Open Chronicles Strange Is the Night

[Roen]

"No one cares what happens in these swamps. No mainlanders do anyway."
​

Lowering the cracked mug in his hands after an overly critical examination, Franz Bedlam, owner of the Bedlam Tavern & Inn, sighed. He was an elderly man in his late fifties with a pockmarked face and the unhappy look of one who had long ago made his peace with his lot in life, but got on with it anyway. A gifted academic in his youth, Franz been sent down south to make a full and accurate catalogue of the local flora and fauna of this part of the swamplands. As luck and misfortune would have it though, an encounter with a local barmaid had saddled him with responsibilities her family would not let him eschew. Now he was old and gray with a sorry brood, and his fat and bubbly wife was gone now for over six years. He still kept ol'Linda's picture hanging behind the bar though, even if he never admitted to missing that daft woman. Now his brother-in-law's son was missing. And frankly, he was not the first sturdy lad to have gone awry these passed few months.

"He ain't the only one that's gone missing," Franz was saying, lapsing back and forth between the drawl of his current life and the clipped cants of the previous one. Even after so many years, he remembered how to speak properly. Most of the time, at least. "There was that potter's wife. Tilly, I think her name was. Yes, Tilly. She liked to go on strolls with Daniel Meznick, if you know what I mean. No one has seen hide or hair of those two in months. They say they eloped, but I don't buy it." Franz shook his head, his expression darkening. "They'd have turnt up in another village, and I'd have heard about it." He tapped the side of his nose. "See, I've been talking to traders, putting feelers out in other villages. They're've been vanishings cropping up all over the bayou. Men, women, even the little ones. Now we could say the gators are getting awfully hungry, but..," he trailed off, shaking his head.

Uncorking a bottle and grabbing several glasses, Franz poured a measure of some clear-grain alcohol in each for the adventures, then poured one for himself after some brief hesitation. "Now, normally I wouldn't have gotten involved in these strange things. I'm a prudent man, too old for daring-do's, but my boy Jakob, he was -- ah, well, I'll let'em tell it." Turning and throwing his voice over a shoulder, Franz called for his son. "Jakob, get on out here. Tell these folks what you told me." After a while, a burly young man stepped through the threshold, wringing his dirty hands beneath a stained apron. Sharing many predominant features with his father, he had unruly dark hair chopped short and a narrow, studious face. He was handsome in the way most young men were handsome, before old age and hard living caught up with them.

But there was a look in Jakob's nervous eyes that should have never been there, a vague wildness that bespoke of a strong mind still reeling with the shock of what the eyes saw. It was fear. He was afraid. Not a fear of the present, he a strong youth, but a fear that came with knowledge that shook values previous held as immutable; the fear of the unaccountable but real. Jakob gave the group a long, lingering look, then gave his father an unhappy stare. In telling and retelling the tale, Jakob had gained no mastery over the events, but suffered for the clarity the expositions always brought back into focus. Franz put an arm around his son and drew him close, giving him an encouraging squeeze. "Go on, boy. They're here to help." Lips compressed into thin lines, the young man nodded. "'Bout a month back, I was out hunting with my friends. We went far, farther than we've ever gone before, and..," Jakob's eyes grew unfocused, then bright with remembered terror.

Jakob raised a hand and pinched tearducts shut beneath thumb and forefinger. Clearing his throat, he carried on in huskier tones, intent on finishing the tale. "We're out there hunting, and the air changed. I don't know how else to describe it. Felt the damn hairs on the back on my neck raise, and I felt like - like I was being watched, you know? We all felt it. And then we heard things out there, clicking and clacking. Ain't nothing like that I heard before. And, and.. ugh, I saw one. Right there out in the open, it looked at me, I never saw anything like it. We all saw it before it ran back into the shadows." He paused, feeling the story run away from him just the same as that creature: disjointed, into shadow. He took a moment to compose it in his head, his hands trembling before he stuck them both beneath his apron. "They started jumping out at us, screeching and waving their arms. Then they'd pull back into the trees. They were monsters. I don't know how else to describe them. They were all melted and some were eyeless and faceless and, and--"

Franz squeezed his son again, the boy pausing to master himself. Nodding, he moved on from the creatures, his cheeks wet with spilled tears. He sniffed loudly, wiped his face on an upturned shoulder, then pressed on. "I didn't realize it at the time, but they were leading us. Herding us together like fucking animals. Then I saw Daren break for it, and then we all broke. We ran into the woods with those things behind us. They don't run fast, whatever they are. We ran and ran and just -- we just ran. We all reached the boats and we kicked off, and went back home. No one believed us, except my da." Franz nodded, taking up the tale. "He described what he saw to me. I've never seen or heard of anything like it. I'm a biologist, neighbours. I know just about every animal and plant in this here swamp, and there ain't nothing like that that's meant to be here. I think the boy's right - I think there's monsters out there. I think they're part of all these disappearances. So I put up some coin and nailed up those fliers, and had some friends circulate them up north."

The innkeep looked at the adventurers. "Will you do it?" He asks, subdued but hopeful. "Will you see what's out there, taking our people? My boy'll take you where you need to go, we have a boat. But he's not to leave it. Ain't that right, boy?" Jakob looked at his father, at the group, then nodded vaguely.

 

[Empyrean]

Raea’s brows furrowed as she mulled over Jakob’s story. It was perhaps fortuitous they came this far after all. The Bedlam brought unexpected news and another unexpected adventure. They came armed, and Garrod had refreshed her footwork and swordplay along the way at her request. She delighted him with her many failures at first—but she was quick-witted and fast to remember the days of training before her family’s demise and improved in strides. Arriving with blades made her feel more reassured. Franz looked troubled; his son looked worse for wear. Her bottom lip rolled beneath her teeth as she thought about it more.

If it’d been a month and longer, chances were there would be no rescuing. But, Raea thought grimly—if they could at least figure out what was taking them, it would give more peace of mind. She had, with the Jakob’s permission, taken his hand so that she could Empathize.

Fresh fear erupted in her chest, but she braced for it—better prepared than she thought she had. She did not sink this time—and though her eyes glazed with that distant look, they quivered as if frantically searching. Silhouettes, shadows—grotesqueries. She couldn’t see them properly, no—there was too much fear clouding Jakob’s mind. The bayou is a dreadful, lovely place to die, she thought. Her hand was steady, lightly stroking the palm of Jakob’s palm with the tips of her dainty little fingers. It was an unconsciously soothing gesture; the boy had seen something unspeakably terrifying.

Her skin was prickling like cold fire, as if ice burned at her skin. It rippled along her arm, traced the curve of her slender shoulder and sent its icy touch down the length of her spine. Raea shuddered involuntarily and broke contact, feeling—and seeing—all there was to see. She thought about what Jakob said, what others had done—and she wondered, she wondered just so. She looked over to her traveling companion and sellsword, Garrod. “Feel like using me as bait?” She joked dryly with a grim smile—though, it was certainly a possibility. She was calm now, but...

The bayou was a dreadful, lovely place to die.

 

[Mako]

The Bayou was a dreadful place to live. A worse place to come back to.

He had always hated it here, despised it to his very core. Memories of the marshes were all but seared into his mind, burnt into place like a brand. Walking through the bogs of Garramarisma was enough to sting the flesh, burn the senses, and bring forth every unpleasant memory that sat within the depths of his skull.

So why then was he here?

It was a question that Mako had asked him a dozen times as he'd stepped off the gangplank of The Crow. A question that had sailed around his thoughts as he'd walked through the decrepit moors and walked over fallen mangroves. This place was an anathema to him, or at least it should have been. The moment Radic had taken him away from here he should have never returned, never come back.

Yet something pulled him to his place of birth, that little town on the edge of nowhere. Perhaps it was meeting Emilie, perhaps it was everything since the Reckoning. He didn't know, but he felt the compulsion, the draw to see his parents. Despite that pull he had fought every step, argued with himself, tried to reason a thousand different ways he could simply not go.

None ever seemed enough.

So the Mute found himself sitting in the tavern along with the other fools, listening to the tale of monsters and bloodied men.

Tales such as these weren't new, not really. There had always been monsters lurking in the swamps. Creatures wrought supposedly by the witches of the Crossroad Mire. Rumors always swirled, stories of alligators with six legs, of lurkers with jaws the size of three men.

Yet the stories never came to much, not disappearing children. Not from village to village.

Mako frowned as he listened, and scowled as Jakob finished. His gaze drifted through the room, watching some men shrink away, and a woman stand to offer herself as bait. For a moment the Mute simply sat there, watching, and then quietly he stood.

It was the only gesture he could offer, for none of them spoke the only language he knew.

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

A lack of coin had Kiros on the search for it once again, exacerbated by the fact that he had passed up a few opportunities already. Most jobs would send him to or near Alliria, and as much as he needed the money, he preferred to avoid the city. He’d already been recognized upon his return from Malakath; though only once, and by an old man who’s grasp on actual fact left much to be desired. Still, he didn’t want to risk the chance that someone might have now heard of Itra, whom he had been the grudging priest of for sixteen years. Kiros had remained ever paranoid of his possible notoriety since. to be recognized as ‘Pneria’s Prophet’ was bad, but to be recognized as a murderer would be terrifying.

It was just his fortune then, that he’d found one that took him away from the mainland to Garramarisma. Some villagers had gone missing, and an offer sent out to any who could help. He wasn’t too enthralled about the Bayou itself, but it wasn’t Alliria, and so he didn’t hesitate to accept the job.

* * *​

"No one cares what happens in these swamps. No mainlanders do anyway."

Franz’s very first statement was reflection of the attitude that had brought Kiros here in the first place, although spoken with words far more biting than the priest would have used. He arrived precisely because he doubted the presence of others, albeit out of reasoning that was less selfless than it seemed.

As he sipped the offered liquor and listened to the old man’s meandering story, he got a fill of rumours he cared not of. Yet he remained polite, and the alcohol to whet his lips did help the priest’s patience. Franz left it to his son Jakob to finish the story, but it still did not progress as he was frozen in obvious fear. Kiros paused when he saw it, and remained still as the boy finished his story. It was vivid, but lacking of evidence – even Franz was upfront that he had made a baseless correlation between the tale his son told and the disappearances described.

While hesitant to believe it, Kiros was far too polite to show it. But there was coin involved and he merely needed to investigate; if the boy’s tale was tall, it wouldn’t matter in the end.

“I’ll aid.” Kiros responded with a simple nod, and soon after Raea took his hand to weave her magic and put the veracity of the story to test.

And then offered herself as bait.

Only now did he display concern. Partly due to the perceived increased potential that the boy’s story was true, and in lesser part due to Raea offering herself as bait as primary plan without hesitation. Not that he was about to stop her.

If they did need bait, he wasn’t about to volunteer for the position – and they might. The task appeared far less mundane than first appearances had hinted at.

 

[Constantine]

The marsh was uninviting, not quite dreadful but unpleasant all the same. Constantine looked around, taking into himself the bits and pieces of information regarding his surroundings. He frowned, eyes met with goopy waters and skeletal foliage as far as his sight could reach.

"This must be it," he muttered, treading lightly to avoid the narrow, knee-deep puddles peppering the terrain ahead. They stank of decomposing flesh, swarming with larvae of aquatic insectoids. He only begrudgingly tolerated them as his steps formed an irregular pattern. Not unlike a ballerina, he skipped and swayed with feline grace. If only he weren't tall, muscular, bald and blessed, or cursed (depending on the viewpoint) with deathly, alabaster-colored skin.

A familiar buzzing in his right ear made him jolt up, pushing into it his index finger. The buzzing stopped, replaced by words, clear, coherent words of his to-be acquaintance.

"Yes?" The utterance was barely above a whisper, but whoever was on the other side must've heard it, continuing the flow of their abrupt conversation.

"Positive. I can barely see it amidst the twisted trunks. A tavern, right?"

The voice confirmed, hastily urging Constantine to carry on. Constantine shook his head, having had enough of the swamp's gloomy, depression-inducing exterior. Bedlam could've been the shittiest tavern on the face of Arethil, and he would've still chosen it over the swamp in a heartbeat.

"Roger that." And just like that, the chatter that had previously invaded the recesses of his mind died down. Constantine removed from his ear canal a small device, doing so swiftly and with surgical precision before placing the thing underneath his tongue.

GULP

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Garrod looked down at the small cup of clear spirit set before him, and sat there at the table in the swirl of it all. The smell of the bog, the burn of the alcohol, and the words which filled the air all around them. Monsters, melted, eyeless. Sounded like necromancy. Or some other horrible perversion born from dark magic. Bloody necromancers.

Well, you know all about that, don't you Garrod, came the voice of Belephus from within his gauntlet.

A smirk crested the sellsword's lips at Raea's offer. "If it comes down to it," he added with grim humor. "But I'm sure we could find something or someone with a little more meat on the bones." He took up the small offering of grain liquor that had been poured by Bedlam, the murky glass clinking against the pointed fingertips of his bone-white piece of armor.

Unsure why, he sniffed at the drink, and could feel his insides singe something fierce. "Oh ho,'" Garrod smiled wider, a bit of wild there in, and nodded to the old man in thanks. "Count me in," He toasted the small cup toward Bedlam, and raised it to his lips. He took a drink.

He was glad then, as the booze burned its way down his throat and he let the glass clack back down on the old wood of the table, that they had packed proper for this trip down south. The crossbow would likely come in handy, along with the blessed bolts he'd purchased in the mainland. But the bolts were few, and the crossbow cheap. And while his runed-greatsword made for a proper monster killer, the terrain around these parts would likely call for spear work, and they had but a mace, some bucklers, and a pair of old arming swords packed away.

You could always just let me have them, whispered sweet the demon in the jewel.

Garrod leaned back in his chair, and looked around he room with his lonely green eye. Not a bad bunch so far.

 

[Kristopher Mortas]

The swamps, the backwoods. The dregs and ditches of civilization. Where monsters liked to prey.

Or hide.

Where no one would question a man with yellow eyes prowling about, safe in the darkwoods. Safe from the sun, safe from monster hunters.

Or at least, he was. Up until this point.
Then the lot of them gathered up and decided to toast to some great adventure. Of which sounded like a terrible idea for Kristopher's wellbeing and relative security. The more eyes, the less safe he was. Granted he only had to fulfill his... urges but once or twice a week, and sleeping travelers coming through the swamp hardly noticed pricks on their skin when they were covered in bug bites to begin with.

So, out of all the gathered people in the tavern, a man with the swords and the ugly, scarred mug didn't seem too pleased they were there.

He held onto the glass of spirit tightly, bending the cheap iron mug it was given in.

 

[Constantine]

Constantine laid the flats of his palms upon the unkempt wooden doors, pushing inwards. He peeked his head inside, only to hear a dozen voices, many of them at once, cheering, chattering, laughing, seemingly awed by or at something.

The atmosphere took him off guard, far too light-hearted, hospitable even, a total contrast to the surrounding shithole. He needed a moment to take it all in, standing frozen, his back hunched slightly forward. Those who saw him inter were but a few. They squinted nonetheless, perplexed by Constantine's strange mannerism and even stranger appearance.

He was worryingly pale, whiter than ivory, and deathly aware of that. Constantine's face had no hair gracing it, not even a tuft. Even his eyebrows were missing, having fallen off decades ago.

The makeup he wore only worked to amplify his supernatural vibe. Even so, it was hard to tell whether the pitch-black circles under his eyes were an artificially-grafted detail or a byproduct of insomnia.

"Hello?" he called out to no one in particular, finally pushing the rest of his broad frame through an unusually narrow doorframe. The act earned him an estranged look from a man in his immediate vicinity. Those observing him didn't expect a tall, muscular man covered from head to toe in tattoos and flesh carvings, or so he thought as he glanced at his clothes, growing ever so aware.

"Is this the Bedlam Inn?" The man paused, glanced from left to right, and rubbed his chiseled chin, awaiting an answer. "Or was it a Tavern?"

As Constantine waited, his glowing eyes caught brief glimpses of Franz as the stranger went on and on about his story. Constantine thought nothing of the man, deeming him a local of diminutive value. Still, what little of the story he did hear tugged at his curiosity.

Roen

 

[Roen]

I don’t want to remember, came Jakob’s thought. It wasn’t really a sentence; it was a concept, a rejection of the visceral recollection Raea’s empathic link prompted. With something analogous of a whimper come unbidden, Jakon snatched his hand away from the empath’s comforting touch and blinked furiously, stifling the tears that started to gather at the corners of his eyes. This had become Jakob’s life ever since returning from the deeper recesses of the marshlands; his grip on his emotions was tenuous at best and fraying at worst. He was not a coward however. He looked at the group of mismatched adventurers and nodded sharply before turning away, heading back into the kitchens from whence he came. His father watched him go with the worried expression any parent was wont to wear, then sighed and turned back to the gathered throng.

“That’s real kind of you all.” Franz said, staring down at his gnarled hands and wringing his apron. Uncomfortable with expressing gratitude, the man cleared his throat and shook his head, as quick to get the party on their way now that all was said. At least, until Constantine entered. Seeing the adventurer for what he was but much unwilling to reiterate the tale, Franz implored those already gathered to fill the large man in on the requisite details, before answering him himself. “Yeah yeah, this is the Bedlam tavern and inn, just like the sign says." Then to the others. "Now pray, excuse me. I’m gonna go see about the boat.” Reaching for the bottle of the clear grain alcohol, Franz hesitated then, with a rueful chuckle, left it on the counter for the adventurers before turning and disappearing into the kitchens, where brief and muffled conversation was struck up between father and son.

---

To Franz and his son Jakob, the family boat was a marvel of engineering and ingenuity, and indeed, it was the envy of many among their community. This did not mean it was anything more than a well-constructed raft, however. With several layers of logs neatly lashed together with strong hemp rope and a few empty casks, the raft was primarily used in the transportation of goods and the occasional hunting trip, built with the weight and capacity for water displacement to keep it afloat even under the heaviest of loads. With a mast at its center and several poles, it was not the most maneuverable or swiftest method of transportation, but it was sturdy and reliable, which counted for much and more in these heavy marshlands. Jakob was already on board, his sure hands adjusting the rigging of the mast while he waited for the adventurers to arrive. Franz, his father, sat a canvas sack down near his son.

"Some pig jerky to keep you all fed and a few skins of wine to wash it down with." Franz explained to the group when they boarded, his expression sour. "I'll be deducting it from your fees, mind. Can't have you keeling over in hunger pangs out there..," he trailed off. "Hey! What did I tell you about those ropes?" He yelled at his son. "A little rain and a bit of wind and that knot will slip! Untie it and do it again, the way I showed you." Shaking his head and cursing sulfurously, Franz looked at the group. "Now, he'll take you where you folk need to go, but he's not to leave the boat, you understand?" Jakob looked up from his work, his brows furrowed. Franz continued unperturbed. "I don't want him setting one foot out there. He minds the boat and that's all." He looked at each man and the woman in turn, his expression grim.

He waited for their assent before he stomped off the raft and onto the pier, huffing with the effort. With deft hands, Franz undid the mooring lines while Jakob, finished with the mast's rigging, went to the edge of the raft. Grabbing up the rope when the mooring was untied, Jakob stowed it neatly and took up a pole, handing it to either Constatine, Kristopher, Garrod, or Kiros - whichever was quicker about it - before grabbing up a pole for himself. Coordinating effort, Jakob sought to push them deeper into the marshes, before guiding them into the swamp proper. At a glance, the boy had his hunting bow slung over a shoulder and a plain dagger stuffed in his belt. He raised one hand to wave goodbye to his father before a bend took them out of eyeshot, then spat unhappily into the befouled waters.

"He's too protective." Jakob groused to no one in particular. "I don't need to stay with the damn boat."

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

Preserved food. Salted, dry, and requiring sweet drink such as wine to counter both qualities. It was what he ate on his travels, as it did not spoil when carried with him. Kiros had been looking forward to freshly cooked meal when he arrived, though he was far too polite to complain about any food offered to him. Though Franz did not offer the jerky and wine, merely the availability of it for purchase.

“And what else will you be deducting?” Kiros asked with eyebrow raised. The wary Kaliti priest sensed the old man he sought to help sought to take advantage of his kindness. Perhaps that was why the request had been put out to the general public instead of a dedicated organization. One of which Kiros held estranged connection to.

If Franz didn’t find it prudent to make mention of cost before charging them, Kiros felt it unnecessary to inform the old man of his association with the Monster Hunters; at least until it came time to collect his pay. He hadn’t taken a job or held correspondence with them since the calamity in Malakath, yet remained a member of good standing with the organization. The Hunters would grant him reward. Franz would either find himself paying a premium inflated by added overhead cost; or find his community secured by the Hunters if unable.

He’d rather not resort to that, holding great sympathy for those secluded communities in need such as Franz’s. If they could not pay, Kiros could understand. He’d routinely exchanged his healing services for naught more than the hospitality of those who’d needed it, but Franz appeared as if he would rudely deny him even that. He could pity the poor; it was much more difficult to pity those people ill-mannered and greedy. Offensive as the potential withholding of any amount of payment was, it’d hardly be worthwhile to squabble over a meagre difference between reported and actual reward.

“Well and good. You’ve asked us to hunt, not him.” Kiros replied dryly with an accompanying nod of acknowledgement at Franz’s instruction. All the better that Franz remained behind – Kiros was growing quite weary of the elderly man’s company.

Setting his quarterstaff aside on the floor of the raft, he took the offered pole from Jakob and helped push the raft through the swamp waters from its opposite side. Once out of eyesight and earshot of Franz, Kiros heard Jakob speak the truth on his mind. The young man’s disobedience he could sympathize with. His own ‘father’ had been a lout; having long been disowned, the man was not even that.

He would give the lad's notions neither encouragement nor discouragement, however. He'd implied he wouldn't do the former, but the latter could do no good either. Kiros had been of that age and mentality once; if Jakob was truly set on accompanying them, there was likely little that could be done to dissuade him. Besides, he was no child. The man was young, but certainly of an age where he ought be able to handle himself.

Time would tell whether he would or would not. What Jakob spoke seemed directed to none in particular, and could amount to little more than irritation spoken aloud. Whatever the case, they had their task. Together with Jakob, Kiros helped push the raft towards their destination.

 

[Empyrean]

Trauma was an ugly thing—but so too was healing.

Raea learned the difficult way that healing was nothing magical; It wasn’t something pretty and sparkling. It was a plain thing that came from something unbidden. No one in nature ever painted it anything other than what it is—but humans in their infinite lack of wisdom, ever-aspiring to control every aspect of their lives would never simply let the healing happen.

They were weak like that.

Raea’s hands dropped without a word. She understood a wall when she came upon it and refused to push any further. Jakob’s trauma was written clearly across his features—and his resolution was sound even after they broke contact. The pads of her fingers and the palms of her handles prickled with ethereal power, and she flexed and shook them as if they were on the verge of going numb and doing so would bring some life back to them. It was when Constantine entered, hulking and strange—she knew those furtive glances and hesitant features in people—and Franz implored they give explanation that Raea obliged after a long, drawn out moment of hesitation.

“Well now, “She remarked blithely. Her hands had rested in her hips but now as Jakob began preparing, there was a sudden energy to the room as folks gathered their belongings and Raea gathered her own pack, “Let’s not everyone rush in at once to tell the tale. There have been a series of concerning disappearances. This boy claims to have encountered monsters. We’ve volunteered to investigate. There’s coin in it.” The last bit came out dryly—an echo of her disdain for the gold and glory. But she had promised Garrod she would help earn her share with more mouths to feed.

The air was damp and soggy. The locals were indifferent to it—it was their everyday life. Visitors were disenchanted by it—as if it soaked up the dejected and depressing and weighed down on the shoulders and hearts of those not strong enough to eke out their existence here. Out here, as Franz had said, no one cared.

Yet Franz spoke fatherly things, as fathers did and Jakob responded in tandem with boyish looks and boyish feelings. He spoke boyishly as all young men did—that was to say, that he was a man who did not yet know man things, for he was still a boy (but it would look impressive never-the-less).

“My parents were over-protective too when I was your age.”

She smiled impishly, a phantom gesture that vanished as soon as it appeared. She betrayed her age as she spoke. Too oft she as mistaken for a child or one of the small folk. She was no tall, long-legged beauty and she didn't mind it. Sometimes childlike wonder didn't escape her, “They would tell me if I didn’t behave, the Yōsei would crawl from under my bed and take me to their wintery palace and I’d be their slave forever. It’s only natural for a parent to want to protect their child, regardless of their age.” It was rare for her to speak of her parents. In fact, Raea seldom spoke about herself at all; Garrod had earned that right, but it had been necessary at the time.

They were in the company of complete strangers. Franz had every right to be concerned with his son venturing off with them—particularly since they were interested enough to go towards the danger and not away from it. Raea knew her motherly instinct was merely an echo of Franz’ concern.

A quiet man had joined them—but he never offered a word; she wondered about that—but no one else had asked. She made a note to do so later. Another agreed to join. Garrod had teased in return and—for a moment, Raea was dimly offended. It was true, she was of noble blood and—yes, she was arguably the most diminutive of the gathered—but she was more. She mentally reminded herself of Rysorian's knives tucked neatly and discreetly across her in the ways he instructed her to. Her long, slender fingers made knife-wielding considerably easier and the Shape Shifter judged her correctly in that she was fast in her reflexes when pushed. If someone or thing made a pass for Jakob, she would tap into that protective nature. Raea thanked Franz and offered no argument, though the other man had the forethought to question what else might be deducted.

Raea sat prettily in the boat, but her gaze was on the water. There was a rhythm to the push of poles, the way they traversed along the bayou. It was hard to tell what was log and what was predator—or prey. Raea had the idea that while they agreed to hunt—it was entirely possible they would also be hunted. Her skin crawled and she absently tugged at her long, dark braid. The ripples warped scintillating light reflecting on the scant surface that wasn’t covered. Moss and algae.

Push, glide…
Push, glide…

Raea felt her attention drifting the longer she stared at the water, lost in thought...

--

“What a sad little nymph you are, golden and pretty.” A woman with glassy gray eyes spoke to Raea from her tattered rug. Raea, in a moment of nerves at the realization she was blind laughed nervously, quietly, uttering something under her breath—The slums were a cesspool for the deranged and the unfortunate and she had no desire to linger there. The woman caught her hand, fierce and unexpectedly tight around her wrist.

“I see the ichor in your veins.” Her blind eyes were wide and Raea pulled fiercely. The woman refused to let go. “You beckon life at the touch of a hand, but you were made for monsters, girl. The light is a lie, it only blinds you from the truth!” She hissed the last words with such venom that Raea recoiled, wrenching her hand free. “Flesh still burns in the winter, because the Sun wills it!” The woman howled as Raea quickly retreated.



“They will kneel before their Sovereign!”

--​

Push, glide…
Push, glide…



Against her better judgement, Raea reached out to the water’s surface, as if it called to her, as if it too might reach out to her. She thought she could hear the current beneath, and—as she often thought she did—the phantom whispers of something else.

The lull of their ride in this strange, water-logged place should have left her uncomfortable, despondent, and frankly depressed. And yet—if she just leaned closer, closer, closer still she would be okay. Raea exhaled slowly and felt the water rising in a gentle swell—gliding them carefully and easing the burden of the men with their capable arms as they traversed.

She couldn’t slip beneath the surface. Not here—not yet. But like an addiction—an itching, she felt a pang of satisfaction, and that would have to be enough.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Garrod was grateful for the bottle the old man had left behind, and when the night was done and spirits were still left... he snuck it away with him. A tip, for his troubles. And anyone else's should they partake.

----

"Supplies come hard in a place like this, huh?" Garrod thought aloud, "Pigs don't grow on trees, and wine comes from the mainland," he laughed, and hefted an over-sized pack loaded with weapons and kit wrapped up and hung off the sides. "Less its bayou wine, then, gods help us," he said, and stepped onto the raft with the rattle of gear.

Had the old man deducted the bottle of booze he pinched last night? Only time would tell he supposed.

Garrod found a good place to stow the travel sized armory, and set it down. "Would rather have sweet water than wine though," he said, nodding to the merchant and the priestly looking fellow in turn before he went back to checking the equipment.

His sword stayed upon his back, but the pack had the other bits of kit. A crossbow, a pair of old iron bucklers, an arming sword, and a mace. He had managed to trade one of the swords for a pair of old fishing spears. Not ideal, but there wasn't much of a smith in this place, and he had a feeling that even a simple pole-arm would make a difference at some point. He grabbed a loose piece of rope, and tied the sack down, worried some swell in the current would have it all washed away.

The raft pushed off from the pier, and soon they were underway, gliding across the current. Garrod readied the crossbow, and set it aside, bolts nearby, and made sure to tie the fishing spears near the railings. It was tedious work.

How droll you are, dear Garrod. Belephus teased. As if these little trinkets will matter in the end.

Garrod grumbled to himself, and decided to look for distraction rather than listen to that thing he carried. His eye scanned about. The priestly fellow looked rather grim with his determination and Jakob looked like he had something to prove. It was a look that reminded him of Rysorian. An aimless anger that pointed out at others and looked for ways to burn itself out. No thought of what would come after. It was a look Garrod had no time for. Not anymore.

His eye looked elsewhere, and saw Raea sitting by the water. Yet, she did not just sit there. She loomed. As if a bird peering through the surface, eye trained on some great shape that they would catch. He stepped to her, careful. "Raea?" He asked.

 

[Kristopher Mortas]

Kristopher joined them for purely selish reasons. A fear of the sun had made him wear a light cloak. Not that the heat, or cold ever really bothered him anymore. His pale eyes, hauntingly predator-like, pushed out to the water, his back turned away from the light. He enjoyed the swamp- the risk of sunlight, even during the day, was minimal. He could move in shadows relatively easily.

For the first time, he spoke.

"Mind the water. This place has a mind of it's own."

Kristopher hadn't taken the time to think about his father in a long while. He missed him. He would have liked to have lived a more normal life with him, his mother. Perhaps taken a simple merchant affair and had three kids, died and left a quiet, content man.

But instead, he suffered as a monster, lurking in the swamps, desperate for some semblance of hope that he could feel the sun again. Go to a market. Go to a beach.

And not have to suck blood from random passerby's to survive.

He held a steel sword across his lap, silent as the grave as they rode through the water after he spoke to the girl.

The last thing they needed was to be attacked by one of the many creatures in the swamp because one of their party got wistful gazing into the water.

 

[Mako]

Mako had silently followed along.

He was still not entirely sure why, why he should even bother. No one in the Bayou had ever helped him, no one in this accursed place had ever wanted to offer a hand. That was the way of his home. Everyone had to survive, but you had to do it on your own.

Even his parents had felt that way, throwing him to the wolves as only a child.

Briefly the Mute wondered where he would have found himself if not for Radic. Would he have been dead, a corpse long forgotten in the belly of some beast?

The thought was an unsettling one.

For a brief moment he watched in silence as Raea touched the water. A silent breath sucked into his lungs for a moment. Hand reached out to gently touch her shoulder, head shaking just as Kristopher spoke up. The two of them sharing the same thought.

He was right. The waters had a mind of their own here.

Best not to risk it.

 

[Empyrean]

When Mako touched her shoulder, the reverie was broken and the water no longer held dominion over her. Even as Raea withdrew her hand, their sad excuse for boat slowed. It likely would have felt as though they had ridden a current that had changed or was no longer there again.

Raea glanced between Mako, Garrod and Kristopher, “Sorry,” She smile apologetically, “It happens sometimes. Sometimes I call on the water and sometimes it calls on me.” She clicked her tongue in dissatisfaction, glancing at the rippling surface that was partially hidden by the floating flora. She murmured her displeasure, “Still couldn’t tell you what it wants. I can only barely sense intent in things, whether alive or a living organisms.”

Raea glanced back at Garrod and grinned crookedly, “Or maybe I’m just a terrible listener." She shrugged. "My Empathy has its limits, but it’s useful in unconventional ways; I can sense moods or identify auras. I might get your intention or your whole life story, depending on how strong the emotion is. It's good for marking enemies or companions.” Or for tracking beasties down below. People are interesting, she would have admitted. Their motley crew certainly was. It was hard to explain that touching the water was something different that she couldn't readily put into words; If the magick of water were threads tightly drawn on the warp of a loom, Raea could sense the weft of another's magick weaving through it. For some reason her clumsy tongue couldn't make that sound as eloquent as she thought it sounded.

People were fascinating, whether she liked them or not. Who knew if they were going to make it out of this job alive? But Raea knew that Empathy was deeply frowned upon, even if her own was different in its manifestation. Perhaps so too was her affinity with water and magick, which had more hold over her than she did of it when her attention wandered. Whether that made her a freak or a blessing in disguise she didn’t know anymore. It was better to announce it than take anyone by surprise--sans Garrod, who already knew.

Twisting in her seat, Raea regarded Mako curiously with squinting eyes, “You haven’t said a word. By choice, or by design?”

She had only seen this once before in the belly of Alliria’s outer walls, but she had heard of worse things—of girls whose tongues were cut to keep them silent. Children who were born defective and left as poor bastards on the streets. Some people were simply too traumatized to speak. She had been called upon to help one such girl but—there was very little she could do. Raea understood trauma when she came upon it—it was an ugly sensation like having your face raked against a brick wall.

The girl had taught her signing things, but that was so long ago that she was certain it’d be clumsy and crude in her pathetic attempt to dredge up any memories of what was learned. Raea made her best effort to make a gesture of speaking.

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

"Would rather have sweet water than wine though,"

“Oh, if only we could grant our own wishes. Doubtful we’d be here seeking pay.” said Kiros, with a delivery stoic enough to be deadpan, yet accompanied by the slightest of grins when Garrod’s gaze passed his way. The man was well prepared and carried with with with him a sizable array of weapons, a pair of spears among them. Kiros was armed with naught but his quarterstaff as always, as She’d not allow Her magic to flow forth from any other instrument. Perhaps for the best; his initial excursion to Malakath had proven he’d proven far less apt with the spear than he’d initially believed himself to be.

“We’ll find this creature; we depart prepared for it.” Kiros spoke to Jakob, assurance of success the best support he could presently provide. A healer of physical trauma, Kiros was no mender of its mental counterpart. Were he so, he’d have surely healed himself. He had plenty of his own to contend with without Itra adding to it, and naturally that was the one capacity in which She was generous. Ever aspiring to control every aspect of his life, She’d dare not allow any healing either. She might lose Her priest that way.

The splashing of water and subsequent dunk of the guiding stick back down continued in a steady pattern, propelling the raft atop the otherwise still swamp water’s surface. Shallow enough for the stick to reach the bottom of it, yet so dark and murky as to obscure it from view. What a different world it was that he found himself in. In Amol-Kalit death was found in the barren desert, with the oases that dotted the baking landscape carrying crystal-clear water from which life bloomed forth. The swamp was teeming with life everywhere, yet the plentiful water that nourished it looked akin to decay and death.

"Mind the water. This place has a mind of it's own." Spoke the man, one of two who had been silent up until this point. Kiros spoke nothing, yet stilled himself in stance with a contemplative look to him while continuing to push the raft with motions that had long become automatic. A brief furtive glance was given to his companions, gauging the wisdom of Kristopher’s hypothesis as explanation for their odd behaviour. Garrod appeared restless, and Raea greatly troubled. Concern still clear upon his face, Kiros next looked to the blackened waters again.

And within the its murky depths, Kiros saw nothing; save for perhaps the splash of what submerged life lay within. Naught called out to him, and that it was so was far from a surprise. His mind laid secure beneath a barrier woven over it by Itra Herself; yet further wisdom gained from his trip to Malakath. She’d not allow another to assault his mind, seeming to prefer keeping a monopoly over that act. As little gratitude as he usually had for Her aid, he was thankful for this enchantment in the present moment.

This place was dismal enough already.

Even Mako seemed troubled by the waters, further reinforcing Kiros’ belief in the powers beneath. Yet once Raea slipped back she offered explanation that put the theory to doubt. Noting the loss of speed, Kiros listened on with increased effort to push the raft along.

“My Empathy has its limits, but it’s useful in unconventional ways; I can sense moods or identify auras. I might get your intention or your whole life story, depending on how strong the emotion is.”

Raea’s explanation was one he’d not have guessed, nor one he’d ever imagine. Kiros believed that the order had been long defunct, having encountered little evidence to suggest otherwise. It was certainly not arcane knowledge one could learn in Elbion. While initially pensive about the news, concern was quickly quelled by security in Itra’s enchantment. Doubtful that Raea could read his thoughts, scry his memories or discover his traumas. But of course, neither could she mend them. Perhaps it was best such memories were locked, sparing Raea the potential to discover Her; positions reversed, Kiros would have appreciated such blissful ignorance.

The concern worn upon his face proceeded to slowly fade, as realization set in that the news needn’t bother him. He had plenty enough else that did, and readily accepted the option of sparing an addition to the list. Not knowing what else to make of the news, Kiros gave a simple nod; more of acceptance than endorsement. Empathy magic was unknown, and the unknown bid fear; in this, Kiros hardly differed from most of humankind.

Returning his attention to guiding the raft by pole, his continued musing over Raea’s words sparked a second realization. While she was unlikely to read his mind, she further claimed talent in identifying auras. And while it was unlikely that she could read his emotions, there was far more than that which gave an aura; namely magic. His staff was enchanted by Itra and carried Her aura along with it; if Raea could read it, she was likely to sense an aura unlike any other. Not necessarily powerful, but different.

But the fret could well be for nothing. She had explicitly introduced herself as an empath after all, and perhaps that implied that her ability to identify auras was limited to those of emotional nature. Kiros had no idea, lacking any wisdom on the school of magic. Even so, it was doubtful she’d know the connection or understand who it belonged to, at least. Experience had shown that few seemed to know of Her, and Kiros doubled down on his hope that such was true.

If there was anything to be learned in Farreach, it was that leaving Itra out of matters was truly for the best.

 

[Empyrean]

Raea pulled out the journal and flipped through the pages. She had spent a long time trying to make sense of the descent into madness. The further into the pages, the more erratic and radical the concepts were. There were sketches of items, flora, fauna. There were scriptures of things she had never heard from. Incantations or recipes for dinner—Raea could not tell the difference between them most days. When Raea found she needed to clear her mind, she set to the task of understanding Roen better.

She ran her fingers down each page, as if touching the scrawling handwriting would open her up to some secret she had missed or overlooked. It was difficult to read in the dim and fading light. It was not until she turned the page and felt the stab of acute anxiety—no, this was the acrid taste of fear—and Jakob visibly flinched and recoiled did she flip the journal closed, a finger keeping her place. She had not realized he was reading over her shoulder.

He trembled now, fear emanating him in a way that was stifling and cloistering. “Jakob.” Raea’s brows knit as she turned to him, but he only shrank further, the boat rocking subtly. He shook his head, whispering again and again, “I don’t want to remember…” He asserted, and she nodded in concern before she moved to give him space, slipping between Mako, Kristopher and Kiros to sit by Garrod. “Look at this,” She spoke quietly, peeling the journal open to show him the marred sketch and scrawling notes.

It was grotesque. That was the only word she could think of. Raea scanned over the words—some of them she couldn’t make out or the words ran together but those that she could bode ill. The sketch was dirtied and blotted beyond detailed recognition, but there was no mistaking that whatever was beneath the stains was something monstrous, hideous and unnatural in design.

​

Abominable Strange aberrations Sorcery ​

Claws, strength, speed

tear, ease rumors, myths grievous wounds​

carnage packs ravenous

terrifying burned​

When Garrod was finished looking at the hideous drawing, she shared it among the others to gauge their reactions. “Jakob’s reaction…” She glanced back at Garrod knowingly, “...he might be here, o-or was.” She knew she made very little sense to anyone else but him. It was too soon to make assumptions, too early to believe that was the case. Still, still—she had a moment of equal parts fear and excitement.

Raea knew the perils she involved herself in. She was a healer, and that alone made her valuable. Still, still, though. She didn't realize the gravity of their danger until that moment. Perhaps that was the whimsy of a foolish girl on a fool's errand. She thought of Jakob's fragile mental and emotional state, and how to best ply the information from the scared boy.

It wouldn't matter terribly, if they all ended up dead.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Relief washed over the spellsword as the others chimed in, warning Raea away from the water.

It was not the first time he had seen her fall into such a state. When he first bore witness to it, he worried she would go into the water and never come out. As if something there in the ebbing and formless substance called to her. Pulled at her very strings.

A word of caution, a note of concern, that had been enough to keep the fate from playing out. But he wondered. What would come to pass if no word was given? If there was no eye to find her there at that edge? What would find her there in those deep and dark waters. Thoughts best left unexplored, he reminded himself.

Thoughts that will surely come to pass. His demon in the jewel whispered sweet.

It had him turn away, had his brow furrow and he busied himself with menial tasks about the raft. Equipment checks and lace tightening. The sorts of things that could make a difference. However small.

There was a shift of weight felt beneath him, the sound of boots which knocked against the deck.

"Look at this," came the familiar voice, and he stilled his hands, which tied together ropes, and looked at the page, felt a pang in his chest, and his brow furrowed, and his eye narrowed.

Yes, she brings you closer to such things, oh bearer mine. For such things will find her, and such things will have you undone.

When Raea moved off, when she spoke of he who they sought, Garrod cast a sharp look in her direction, and then looked to the others. What would they make of this, he could not help but wonder. What would they ask, or seek to know.

"Whatever is here," he cut into the silence that fell upon them, and looked the the young man who's courage had run from him as quick as a leaf on the current. "We shall deal with it as it comes."

Oh, how you will deal indeed. Belephus laughed within the shadow of his mind, and it only served to harden his expression further.