Open Chronicles The Disappeared

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Theme Music

The Spine.
​

It had seen it's fair share of... interesting happenings lately. From Naga to assaults, and now at the precipice of watching the undead rise once more- the evil in the land was waking, powerful magics stirring long-since dead creatures and spirits. Such was the case... of the village of Faragen,. Nestled at one of the warmer parts of Epressa, North of the Spine- it had been once known for it's quarry that produced fine stone and marble.

But, in the past month, the only thing that came from the village of Faragen- was reports of something sinister. Travelers felt ill, became sick, or had waking or sleeping nightmares merely trying to pass into the town. Soon, there were simply no travelers at all. Neighboring communities began to fear the worst, and sent relief parties to aid their neighbors.

They never returned.

Scouts were sent to find them, but only remarked that the only building that Faragen had left standing was it's mighty town hall- alight with a sinister red light that could be seen for miles upon miles, unnatural at that range. Something sinister had taken hold of Faragen. It was then that a call for those willing to help Faragen was put out.

Arnor Skuldsson was one such person to answer the call. He signed a letter to Maude, instructing the innkeeper he had been staying with since the burning of Knottington to send in case of his failure to return. Arnor donned his amor, gathered his weapons- including a recently purchased silver shortsword, and set off to Faragen. His approach was curious, at least, for a Nordenfiir. Arnor was one of the few Nordenfiir that he knew....

To ride a horse.

Albeit, the only horse willing to put up with his weight was a considerably large pack horse, that had been once used to haul mead. It was ornery as he was, and he knew for a fact that the horse liked to drink mead as much as any reasonable person did. The horse, tolerated Arnor because... well Arnor had no idea really. Maybe it was a mutual benefit. Arnor liked to give his horse mead, and the horse returned the favor by not bucking him off, and taking him where he needed to go.

Arnor called him Rhi, because, if the horse could put up with him, ride him, and move fairly quickly... well, he might as well been king of every horse to ever lived, in Arnor's book.

But Faragen was a day's off, and he needed to rest, and Rhi needed to drink. Or at least, the amount of huffing he was doing told him that he wanted a drink.

So it was there, that Arnor and Rhi stopped at a local tavern, just East of Faragen... the Three Swords Inn. Unknown to Arnor, it was a usual go-between for most sellswords and people looking to make their fortune with a bit of mercenary work. And to be the ones that discovered the ills of Faragen? It'd be hard to beat that claim to any would-be adventurer seeking their fortune and glory. Or trying to line their pockets (as Arnor was doing).

The door opened, and the Three Swords patrons only gave Arnor a half-glance, for a second longer than most. Murmurs of being a Nordenfiir, or just a big man, and then back to their respective drinking and scheming. Orcs, Elves, Dwarves, all lined the walls and seats of the Three Swords, of various shapes, sizes, and plans. And stations in life. Some old, some young, some new to the business, some well-versed in selling their sword for work. But they all had one thing in common-

They all drank together.

Arnor placed three coins on the counter. One for a drink for him, one for a drink for the horse, one for the room. He always got the same look when he asked for a bowl of mead... for the horse outside. The look tonight warranted another coin being slid onto the counter. Money talked, and a bowl was delivered to Rhi, much to the delight of the overly large, grumpy, possibly alcoholic horse. Arnor however, leaned on the counter, and took a single drink, watching the patrons. The bartender looked him over, noting his attire... and the weaponry he carried.

"You a sellsword?"

Arnor nodded.

"Making your way South, going to the Orcs, around Belgrath? Lots of work to be done there, I heard."

Arnor shook his head.

"Oh? Going west? Maybe to-"

Arnor spoke as he put his drink down.

"Faragen."

The people at the bar fell silent, locals knowing the dangers that Fargen had befallen. Evil resided there now. Only evil and only so. No one had been down the road to Faragen in months.. and returned. Slowly, the Inns patrons fell silent as they all began to notice people at the bar slowly moving away from Arnor, as if he himself was going to spread the curse to them somehow.

Arnor took another drink.

"Suppose that means that it's all true, then."

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

Erën sat quietly in a darkened corner of the inn. He had spent several days there now, preparing himself for the coming task. But now he only rested, with his chosen time drawing near. He dwelt there with his cloak about him and one arm reaching out from the shadow to rest on the table before him, cup in hand. It was a warm drink. He looked down at the table. He was reading all that he could find written about the recent happenings to the east. He had come north some time ago and found little else than unrest. He was not so surprised but dismayed to think that at one time his people would have presence here and such disruptions would not be left so unnoticed. But that was long ago and sitting to lament the past was something he was beginning to make a nasty habit of.

Then Erën’s eyes rose up from a scroll. He watched as a mountain of a man enter into the inn, and with heavy footfalls made his way to the bar. Between Erën’s age and experience he guessed the newcomer's place. Nordenfiir. He'd had dealings with their kind before, and thankfully, they had all been pleasant experiences.

With a plain face he watched, then while he stood at the bar Erën’s eyes descended to the texts he was reading, but his attention was still on the newcomer. He listened as the barkeep danced around the obvious. Then, his eyes were again drawn to the Nordenfiir, the mere mention of Faragen dropping onto the crowd an eerie stillness. Erën frowned. He left his cup on the table and stood. With his cloak open to reveal his obvious allotment, he approached the bar past those shuffling away in discomfort.

“Yes, it is true,” he said as he drew near, loudly enough so all could hear, “and too few now would take up the call.” He looked around at some of the patronage, who offered him mixed looks of hopefulness and contempt, “I would be one that will be going soon.”

 

[Selene Avar]

Selene was done with the Spine. She had come to these mountains for a particular purpose, and that purpose was now fulfilled with the prize that sat in her saddlebags.

Along the way she had lost an entire caravan of soldiers, merchants, and civilians as well as a few stragglers, but none of them mattered too much to her. Some had gotten what they wanted, others had died. In the end all that mattered was what she'd claimed at the peaks of the Spine.

She felt quite pleased with herself as she pulled on her horses reigns and guided it towards the stable of the Three Swords Inn.

The Stable boy greeted her with a slightly perplexed expression, clearly not used to seeing a woman of her stature at such a tavern. Selene frowned for a moment, pulling him aside and asking him what sort of place this was. It seemed odd to find something like this here.

"We a waystation of sorts, for mercenaries an' tha' loike, Ma'am."​

Selene cringed at the boys accent, but thanked him with a piece of silver.

No need to be rude.

When she opened the door of the Inn she heard Xyrdithas speak, her lips thinning slightly. She wondered briefly what call was being taken up. As far as she knew there was no war anymore, Molthal having been cowed for now, and Belgrath too weak to strike back.

Her head shook, and she motioned to the barkeep as she took am empty table and listened.

 

[Tholiel Ironarm]

Tholiel sat nestled between the chair and drink. She was seated at a table for a larger man, one that she had bested at arm wrestling and had claimed for herself as she saw the bigger man come inside. The grey jacket was washed out and the trim faded to nearly nothing. Her arming jacket was still below the gorget, keeping her navy shirt from being to frayed by the rub of metal.

The shin guards were the other piece of metal about the dwarf as she took a healthy drink of ale and watched the man speak to the keep about work before speaking of Faragen.

The atmosphere that sprang up spoke volumes about when the others would speak or hold their tongue. Tholiel was not such a person however, and picked up her drink at the same time another was coming forward to speak with the hulking man.

Which made her stumble for the briefest moment as she drug her war hammer over in the other hand. The large man made it known he was going towards the cursed town, and the other in armor more intricate then she cared to imagine having had a hand in making also mentioned taking up the call of helping the place. She found it the best point to cut in after taking a healthy drink from behind the two.

"I'll be joinin' you two then. Never set righ' with me if ah do nothing fer those folk." Tholiel spoke as the hammer was lazy placed on her shoulder, still not putting her drink down.

 

[Laqueta Hala Kritanta]

Laqueta glanced up as the ruckus in the tavern escalated. Her pointed ears twitched in annoyance and she sighed. She thought that perhaps she could stay in the shadows for a while, stay somewhere near Faragen where no man dare venture to. And yet, the chatter of venturing out there filled the tavern. It was some bullshit. Great evils lurked out there and she dared not to interfere. Kritanta was quite pleased with the deaths of those whom were foolish enough to go there. As long as her god was happy, she had her magic.

All the talk of helping the place was rather annoying so she approached the group rather slowly and paused right behind them. She then tapped the female dwarf on the shoulder and then gestured to room of people. Most of them looked rather uncomfortable.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

The bartender grew uneasy at the amount of people now even mentioning the word Faragen. There were others that took interest in what Arnor had said- and others in the place that had taken interest in what Faragen had to offer them. To say the prospect of an entire town, full of it's treasures, riches, materials- going untouched for some time, by any of those daring to venture to it... that was more than tempting for most.

Temptation, however, was the ire of good souls. Good souls that never made it out of Faragen. Horses sprinting past in the night, riderless. Carriages, as if they had gone hundreds of years. Horses unable to be calmed, no animals, no deer, no game, no bird, no fauna within miles of the town.

Something had taken the very life out of Faragen and the area around it. And it was creeping, and everyone knew it, everyone saw it coming. Whatever had consumed Faragen, was going to consume everything else... if it wasn't stopped, or reversed.

Arnor hadn't explicitly said that he was going to Faragen but... with the addition of other capable looking people, well. That was enough of a push for him to at least go. He imagined the doom of most of the people going to Faragen were that they were there for the riches. Arnor was there to complete a job. Besides, he figured that at some point, the people of Faragen were going to come back, so he wasn't keen on robbing someone's houses, or an entire town.

The bartender snapped his fingers at Arnor when he was distracted by examining those around him.

"Ain't no bloody sound minded person should go to that place, man. It's all dead, you hear? It's all dead, dyin', or somethin'-" There were looks of hatred, malice, and fear cast at the bartender from the local patrons. They knew something.

Arnor cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. The bartender leaned over and spoke in a lower tone.

"Or somethin' inbetween. Somethin' hateful, somethin' that don't belong on this world. Now go on and get out of here, all you lot. You've caused enough problems, ain't nobody want to be speaking about that wretched place anymore, or that damned Red Light, or what happened-"

Arnor smiled, and thanked him for his time with a respectful nod. He wasn't the type to throw his weight or muscle around. That was unnecessary, rude, and served no purpose. He turned to find several people staring at him, a cast of characters. An Elf, and a Dwarf. He smiled at them both, a half-smile, as most Nordenfiir gave new people. Full on, toothy smiles were rare for first encounters with the people of the tundra. He cut off the bartender because he read the room properly. The bartender probably overstepped local norms enough. He didn't want to ruin the man's business for a few mercenaries, or incur the wrath of the locals.

While the Elf and the Dwarf may have been encouraged by the desire to do the right thing... Arnor was simply here as a matter of contract. Arnor had his own suspicions, and possibly what could have caused the disappearance and... whatever was going on at the town hall.

Arnor walked outside to Rhi, finding him face-first into a bowl of mead. Arnor let him finish his drink, before removing the horse's blanket. He took a moment to brush the horse's mane, before removing the mighty horse's blanket, and putting it back into his saddlebags. For a moment, Arnor paused, praying to whatever Gods or ancestors were watching.

Physical threats of ghouls and goblins were one thing... but the manifestation of evil, he hadn't faced. Orcs were easily slain, he wondered if even this... thing, that took hold of Faragen, was remotely of their plane of existence.

Arnor spoke to his horse, presuming those willing to come had also been kicked out of the Inn.

"This task may take your lives, or worse, from what I have been told."

Arnor took the time to inspect the Silver sword, and ran a whetting stone across the blade.

"I assume you're aware of the risks that imposes."

The Nordenfiir ran a hand over Rhi's face, presumably- due to the fact that he was taking in the fact that he could very well not see his favorite horse, and one of his few friends again. Arnor spoke quietly, in the language of the Tundra to the horse. And souls of the dead be damned...The horse shook his head and stomped his feet as is he was laughing as much as Arnor chuckled.

 

[Selene Avar]

"I wish to join your little adventure." Selene spoke as she stepped out of the Tavern and came up behind the merry little band of adventurers.

In truth she had originally intended to spend a few days resting at the Inn before traveling onward, but after hearing what the Innkeeper had to say and taking a quick word with some of the patrons she realized that would not be possible.

The path she needed to take to reach her ship lead directly through the haunted village.

Her original plan had been drawn out months ago, before the troubles began within the mountains. Back then the place had simply been another pit stop for her, but now that the news had reached her she had little choice in the matter.

Selene could not alter her path, and within a short few weeks the ship she had procured would leave her behind.

Though as a Dreadlord she had sway, the Anirian Navy had it's own structure of power.

She was not concerned with ghosts, but if she could use these fools as canon fodder to throw in front of whatever haunted the village then it would be easier for her to make it through in the end.

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

Erën turned his head to regard Tholiel when she spoke. Dwarves were folk he had little to complain about, and she seemed sweeter than some. He offered her an affirmative nod, then gave the dark-haired elf approaching her a brief glance before snapping back toward the bartender with a sour look. He bore little consideration for the establishment’s reputation and would prefer a straighter approach to the current subject. But it was no less than to be expected. Where many others saw fear, he saw simply a thing to be done.

With that in mind, he came to the bar and left his payment in front of the man, then began to follow the Nordenfiir out. Outside he beheld a strange horse, up to its nose in mead. With the quirk of his brow and the gentle shake of his head he allowed a part smile before moving to tend to his own horse. She was not small, but not as large as the other. She was white with blue eyes, and a well-kept mane. She tipped her nose up at his approach, and he patted her.

“I know only that none have returned from there,” he replied with an uncaring tone, “truly, I do not know what waits there.”

He had learned little from the texts he'd read, and nothing of this intriguing red light the barkeep spoke of. But he did acquire a relatively decent account of individuals and groups setting off to their alleged doom.

Just then he heard a new voice, and a startling jolt ran through him. He turned to look. His eyes fell to a red-haired woman, who carried herself with significance. He did not know her to see her, but there was a familiarity there that he could not place. He studied her for a moment, before relaxing his attention, acknowledging her with a polite nod.

He lifted his hood from his head for Selene and Arnor, as well as the others if they'd followed them out, “I am Erën’thiel, of... Falwood, and in going to Faragen I would have any that would join me.”

Any.

Sometimes, not often, he regretted his choice of words.

 

[Tholiel Ironarm]

Tholiel listened to the barkeep before someone tapped her shoulder and pointed to the people around them. All of whom seemed mighty uncomfortable for one reason or another as the dwarf lifted the ale high and drained the mug and turned back around to see the large man leaving the bar. She put the mug on the counter, paid what she owed and strolled out with a small burp.

The horse drinking a bowl of mead had been a new sight, but it made Tholiel grin wide seeing it. Always a first for everything when on the road. The elf and another had come outside, a woman that spoke quickly to the large man before them. Followed up by the elf that went to tend his own horse as Tholiel stared between them.

"It may take my life, but people goin' missing ain't good for the next village down the line. What starts in one place typically don' stay in one place." Tholiel shrugged. "Tholiel Ironarm."

 

[Laqueta Hala Kritanta]

Laqueta furrowed her brows and sighed. She hesitantly followed the group outside as the barkeeper shooed her out. Making a small clicking noise with her mouth, a dark stallion emerged from the brush and nuzzled her hand affectionately.

There was a larger horse drinking mead while Erën’thiel was patting his own white mount. Tholiel was chatting with the large man and the mysterious red-haired woman whom stood to the side. Perhaps she should come, too. She paused but then shook her head to herself, mounting the large black beauty and turned away from them. They would only slow her down. Conflicted thoughts filled her mind. Eventually, she turned to face the group.

"I'll be joining you as well." It was less a question than a command. There were strengths in numbers and she didn't have those if she went alone. It was unkown what lurked there. Despite Kritanta's promise of eternal protection, she didn't put it past the god to harm his own successors. He was sneaky like that. At least if she went with the group, she wouldn't be the sole target. Even if they were inexperienced, they'd make good distractions.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Now, all the pieces were on the board.

It was time to play the game.

Arnor was the first to mount his horse, and look at the gathered members. The only distinguishable feature that marked him as a Nordenfiir was his size... and the peculiar marking on his face. Only those who knew anything about the Norden people were remotely capable of deciphering it beyond a simple tattoo. Then again, it was helpful to have someone who could turn into a great big ole bear at any given point.

He adjusted the chainmail and leather cuirass he was wearing, giving each of the people in his party a once over, before speaking again. He had a peculiar accent, and his words were soft, but carried with them a weight of a brutishly strong man.

"I am Arnor, son of Skuld."

Spine-breaker. Serpentbane. The Axe of Knottington. To the right people, anyways. He preferred, however, Arnor simply. Arnor wasn't like the others, in it for their own selfish desires, or curiosity. He was hired, he was going to do the job required of him. Arnor didn't wait very long, before setting off. There was no use debating anything other than simply... marching forward.

The Dwarf got a ride from him, seated more than likely comfortably on Rhi's impressive back. Rhi was a large horse, a horse large enough to make the Nordenfiir seem small. So needless to say... the Dwarf would have some room. The ride to Faragen was short, and very quiet. The party had all introduced themselves, and their motives to come together were their own.

The party arrived at the outskirts of Faragen... where as if there had been a fire. Arnor dismounted and walked to the treeline on the side of the road, examining the dead fauna. It was as if the fauna was pulled towards the center of town... and then died. Trees bent, leaves dried and cracking in the coming frost. It was unnaturally cold here, even colder than the bitter frost that was beginning to trickle in over the Summer Lands. The Winter would set in, surely, but... Not like this.

This cold even made Arnor feel it. A Nordenfiir should not have felt that cold so soon. Arnor ran his hand over the dead fauna, sneering slightly. Rhi began to pound his feet in place. Rhi huffed and shook his head. He would go no further. Arnor understood, and didn't fault the horse for it. Rhi was a horse, not a warrior, after all. It was midday when the party departed the tavern...

Which made no explanation, by in less than an hour or so, why the sky seemed dark. Clouds that were not there formed around Faragen. Something had blanketed the town, something in the air. Arnor looked over the great town hall, finding none of the Red Lights that were so vividly described to him. He silently crept on, leaving Rhi to his own devices. Rhi always came back to him, or stayed closeby. After all, there was grass to eat and places to lie down... Arnor made it a note to pilfer a bottle of something strong for the horse.

Arnor stood up, but not before a terrible screech came from inside the woods, a wail of something foul, evil. Arnor drew his sword- his silver one, and stood fast. Then, came from the woods, deep within- a pair of glowing red eyes.

It was a woman's voice that broke out from the trees.

"He came back."

Arnor stood fast, while the apparition came forth, gliding through the trees. She was weeping, ethereal tears staining her face. Arnor froze in fear for a moment, before she glided close to the party. Hands clasped together- she chanted.

"He came back."

Then, more distant apparitions, lined the trees around the party. They encircled them, surrounding the entire party. Arnor backed up, getting to the center of the road. Hopefully, everyone else had the same idea. They all chanted it together, filling the air around them with the ghostly voices of the long dead. Arnor kept a tight grip on the sword, trying to rationalize what he was seeing.

He never shouted, but it was the first time he spoke at a slightly higher volume.

"Who!"

The apparitions all faded at once, with a sharp cry from most of them, as if they were pulled away, yanked by an invisible chain back to their respective graves. Then, came a crackling sound, louder than any thunder from almost a mile away, in the center of the town- and from the ground up, each window, boarded up and fading with time, became alight with an eerie red glow.

The evil in Faragen had awoken once more.

And it was hungry.

 

[HotepseAken]

The wind fluttered past, a rushing jet of cold air. Above, his companion kept eagle eyes open while on the ground, through the wind sheer and rush, keener ears than an Elfs kept aware. They were headed for a supposedly cursed town, one that had been blaimed for much wrong with the area. If it could be traced back feasibly to the illness upon this land, HotepseAken would cure it. He was a physician, after all. Medicine was his duty.

The Spine had yielded a bounty of new species for his research as well. Something known as a bhargeist, or so he supposed, had been an interesting discovery. He had jarred a pair of them, one for study, and another to consume sometime later if supplies grew scarce. A guilt-free soul to devour was a rarity, and it seemed these particular pests were especially problematic to the people of the Spine.

While their goals differed slightly, his and the witches, he had gained a respect for her. The two had already established a boundary; respectful, of course, and not from any standoffishness on his part. He simply didn't like to be touched, even by his wife. The mutual respect afforded the white elf ensured a certain level of understanding in this case, and the two traveled in peace. Whatever rituals or spells she cast, he simply held an open mind and a closed mouth.

The pair did not fear the night as some wise humans might have. What Asuego couldn't hex away with witchcraft and was not repelled by sacred incantations or holy spells from the priest, raw force could often dissuade. Loath as he was to use it, half a millennium of combat experience as a Dunestrider Ranger made HotepseAken quite proficient in violence. To say nothing of the many, countless years devoted to extinguishing plagues perpetuated by unwholesome races.

They were, however, on their way to a rather altruistic objective. HotepseAken cared not for the base trinkets the town of Faragen held, instead wanting to understand, and then cut out, the infection in this region. He slowed, hearing voices some distance away; others here to pillage, he supposed. Well, let them have their fun. The towering Anaphite was here for a reason...

Hmm. Curious. He could smell wayward souls... and curses. It was enough to make him salivate: Faragen would be a banquet to the Anaphite it seemed, just from the wafting magic alone.

It seems the town was not the only thing hungering now.

 

[Asuego 'Susanna']

As much as the wind felt nice against her skin, she descended on her elderwood broom, ridden like a fair dame rides a jennet.
The witch seemed like the only spot of pristine purity on the otherwise dreadful sky coated in thick fog.

»The gloom is as ominous as told. So it was not exaggerated in the slightest.« The witch spoke to the Anaphite while gliding past him in a pace that matched his gait. »I've seen some people gethered on the fringes, perhaps they've seen me too. Brave souls lost or...?«

Her eyes glanced over at her companion, with what brief hints his nature gave away, there were deceased souls still lingering about.

 

[Tholiel Ironarm]

Tholiel didn't argue riding on the horse. She actually didn't like them really having heard too many stories about riders bucked off and incidentally trampled by the panicked beast. Besides that, she ran up a decent tab wherever she went by herself and the last thing she wanted was to lose a horse.

The stopped on the outskirts, finding a scene that reminded her of several fires over the years of travel. Yet what alarmed her was the cold. Biting and unyielding in its firm hold over the town. A screech shook her as ahe whirled and found eyes upon them, and a wall of spirits descended upon them.

Arnor spoke first, drawing his silver sword and speaking loud enough for the spirits to hear him clearly. Tholiel had kept by Arnor's side, unsure of the goings ons currently. Had he been here already? What did they mean by he's come back? Is it something else?

She did not have long with her thoughts as the town began to glow red however. She gave a soft whistle at the display of spirits dissapearing and the town lighting up.

"Oh aye' what a fine bit of mess we got stuck into. Openin' yer' mouth like a right fool and going head first ye' daft lass." Tholiel chded herself almost at a whisper while shaking her head. The large hammer came out, flipped to the other side that had a few inscriptions on the face of it.

 

[Selene Avar]

Selene did not speak, there was no reason to.

She had decided to use her horse for most of this journey, if only because she thought convincing one of the others to carry her saddlebags was entirely unlikely. One of them, she supposed the leader, was quite large, but he seemed too stern for such things.

When the voice spoke a shiver ran down Selene's spine, her lips thinning as goosebumps ran over her flesh. Fingers tightened on her reigns.

There was no fear in her, but only a fool did not heed warning. "Shh, steady."

The Dreadlord said as she gently patted the neck of her mount. Her gaze flickered over the small village, a sigh escaping her lips.

Perhaps this would not be as easy as just walking through and feeding the others to the dogs.

 

[Laqueta Hala Kritanta]

Laqueta held her fur cloak closer and narrowed her eyes at their surroundings. She'd stayed quietly to side, her stallion trotting a bit away from the group. So far, she'd decided she liked none of her companions except perhaps the red-haired woman. Seemed like she knew what she was doing. Whether that was good or bad, Laqueta did not know.

But other than the eerie chant of the spirits and the haunting glow from the town, nothing seemed too threatening at the moment. Kritanta seemed rather fond of the place and upon Laqueta's soul was the same opinions and acts of the god. It seemed nice, homey even, although Laqueta's tastes were not those of a normal being, even without Kritanta's influences. Her straight, relaxed posture never changed though her ears twitched with every noise and rustle coming from the dead brush.

She flicked one of her hands in front of her, a single flame erupting from the tip of her index finger. An unusually warm wave of heat lit the area faintly. Midnight snorted and swished his tail at the sight of the glowing red flame lighting Laqueta's finger. It was a deep red, an amber or narwa as her grandmother would've called it. Hopefully, her companions knew what they were doing.

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

Their journey had not taken very long, but it had given him enough time to ponder. He found a few of his companions less than palatable, but at this point those inclinations were secondary to him. Instead he focused more on the supposed curse, or ailment, or whatever it was that they were delivering themselves into. He was confident in his abilities, but unsure of their effectiveness – hence his lack of hesitation in traveling with such a mismatched troop. He hoped that together they would make short work of what he feared may be an omen of a much greater dark.

He couldn’t help but deep down see the Dark Ones hiding under every rock, and this was no different. From his perception their evil has beguiled the world for millennia and were incessant in their attempts to throw the world into despair. It was his duty to quell such attempts, and he even did so with pleasure.

Hm?

With Arnor’s dismount, Erën followed suite. He made a clicking sound, and the white horse went on to mosey about where she was left. It wasn’t until then he noticed how cold it had gotten, he had even tucked his cloak about him a little tighter. He stayed some ways behind Arnor, and likewise examined the fauna. It was unlike the scars of his home, that much he took comfort in. He knelt to get a closer look, but when the screech reached his ears he whirled up to his feet, drew his blade and kept with the group. Before long they were totally surrounded by ghostly banshees, and he prepared to strike. But with Arnor’s call he hesitated – and gladly so. The spirits disappeared, and he eased for a moment only to react again with the sound of a great crash.

Then the light, it shone out at them from behind the carcass of the town, and he peered back at it with anger in his eyes.

“There’s who,” he said with the lift of his chin, only in the direction of the town in general.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

The town had awoken, it seemed. First, it began with the great Hall of the town, the floors and impressive architecture lighting up with that eerie, evil red glow. Then, it spread to all the other buildings within the town, each, as if someone was individually lighting candles in each window, and in each space.

Arnor turned away from the Ghosts, pulled away by whatever force had come to. It was the mage-like man who spoke, indicating inwards to the town. Indeed, that was who, or rather what. Arnor stowed his silver blade, and turned to face the party, each having a different reaction to the forest becoming swath with the dead.

Arnor stood tall, walking into the town, his cloak following him before anyone else did. He made no attempt to conceal his footsteps, heavy footfalls of a man wearing chainmail and leather. The Axe of Knottington hung from his hip, a gift from a grateful people. Now used for profit and good business. They gave it to him out of goodwill.

He turned to look, at the myriad of buildings, in some state of decay. Some more than others. The red lights moved, as if they were following the party. They moved away, more towards the center of the town. Arnor curled his fists at his sides, then turned to address the party. He stopped, seeing something in the doorway. But it was a premonition- because no one in the party could see inside the building that Arnor was staring at. He froze for a moment, cocking his head. That wasn't natural, even in the moonlight, there should have been shadow, movement, shapes. Some discernible shapes-

Then, came a horrible cracking noise. Cracking, through the silence of the town, sent Arnor to arms, and made him slightly jump back in shock. It was coming from inside the pitch black doorway. Something was moving to the doorway. The red lights shot outwards, all convening into the building, of what one who was previously at Faragen, or could read the faded sign, noted that it was the apothecary. Out of the darkness, came stillness again.

Slowly, fingers crawled their way out of the darkness. Horrible, ragged, ugly, gray fingers. Blackened nails dug into the wood of the building, peeling back the rotting wood with a heavy grip. Then came the cracking sound. A crack again, and Arnor simply made a sound-

"Oh."

A sinister crack again, and from the doorway, a horribly disfigured, rotting, and vile woman stepped out, and Arnor was thrown backwards. Keen eyes could see inky, black shadows forming around Arnor where magic was used. Arnor was thrown violently into the dirt, rolling several feet before scrambling to his feet. He withdrew his silver sword, holding it at the low ready while the woman began to float, black eyes darting between each of the gathered members.

She spoke, with a voice like cursed strings, a bow dragged across steel wire in lieu of delicately crafted instruments.

"Bound by men no more! He has arisen!"

She began to advance on the other members of the party, cackling in such a way that would make even the heartiest, deadliest warriors take pause. But curiously, she admitted, by her statement- she was serving another.

Not that the current threat of an undead, or whatever she was- floating witch that was able to easily fling the largest man in their party without so much as touching him, was one to be taken lightly, either. She held out her hand, and went for the Elf man firstly- apparently taking his magical prowess, the one that she could sense, as the larger threat.

Ultimately, it was probably a fatal mistake, as most members of the party, after all, were as capable as any other. She just so happened to have a personal grudge against Elven men, and that carried on past her... well, past her expiration date, so to speak, even in her state of life and death, toeing the line between both worlds. She existed simultaneously in both, as a result of the Master that she served. She took the same deal he did- her flesh was dead and necrotic, but held together by foul magics, the actual life of things around her were whisked away to feed her curse.

But the Witch before them was foolish, and misled- her Master knew something she didn't.

She thought herself immortal at the cost of her body... And while true, she could live forever, she was still very much able to die.

 

[Tholiel Ironarm]

The lights in the town began to flicker on in different buildings like a demented game of hide and seek. With their party at a severe disadvantage having no idea who was seeking who. The dwarf's eyes were wide, struck with a mix of awe and fear at the sight.

She had taken steps without realizing she had moved, closer towards the town that glowed out of some horrid fascination with this strange new sight when that thing crawled out of the building. It threw Arnor without touching him and began to float when it came outside, focusing on the elf in their party.

The woman was frozen from action however, having never seen such a thing or had to stare what very well could be death in the face. A thought jarred her though, a thing her father had said before leaving.

Don't die till yer dead. Don't ever give up without making them pay.

Her hands tightened around the handle and prepared herself for a fight. The inscription on the back face was a simple ward for evil, given by a priest and blacksmith after helping their town with a church grim they thought was a curse.

Gritting her teeth, the dwarf ran forward towards the witch, not entirely sure what she was going to do to something that was floating.

 

[Laqueta Hala Kritanta]

Dismounting and letting Mignight run off in the direction of the other horses, Laqueta unsheathed her twin blades and walked along with the party. Her flame flicker faintly on her index finger before it extinguished into a puff of smoke. The chilly air bit at the tips of her pointed ears, face flushing a rather light shade of red as her warmth disappeared. The bladed weapons she held began glowing the same dark amber as her flames.

As Tholiel had charged towards the witch, Laqueta was unsure if she should assist the dwarf. Eh. She'd been waiting to shed blood for a while. This was a wonderful chance she simply could not refuse. Rolling her shoulders back until a satisfying pop was head, she let her body be engulfed in the same smokey red as she dissapeared for a quick second. Her body reappeared behind the witch with her body contorting in an agile postion as the pale woman sent out the same inky shadows that had flung Arnor just moments before.

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted." She warned as she kicked the witch in the side, the deathly looking female blocking it with a wall of solid shadow. The witch chuckled darkly. Laqueta leaped away immediately as more attacks were sent out.

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

Erën’s gaze followed Arnor for a time while he marched his way forward. Unlike him, he kept his blade drawn. He followed behind, keeping only a short distance between. His eyes gazed about, but he trusted his ears much more in the dwindling light. Then that noise. He stopped and raised his blade.

He winced at the sight of Arnor being tossed aside so casually, an unseen force he could undoubtable guess. He snarled at the creature’s appearance, appalled at its very being. It approached him, and he immediately perceived its chosen prey. He embraced its challenge, and as quickly as he blinked a light enshrouded him, and the sword in his hands crackled with charge. He moved to strike, but hesitated. The dwarf ran out, well enough in his way to stay his desired attack.

In his thoughts he cursed her, but truly could hardly blame the compulsion to attack. He continued forward, but he changed his footing and whirled around to come at the creature from another angle. He closed in following Laqueta’s attack and lunged forward, his magic still present upon the sword, which he brandished and swung upwards at the specter, focusing his strength in hope of piercing its ill-gotten magics to strike true.

 

[HotepseAken]

"Doubtless if their own volition," HotepseAken voiced, "I hear the sounds of arms on them. Likely tools of war."

He blinked a few times, before violently recoiling at that sudden, loud crash from the town. His sensitive ears rung painfully, and in a brief moment of lax control, his teeth bared in anger. He had jammed shut his eyes during the whole event, but when he opened them again he was nearly as impassive as ever.

Only now, he was actually annoyed and had his patience severely eroded already.

"That was uncomfortable..." he understated, "...Hmm. I smell a layline nearby;" he slammed the base of his staff upon the ground as whatever the other, distant party did occupied them, and sunk to a knee. The scales on his staff jumped loose from the jarring impact, and rapidly the left one sunk. Death hung in the air, and the energy of death saturated the region.

Slowly, his hand felt across the ground, searching for something within the earth itself. A layline, a fissure of power from the earth, the likes of which his people had once crafted war statuary from. A more brutal age than this, to be sure. He sniffed, hobbling a few cubits whither and thither. It took him a couple minutes, but eventually a black flame flared beneath his hand:

"This layline is overloaded with death," Hotepse calmly reported to Asuego, relying on her skills to best utilize this information, "Unless you possess a means to sever it at a convergence, it will take me three days to properly scribe the cartouche to sanctify it..."

His ears perked, twitching. The mortals had proceeded deeper, menacing the town with their violence. Admirable, to persue this purification, though supremely foolish. This counted double for HotepseAken and his newest friend, as there were but two of them. Still, even a Lich would think twice before readily combatting a High Priest and a matron Witch openly.

The black fire began to speed forwards, snaking along the layline as it led towards the township. He looked to Asuego, nodding, then rose and began to walk after it. They made it about a minute or two into their tracking when the fighting began, a horrific hag levitating out of a building two hundred yards away, the now-in sight band of intrepid adventurers arming and preparing.

HotepseAken silently prayed for their safety, then put them from his mind. His eyes turned to the layline he and his companion stalked, looking for a convergence point. While it would take a while, carefully untangling such sources of power would ease their inevitable incursion into the town. The less ambient death drawn into this cursed place, the less potent it could attack them.

At least, that was how the Anaphite tomb cities were designed, and usually at a convergence of death and life. So far, HotepseAken hadn't picked up on any life laylines just yet. If he did though, that would significantly hasten this process. He looked to his scales, watching as the left most one dipped or rose in accordance with the life or death along the rout, the bronze reacting to the energy with incredible sensitivity.

"Do you smell something?" HotepseAken asked, tilting his head. He looked about, trying to spy it. If he didn't know better, they were getting closer to a knot in the layline. Was his nose picking up the clog in the magical artery? Or perhaps it was the fragile grip the distant hag had over her soul, how easy a meal she would be drawing the Anaphite's attention more than he would have desired.

 

[Asuego 'Susanna']

The white witch's fetish that dangled from her broom, a goat skull entwined with crow feathers tingled and rattled lightly as the lights began to glow across the town.
It was her best protection against the accursed, and she had no plans to storm the place either.
When Hotepse snarled, so too her fetish rattled far more violently than before. This concerned the with a little, but she remained calm.

» A single wraith is easy enough to exorcise, yet this is an entire town, « what was she even saying, exorcism belonged in the realm of the spiritual, Susan wasn't religious one slight. But suppose the priest had a lot more experience in dealing with the undead en masse.

Susan decided it would be best to fly towards the party of bold adventurers, even though they were now slightly less visible due to the red glow of lights.
» And wraths like these are hard to speak to, let alone convince them to leave. I will go see what this stray magic was all about.«
And as quickly as she spoke, she flew her broom towards the party of adventurers that now stood opposed against the terrible woman.

 

[Selene Avar]

Selene's face remained impassive even as the witch began to advance towards them. The others attacked it even after she flung the hulk of a man to the side.

For a brief moment the Dreadlord did not move, feeling none of the threat the others did. There was magic in the corpse, but…it was not the source of all of this. Her gaze flickered around the village, the eerie red light the surrounding power of it. She felt encapsulated, like something was closing in on them.

Was it the Witch?

Lips thinned as she gazed at the elf. He charged forward, his blade brandishing with light.

Selene leaned forward in her saddle slightly, observing and wondering. There was something else wrong here, something that she could not quit unravel. Fingers tightened on her reigns, and quickly she slipped from her saddle. Her boots hit the ground with a soft thud, landing on old compacted dirt.

Her gaze flickered away from the Witch and towards the city center.

A ripple went out over the town, an odd sensation that trickled down her spine and spread goosebumps over her flesh. Selene's face tightened in an instant, and she whipped her body back towards the Witch.

The moment that the Elf's sword cut through the rotted corpse she would snap her fingers. White hot flames would appear and dig into the creatures flesh, burning the Witch and immolating her form.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

The Woman recoiled, first pierced by the blade of the Elf, black, inky smoke taking the place of what should have been blood. She screamed- and laughed. She was not able to feel the sword's sting, only the light touch of the magic within the blade- that's what hurt her. She recoiled as soon as it coursed over her, howling in pain. Her nerves, skin, and everything that made her human rotted away, replaced by the desire for souls and life.

She reached out to thrash at the Elf who stabbed her, only to stop, and look down. Flesh burned. And fire spread. She screamed, and screamed, and screamed, clawing at her body while it was immolated from her torso. What was left of her rotting, necrotic skin sent her flailing in pain. She made curses of all types, in several tongues.

She crawled and flailed, burnt and damaged.

It was Arnor who stood up first, brushing himself off. He seemed no worse for the wear, albeit, angry. He walked over and pressed his foot on the chest of the woman, a sobbing, disgusting mess of mangled flesh and bone. She reached up, trying to take what he had to offer her, weakly. Arnor removed the axe and slammed it into her chest, finishing her off. He couldn't take credit for the kill, though. That lay with the Elf and the Dreadlord.

She fell silent, weak. A breath escaped her lips, weak and shallow.

Arnor turned to look at the party, giving a respectful nod to the red-haired woman. Fire, seemed to be what would to kill whatever lurked in the town the most. Arnor removed the axe and placed it back into the loop on his hip. Not before turning to face the newcomer....a literal witch on a broom.

He thought they only existed in stories. But he kept a straight face, and pointed a singular finger at her.

"You're new."

He pointed over at the redhead.

"You're good."

He nodded at the others, and then pointed at the woman on the ground.

"Any ideas what she's about? Any of this?"