, its dead eyes track the tuxedo cat you've called forth and swipe at it with rusted mace.

For he who slew his father​

Violence, near proud tradition. Violence. Passed down from father to son. Violence returned in kind, and set to trade. Still, that old gift left scars. Old wounds no magic could heal. The smell of this place befouls your senses, bestial as they are, the scents of a rot so sweet they remind you of the perfumes you love so well. Mixed with the musk of hunts long past. Your first kill lays in the frozen fields of your fatherland, turns to rot and worms before your eyes.

For she who killed the crying​

You can hear them. Those you heard then too. Those too weak to heed your sweet shadows. Those who kept you up so late at night with their wretched wails. But distant memories now. Still, you feel your blood grow hotter. Agitation and irritation. Might be, the whispers call. A little fun can be found here, oh fair Queen

For he who slew the priests ​

Weary is your heart with all the horror that surrounds you. The Pit. The Pit. Old voices warn you in wretched whisper. She abandons you. You hear them say. She has turned you away from the Six, and now it is to the Three that you belong.

For she whose lost much in the murk​

They call to you, over the sound of the waves. They call to you, as gheists come crawling throw the mists. They call to you, as the suck of mud sounds wet in your ear and their screams, still their screams, you hear. All those sailors lost beneath your banner. All those run through by pirates blade and horror's hand. Your words, you know, failed them. For so many of them you had, and so little they could do. The weight of those long lost, seems to pull you down. Into the muck. Into the mire. You do not see the dead that run towards you at your flank, so lost in memories are you.

For he who calls the squall​

A dark gale rises, the air around you set to move. You feel it flutter across your hair, hot. Heavy. It stirs your blood. Foul, its voice seems to whisper, most foul. Weak as the wind was but moments before it seems to surge around you. Like a lover come to embrace the one they've longed for for so long. Set sail, sailor. Its sweet smoke laden voice seemed to say. Your blood runs hot. Action. You feel your heart pound and your muscles ache for action. Cut them down, you hear the dark wind's call. Cleanse this place. It cries in the tongue of old Teth.

Above the groans and rattles and clangs, a sound like metal cracked thunder breaks over the din. Iron screeches against iron, and even in the dark of night you see it. The swirling mist of heavy black. The smell of blood grows thicker still. Rust and copper. A great hammer rips through the dead in droves. The zombie soldiers, so lost in their mindless battle, carry on heading their necromancer's calls, as the Iron Revenant reaps their arms and armor with each swing of its warhammer.

The black mist that swirls about the revenant grows thicker. Binds to its form more and more. You see it changing as it thins the horde of dead that stand betwixt your party, and the cavernous maw of the leviathan's skull.

---

Arnor Skuldsson Yangcong Delaney Lennox Nere Ashorn Kiros Rahnel

 

[Yangcong]

It seemed like everyone was making there way to where the giant skull was and Yangcong simply shrugged his shoulders as he was making his way towards that direction.Before he could speak to the strangers, his vision started to change almost like entering a different scenery. Upon seeing it however, he froze in his tracks like a scared child who was alone in the dark for the first time. He saw... the rusted chains that once bounded him as a slave, he saw the orcs and goblins who would continue to laugh at his demise. He felt his throat being "chained" up and for a certain moment it looked like it was over for him. The screams continued from the monsters, and then the former slaves he once called friends.

"YANGCONG! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!"

The cat started to evade the incoming mace attacking, seeing his helpless partner just stand there as he allowed an undead to grab at his throat. Yangcong hearing a familiar voice and his name. Breaking the illusion he had seen and seeing the true enemies before him. Two zombies, one grabbing his neck and the other swiping away at his cat. Yangcong quickly drew his sword, slicing the zombie in half and causing it to let go in the process as the zombie now had collapse to the ground before him. Yangcong was quick to advance straight to the zombie with the mace and immediately slicing its head off as it was being distracted by the cat. Yangcong now grabbing his cat and tucking him away inside his robe.

"It's not safe out there for you, stay in here."

Yangcong didn't want to start using his amulet, since it would severely drain his energy if he started to just freeze everything all around him. He had to keep steady on his feet and made sure not to expend as much energy as possible.

"YOU BASTARDS ARE GOING TO WISH YOU NEVER MESSED WITH ME!"

Yangcong was now beside his other comrades now just staring at the giant skull before them and looking at the reanimated zombies from below.

"I can cover your guys movements if you plan to attack those undead."

 

[Nere Ashorn]

The clamor of the battle around her sounded now only like the thrashing of a storm at sea. The voices of her crew shouted above the din, and she heard them as distinctly as if she were on deck with them. Of course she still remembered their faces, their names. She had written them down and burned them each a hundred times, praying for whatever mercy could be found in the stars. For there was none down in the mud of the bayou.

"We died for you -- for you!"

Botolf and Boothe, Ailish and Leira, run through by pirates, and for what? A few sacks of grain and fruit in the belly of her half-empty ship. What sort of captain was she, losing so many lives over such a paltry haul? She should have surrendered, should have given herself as bounty instead.

"What'd I tell ye, young miss? Don't follow any funny lights. But you was an odd one all along, eh? Swamp witch. Shoulda never followed you."

Old Artrip, who knew every natural trick in the swamp, but how could he account for the supernatural? That was supposed to be her realm, and she had failed them - failed the whole damn expedition when the ignis fatuus surrounded him and the rest of her crew. Those mocking little lights flitted above Artrip's head now, as he grabbed at her ankles.

"I served your father for decades. He wanted you to be better... we both did."

Rizer's glasses glinted in the pale light of the boneyard as he ambled towards her. In that quiet little village, at that quiet little inn, she had thought that they would be safe. She had let her guard down, let Rizer out of her sight. When bandits rose from the underrealm, Rizer and the rest of her crew didn't stand a chance against them. Not without her.

"I'm sorry Rizer," Nere called out to the spirit of her accountant. She grabbed on to his hands as he reached for her. Tears streamed down her face. "I should have been there with you. I should have done more."

"You will join us now," Rizer speaks with the voices of her crew. That's right. She could be with her crew, if she just let them drag her down. Many hands grabbed at her ankles and her wrists, and pulled her into the muck.

A sword slashed at Nere's back, and she felt a line of pain beading there. The cut was shallow, caught some by her gambison, but still she cried out and fell to her knees. The undead who'd struck her swayed back and forth, seemingly surprised at having landed a hit. Clumsily, it raised its sword for another strike. Others shambled behind, aiming to catch up. If Nere didn't stand and fight, she would be overrun - but she held on to the ghost of Rizer, paralyzed.

Wasn't he right?

Shouldn't a Captain go down with her crew?

 

[Delaney Lennox]

Monster. Murderer. You killed children. You killed the innocent.

Delaney growled as the cries of her victims and the whispered reminders of her deeds filled her ears. She had long ago come to terms with the fact that she was a monster and there was nothing she could do about it. Her growl came from agitation instead than guilt or sadness. She did not need to be dealing with this bullshit right now. She knew who she was and what she had done. She needed to focus on whatever the hell was happening here.

Might be a little fun can be found here, oh fair Queen...

Fun, she thought with a roll of her eyes. She was still not even sure where here was.

She was vaguely aware of other people around her but her attention was on the black mist that was now filling the area. She watched this new monster decimate the armies of the undead and she knew that they were in trouble now.

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

The task before him appeared as twisted and terrible as any She'd given him, but he'd no sign of Her presence, and for that, he was initially thankful. The hellscape he faced appeared daunting enough without Her present to hinder him through holy ‘guidance. The scene around him was surreal, and the presence of magic was clearly mere upon the sight of it. What his eyes saw could be borne only through some sort of magic, but what and where this magic was remained No matter where he moved, Heirahit's arcane sense didn't change in intensity, granting no further hint as to where the detected magic might be coming from. Kiros began to wonder he if truly sensed anything at all.

The undead masses were a terrifying sight on their own, but when their visage grew clear and identifiable, Kiros found himself struck by true horror. There before him was the sight of two he'd not seen in a decade and a half, and he never expected to again. Restless and reanimated, he held no doubt that they were here for him, for he had been the one who’d killed them. For sixteen years he had evaded the consequences of his crimes upon this mortal coil. Now, his misdeeds had finally caught up with him. Kiros found himself facing the very fate She swore deliverance from.

He'd been Her priest, but only out of lack of option. To serve Her was a terrible fate he’d not wish upon anyone, but it was far preferable to the punishment promised by The Pit. Gratitude that She was not present to impede his presumed task turned into terror that She was neither present to avert the damnation She had sworn to.

On the edge of his lips were the words to his incantation of insight. Desperate for answers, Kiros cast the spell upon the identified pair advancing on him.

She shall not save you from us.​

Only now did he realize Itra’s absence could only be intentional. He’d served his purpose in spreading Her name, and now She must not have further use for him. She must have abandoned him here, leaving him at the mercy of he'd wronged so many years ago. Given what he had done, they would have little of it. A fear that was experienced only in his nightmares now borne true. If only he was still dreaming the scene of terror presently before him.

“I did not... I was..” Kiros began to explain, but the sight rendered him speechless. What words could he speak that would not be futile? What explanation could he possibly give for the terrible deeds he'd done? He was a murderer, and these were his victims. There was no bargaining to be done, when the only thing they could possibly want was to drag his soul to The Pit to pay for his sins.

“You had your chance, murderer. You had sixteen years.” Spoke Astes, in a rumbling and sickly imitation of the voice he had when he was still alive. His head carried a crater on the side of it that left his eye shut while his other glared balefully.

“And you did nothing with them.” Spoke Netos, his head tilted and leaning on his shoulder at an unnatural angle, as if his neck could no longer support it.

“I can cover your guys movements if you plan to attack those undead.” Called out another, but Astes gave answer before he could.

“Yes, attack us again. Show them who you truly are.”

“Aggression and violence is all you are capable of, isn’t it Namrut?”

“I never planned to! I never meant to! It was a mistake! An impulse!!” Kiros cried out, backpedalling in absolute horror. The effect of his prior incantation left him far too fearful to dare attempt another. He gave a glance to the symbol atop his staff, a representation of the discovery that sparked the fateful argument. Kiros merely wanted credit for it, and from the resulting argument was born the battle which had ended their lives.

He wanted nothing more to do with it.

“Take it! You can have it!! I never wanted it! I never needed it!” He should have just let matters be. All Kiros wanted his status heightened. All he had earned was his own exile and damnation. He should had just kept silent and let Astes stake his false claim. He could have it.

Heirahit bounced off his decaying body and landed upon the ground at his feet. Astes slowly reached down to retrieve it.

“All we want is to see you suffer. To see you bludgeoned to death as you did to us. To see your soul tormented, as you deserve.” Astes uttered in his sickly growl as he plucked the staff off the ground. Yet he could scarcely carry it for a second before dropping it, his once animated body falling limp to the ground. Kiros did not witness the outcome, as by that time he had turned and fled in a scrambling dash towards the gigantic skull's open mouth. Too terrified to give any consideration to his own well being, Kiros ran through the masses of undead pouring forth from it.

His staff had served to end the magic that bound one to unlife, yet he had discarded the weapon and left it behind out of false belief that it could no longer aid him. Unarmed and abandoned, he'd no choice to press on. A priest of the Annunaki, he knew full well the horrors The Pit threatened him with. He'd preached of them himself in his youth.

He'd expend every effort to avoid them.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Father.

His father.

The blade turned in his hand, an apparition, or some falsehood appeared before him. Snow, or what was to be snow, crunched under his feet. Worm and rot turned over, twisting the being that was once his father. His face, cruel and distorted most of his life, lay rotten and discarded, half decayed.

Like he should have been. The spirits, this foul creature wanted him to feel afraid. Wanted him to feel remorse. He only felt guilt out of the shame of running away from his crime- not from the deed itself. Around him, the undead waged war against themselves, caught in perpetual conflict, perpetual war. He understood them. War was simple. War was easy. War made sense. Them versus you. You versus them. No complexities. Just a goal, a mission, and comrades. War was easy. Everything after the war was difficult.

As above, so below.

He approached the snow-covered corpse, laid bare in the field. A foul deed by an angry man, abused all of his life. A father who had doomed his entire village. Betrayed the people, betrayed the lands. Angered the prey herds.

"The rot suits you- father."

He said with a grimace, driving his sword in the ground, looking up in the distance towards the Iron Revenant as it clamored through the undead. He had never seen or heard of it, so the creature was unknown to him. The rotten corpse of his father turned towards him, black pits where eyes should have been.

And it spoke. A harrowing, shriek across the field as it spoke to his son.

"Slayer of kin, bringer of sin!"

His father's corpse pressed it's hand to the ground, rotten flesh bending and skeletal remains standing up slowly to a stand.

"Wretched son, honor undone!"

His father, or what remained, or what was supposed to be his father, reached to his chest, removing the green glass bottle that Arnor left buried in his chest, holding it in his hands.

"Mother was right. Liquor and wine would eventually kill you."

No longer a young man, a child to beat on, Arnor's hateful eyes were laid upon his father again. He twisted the sword in his hands once more, brought it to his left, and drove the sword through his father's chest again by pushing on the pommel of his sword with his mighty hand.

"I'll see you in hell."

A promise made, was a promise kept. He let his father's lifeless corpse fall flat, once again victim to his son's wrath. He watched as the priest ran by, a rather sickly looking thing holding what appeared to be his staff. Arnor marched away from his father's corpse, towards the mouth of the great skull.

"Gimme that."

He said to Astes, ripping the staff from the foul undead (and shoving the weak, rotting body away rather easily) , and began to run, holding the staff in one hand, and his sword in the other. He ran towards the priest, finding him familiar. Perhaps they'd met before.

The mighty Nordenfiir, the slayer of kin, bastard, saw the priest about to be felled from behind by an undead soldier, who had escaped from his own eternal battle, finding only an enemy. The soldier gave a scream- and was suddenly and violently cut off, as Arnor's sword came flying through the air, cleaving through his weak body and bisecting him.

Arnor ran to the priest, calling out to him, waving his silly staff.

"You dropped this!"

Kiros Rahnel

 

[Edward Lorain]

Edward did not need to be told twice as he stumbled as fast as he could toward the others. He could feel the frightening press of the wind on his back as he was called to press onward. It seemed that some of the others had some issues getting through...That was not proving to be a problem for Edward.

The faces that grew close to him were familiar but also pushed to the back of his mind as he forgot them. Was that Miss Betrude, the baker who he use to steal from? So what, she died. She should get over it. That was old man Harper, the man that raised him at the orphanage. He had died while attempting to bring Edward back home. Fuck that guy.

Every new face was met with another thought trying to remind Edward that they were not important, that his guilt was not worth it.

Instead, these faces were met with stabs and slashes from his dagger. That was not proving as effective as he hoped, but before long he noticed that he could shape the wind to knock them back. This was not the wind that he was used to, but some sort of violent and vengeful gust that needed no urging. In fact, it urged him to fight...In this situation, he would take the hint.

It was the survival of the fittest and he was going to come out on top. Others be damned, he would kill them a second time if need be.

Edward came to a sliding stop next to Delaney, only to turn his attention to the black mist...Well, that couldn't be good.

"Uh, I think it is time to go everyone!"

 

[Twisted Teller]

For she who surrendered to those she lost​

As if pleased by your devotion, the specters of your past vanish from your vision. You feel the pain of your fresh wound hot against your back, and the threat of the skeletal soldier comes clear in your mind. No one has helped you. They left you behind.

For she so spiked by spite long past​

The whispers in your mind grow louder. Their voices lower. Like the voices of those shadows you love so well. Slay them. They say. Slay them all. With each pulse of your heart, they urge you to action. They urge you to violence. They urge you forward across the river of dead soldiers and into the leviathan's mouth. Slay the sorcerers. Slay the dead. Spread our darkness. You are our queen. Claim the power in the skull! The voice pounds between your ears, red hot. A pain that demands destruction be dealt. The line between ally and enemy blurs.

For he twice forsook​

Fear fades, a familiar voice calls out to you. Reminds you of your place in this plane. Your purpose clear in your mind. With the return of your staff, you hear the call for violence, a whisper in your ear.

For he who has no fear but does regret​

The specters of your past fade like distant echoes. Yet, as you walk through this place of nightmares made waking flesh, where necromancer's voices sing on high, your mighty arm feels less mighty. Your strength, less ready to swell with the deftness and command so easy to you. Even your sword-hand seems to struggle to hold the blade straight.

For he who shelters their companion​

Terror strikes you like a bolt of iced lightning. A cruel and familiar laughter grows louder in your ears as the faces of those dead that stagger around you turn to swirls. Their faces morph and stretch before your very eyes as the magics of this place, so thick and sickeningly sweet in the air, turns their face to those dear to you, long past. Those who sheltered you once, those who protected you before. Different now. Rotted. Their familiar faces marred by pustules and gashes, made hideous by wounds that have purpled and swollen with sickness and decay. Their eyes turned to sickly soup that leaks and spill from the bowls of their hollow sockets with each of their clumsy steps. Yet, you know them to be your loved ones. They've come for you. Run. Run! Another voice urges you.

As most swell toward the maw of the skull, through the streams of dead, blades and spears stab at you, guided by skeletal arms and willed by decomposing flesh.

The war gheist slays on. Its malformed metal form covered in carnage as its heavy hammer rips through the horde of dead. It raises its hammer up high and brings it down crushing a pair of walking corpses. Blades and spears ping off of its metallic casing as it stands in stillness, the black mist about it, swirls in and out of crevices and holes in its plating as the arms and armor of the fallen warriors around it seem to crumble into that dark dust. Its eyeless visage turns and tracks the chosen hero who cuts through the swathes of dead. It lumbers toward him.

The Iron Revenant begins to follow Edward with slow, lumbering steps. A stray swipe of its hammer crumples swathes of dead like so much chaff. It grows larger and stranger with each step.

Yangcong Nere Ashorn Delaney Lennox Kiros Rahnel Arnor Skuldsson Edward Lorain

 

[Delaney Lennox]

"Uh, I think it is time to go everyone!"

"No shit," Delaney commented on the newcomers' assessment of their situation. She was pretty sure that none of them wanted to be here but here they were.

She turned to look at the man that had come to a sliding stop beside her.

She closed her eyes as the whispers grew louder once more.

Slay them.

Slay them all.

Slay the sorcerers.

Slay the dead.

Spread our darkness.

You are our queen.

Claim the power in the skull!

The whispers were right, of course. She was their queen and she would claim her power. Fuck everything else and everyone else really.

Delaney drew her dagger from its sheath on her waist and called her shadows to her. They writhed up and down her body as she walked away from Edward and towards the skull.

She had to get to the skull.

The Dreadlord Initiate used her shadows and her dagger to slice through every undead enemy that got in her way. She even split the tendrils so she could hit more of the undead with one strike.

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

Kiros found himself face to face with his deepest regret and greatest fear, their taunting expression still clear in his mind. With neither magic nor weapon to aid him, he needed to arm himself promptly. The closest available was a broadsword a short distance away, and Kiros rushed towards it before a shout from behind gave him pause.

"You dropped this!" Shouted Arnor, and Kiros tuned to see him waving his staff. A moment of clarity struck him. He may rebuke Her, but She was bound to choose another. Whoever the rampaging warrior was, he didn't deserve Her. But before Heirahit would leave Arnor's hand, he would receive word from Itra Herself. Albeit, only one.

"Who"

She could barely communicate the one word before Kiros retrieved the staff from Arnor's grasp.

“holds...
You lost it again? What is wrong with you!?”

“The incantation implied...” Kiros began, but was interrupted before he could speak any further.

“So dare you blame Me? You wove the spell, lout.”

She was far from pleasant or helpful, but the interpretation of blame and expression of dissatisfaction often sparked a mood far more livid than She presently displayed. An entirely different feeling of dread overtook him at the realization. She wanted something after all. Kiros had no idea what, and Itra's confirmation made little immediately clear.

“My gratitude. There is deceitful magic at play.” Kiros spoke to Arnor, giving a half-explanation as to why he'd lost the staff in the first place. But he might confirm that he was not the only one, was Arnor also bound for The Pit? Had he found himself condemned to hell, too?

“Cease your idleness! Commence with your task!”

“What is my quest?” Kiros responded with the necessary tact She required. Were he ever honest, he'd be surely smote or worse.

“Are you so daft that I must guide you on?
It should be obvious, go where you're drawn.

Destroy all undead that get in your way,
By staff or by magic, see that they're slain!

Continue on into jaws open wide,
Get what strange power lies waiting inside!”

Well, She at least confirmed his suspicions and made matters clear. Others were fighting too, clearing a path through the undead. Whether they were friend or foe, they would serve more use than Her. The bar was a low one to pass.

“Through the risen dead and towards that skull lies what must be sought.” Kiros announced, his tone more official and sure than he was. The power remained mysterious, but there was no doubt in the direction he had been given. For now at least, the quest was clear, but a battle remained to be fought. Turning back towards i,t Kiros pressed forth and barely made it a few steps before another accosted him. A swing of his staff brought Heirahit against its skull, and a brilliant spark of light singed its rotten skin upon impact. The weapon remained holy, and served bane against the undead as it always had.

Despite his earlier doubts.

 

[Nere Ashorn]

The world lightened again, as much as it could in such a wasteland. Nere felt the weight that had been pulling her down lift, and her feet fell on solid ground again. The ghosts of her crew turned to dust before her eyes. Rizer said nothing, but as his hand crumbled in hers, she felt a stranger resolution wash over her.

No, wait. That was sword scratch slashed across her back.

Nere came to her wits. She spoke in that runic language of hers, and summoned a mace from the scars on her body. The mace swung round in her hands and cracked the zombie's skull before it could raise its weapon against her again. Other undead were shambling her way, but Nere ignored them, turning back towards the beckoning maw. The ones who had left her behind had also cleared a way for her. She ran forward, the chant of the dueling necromancers and the words of her ghosts compelling her.

No, wait. That was still the heat of the blood trickling down her back.

Nere slowed as she neared two others cutting their way through the thicket of undead. A priest with a staff, and a big guy with a sword.

"Ho, there!" she hailed the two men. "Do you mind watching my back while I take care of something?"

She didn't actually wait for an answer, merely trusting in the goodwill of the only other living people she could see, Her mace thunked into the dusty gravel at their feet, and she went about pulling her ruined tunic over her head. Just in her undershirt now, she twisted round to peer at the cut across her shoulders, wincing at the pain as she did so.

Kiros Rahnel Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Edward Lorain]

Edward could feel it more than he saw it. The chills ran up his spine as the winds around him seemed to beckon him forward, more specifically, away from that thing. He could not see its eyes, but the hulking armor of the Iron revenant was moving towards him. He knew...it was coming for him.

He looked back to see that girl carving through the battlefield with the shadows at her command. That was as good of a direction as any, so he turned and ran. He moved as fast as he could wanting to be nowhere near the killing machine.

 

[Twisted Teller]

Dark winds sweep across the dead land. Shadows slice through undead soldier as holy weapon sunders bone and flesh with sparks of divine light. Together for now. But the leviathan's skull still beckons you all as the necromancers spells go on, rolling through the sky like mad clouds of sound. Their shadows, tall as giants, stretch across the gold-lit walls of the skull's eyes. You see their twisted forms, shamble and dance with their dreaded show, and the dead dance with them.

For the Queen of Shadows ​

Ripped and torn, the dead fall to the spirals and scythes of bladed dark you've summoned. A path to the skull, clear before you. Yet as the power still surges, the whispers, which cackled in joyous rancor, hiss now. Snap. Their voices hot in your ear. They prey on your doubts. They prey on your fears. Queen of shadows, queen of nothing, you are but a broken bird, with no wings left to fly.

A hand reaches out from behind you, it takes hold. You are but a vessel for us to use. The shadows leap from your command, your flesh unable to draw them back in, where they were just so potent. The hand, but grey and formless shade, like smoke whipped by the winds of this foul place, fall to the side of faceless form. It has no eyes, but you feel it look at you. It has no face, but, you see yourself in it. It's featureless face seems to open with wide smile. More mouths open across its form. But we will spread through you, just as we spread through all of them before. Terror strikes deep at your core. The power of shadows feels all but lost to you. As if you were to call upon it now, it would devour you from the inside out. The light of the Cave's maw, catches your eye. The power inside. Maybe it will be enough to rid you of this shadowy figure, that feels so hungry for your soul.

For the Lone Priest​

Your soul feels split. The pit. You hear those old voices call. The pit. They go on warning you. But She has returned to you, with deft throw, Her harsh tone come down on you like a pillar of light. Each swing of Heirahit causing cursed flesh to cave into dust, as holy magic crackled and seared. Yet, there, their voices still were. Those damned Netos and Astes, Those damned dead men who would not hear your words then. They make it harder to hear Her words. But they bring no peace from Her, as all vie now to rule your mind. A most painful dissonance. But the leviathan's skull. Its maw so wide and open. It invites you. I promises power enough to silence all of this discordance.

For the Runic Sailor​

Your tattoos burn hot. You forget your wound. A dark wind fills your mind as you gather with the others. Power. You feel it thrum through you. You feel it pulse from the ancient seals that run across your skin. A voice demands violence. A voice demands you take that power deep in the skull, not for you, but for all those you lost. There is no friend, there is no foe, only obstacles to cut through.

For the Son of Teth​

Lucky. Yes. That is what many have called you. And lucky still, even here. You feel lucky. As the cruel wind blows and goes on, wreaking more violence. You see its gifts help you cut through that which you set your blade to. You see its twisted power, and it all feels so easy. Nothing wrong if you use it a little more. Hells, who knows when you'll get so lucky again? Besides, quickest way to the skull is to cut right through.

The iron revenant bellows a roar as so many dead are cut down by you chosen heroes. Its mace swings more recklessly, its legs pump more quickly. Its footfalls pound across the ground and the ground seems to shake beneath its iron mass. Spikes, black and jagged, sprout from its bile and rust stained armor. Its warhammer drips with bone and viscera. Several meters behind you, you see it towers over even the tallest among you, a whole head higher. And it is gaining on you.

The path before you heroes is clear. Inside the maw there glows a golden light. You can almost feel its warmth. It's promise. But dark shadows dance before it.

Yangcong Arnor Skuldsson Delaney Lennox Kiros Rahnel Nere Ashorn Edward Lorain

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

The sword felt heavy in his hands. Heavier than it normally did. His strength waned, perhaps. Perhaps he was more tired than he thought. He gripped tightly around the hilt, trying to push off the thoughts of what might be, and focus on what was.

Spirits, ghouls and goblins be damned.

The Iron Revenant moved forward, tearing through the undead before them. He felt the axe around his hip- the axe of Knottington, his namesake no less.

He looked down at the Knight, preparing for her wounds to be dressed.

His mighty hand pressed on the non-cut part of her back, examining her wound. Only superficial, for the time being- and she was moving. So not her spine. Arnor spun his sword, cleaving another undead soldier at the neck.

The Iron Revenant marched on, towards the group.

He took a stance, his blade low and to the ground.

"Someone has a plan for that before we go into the big skull, correct?"

Somehow his usual go to plan of turn-into-a-giant-fucking-bear and beat on whatever wasn't going to cut it here.

If he could even use his Svalen form here- if he was even anywhere.

He reminded himself that he did infact, hate magic.

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

By the greater gods. She didn't even bother to announce this holy quest, having presumably sent him off while he was fast asleep, through means he had no awareness of. Kiros swung Heirahit with strength bolstered by the unexpected frustration. He could not act against Her, but the swarming undead became the means through which he could vent the anger She caused. A baleful strike of Heirahit sent the head of the staff swinging into its jaw from the side of another of the undead, sending teeth flying from its mouth with a bright burst of energy. He fell another with a vicious two handed swing that bashed it in the back of its head, sending it over to land lifelessly atop the ground. None further remained within range, and Kiros took the moment to survey the scene, before Nere approached with a request.

"Do you mind watching my back while I take care of something?" Spoke another woman approached, who'd doubtlessly been fighting her own battles. The evidence of it was written clearly upon her back in the form of a deep gash running across it.

“I hold power to do more than that.” He replied, preparing a Blessing of Health to seal the bleeding wound. The ongoing threat of battle left little time to heal her, but the nature of repairing such a simple flesh wound was among the simplest of scenarios. The physical body, or Khet, held the means to heal such damage on its own – he merely needed to assist the process through holy magic. Kiros reached out with a hand as the ancient Kaliti words left his lips, illuminating the wound through a faint glow of light radiating from his open hand. The flow of blood ceased, and the once open wound closed to a crimson line with skin rejoined where it had once been shorn apart.

"Someone has a plan for that before we go into the big skull, correct?" Asked Arnor. Kiros might've had a plan, had She given him the slightest bit of warning. Did Itra have a plan? Possibly. Was it a viable one? Assuredly not. He'd already been denied any actual purpose to his presence here, being given only direction. He did not know the purpose of the skull, nor what laid within it. He hadn't even noticed the Iron Revenant until he turned to face Arnor.

“We have plans...” Spoke the chilling voice of Astes. Kiros paused in discomfort on hearing them, before speaking in reply to Arnor.

“I do have further magic that might serve use.” Kiros replied. The same Blessing of Health he wove over Nere could be used as a weapon against the undead, albeit an inefficient and expensive one. Other spells might serve better use – his Luminant Curtain could hold back the hordes for a time, and his Luminant Flash was a one time means of bringing destruction to all surrounding him. Given that he was among few who stood against many, the flash seemed apt to prepare for.

“Should we find ourselves overwhelmed, I can banish all surrounding us at once, but only once.” Kiros announced, before adding a warning. “When I raise the staff, avert your eyes from it lest the flash rob sight from them.”

“Can you not hear Me? Go forth or be smote!”

“No, stay and suffer the justice you know you deserve.”

“There is no redemption. You shall perish before you ever find any.”

All three were speaking to him now, and none were voices he wished to hear. To stay was a reminder of the greatest horror of his past, and he didn't doubt She might leave him to die here. But the same sense that drew him to the skull beckoned further. It promised silence – blessed moments of peace. If there was a way out, the skull had to lead there. It must be reached.

Once the others were prepared, Kiros continued onward with utter desperation to escape this hell he believed She dropped him into.

 

[Nere Ashorn]

The hairs on the back of Nere's neck stood on end as she felt a heavy hand on her back, right where her cut was. She tried to shake the feeling off and focus on the task at hand, but then the priest did the same, as the cooling touch of magic prickled through her. Blood slowed and the pain subsided. Under other circumstances, perhaps Nere would have been grateful for the assistance. But for some reason, the strangers' actions pissed her off. Who in Arethil were these men, who thought they could put hands on her without so much as asking?

"Thank you," came her curt reply.

Some other things were said, and a zombie seemed to be part of the conversation, but Nere was barely listening. Eyes narrowing to stormy slits, lines of runes heated up along her body. She stepped forward, away from the two and back into the fray. Both her hands slid down opposite forearms and swiped two doubling blades through the air.

The dueling voices wailed high above. Behind, the metal demon lumbered towards them. From the maw, shone santuary. A power that those vile necromancers - whoever had cast the restless dead against each other - did not deserve. Nere needed to make sure that power didn't fall into the wrong hands. If she had it, she could put all these souls to rest. She knew she could.

Cracked leather and rusted weapons gave way to her as she marched toward the maw. Did the others follow? She did not see them, her eyes focused only on the light ahead. Did the river of dead grow deeper as the maw widen before her? Did the hulking armor still follow? Her blades made no distinction, cutting at foes until they dulled, and then she would summon more, the smell of burnt flesh mixing with iron as her runes glowed hotter and hotter. Nere saw only one thing, had only one goal.

Get to the thing inside the skull, and make sure it was not taken by anyone else.

 

[Twisted Teller]

Fast you fly, cutting, bashing, and running your way across the shambling dead. The maw grows larger before you, the hordes of shambling dead grows thinner as the leviathan's skull looms closer and closer. The fighting gets thicker as you get nearer to the rows of man-sized teeth, but those possessed by the dark wind tear through the lines of dead in a spray of ichor and viscera.

As you cross into the skull, you see the dueling necromancers, their voices at war with one another as their staffs strike at the wind, and their hands gesture seals and signs. You know them to be mad. Lost in a dream far from this wicked place. Their bodies move as if they are but puppets upon a master's strings.

Far above their head there is an object that hangs from the tall ceiling, like a chandelier, it sways in the wind as it casts its maddening yellow light. You feel it to be the object of power, far beyond all's reach.

The ground beneath you shakes, as the necromancer's shadows dance along the white walls of the skull cavern. The Revenant. You feel its swirling hate filling the room. You hear its black mist like a thousand grains of metal sand sifting and shifting and ceaselessly moving. It bellows a roar of agony from its mouthless visage, hulk of twisted metal that it is, it stops an springs into the air with unnatural speed.

As it careens toward you, a meteor of iron, you see it falling toward Nere.

Arnor ​

You are slowed by the terror of death. Your svalen form feels distant, and the yellow light that dances along the walls fills your eyes with maddening visions. Utter nonsense. You feel as if your mind might begin to melt, but you remain present, if only by a thread.

Kiros​

The voices of the dead priests fade. Only the singing of the necromancers and the roar of the revnant fill your ear now. And Her. But the struggle leaves you strained, your blessings, harder to call forth.

Nere​

Your runes still burn hot, and your want for destruction still aches in the chords of your muscles. Still. There is some clarity in your mind now. Friend and foe obvious.

Delaney​

The sheer terror you felt but moments ago begins to subside, yet the shadows you love so well feel cold to you, feel far from your command. They will not help you in this moment.


Arnor Skuldsson Kiros Rahnel Nere Ashorn Delaney Lennox Edward Lorain