Bjorn: You wake up sitting against a wall. Your body feels a little stiff. It's very cold. It's dim, and your head hurts. A woman with long blonde hair is kneeling over you, looking down and frowning in consternation. She's wearing white robes with gold trim, and you appear to be in a large room -- the walls and ceiling are made of stone.
"Back with us now, are you," and then, she says something. And you know it's your name. But at the same time, what she said was neither the name you used with your friends, or any other name you've been called before. But you know it's yours. At your blank look, she repeats it, and you hear it as, "Bjorn," though you know it was something else. "Are you alright? You don't LOOK injured...."
Dracos: You wake up lying face-down on the floor. There's some weight on your legs, but you're able to climb to a kneeling position before you're stricken with a wave of dizzy nausea. You hear someone say something ... and then you hear Bjorn's name. But, it wasn't "Bjorn", even though it was his name. You look up at the comment and see some woman in a white robe kneeling over someone who's a bit shorter and smaller than Bjorn should be, and his features aren't Bjorn's, and yet, you know that person is Bjorn.
He's currently dressed in nice-looking leather armor with fine steel plates (meticulously etched with spirals and flowers) all over. He looks as dizzy as you feel.
Ginrai: You wake up when someone grabs your wrist and hauls you out from under some heavy weight. "Are you well, Loremaster?" someone asks you. When you blink away the confusion, your eyes seem to not want to focus entirely. "Here, I believe these are yours." Someone puts a pair of glasses on you, and everything leaps into focus suddenly.
The man kneeling over you to see to your wellbeing looks at you closely. He's got fine black hair, and very fair features. His ears are the slightest bit pointed, and he has a sword strapped to his back. A broken bow lies on the ground next to him. In the distance, you can see a woman in a white robe kneeling over Bjorn (and yet, it doesn't look remotely like Bjorn). To your left, you see a huge man in piecemeal armor staring blearily at Bjorn.
Rezantis: You wake up lying on your back. Near you, a huge (probably about seven feet tall, at least) man is kneeling. You know that this is Dracos, even though he looks nothing like Dracos. He's a Dracos-and-a-half tall, and about three-Dracoses wide at the shoulder.
Huitzil: You don't wake up. You simply shake off something -- like a daydream -- and find yourself crouching in a corner behind a statue of some huge dude in armor. You're protectively cradling a stringed instrument (looks like a lute with copper chords) in one arm, and have a dagger out in your free hand. You have the best view of the room at the moment.
Your corner is dark, as the only light comes from a pendant around the woman's neck, and a bobbing little indistinct sphere of light floating over the elvish-looking guy's head. He helps someone (you know it's Ginrai, even though there's only a passing resemblance to him) to his feet. The room is probably a good twenty meters by thirty meters.
There's a statue in each corner (all identical), and two doorways. One is near the woman and Bjorn, the other is opposite.
The floor is littered with corpses, but the majority of them are obviously not human, or remotely like it. Each one of them looks to be hand-crafted by some sick and twisted imagination. They could be goblins ... or orcs ... or who-knows-what, but they're ugly, they smell bad, and are wearing the remnants of armor. Their blood is thick and black, and hardly runs in the cold of the room.
Whatever happened in this room before you arrived, it was bad.
With a now-instinctive effort, Bjorn makes himself go loose, taking inventory of his body and then ignoring it, and then expanding his awareness as far about him as possible. It's a relaxation that hints at the ability to move in any direction without a moment's notice, the laziness of conserved energy.
Or so he hopes, anyways. Otherwise, his teachers would be pretty pissed off.
At the same time, he studies the woman before him, quickly cataloguing as much about her as he can process before flicking his eyes away to study the room around him. "I'm... fine," he says, in a low voice. "I think. Just a bit disoriented."
Before he can stop himself, Canadian-bred politeness kicks in, and he asks, "What about you?"
Dracos groaned slightly, shaking his head to clear the nausea and glancing back to see what was on his legs.
Dracos
A corpse. A big ugly one, too. Probably an orc, though it's smaller than you. Weighs a lot. Smells worse.
Someone next to you is struggling upright, and looks about as crappy as you feel. When you look at him, you know it's Nathan.
Dracos frowns, snorting and kicking the corpse off of him if possible, trying to get fully to his feet. If he does so reasonably he offers Nathan a hand up while glancing around and stretching slightly, trying to get both his bearings on the area and the general feeling of not-shittiness back in his body.
Dracos
Paul rolls his head, wincing and gritting his teeth; then leans forward onto his hands. What just happened to him feels like the exact instant you pass between a vivid dream and wake up into reality... only it lasted for hours, and was far more deep, amplified.
Head downward, he exhales sharply and opens his eyes, suprised but not startled to see the dim stone laced with trickles of stinking blood beneath him. He then looks upward, position now like a crawl, and looks out again through slitted eyes. Then, almost as an afterthought, he shifts his weight to one arm and uses the other to bring the mystery-instrument to his face to examine it.
Rez seems content to just stay where he is, though the kicked corpse is rolled away from you. A little of the syrup-thick black blood seeps from a sword wound across the chest.
Huitzil: It's a lute, it looks like. The neck is long and straight, and the wood is seamless. You know it's two separate pieces -- at least, you're pretty sure it is. But it looks like a single solid piece.
While you're no expert on quality, as far as you can tell, this thing is a masterpiece.
Bjorn: Your body doesn't seem to fit quite right. It feels different. Making an art of knowing your body lends you insight. You feel ... looser, more able, and at the same time, not as strong as you should be.
Smaller, too.
The woman studies you for a moment, then nods in response to your question. "I'm fine. Come, we have much to do." She turns away (taking much of the light with her), and strides towards Ginrai and the elf.
Rolling to his feet, Bjorn stops to take inventory of both body and possessions, before carefully studying his environment while padding after the woman.
You're wearing armor. Looks like full-body leather (even gloves), with fine metal plate over it. You suppose it could be considered studded leather, but somehow that doesn't seem quite right. The plating is etched with various whorls, loops, spirals, and flower shapes, but the armor itself seems sturdy enough.
You have at your side a straight-bladed shortsword, etched identically to the armor. The blade is loose, though, as though the tang was too short. A sheath is belted to your waist, and you're wearing leather gloves (with a metal plate on the back of each hand).
On the ground nearby is a rather large pack with another sword strapped to the side. This one doesn't look as nice as the one you're currently carrying, but weighs more, and feels like the crafter knew what he was doing this time around.
Looking in the pack reveals another set of armor like the one you're wearing (again, not as nice, but somewhat heavier and perhaps more functional), a few olden days outfits (peasant blouses, woolens, leggings, a sturdy looking cloak) and some dry-rations wrapped carefully in what looks like thick, hand-waxed paper.
Jerky, a hard yellow cheese, and some painfully dry looking bread. A skin on the side of the pack opposite the sword contains (by smell) water.
Dracos, realizing the obvious, glances down over himself, checking if/how he's changed.
Dracos
Paul sees the people that he knows are his friends, yet aren't, and sees them looking over themselves. He, too, takes a quick glance back down, to check himself. Who is he this time?
Frowning, Bjorn swaps the decorative sword for the functional one, and then picks up the pack, and follows the lady, studying the room.
The familiar-but-strange figures around him make him blink, for a second, but then he remembers being warned that his body would be left behind. A shrug settles that.
Much more immediately important are the corpses strewn about. Kneeling by the closest, Bjorn examines it carefully, studying both the body itself, to try and judge any characteristics he can determine, as well as the types of weapons and armour it carries.
Dracos: You're wearing thick fur leggings, a thick fur coat, and thinner fur gloves and sleeves. Your furs are augmented with bands of steel plate across your chest, and on your arms. Your leggings are augmented as well, but only armored up to mid-thigh. From there, you're wearing a thinner fur kilt (banded vertically, like an armored skirt) which allows a greater degree of movement.
You imagine walking around in full armor like Bjorn's would be a bit awkward, and you're having enough trouble adjusting to a different sized body without that aditional trouble.
You feel about as strong as always, but much sturdier. Your body responds as quickly as you'd expect it to, and there's a large longsword lying within reach of where you woke up.
The blade is engraved with runes that you read as some sort of family history. You recognize your name on the sword, at least. You're pretty sure the other names (starting from the tip of the sword and working their way towards the hilt) down the blood-channel are your ancestors. This blade's got a lot of lineage ... but there's also no room for another name after yours. The crossguard bears a celtic cross on each side, and the pommel displays a sigil which you think is your family crest.
A helm is lying next to the sword, and matches your armor. It's warm, and has flaps to cover your ears, though they can be tucked under if you don't want them to interfere with your hearing. On your belt is a wineskin (reasonably strong stuff, too), a horn (from some animal, modified to be used as an instrument, or perhaps just an alarm) and a belt buckle bearing your last name on it. Looks like it's made out of gold, and repeats the sigil from your sword's pommel. Your scabbard is secured to your back with a baldrick.
Running your hand across your chin reveals a beard that's been braided, and has rings braided into it (the letters etched onto the rings are difficult to see from your current position, as they're pretty close to your face), though judging by your hair color, you're much older than you feel. Your beard (and the rest of your hair, which is pretty long, and bound up with a strip of leather into a pony-tail), is salt-and-pepper colored, with patches of white, gray, and black.
Dracos tries to see if he suddenly 'recalls' anything special about the horn and it's proper usage as he reaches and grabs the sword, reading what his 'name' is on it then sheathing it in the balderic. He then grabbed the helm, slipping it on as he shook his head. This was weird.
Stretching his arms out he tried to get a good sense of his changed range of motion and balance as well as trying to shake off any remaining sense of sickness.
Dracos
Huitzil: This time around you appear to be a snazzy dresser. You're wearing nice clothes. And you know they're nice clothes, for the old days, because they're comfortable, they don't itch, and they fit.
Your boots are sturdy leather afairs, though you have crampons tied to them at the moment (little metal teeth to keep your footing on ice).
You've got two sheaths in your belt for knives, and you've got one of them in your hand. It is suitable for cutting people, perhaps. The one in your belt is, perhaps, suitable for cutting warm butter, or using to eat with.
A pack strapped to your back contains a few changes of clothes (you're wearing your cloak at the moment), a wooden case with a wooden flute in it, a number of very small books (they appear to be stories, poems, and songs), and a small leather pouch with some coins in it. Looks like you've got, uh, some money. No clue what it's worth yet, though. Little gold discs, about the size of nickels, quarter-sized copper coins, and a few penny-sized silver wafers. Your hair is shorter than Dracos's, perhaps seven centimeters long. You're not sure what color it is.
Bjorn: There's a good number of corpses, probably about forty of them. Thirty five are orcs, which all look different, have piecemeal armor, and what appears to just be whatever weapons they could get their hands on.
They took poor care of the weapons, as they're rusty, pitter, bent, and even cracked in places. The armor didn't fare much better.
The other five are humans. Three of them are dressed identically to you, and were all defeated in about the same spot (a pile between ... whoever was attacking and the lady, you'd guess). One of them is dressed similarly to Dracos and Rez, and the last looks like a brother to the elf.
Dracos: You remember every detail of the horn. From the day you found it on your belt, to the day you looked at it and tried to remember ... uh ... hmm. Your memories take a sharp left at about five minutes ago, and appear to have switched course from Gibraltar before stopping ... where are you, anyway?
Your body doesn't take too long to adjust to, though it does feel clumsier than you are used to. Once you start moving, the sense of illness fades.
Rez might feel better if he were to try moving around. Ginrai looks pretty badly off, too.
"Bleh." Dracos glanced around and grunted at Rez, "Gettup bloke. You'll feel better once you get the blood moving again."
Dracos glanced carefully at the dead guy wearing armor similar to his, both at his equipment and to see if he had any of the strange sense of 'recognition' he'd gotten with the others.
Dracos
Bjorn checks the weapons of the corpses dressed in a similar fashion to me, to see if there's any of better quality, and then stands up, frowning, and studies the room, trying to get a better sense of where he is. He studies the walls, noting their composition, and the temperature of the air, and then tries to make something of the statues.
As he's doing this, he's quickly running through some basic exercises from his martial studies -- not kata, per se, but instead simple drills used to limber up and develop body coordination, trying to get used to his new anatomy.
Rez grunts and struggles to his feet. He's shorter than you, but built about the same. His hair is jet black, and he could be (for all you can tell) a cousin. No visible family crest or lineage on him, though.
The dead man dressed like you and Rez has nothing to name him, either. But he looks like someone you've never met before. Whatever you were, he probably worked for you, or was from a similar clan ... or something. But he's got nothing to say, now.
Bjorn: Your dead companions, while dressed identically, were also apparently armed identically. They look like they didn't have time to go after their non-ceremonial weapons, as their packs (identical to yours) lie in a pile with the sturdier blades still attached to the sides. One of them broke his sword. Otherwise, they're clearly ceremonial.
The lady looks back to see what you're doing, but looks away when she sees you're inspecting your fallen comerades.
Bjorn purses his lips, and then takes off his pack again, studying the armour contained therein, this time with the explicit aim of trying to figure out if he knows how to put it on.
At the same time as he does this, he checks the inside of his mind, looking for the mindboard.
No mindboard.
The armor looks fairly intuitive, seeing as it's attached the same way (to judge by appearances) as your current armor. Only, it's sturdier. The tunic has an opening along one sleeve that a metal plate covers, that you can lace up after donning it, and there's similar laces on either side of the trousers.
It might take a few minutes, but it'd certainly be doable.
Well, I never really wanted to be a telepath anyways.
Acting quickly, Bjorn removes the armour he's currently wearing and puts on the more practical suit, instead. As much as possible, he tries not to think about what's he doing, and just let his body do it for him -- unless, of course, it becomes obvious that his body has no goddamn clue what it's doing.
Paul finally groans, rolling his neck, keeping his eyes on the new lady.
"What happened?"
Bjorn: The donning of the armor is a relatively straightforward process. It just takes a few minutes. The lady glances at you while you're pulling on the chestpiece (you're wearing a thin white tunic beneath it, and the cold really bites at you while you're changing) and seems to approve. However, while you're getting dressed, she turns to Paul.
"You should remember that, Master Durant," she says, frowning. "Though, I suppose it is not your forte to be in the battle as much as to tell of it. No matter ... we yet live, if much diminished." She nods thoughtfully. "Bjorn, search through Niel's pack -- he was carrying the draughts of life, and we shall need to bear them further ... I know you don't wish to leave your equipment behind, but we might travel faster if you were to abandon the ceremonial armor."
Turning back to Paul, she continues, "We need to ascertain why we were attacked." Raising a finger to her lip thoughtfully, she cocks her head, and turns to look at Phil. "Once Sir Bloom has recovered himself enough, he can assess the situation. Master Liandral, Master Lorekeeper, do you have any other thoughts?" she asks, turning to regard Ginrai and the elf.
The elf shrugs, and defers to Ginrai, who just looks a bit confused for a moment.
Without thinking twice, Bjorn chucks the useless sword and armour, and then starts raiding the packs of the other -- mudhumpers, he's guessing.
There is a growing and worrying suspcion in his head that he has been incarnated as a redshirt.
Paul looks a lot more confused. He doesn't say anything, because his expression asks "huh?" just as well.
Bjorn: In their packs you find their (nearly untouched) armor. A few nicks, a few tears. Their food. One of them is carrying a pendant in his pouch, the symbol of a hammer surrounded by a wheel of silver vines. Another is carrying a book, bearing the same symbol on the cover, and the third one has a large leather pouch stuffed with sawdust. In the sawdust, carefully wrapped in rags, are tiny glass phials of a green liquid. Just touching them makes you feel healthier.
At Ginrai's continued and confused silence, the elf (Liandral) says, "Well, we can stay here for a moment and recover, but we lack the proper time to bury the dead. Madame Mirallia, perhaps this would be a good opportunity to set them to rest, before...." He trails off, leaving something unsaid.
The lady flinches, but nods, and clasps her hands over her pendant. The light is extinguished, leaving the bobbing flame over the elf's head as the only source of illumination. She murmurs something low and quiet, that none of you can quite make out, but sounds very much like a prayer. After a minute of this, she bows her head -- the elf follows suit.
As the discussion has been going on, Bjorn closes up the sack with the vials, and transfers it to his own pouch (whose contents he examines at the same time). After a moment's thought, he also grabs the pendant and book, and puts them in his pack, for closer study later on.
When the prayer begins, however, he quickly ceases the ransacking, and bows his head with the lady and the elf. Partly in an effort to blend in, but mostly to commemorate the dead.
After the prayer finishes, the lady lowers her hands, and her pendant glows again, shedding (it seems) more light than before.
Your own pack has a smaller pouch (you missed it the first time through, but with the armor being worn or left behind, you've got a lot less weight, and a lot more room in there). It contains a knoted handkerchief, which is tied around a heavy, and very solid looking signet ring. The signet is a crescent moon with two stars sheltered in the curve of the moon.
"A moment longer to regain our senses, but we mustn't tarry," Liandral says, grabbing the broken remnants of a bow off of the ground and studying it for a moment before pulling the string off, and casting the wooden bits aside.
Slinging his pack over his shoulder, Bjorn moves to catch up with the Lady, studying her and the elf closely in the few seconds of pause.
Rez, upon getting up, shakes his head and takes stock of both himself and what he's carrying - and, well, any injuries that may indicate what put him down in the first place.
Both of them look like those beautiful people you see in advertising or movies. the lady's got blonde hair, probably nearly to her waist, in a thickly roped braid. Her plain white robe is (unlikely as it seems) unblemished by any stains. The trim of the robe is cloth-of-gold, and seems to be run through with the same spiral/vine pattern that was on your ceremonial armor, and still is on the scabbard for your sword.
Come to think of it, it matches the pendant you took, as well.
The elf is dressed in a fine chain shirt, with similar chain greaves over a soft green tunic and legging. His cloak is a deep blue, thrown back off his shoulders at the moment. Adjusting his sword, he moves the cloak to cover his shoulders, and hide some of the reflective quality of his chain armor. He's got no jewlery on, at all, unless you count the strip of ... it looks like twine ... that he uses to bind his hair in place, into a ponytail, much like Rez and Dracos's.
Struck by a sudden thought, Bjorn runs his hand across his face and through his hair, looking back as well at the bodies, trying to get at least an idea of what he now looks like.
Rez: You're fine, as far as you can tell. Not even a bruise.
Your equipment matches Dracos's, if it's slightly less fancy. You've got a longsword, without any family names on it except your own, and that at the tip, just at the begining of the blood-channel.
You've got a belt with a handful of pouches. One of them contains some roots (some of which have teethmarks on them), one of them contains some loose currency, and another contains four thumb-sized gems. An emerald, two fire emeralds, and a pearl. All of them are flawless.
Tucked into your belt are also two knives, one suitable for fighting, and one (most likely) for eating with. A bag nearby might be yours. It matches the fur of your tunic, beneath the metal plating (reindeer hide, you think) and contains some food wrapped in waxed paper, and a waterskin. Beneath that, there's a rolled up scroll in a wooden tube -- looks like a map, though you've got no idea where you are at the moment.
The second that Liandral sees it, he blinks. "Perhaps we should study the map," he suggests, frowning. "We could determine the best course of action from there."
Well, you've got a beard, and it's a pretty full one, considering it's neatly trimmed to perhaps three centimeters in length. Your hair is short, which means you look (in general) very similar to the dead guardsmen, you guess. You think your hair color is dark, but it's hard to see anything more than your beard and mustache, and even that takes a bit of work. There's a scar on one cheek you can feel, starting below one eye, and running back a few centimeters towards your ear.
Judging by the height of Dracos (and now that he's standing, Rez) your height is just slightly below average. You're taller than the lady, if not by much, and shorter than the elf.
"Sounds like a good idea," Rez opines, proffering the map to Liandraal.
Dracos glanced at Rez, ~Welcome to Dungeons and Dragons?~
He then proceeded to nod and look around the battlefield, attempting to ascertain what had happened here and any hints of why the orcs had attacked.
Dracos
No mental communication seems to be happening here.
Liandral accepts the map and finds a smooth spot on the floor to unroll it where everyone can examine it. Ginrai slumps to a seated position nearby, adjusting his glasses every so often and frowning.
Dracos: You attempt to discover what happened.
It looks like some people (you) came in from one door, and were jumped by a whole bunch of orcs. There was a fight, the orcs (if that's what they are) were killed, and some of the dozen people in the room were killed, too.
Looks like the people dressed identically to Bjorn were all trying to protect something, or someone, as they all stuck together, until all but Bjorn were killed.
Everyone else was in a general melee, through from the looks of things, most of the orcs between where Dracos woke up and what the defenders were guarded were struck down from behind, because they were too focused to pay attention to what was behind them.
Other than that, it's hard to say. Maybe the orcs attacked for food -- you don't see anything edible in sight that's not in a pack someone (and to judge by the smell, someone non-orcish) was carying.
Dracos looks carefully over one of the orcs to see if there was any visible signs of starvation.
Dracos
Well, they look pretty well fed to you. No ribs showing, at least.
"At a guess, I'd say they were after the lady. They might look like they wanted food but they seem to well fed and too focused." Dracos surmises.
Dracos
"Obvious enough," Liandral says. "Regardless, we've got to figure out a way to get you, the Lorekeeper, and the draughts of life to Stormwall Keep."
He points at the map, looking up meet everyone's eyes briefly.
From what you can see of the map, most of the nothern half is labeled, "wastes," and has no features in it other than that it's ... well ... a waste.
The southern border is a continous wall of mountain, with a single pass showing. Stormwall Keep sits squarely in the center of that pass. You're near the center, by Liandral's indication, near a large crescent of mountain range that sits north of the Keep. The curve of the range is pointed towards the Keep. "The original shield mountains," he says, tracing a finger over the curve, "will be innacessable. We'll need to veer around it. The western foothills are unkind, but we must make haste. The Dreadmarch draws ever nearer, and we must get to Stormwall before the nights fall."
The lady nods, peering at the map. A pass is indicated on Rez's map, right through the center of the crescent, which would be a more direct route than going around the mountain range. "What is this?" she asks.
"That," the elf says uncomfortably, "is not a route we should take. Hadrick ... Shuker attempted to cleanse that path long ago, but it fell to darkness, and when he entered it, he fell, too. Oh, Borin, of eld, made the pass once, but it is far too dangerous. Our need is not so great as of yet. We will head west then, Madame, if you approve, and then from there directly to the Stormwall."
The lady looks doubtful, but nods. "Masters Durant, Shuker, and Lorekeeper?" the lady asks, turning to look at Paul, Rez, and Ginrai in turn. "Sir Bloom? Do you have any other ideas?"
Paul speaks, lowly, not as if he were muttering under his breath, but just as if speaking in a conversational whisper, but conversing with nobody but himself. His eyes are far-away and unfocused on anything.
"They delved too greedily and too deep, and disturbed that from which they fled..."
Liandral blinks at that, and turns to look at Paul oddly. "One of the other Lorekeepers at Stonewall said as much. Is it an old tale?"
Rez makes a strangled noise, trying not to laugh.
"I apologize," Liandral says, bowing his head to Nathan. "I should not speak so lightly of the hall where your ancestor fell."
Rez composes himself.
"No offense taken. I was just surprised to hear that, er, quotation," Rez returns the nod.
Dracos glances at Rez, "Aretheyus en Tolkien, ne?"
Dracos looked over the map as the lady requested, seeing if his eyes could determine any routes other than what the elf had suggested.
Dracos
Your only other option would appear to be over the mountain, or around to the east, which is a much longer route, as you're relatively near the edge of the mountain range already.
Dracos shakes his head. "As good a route as any it seems."
Dracos
Ginrai checks himself out to see what he's dressed in and if he has any sort of weapon with him.
"One question before we leave: who here has the ring?"
In response to this question, the lady actually blushes, and looks directly away. Liandral merely looks confused. "This has been a trying day," he says after a moment, rolling up the map and handing it back to Nathan. "We should leave. Is there anything else you need here, Loremaster?"
Looking down at yourself, Ginrai, you see you're wearing a thick brown robe. underneath it you've got thinner leggings and a tunic, but you're kept reasonably warm.
You're carrying a staff about as high as you are tall. You have a small knife suitable for eating tucked into your belt, and a number of pouches which contain things like dried powder (of what, you're not sure) and small glass beads. Perhaps some of them are jewels; you're not certain. You've also got a pouch with some money, but not much.
In addition, you have a pack, and in it is a tome, which looks pretty weighty. It's also locked, but unlocks itself when you touch it. You don't have time to read through it (or really, even glance at it) at this moment, though.
A necklace around your neck bears a flat silver disc with a hole in the center, the edges inscribed with numerous intricate markings that you don't know the meaning of, and apparently, both of your ears are pierced (the earrings aren't coming out, either, unless you're willing to give up a bit of ear with each of them).
You've got no facial hair that you can feel, and your hair is probably to mid-way down your back, dark, and braided intricately (there are four strands of hair, instead of three). You're wearing pretty comfortable boots, though.
'Hopefully I know some spells to help defend myself if needed. I wonder if I'm able to change into a wolf while here....'
"Nothing else at this moment. I think it would be best if we leave now."
"Agreed," Liandral says, nodding. After everything is packed up, he heads to the door that most of the human bodies lie near. "Take any provisions you feel we can use, but don't overburden yourselves," he warns. He then waits for everyone to follow him.
The lady stays near Bjorn, expecting him (apparently) to lead the way.
Ginrai follows Liandral and waits for the others to finish taking anything necessary.
Rez digs through some of the packs belonging to the bodies, trying not to gag, and divides all the food he can find into a small pile , before stashing as much as he feels alright carrying into his own bag.
Four of them are carrying a fair bit of food. The three dressed like Bjorn, and the one dressed like Nathan and Dracos.
The other one isn't carrying anything but a waterskin in the way of consumables.
Paul stands up and walks to the exit as if in a daze, then takes a solemn look back at the corpses littering the room.
Waiting until Nathan is done collecting provisions, Bjorn then makes his way through the door, sword at the ready.
OOC: Cursed frail mortal body.
IC:
Dracos also takes any provisions that Rez can't reasonably carry, trying to make sure they have enough food for the trip.
Once done, he follows after Bjorn, keeping eyes peeled for uglies.
Dracos
Laindril opens the door once you've all gathered behind him, letting in a howling, and very cold wind. You're not in any danger of immediate freezing as far as you can tell, but this is not going to be a comfortable journey.
Immediately outside this doorway is a vast, nearly featureless white plane, covered in snow, some small scrub brush in sparse areas between you and the horizon, and a sun that hangs almost directly behind you, over the house. It hangs low in the sky, red and dim, as though tired.
A very faint dusting of snow is falling from the clouds more directly overhead (which stretch on to the north seemingly forever), and you can see tracks leading off from the building you just exited. If the sun is to the west, then the tracks lead southeast.
But you're not certain that this is the case, because Liandril said you would be heading west, and he doesn't lead you towards the sun. If Liandril is leading you west, then the sun is south of you, and the tracks lead off to the northeast.
Either way, in the direction of the sun is a massive shelf of rock that springs rather abruptly from the tundra without the formality of foothills. The crescent shaped mountain range (if that's what it is) is only probably a half a kilometer high, but the passage would be nearly straight up. It looks like it grows taller behind you, and shorter in the direction that Liandral is leading you.
The building itself is a large, very blocky, nearly square shaped building. The only departure it makes from being a cube is a very high, peaked stone roof. Logically, to deflect the snow. There are no windows visible, nor any chimneys. There's no signs on it to give a clue as to what its purpose is, other than, "spot for people to leap from a body in one reality to a body in another in the wake of an orc attack".
"These tracks," Bjorn says, stopping beside them, and studying them as best he can. "Can anyone make anything of them?" He looks around, studying the horizon for dark shapes or signs of motions, and then peers down the trail. "I don't think we'll find many friendly people walking about out here."
"You don't remember where we came from?" Liandril asks, frowning. "Did you hit your head?"
"I don't remember," says Bjorn, truthfully and only a touch dryly.
He frowns, but turns away, and starts trecking across the trundra towards the edge of the mountain range. "We should be able to make it to the keep in a week, if we travel quickly. That will be more than enough time to get there before night falls."
Bjorn follows after the elf, keeping half an eye on the lady as he goes.
You troupe along through the snow. Thankfully, it's all very hard, and you've got crampons strapped to your boots, so there's no falls (outside of Ginrai tripping over his robes twice, and losing his glasses once).
The sun seems to be slowly moving west, as the hours drag on, but it's not actually setting. Eventually (as you're getting a bit tired) he calls a halt at what can only be considered an 'edge' to the mountain range. Here, it's a series of steep hills instead of an abrupt cliff.
"Let us stop here, and rest," Lianrdril suggests. "Find something to eat. Sir Bloom, if you'll follow me, we can scout the hilltop." He hesitates for a minute, then shakes his head, and starts heading towards the sun, climbing straight up the hillside.
Bjorn roots in his pack, pulling out the dry rations, and carefully apportioning them to those standing around after putting the remainder back in his pack.
The lady accepts a small bit of cheese and the dried bread; she's got her own waterskin, though she's tucked it into her robe to keep it from freezing.
Bjorn grunts at that, and then checks his own waterskin -- both to see if it's freezing, and to find out how full it is.
Just like home. Well, except for the lack of technology, different body, and orcs.
Since you've been moving, your waterskin is not frozen. But it is cold, and very slushy. Your armor doesn't have any convenient accomodations for you to slip it next to your skin -- and as cold as it is not, you're not sure you'd want to. It's got a good amount of water in it -- it's pretty big. You'd guess at least a liter is left, and it can probably hold one and a half.
The lady finds a rock, dusts it off, and sits down, pulling her cloak around herself as a cold wind begins to pick up. The snow is lessening, but the wind slowly gets stronger.
Big enough not to burst if it freezes, Bjorn decides. No worries, then.
He settles down to eat his share of the rations, not rushing, but going slowly, giving his body plenty of time to deal with the new calories. As he eats, he alternates between looking up the hill after Dracos and the elf, and staring out over the plains around them. "Hope they hurry," he mutters, hardly aware of speaking aloud. "Can't stop moving for too long."
Paul wonders if he should make known just how fucking little he knows about what's going on, then decides against it. This is a dream, in a sense, and when you dream you'll always know what you need to about it.
Instead, he chews his ration without really tasting it, and takes the instrument into his hand, bringing his fingers across the strings in an exploratory manner.
At the first touch you know the lute is just a hair out of tune. It makes a very good sound, though -- the higher notes sounding sweet, and the lower notes sounding more expansive than seems likely for such a small instrument.
Paul tries to move his fingers across the strings without thinking about where they're moving to. He doesn't know how to play, but in this place, perhaps his fingers know for themselves.
With the same far-off stare, and in the same self-conversing whisper, he starts talking again. The words are lyrics, but come out with no music.
"Purple haze, all in my brain... lately things don't feel the same..."
Your fingers appear to know their own way around the instrument.
OOC: Sorry for the delay.
IC:
Dracos focused on perceiving this as simply...one big role playing game for now. Nodding taciturnly, he followed Liandril up the hill, keeping his eyes peeled.
Dracos
Rez chews on a small amount of food out of his own pack, and casts a questioning glance towards Bjorn.
"Not quite what I was expecting, really."
Phil: You attempt to climb the hill. Your longer limbs prove adequate for the task, though Liandril does need to wait for you to catch up every so often. You're probably about twenty meters up when you reach the crest.
From here, the snow is thinner, showing long, dead grasses. They come up almost to your knees.
To the north, the vast wastes continue, pretty much unhindered. To the east (and somewhat south) you can see the continually rising slope of the crescent shaped mountain range that you're trying to go around. The receeding heights stop somewhere in what's become foothills (which you are on one of).
South, you can see more plains, though these are hillier, and sport thicker vegetation. Occasional trees, at the least.
West, you can see a river wending its way through the foothills a few kilometers off.
Liandril stares at the land to the south, apparently deep in thought.
Dracos eyes Liandril, moving slightly near him and eyeing him and the south, waiting patiently for the moment to see if he'll speak without further prodding.
Dracos
"The way looks clear," he says doubtfully. "But I have a feeling ... that something is not right." His eyes scan westward, and towards where you can see the sluggishly moving river. He seems unafected by the cold, but you're not totally imune, yourself.
"We'll cross the foothills lower, further east," he decides. "There, we should still make good time."
"Something is not right, but we must move on, none the less. Your path seems wise," Dracos responded, looking around carefully one more time for anything that particularly caught his eyes as off.
Dracos
<Dracos> Roll 3d6 for perception
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Dracos ... : 3d6 for perception --> {7}
Hold that thought. A river? In a place this cold? And why's it black?
"That river. It...should not be moving in this weather. Nor is it colored right. Do you have a spyglass?" Dracos said with narrowed eyes.
Dracos
"River?" Liandril says, frowning. He makes a gesture, and the (very faint, now that you're outdoors) bobbing flame over his head lowers into one hand. He leans forward, and says something in a language you don't recognize. You're sure it's pretty vulgar, though.
"They were hidden from my eyes, but not yours," he growls. "The army ... we cannot pass that way. We number too few to challenge such a number."
Now that he mentions it, that river could be a massive host of armored people, and what you thought was light reflecting off of waves would really be far distant weapons and armor. The river extends some distance to the south, as well.
"This is ... we must consult, all of us together. Perhaps Madame Mirallia will have some advice," he decides, releasing the flame from his hand to float overhead, and bounding down the hill without waiting to see if you follow.
Everyone else sees the elf dash into the camp, sliding the last few steps to a halt. "We must change our plans," he says tersely.
Dracos follows quickly.
Dracos
Rez paused, then quickly choked down his mouthful of food.
"You saw something?"
"The army," Liandril says, scowling. "They will block our approach -- how can they move through sunlight?" He balls a hand into a fist and strikes one thigh angrily. "First the trap to stop us from reaching the keep, and now this. The oracle said things that seemed impossible, but now I fear are only inevitable. Madame Mirallia, we cannot pass this way. We must go the long way around, and I do not know if we will have the time we need to make such a journey."
"We must. It is as simple as that. Remind me though what the oracle said? As we walk though, if time is short, we should not tarry."
Dracos
"The oracle speaks to and of the Archons, for she has no great love for us ... but she said to them: 'And lo, through the deeping days of dark in winter, when the night of dread draws near, it shall mark the end of an era, and there shall be one hundred years and one hundred days left for the rule of the Archonae.'
"Of course," he spits, "they will go through us, first."
He says nothing else, turning and stomping off through the snow.
The lady seems a bit preturbed, but shakes her head. "If we haven't the time, we haven't the time. Tell me of the pass ... the pass you spoke of earlier."
He whispers no longer when he speaks.
"Isengard has been unleashed... black shapes crawling..."
He sharply inhales and grits his teeth.
"An army of that size doesn't organize itself, and they wouldn't be sent out without a target to siege. They aren't looking for us, so that much is in our favor. But they're probably headed out to the same place we are --" and as if it just came to him, he adds "-- because they are a dread march, right?"
He waits a few seconds, then continues, still talking to himself more than anyone else. "So, they are ahead of us, and we need to outrun them. If they're going to the same place we are, eventually their... their host has to turn in the direction of this Keep. They can't be laid across every path we could take, because they have to be laid on at least one. We may very well be able to kind of... go next to them. See where they turn toward Stormwall, and take the next exit. It may be the long way around, but, not much longer than the way they are taking.
"Of course, we still need to outrun them. A few individuals can run faster than an army that has to wait for its slowest members, but they have a head start... and we can't just get there five minutes ahead, that won't do any good."
Liandril stops at this, and looks back over his shoulder.
"That ... if they were not so far ahead of us, we could try. But they are ahead of us."
"And the other pass?" the lady reminds the elf.
"That way is certain death," he says slowly.
"But Borin made it. Why can't we?"
Liandril looks vaguely haunted, and turns to look at everyone in turn before licking his lips and turning to stare at his feet. "It ... there ... there are two paths through the depths of that passage. One leads to ... whatever it was that made Hadrick fall. The other is by no means safe, but has been made before."
"Very well," the lady says authoritatively. "We shall take the less dangerous path."
"That ... is the problem. There are two paths, yes, but that place ... changes. Which is safe, and which is not ... is different every time. This is an evil place, and we should not go. Safer, I think, to climb the mountains, and brave what wakens in the depths of winter on their peaks than pass beneath."
The lady nods again. "We shall divide our forces, then. If we shall fall, we shall fall. But some of us absolutely must reach the keep. If we fail, then we fail. But if we do not even try, then Hamar himself cannot redeem us, and we shall never be permitted to walk past the towers of the sunset."
"I don't like the idea of splitting up the group when there's already so few of us . . . how far from here is that pass?"
"I'll take the dead road and ye take the long road, and we'll meet again in the morning... Myself...Rezantis...and the lorekeeper will brave the path. Risk no more than three. The rest of you should move with all speed down the other path. Liandril, tell us all that we can know about the path and what must be done when we reach the other side."
Dracos
"No. We don't split up. Maybe in the world of airplanes and coal mines, but not this place. Here, we stick together."
Liandril looks vexed at this. "Sir Bloom? What is 'Rezantis'? And as I said before, I do not know how to tell the paths apart."
"Sorry, a nickname for Nathan. I did not mean that. I meant could you quickly recount the legend involved in it, and what needs to be done when we arrive at the other side of the path and head towards the keep."
Dracos
"Legend?" Liandral says skeptically. "The pass was once a path to the gates to the southern kingdom. The road to the Archonae. But the Dreadmarch sought to take it for their own use, an age ago.
"The defenders of the Stormwall ... called something dark and terrible there. Something to stop the Dreadmarch. But it stopped much more than that.
"That place has fallen to darkness long ago. No one alive yet knows what was summoned, only that it was dangerous. Very dangerous. It serves no one, listens to no reason, and none who have faced it live to tell the tale.
"Long ago, when another party of runners had to make the run before the Dreadmarch, Borin attempted the pass. He was successful, but spoke of dark things that fell into the pass, and he said ... as the passages are near one-another ... he could hear something. Something great and huge in the other passage. Many of his retainers fell battling ... things he would not speak of until the day he died.
"I believe Nathan could recount the tale best, but as you say ... his forefather attempted to fight whatever lay before. Hadrick, who slew three of the Dreadmarch generals in his day, and was gifted by the Archonae the first sword -- the King of Swords, it was said.
"But even so mighty a man with so great a blade ... did not return from his attempt. Now, it is disrespectful to tell the tale of Hadrick's folly -- of Hadrick's FALL. That place is dangerous ... but if we each take one path, one half of us may yet survive to see the walls of Stormwall Keep."
Bjorn has kept silent up to this point, watching the horizon around them even more intently since Dracos has brought the news. Armies have scouts, and sweep-riders, and it wouldn't do to be caught at this point.
But now he looks back over his shoulder, a slight smile quirking his lips before his face falls serious again. "We don't have much choice," he observes. "We can't risk all of us falling along the dark path. I think, though, that Master Liandral and m'Lady should travel in seperate groups." He flicks his eyes meaningfully towards the rest of the group, and then again around this strange world, trying to communicate by body language, We don't know where we are. "But we can discuss that along the way. For now, we need to reach the pass."
The lady nods in approval, and begins to walk towards the east -- back the way you came. Liandral sighs, but follows quickly.
This time, Bjorn does not lead the lady, but follows, instead, continually glancing back over his shoulder for signs of movement.
A sudden shifting in his pack reminds him, and he furrows his brow. Mental note: next time we pause for a rest, see if I can read any of that book I picked up. Might be informative.
Ginrai sighs and breaks his long period of silence. "Personally I don't like the notion of basically sacrificing half of our already small group, but I will follow whatever everyone else here wants to do."
As he follows the others Ginrai wonders if he can recall anything about the tome he's carrying or of the necklace he's wearing or the items in his pouch.
You don't remember anything about them in particular. But you trudge on through the wasteland, until you return to the building you started out in.
The sun is still in the sky, if much further west, and lower to the horizon. But it looks like it's going to circle to the north rather than set. "We can either sleep here, or push on," Liandral says. "We should conserve our strength, though."
The lady disagrees, "We must not flag so soon. Hamar will lend us strength, if we stop and ask of it."
Liandral nods. "Very well," he replies.
'Hamar....' Ginrai tries to see if that name reminds him of anything.
He also decides to put aside some time to read through the tome if everyone decides to take a rest.
Reading time would be good. However, the lady wants everyone to stand in a circle and hold hands. Preferably with bowed heads.
Nathan followed along with the lady's wishes, realizing something . . . odd . . . as he did so.
There might actually be something listening to a prayer, here. Hell, it could be considered almost likely.
. . . interesting little twist, to actually -mean- something like that.
Paul joins the prayer-circle as well, his head already bowed in either thought or desperation.
Dracos frowns but joins in rather than cause a ruckus or disruption.
Dracos
Bjorn joins the circle, quietly, without giving any sign of approval or disapproval.
Ginrai joins the circle, hoping that this will be as helpful as the lady seems to imply.
The lady murmurs something quietly for a moment before calling out, "Hamar, please lend us your strength, in your service from the towers of dawn to the towers of the sunset, as long as life breathes, and the sun shines upon the world below." There's nothing to see, but you all FEEL energized by this.
She breaks the circle by releasing Bjorn and Paul's hands, then nods. "Let us continue," she says, quickly turning southeast and marching onward again.
Bjorn takes up the rear guard position, and marches on.
Hours pass. This is strange, because from what you know, this area isn't quite cold enough to be arctic (or antarctic, for all you know of where you are) but the sun is not setting. It dips low to the horizon, the lower portions actually passing beneath the edge of the wastes to the north. This causes the black stone cliffs south of you to light up and shimmer from the reflected light, turning most of everything north of you into a cold, blinding glare.
But when you look south, the entire mountain range looks like it's underwater.
You press on, feeling energized and boosted from the prayer. The cold doesn't seem to really even bother you for nearly an hour after the prayer, and then, it becomes noticable. It takes some hours before you feel as tired as you were the first time the prayer was uttered, and when it happens, the lady calls everyone to pray again.
This continues on until you lose track of time, for the most part. The sun has swung eastward, and then south again, barely clearing the rise of the mountain range. If you continue further, it'll be into the shadow.
Here, Liandral points to a great stone building, as high as the mountain walls themselves, and apparently build right out of them. Great statues adorn the front, easily a hundred meters tall, but the features weathered to blank planes by the harsh wind and snow.
"There it is," he says solemnly. "We will need rest -- true rest -- inside. The welcoming chamber of the old hall is still intact, and not as dangerous as the depths of this passage."
The lady nods, looking a bit more tired than any of you feel.
The building here has to be about four hundred meters high, and fifty wide. The mountains on either side rise up as sheer cliffs until they vanish into whispy clouds, the sunlight barely penetrating. But when you close the final few kilometers across the waste to the building, whatever it is, the only light is that which briefly shines down through the gap in the mountains, and over the roof of the building.
Then, you pass into shadow, and light pours from Liandril's friendly fire spirit (or whatever it is) and the lady's pendant.
The doorway of this building rises fifty meters high, but the doors themselves were torn off long ago, lying in pieces across the ground as you draw near.
Inside the arched portal to whatever will happen next ... is only darkness.
Bjorn grunts. "Well. Can't rest inside..." he mutters quietly.
Gesturing at people to stand back from the door and cover him, Bjorn steps through the arch into the darkness, quickly sidling sideways to stand beside the door, and prevent himself from being backlit.
It's dark inside, allright. After a moment of hesitation, Lalandril follows you. The light from his bobbing flame thing illuminates a little bit of what you imagine to be a massive room. About as high as the bilding is, anyway. Smaller but more severe (and less weathered) statues of men in armor surround the perimeter, though the far wall is lost to darkness.
Bjorn sheathes his sword, and then looks at the others. "If we're going to rest, let's rest quickly," he says, quietly. "We don't have time to lose, and I don't like this place."
Rez shakes his head, "I think he was talking getting some actual sleep, because we're not going to have much opportunity for a while."
Liandral nods in agreement at Nathan. "That's right. And you are wise to not like this place ... were it a good place in any sense, more would know of it."
The lady yawns, rolls her pack up behind one of the statues to use as a pillow, and curls up underneath her cloak. "We'll move on when we wake," she says drowsily.
Bjorn similarly prepares his pack for a pillow, but before going to sleep, he takes out the book and flips through it.
Dracos gestures Nathan over as he sets up a spot to rest as best he can.
Dracos
Rez wanders over, as asked.
"Mmhmm?"
Dracos whispered as he settled down, "Thoughts? I don't like this. Half of us dead is a bad end, even if we succeed in this quest."
Dracos
"Well, it doesn't sound like it's something we can fight anyway. That means, we run. And if you ask me, it's easier to be evasive with less people," comes the whispered reply.
"Or else we could try and convince them to bet on one. If there are other dangers it would increase the chances."
Dracos
Bjorn: Not too much light to read by, as the lady's glowing necklace is beneath her cloak, but Liandral steps closer to you before sitting against a wall. The light from his flame is decent enough.
Your book appears to be a religious text. A bit dry and overdramatic, but the gist of it is that the old gods (who are not named) created the world, and then created the Archonae. These Archonae are the first, the eldest, and the wisest beings in the world (according to your book, anyway). They assisted the elder gods in the creation of all things good in life, until the gods grew bored, and decided that the world should be used to stage contests through mortal hosts.
The Archonae were reluctant to slaughter one-another, but readily assisted in the creation of other, lesser beings to participate in the gods' bloody spectator sport.
But the Archonae were wily, and said that the balance in all things beneath the gods (even themselves) was evident in the humans they created. The gods thought humans weak, and toyed with them, but their games fell to a dark end. Humans (and humans alone -- the other races were created to protect them and make their duty possible) had the potential to create new gods, which they did. They dreamed of kind and loving gods, to war with the cruel elder gods.
So they fought, a lot. Most of the elder gods were driven back, and went away to play some new game. Most of the younger gods were slain.
But among them, three remained. Hamar, the lord of the forest, and the god of wrath. Liena, the lady of the moon, and the god of love. Aestock, the lord of wind, and the god of balance.
The book doesn't really mention much of Liena and Aestock, mostly it centers on Hamar, his whips of rose thorns, and the battles he fought to protect the humans that brought him into being, and the other races that worshiped him for the change he wrought. (Not much mention of other races, either.)
In any case, the end result is that some of the elder gods remain (their names are forgotten, if they were ever known) and instead of warring directly, force the younger gods to play their games anyway. Without the help of the Archonae (who the elder gods have branded traitors), they created twisted and hateful beings to dwell in the night and destroy. Humans, animals, buildings. To destroy anything, but most especially that which the younger gods represent.
For if humanity dies, then too will perish the younger gods. At least, that's the theory.
In practice, the forces of cruelty and spite march once every hundred and sixty years from the cold waste where no loving god governs, and try to drive south into the heart of the human kingdoms.
This is a siege that lasts all thirteen days of the long night that comes to Stormwall Keep. Each day, a different general of the Dreadmarch leads his forces against the assembled defenders of the host of light, and each time, the moon is kept from rising until that general is slain, or forced to flee.
After that there are some myths, some parables, some legends, and a handful of prayers. There's more of the main story, too, but you're about halfway through the book (the letters are pretty large, and the pages are thinly cut strips of wood, not paper as you're used to), and getting pretty sleepy.
Rez shakes his head. "I doubt it. There aren't enough of us to risk pitched combat even if we do all stay together."
"Hmm...well then, let's stick close, cover the backs, ye?"
Dracos
Putting the book back in the pack, Bjorn lays out and tries to sleep.
"Sounds like a plan."
Ginra: You flip through your book before going to sleep, as you had planned.
This stuff is more complicated than you'd thought ... it's like linear algebra, only you're solving for fireball instead of n. There's a lot of hastilly scribbled memnonic notes to yourself in your own handwriting that remind you the easy way to remember things, but it's going to require some serious study to figure anything complicated out.
Three pages (and your pages are thinner and finer than the ones in Bjorn's book) however, leap out at you. One of them is a screen of air (you're not sure what it's going to do), that you're supposed to be able to summon. Another is a 'bolt of force' (not sure what that means, but sounds offensive. The final one is a 'firefly' summoning spell. You can't figure this one out, but it gets your attention, though, because it seems to describe the thing that's floating over Liandral.
Apparently, it's a tiny fire spirit and a tiny wind spirit dancing, so it's a constant spark. According to the spell (which you can't figure out how to cast yet, if that's what this is) the spark will stay with someone until the summoner either banishes it, or dies. In exchange for providing light, the spark spirit only shows itself (and its illumination) to the friends of its hosts ... but also hides some things from the host's eyes. Because of some mechanic you don't quite understand, apparently the spirit only gets to see what the host doesn't, so if it's interested in something, it blinds the host to that.
Other people will see it just fine, however.
Dracos turns over and gets some rest himself, focusing on going to sleep.
Dracos
Parthipan decides to turn in after studying his book for a bit, as well.
You all sleep ... thankfully, you've got warm cloaks, to ward off the chill.
You wake up feeling stiff, a bit achy, but at least well rested. Liandral either didn't sleep, or got more than enough sleep in ... however long it's been. Currently, the sun is shining right through the doorway, though it's even lower than ever, about 1/3rd hidden behind the horizon now.
Dracos spends the first moments of wakefulness stretching out, getting the blood flowing properly again in his limbs.
"So, which shall be the groups? One down one path and one another. Bjorn, Parthipan, the lady, and Paul in one group...and Myself, Nathan, and Liandril as the other?"
Dracos
The first thing Bjorn does, upon awakening, is to head outside the building to look for any sign of the army or outriders -- and, incidentally, to relieve himself.
Assuming he doesn't see anything, though, he returns back to the building, and starts rationing out a breakfast. He does it quietly, though, letting those who are still asleep rest a little longer.
But when Dracos speaks, he says, "That's a bit lopsided for fighting capability, I think."
Stirring from behind the statue and finally emerging from her cloak, the lady frowns. "I would hesitate to put that much of worth in a single group. I think...." She pauses, then nods. "You are correct, Sir Bloom. I apologize. I suggest only that you carry with you the draughts of life. Should we fall, those can still be used. And ... otherwise ... I should be able to fill that gap." She doesn't seem quite as confident as she's trying to act.
Rez gives Bjorn a flat look and taps his sword twice.
"No, seriously. If you have better suggestions, raise them."
"We shall guard them with our lives. May fortune and the light of Hammar smile upon your path."
Dracos glanced at the others in a 'ready to go?' fashion.
Dracos
Bjorn grimaces slightly. Shit. No bows. Forgot. "None much better," he admits. "Must all the draughts go together, though?"
"We can take three of them," the lady conceeds. "Sir Bloom and his entourage should cary the remaining ten."
Bjorn nods, and then digs in his pack for the potions. Realizing he only has one sack full of sawdust, he takes three vials out, and wraps them tightly in the clothes contained in the sack. Then he passes the pouch with the remaining ten to Nathan.
Liandral walks towards the middle of the hall, to where a great opening can be seen, leading down into the depths of this passage.
You couldn't see it before, as it was too dark, but with the light shining into the room now, it's visible. It's probably about twenty meters high, arched, and forty meters wide. You're not sure, but it looks like there are stairs leading down from that point. The ceiling inside the arch slopes downward, at least.
Dracos sees about distributing the ten for them among himself, Liandril, and Nathan, so they aren't all in one hold. "We should all carry some, so that if one of us falls, there is no risk of them all being lost."
Dracos
Liandral snorts. "If one of us falls, I should think all of us will fall," he says dryly. "But, as you say." He takes a few steps further, and the little spark over his head brightens a bit. "There are two passages. One leading to the left, and one to the right. I'd dare a guess that the one on the right looks to go deeper. Which shall we take, Sir Bloom?"
"I still think splitting up is a bad idea. There aren't police here, a public to hide in, planes or buses to travel in, or e-mail to communicate with. If we split up, we halve our pool of resources, and we halve the chances of either group to live through whatever it is we find between here and there. Ezm... we were told that there have to be five. We're five parts to a single unit now, and it won't work without all of its parts.
"We keep together, we protect the Draughts of Life, and we protect each other. If we split up and one group is caught, and one group is killed, we lose. That's it. We may bring the some of the Draughts to the Keep and save it for the time being, but then it's over. We won't be saving anywhere else. We won't be travelling to the next spot. We will have failed, we will be fucked. If we have any slim margin of power with which to fight the Enemy, to fight off evil, it will be dead. We have to go in one group, because one loss is as bad as all."
"I don't understand three quarters of what you said," Bjorn says evenly, with a heavy glare. "But the only thing that matters is getting the draughts through. If we all go together, and we all go down the wrong path, then we all die, and we fail. If we split up, then there is a chance that at least some of us might get through. It doesn't matter," he adds an emphasis to his words, "if we all live, so long as some of us survive."
"Possibly Liandril. Let us go now. The deeper path."
Dracos glanced at Bjorn. "May luck be with ye."
Dracos looked down the deeper path, examining the way first and then leading down it, expecting that the others will follow.
Dracos
Liandral ignores Phil and stalks up to Paul, grabbing the neck of his tunic. "Know your place and speak sense," he snaps. "This is much larger than you, master bard, this is about the lives all all we know, and all we love, and if we do not fight for it, then we've consigned everyone and everything to death.
"I do not like this plan, no I don't, but I know that if I fall, there is some small hope that you will live, and with that life, continue to fight on. Try not to allow Madame Mirallia to be hurt." With one last glare, he whirls away, marching towards the right half of what is (now that you're closer to it) a staircase.
The right half is a smaller archway (only half the width of the stairway) but steeper, and further down. The left half appears to curve away to the left, but you can't see much more than that, due to the poor lighting.
The cut and smoothed stone of the walls and stairway changes in those passages, though. There, instead of massive stone bricks, the walls and archways are irregularly shaped, mortarted together with some thick cement-like substance. Liandral pauses beneath the archway, and turns to wait for Nathan and Phil.
Dracos heads down the path, Rez following a bit warily behind him.
Dracos
As Liandral stalks off, Bjorn eyes the remainder of the party. "We should get going, too," he says, as if nothing had just happened. "I'll be in front. My lady, if you would follow behind me, to provide light, and... Paul, would you mind watching the rear?"
He moves closer to the staircase, but does not yet set down it, watching the others expectantly.
The lady nods slowly, and moves over to the staircase. This moves the light with her, and Parthipan has to move to the top of the stairs to avoid being left in the dark.
"This is it, then?" Liandril asks, further down the stairs. "This is where we shall part?"
"So it seems," Bjorn says, with a faint twist of the corner of his mouth. "Good luck, and may we meet on the far side."
While the others are discussing if splitting up is a actually a good idea, Ginrai heads over to Liandral. "This might seem a bit strange, but could you tell me how you were able to use the 'firefly' spell?"
Liandril looks at Parthipan strangely. "Lorekeeper? You placed it upon me yourself, do you not remember?"
'Damn, should've known.'
"Ah, of course. My apologies, Liandral, for I seem to have become a bit forgetful since the battle. If I hadn't alredy told you before, you'll need to have either Master Bloom or Nathan look out for anything strange on your path as the spirit blocks your view of certain things."
And with that Ginrai turns and heads towards where Bjorn, Paul and the Lady are. "I'll try to help out in some way if necessary, Bjorn, though at the moment I only seem to remember a few spells and even of those I'm not completely sure." While walking he reaches out for his necklace and feels it, hoping that it might help him recall anything about it.
Lianrdril blinks at something you said, but nods. "Thank you ... master lorekeeper. Be well upon your journey." With that, he turns back to Bjorn, and says, "Luck to you as well. Any kind gods willing, we will meet again." He salutes, then, making a fist and holding over his heart for a moment before wheeling about, and following Phil and Nathan into the depths of the deeper passage.
The lady looks troubled, but says nothing, merely shaking her head. "We must go onward," she says, as the two pools of light grow further apart. With that, she takes her first step behind Bjorn, down the left passage.
And so ends Sweet Dreams are Made of These. We now move on to:
(Ginrai, Huitzil, Bjorn): Leap of Faith (http://pishoque.net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=32382#32382).
(Dracos, Rezantis): The Halls of Our Fathers (http://pishoque.net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=32381#32381).