Fate - First Reply Perdition

[Arnor Skuldsson]

The Spine

Faragen Outskirts

Theme​

He knew it in his heart of hearts, the depths of his soul, that the beast had not been killed, despite the efforts he made. He felt it in his soul, the red eyes of the beast following him wherever he went, mocking him. Growing in power- the immortal being not yet killed, not put down for good. He tossed and turned on his bedroll, having made his way from the Tundra back here.

He needed to finish it. He needed to end it- and if it was to be on his own, so be it.

Arnor needed to kill Lord Naleze once and for all- and prevent him from coming back. He knew that the physical form may have been destroyed.. or at least, he believed it to be. Faragen's toxic touch had spread once more, consuming the life of the area around it.

Faragen had come 'alive' again, reaching out, consuming the fauna once more. Lord Naleze was drawing power to himself again. The road to the town itself was decaying. He began to understand Naleze's power then- it was not life itself, but the life of a place entirely. The roads, the fauna, the animals- the energy therein was what he drew from.

And he had grown only more hungry since their battle. He imagined the Templars felt the same way all those years ago when they tried to remove him, and bound him to eternal life. Just as he wished. Arnor sat up in the bedroll, the small fire he produced going out, a strong gust of wind shaking the dying trees around him. He sat up quickly, drawing the silver sword he carried, rotating it in his hands.

The air grew still, but no beast, no red eyes came.

Faragen was calling Arnor once more- this time, Arnor needed to be sure that Naleze was stopped, for good. He began to pack up the camp, breathing shakily. Arnor did not feel fear often. But this time it felt warranted, given the task ahead. He steeled himself, staring at the embers of his campfire, breathing heavily, trying to compose himself.

 

[Ruckus Fairweather]

Similar to Arnor, Ruckus was far from any comfort, and home for that matter.

He had packed his meager possessions into a patchwork rucksack, temporarily vacating his residence at some dingy, familiar tavern room in the Slums of Alliria in search of something . . . Exciting, adventurous, and different from the ragged brawling pit he had gotten far too familiar with, and so he had headed north towards The Spine. His folks' stories about heroes slaying some evil monster or wizard had always had to do with the spine, and for Ruckus it was a great a place to start some monster punching as any.

He had never really traveled to any truly mountainous region before now. Never had he had to struggle with the ever rocky and jagged climbs and pathways of The Spine's environment, never had he had to endure it's biting snowfalls, it's howling and sharp-as-a sword winds, or it's taiga's and forests so mighty and grand that you could spend lifetimes lost within them, and as it stood now, none of that was sending this icy shock up his spine, or the tingling of goosebumps on his skin.

It was the creatures within these mountains and forests that uneased him. Or rather, the fact that he had no idea what they would be.

He could endure the jagged, unforgiving paths. He could get used to the sharp and bitter-cold winds and weather, and generally he was a fan of any great forest as any other traveler would be, no matter the labyrinth they could become. Even dangerous beasts and ghastly terrors he could get used to and endure, but it was the fact that he didn't know what beasts and horrors he would encounter amidst this mountain taiga that unsettled him, like a jagged and cruel set of fangs, always gnawing at the back of his skull. He just wanted to see something terrifying, possibly punch it a few times, and get it over with.

He would've loved to read a book about what they could and prepare himself for the troubles to come, only that he couldn't read and couldn't afford to learn how to. Always the world worked against him it would seem. From his birth, to his ambition, to now, it made all his teeth feel bitter and sour in his mouth somehow.

It was one particularly starless and windy night in the outskirts of Faragen when Ruckus came upon the sight of a dimly lit, smoldering campfire within the copse of giant trees and hilly, jagged boulders that was The Spine's environment, a windy evening it was - and cold too. Not too cold that you could just hunker down and get used to it's sting. No, it was the cold that was just bitter enough, just infrequent enough that you could never quite get it's existence and agitation out of your head.

Likely to the hunter at his campsite, Ruckus's unhindered and loud footfalls would mark his presence to him from half a mile away, even with the night as windy as it was. His loud and compact frame making an almost obnoxiously notable crunch or a loud thump no matter where he set. Additionally, the hunter would be able to easily ascertain Ruckus's following approach, marked by his blissfully unaware footsteps getting louder and louder with each curios step the big lug took towards such a curios and fascinating sight. . .

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Arnor, Son of Skuld, was a lot of things.

But inattentive wasn't one of them. Especially now. He turned his head, hearing... footsteps. But not careful, measured footsteps. No, not even the smell of sulfur, the burnt flesh, the rotting living corpse of Naleze.

No, this was... someone?

The nearest town was hours away, and someone had come this close to Faragen. Someone like him. Arnor made his way to the road, intercepting the man coming to him. And indeed, he found a rather large human, heavy in the forearms and big in the shoulders. A fighter, if he ever saw one. Arnor held the sword out to his side, flabbergasted that someone came out this far.

He at least, smelled human. He kept the blade out, the silver turning in his hands, glinting in the moonlight.

"This is no place for the unprepared, friend. You should turn back. Only death awaits you in Faragen."

He was very politely and softly saying "you aren't ready".

 

[Ruckus Fairweather]

The shine of a fine silver blade and it's wielder's words struck Ruckus from his half-unattentive daze.

"This is no place for the unprepared, friend. You should turn back. Only death awaits you in Faragen."

Ruckus wasn't sure he knew how to physically describe those kind of people that you just didn't mess around with if you had wanted to live a happy and long life, until now that is.

Before him stood a tall, lumbering beast of a man. Or rather, perhaps it would've been more appropriate to think "Above him," as Ruckus had to crane his neck to a strenuous degree just to meet this hunter's ice-blue eyes given the difference in height. He was built strong and muscular and held himself with an edge of undeniable experience . . . and terror. While it was true Ruckus wasn't exactly built of courage, he wagered that even the toughest of badasses could tell that this Hunter before him was one that could inspire a whole company of seasoned warriors to turn tail and desert.

There was just something innately . . . Scary, about this soldier. Like a wolf barring it's mighty fangs.

It took him much of his mind to prevent himself from turning tail and bolting himself, and this midnight warden's word choice was of great assistance in calming him too. It was hardly brigand behavior to warn travelers of dangers ahead - or even to use the word "friend" for that matter.

Ruckus couldn't point out much of the distinguishing features of his counterpart in the dark, like his hair or his much of his face - even with his pale skin, so he settled on matching his gaze on those piercing, cold eyes of his. Cracking out a nervous cackle to soothe his nerves, and a shakily confident grin to greet that of his counterpart.

"I-I should be thanking my lucky stars then, that I'm a rather d-difficult person to kill . . . W-what brings such deadly company such as yours out so far into these howling mountains . . ? D-don't suppose you're out for a midnight stroll . . . A-are you?"

His eyes seemed to constantly scan the shine of that silver sword. . Never managing to stay from it for too long at a time - not out of greed or wanting, but out of a more irresistible curiosity, brazen for all to see.

Silver is for slaying monsters . . . Thought Ruckus.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Arnor's eyes wandered to where Ruckus' drifted to. "The blade is not meant for you." He said, gesturing to the town with a nudge of his head. Arnor relaxed and relented, noting how... nervous the younger man was. He didn't want to intimidate him, he just seemed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He turned his entire body away, gesturing for Ruckus to follow.

"Something that I thought long-dead lurks in the town."

He held the sword out still, pointing to the town. He thought he heard chanting in the distance- but dismissed it as his imagination, or tricks by the creature.

"Inside Faragen, Lord Naleze has risen again- or at least. I believe so."

Ruckus Fairweather

 

[Ruckus Fairweather]

"The blade is not meant for you."

Now there was a line that sparked intrigue, his gaze scanning Arnor with a mix of strengthened curiosity and lessening tension, aided by the Hunter's relaxed stance and less threatening presence. The lack of it caused Ruckus smile to widen in relief, like a massive boulder loosened from his shoulders so he might finally be able to function without it's weight. . . As Arnor turned his head and motioned for Ruckus to follow, he was doing so before he could even think to question why.

"Something that I thought long-dead lurks in the town."

So he is a monster slayer . . . Thought Ruckus, remaining silent as he treaded alongside the Hunter, now perhaps a step or two closer, and able to finally get a visual of the Hunter's more detailed features. He was a lot more . . Nordic, then he envisioned him to be. Scruffy face and hairstyle, lined with experience and many journey's under his boots, with a tint of age, though none of the weakness that came with it. His observations soon came to an end as Arnor pointed his silver sword towards the abandoned town in the distance . . .

Ruckus swore he could've heard chanting. . but he wasn't sure if it was just the howling of the wind. It made him uneasy.

"Inside Faragen, Lord Naleze has risen again- or at least. I believe so."


A man of few words, Ruckus thought.

Lord Naleze was a name Ruckus wasn't familiar with, but it seemed that this grizzled veteran was sick of hearing it with the way he spoke it, like it haunted him like some sort of apparition or unholy torment . . The way he pointed t he sword too, Ruckus was beginning to think who exactly that sword was meant for. He offered him a slightly more confident smile, and a less shaky tone of voice in response.

"R-risen again huh . . . Suppose that explains the silver, now doesn't it. . Mus' be one of those undead things. . . Er - If it wouldn't be too much trouble, I-I wouldn't mind helpin' you break that 'ol bucket of bones t'pieces. . Hell, it ain't like I'm out here for a 'midnight stroll' either . . Y-yeah?"

Heroes slayed undead wizards and lords! Perhaps this accursed haul into The Spine wouldn't be for naught. The whole thought put some confidence in his smile.

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

"Undead, never dead, ultimately, I'm unsure."

He paced around for a moment, while the chanting in the town continued. Arnor took a deep breath, motioning for the younger man to follow him. Creeping through the woods, silent as the night around it, a terrible but familiar stench came from the town.

Rotting flesh.

As they ventured closer, tied to stakes, lining the main road of the town... were bodies. Elderly persons, it would seem. Dead, for days, recently. The smell was pungent, and lingered, even on the edge of town. Arnor crouched near the fence that surrounded the outskirts, scoping out what he could see.

"This does not bode well, does it?"

He whispered to his newfound companion, remaining low for the time being.

Ruckus Fairweather

 

[Ruckus Fairweather]

"Undead, never dead, ultimately, I'm unsure."

The Undead. An idea that both frightened and emboldened Ruckus, perhaps more of the former than he would've ever liked to admit. The Undead were the wretched spawn of necromancers and evildoers, souls of life that had been forever tormented into slavery of death and used as pawns and soldiers for evil sacrifices, rituals, and slaughters. Though as much as he enjoyed the thought of finally giving rest to tortured souls - to free them from such immoral chains . . . Ever present in his head was the fact that he had to fight the undead.

The image of rotting flesh, of teeth barely clinging to gums, and of muscle more hanging from bones then onto them. The wretched and feral screams of specters and ghosts, and the thought of the undead all of having lives of their own before being risen. It made his skin crawl, and his mind shake with that ever tempting feeling of cowardice. Though he paused for a moment to consider that maybe they weren't . . . that horrifying. He was almost entirely confident that the Undead were just that, risen from the burial grounds of once living folk, all fleshy and bloody and gross - but then again he had heard such stories from his folks, so there was always room to doubt. . .He'd have to learn how to read, and then read a book about it. Or perhaps he would see for himself soon enough.

He was taken from his curios trance though once Ruckus and the Hunter came across the outskirts of a main road. . . and the elderly bodies that decorated it. His eyes shot with fear, and his stomach churned and squirmed within his own innards, barely able to contain it's lunch. A furrowed brow of righteous anger and horrid disgust clouded vision, and his eyes glazed with a shocked, profound sadness. He could hardly find the thought to breath properly - a short gasp of horrified shock escaping him as tried to maintain his courage. Ramming through his thoughts to find something to calm him - or something, anything at all to focus him from falling to his innate desire to flee.

These are evils to overcome!

He thought.

Avenge these innocent souls.

Keep your eyes on the Hunter, and listen to what he says.

This is another obstacle, overcome it you coward!

Keep your eyes on the hunter. He slays monsters. Keep him alive. Keep him alive no matter what.

He calmed in self in an internally intense, short matter. Taking in a deep breath, and exhaling in a prolonged, and relaxed fashion to finally return his mind and body to a state of calm that could function normally. His eyes never left the bodies of the dead though, and something deep within himself felt like that even after he broke his gaze, he wouldn't un-see them for quite a long time. Or perhaps, he wouldn't ever un-see them at all.

". . . May you find some peaceful rest after your long years of life, honored elders . . . " Was all he could think to whisper in solace to the fallen seniority. Granted it didn't have the ring of heroic punchline, but to Ruckus this was a moment of sorrow that transcended that. Such thoughts of impending sorrow, and perhaps that there was worse to come were the only anchors keeping him from vomiting and cowering on the side of the road in the wretched horror of it all.

He turned his fear to focus, looking to the Hunter who had taken up an observational position by the a rotting fence, and Ruckus hastily joined him, taking a curios, slightly trembling knee beside the lanky soldier.
"This does not bode well, does it?" Said the Hunter as he got the lay of the land.

"Y-yeah. . . All the more reason to smash this Lord Naleze with a door. . o-or your silver sword, for that matter." Ruckus agreed, though paused to glance at the Hunter more observantly.

"I-I don't think I ever got your name . . Or p-perhaps shall we save such meet n' greet's for after we crack this boney bastard's. . Spine. . ? Ayyy? Eheheh. . G-get it? Cause we're in th' - . . Aheheheh, f-forget I said that."

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Theme

Arnor crept along the edge of the town, before rapidly pulling down his companion, gesturing for him to be silent. He pointed upwards, where the orange hue of a torch inside of the buildings made it's way down the stairs, and onto the street- followed by several more inside the town.

The chanting resumed- hooded figures, clad in black robes walked into the street, ominously chanting something unclear. Something about the land.

And they carried a screaming man with them, dozens of the figures dragging a man, protesting and screaming towards one of the poles that littered the elderly around the town that they passed on the way in.

The air grew still as the chanting ceased, and only the crackling of the torches and the sway of the dying town's rotting wood filled the air. For close to a minute, there was a stillness in the air. But the town's wind picked up, and the chanting grew louder. From the great hall on the hill in the center of town, the windows of the cathedral and hall lit red- as if great fires were lit in them, solely red in color.

And the chanting grew even louder, joined in by rhythmic stomping. The cult-like figures tied the man to the post, who was still screaming in protest.

He is the Ancient, he is the land.

The red lights swirled, following down from the hill. And then- he appeared. Glowing red eyes and the smell of sulfur filled the air. Arnor gasped, freezing momentarily in shock... and fear. He pulled his companion down to lay down on the ground, sprawling over him to conceal them both.

"Do not make a sound."

Lord Naleze had returned- and walked towards the man on the post.

His voice was foul, guttural and incomprehensible. It was as if sixty people were speaking at once in an empty house, with the same feeling of grinding metal in your ear. The cultists shimmied away, while Naleze approached the man on the post- and with a single touch....

The man was shrunken in, aged horribly and killed instantly. Naleze breathed in deeply, looking at his armored hand, rotating it over and over again. The smell of rotting flesh went away. Naleze pulled up his helmet, glowing red eyes gazing over his minions.

Naleze, thanks to these Cultists, was becoming mortal once more, flesh and blood.

Arnor stood frozen with fear, gazing into the horrifying visage of Faragen once more, becoming one of the Spine's greatest threats.