Knights of Anathaeum Riddles of Rot

[Rupaka]

Midsummer, 374
Foot of the Spine, 2 Days South of Belgrath​

Rupaka came in the twilit eaves, the fading sun setting red upon his brow. Whispers of rot shifted on the breeze as might leaves under a summer swell, trickling with the peddlers and fairweather folk from Belgrath to deep within the Valen Wilds. Along old and ambling paths it found its way South and further still, until some amalgam of it cropped up at Astenvale Monastery's sanctum ops in the form of a directive: investigate. No preamble given, no signatory of note. The order rang clear, piquing the paper knight's curiosity.

For these rumors, while shapeless after a fashion and delivered in an erratic manner, tasted of reminiscence. Sparked the fond tinder of childhood joy. Fabled trees that moved to a cogent will. Each rustle of leaf, each stir of a branch with promised purpose. And the voices; like hearty sap ponderously dribbling down the bark, warm and sweet and vibrant in all the right ways to rile wonder in the chest.

Mere fancies, truly, and ones long given names. Dryads and treants, those great and ancient creatures so divorced from the realities of citied living, yet Rupaka could not shake the sparkle of wonder from his eyes. Despite knowing (or in his case perhaps as a matter of course) the shape of these myths, the true bones behind the veneer of fable, he brimmed with immutable excitement.

A colorful ride from the monastery in fine company brought him to the graveled passes and foothill deltas of the Spine. The weather had held for the journey, made merry the conversation that carried him and his party forth. They chased after wagoneers and couriers, hiked into brush too dense for careless wandering. Dry rations, wet wooded fires, and foraged tea penned the notes for several stories on their own, yet finally, and lacking in fanfare or the burden of chance, they found it.

A grove of trees, varying in age and ilk, some bearing fruit and others with leaves that ended at knifepoint. Evening filtered between openings in its mottled canopy. Laid bare a vision that at once stole the breath and drew weapons from their sheaths:

"Vishal," Rupaka said, voice reverent as he whispered, "Heart of the Rot. Once renowned for the wisdom and grace it offered in spades, now it has become this."

Kneeling at the center of the grove, arms gnarled and stretched to follow the light's fading touch, came a figure resembling a man. The barest shape of a man. Skin in shades of tanned leather crinkled around limbs rooted to the earth. Naked save for a shawl of twigs and leaf-ends in imitation of dress, it wore a gash-like grin and black, rotted teeth in beckoning fashion. A spot beneath its breast drew the eye, a puncture that tore open a cavity through which the light might catch if not for the slow splutter of blight and pus-colored sap that oozed forth, thrumming decay into the grove.

That caricature of a myth crooked its neck, a terrible process that cracked and popped and splintered shards of bark from its moss bitten face.

 

[Caelia]

Had she really known what they were journeying towards when she lifted her hand to volunteer to accompany a small group into the Spine, or was her restlessness a true terror that had forgone any notion of considering any pros or cons to this? Caelia felt a fool to even ask, had kept quiet in hopes that someone would let slip the purpose, but after they passed by Belgrath near two days ago, she began to realise it did not matter truly why she had left the Monastery.

If there was one thing she learned growing up in Alliria, it was that there was always something to see in this world. Never had she travelled or visited so many townships, villages, and communities while with the Order, and when they company was well met, there was no other reason she would have to offer to travel anywhere if it meant getting her out from her room that never got the morning sun or afternoon glare.

At least when travelling, there was no dark room to hide in.

Perhaps that was why she felt like an impostor, dressed in something more befitting of a Knight, but made access to her blade that much more easier to grasp quickly for. She had stiffened hearing Rupaka speak, her eyes darting around until it fell on the slowly advancing thing of a man. Never had her hands felt familiar to wrap around a weapon's hilt than it did around her sword.

The decay seemed unable to be contained to it's being, and chose to fall and darkened with each step taken in the grove.

Saints. Perhaps she should have asked more about this from the start.

 

[Matvi Iramene]

The only thing that had stayed Matvi's hand upon his hilt, was the knowledge of how utterly useless his dueling saber would be against such a fiend.

"A corrupted treant," Matvi whispered beneath his breath, his eyes wide at the site. The pale look of shock was shaken away. He cleared his throat, and put on his usual cocksure smile. "A rare sight," his eyes traced the roots. Traced the black stains of whatever it was that oozed and drip out from its worm rotted heart.

He had his own educated guess.

But for it to be this far.

His hands were already moving for the folio he kept along the outside of his pack. A stick of coal soon followed. Lines and scratches came quick. Words, and sketches.

Any bit of information he could bring back to the monastery.