✅ MOONFIEND | Prologue: Nightmare

[Kettle]

​

th-THWOOM

Darkness pressed in, cold and deep. It flooded the lungs. It roared in the ears. Whether the eyes were open or shut, there was only darkness. Emptiness. Absence. A profound hollow where reality had been.

Darkness resounded with every movement. Each breath was the only shift of air. Each whisper contained the only words that were left. Of all else, there was nothing.

Then, out of the black, a rippling shockwave cut like a scythe: the deep, deafening pulse of a monstrous heart.

th-THWOOM

The sound struck the ears and faded, ringing. The dark choked.

BANG

In the distance, a sliver of red light flashed like a blade in the dark. It widened, a thin rectangle, then squealed shut with a clap of wood. It was a door blowing in the wind. A door to the outside.

Something waited in the dark.

Move. Toward the door like a drum, flashing rifts of red light. Press a hand against the splintering wood and push into a howl of hot wind and a roiling blood-red sky.

The beloved world below-- drenched in crimson --shivered and cracked.

th-THWOOM

A shatter of lightning rained electric fire to the ground. Dissonant, terrified screams clawed gashes in the sky.

Their voices shrieked out of memory. It was the last time they would be heard.

th-THWOOM

Out of dark fissures swarmed a hive of shadows, jagged mouths and pale dead eyes. They flickered, snatched, shred and devoured, starved wolves in a sea of shrieking lambs.

Their nauseous whispers snaked between the screams.

There was nowhere to run.

The suns eclipsed.

th-THWOOM

A darkness rose out of the horizon. it loomed, colossal and eldritch, a stain against a red sky. It quivered and swelled, a mass of horror and seething nightmare. It absorbed the light, churning foul and lurid colors that shouldn't exist.

It stretched its gruesome neck. Hollow eyes-- thousands of them, chasms of infinite nothing --considered the chaos below.

th-THWOOM

Ghastly wings cloaked the world in black. Everything and everyone, loved or known or cherished, succumbed to the flood of ravenous, ripping darkness.


After the last scream cut short-- after the darkness swallowed the sky and the ground and the last trembles of thunder --all that was left



was a heartbeat.


th-


Wake up.

Spoiler: Welcome and Instructions!

OOC Thread

Welcome to Moonfiend! Your tropey adventure starts here with a good ol' nightmare sequence. This is the Prologue! All characters will begin here: this is your chance to round out your character and show the rest of us what they're all about.

The above is a nightmare that all characters start with: the character is asleep and dreaming (a Sprite can assume they successfully Dreamlinked) of the same disaster happening to their home and to the people/animals/inanimate objects they love most. All characters dream of the same monsters devouring everything they love. And then they wake up. Whether you want to describe the nightmare yourself is up to you.

After the character wakes up, describe their morning routine and a synopsis of their day. What do they do? Where do they go? Who do they talk to? We want to see what their normal everyday life is like.

Sometime in the evening, the character somehow comes across an interesting book. Maybe in a strange house or a library or a museum or an outhouse or stuffed into a cabbage, it's up to you. Your character opens the book and that is where your post ends. The Prologue is the only time your post will be dictated: after this, it's all roleplay all the time.

Hearth PCs will find this book.

Red Moth PCs will find this book.

I'll respond to each person individually to teleport them to their respective team threads, and your PC's normal day will be rudely interrupted.

 

[Gilliard Beauchêne]

For an imaginative boy of seven, the dream was as real as reality itself. A dream to be sure; but that didn't mean it was any less real or important. It could have been a moonlight visitation by some cosmic harbinger of doom delivering a preview: in fully immersive style; of an unavoidable catastrophe to come. Or along those same lines, maybe it was prophesy. One of those things that could be avoided, all or in part, if only the right hero picked up on the cues.

Or again, it could be a 'riddle me this' sort of moral lesson for humanity in disguise. In retrospect, only one of those possibilities would keep and hold Gully's interest, seeing as he was as sure as sure could be, that he was meant for greater and more heroic things than the priest's of the Church had planned out for him.

Nevertheless, whichever of those possibilities was true, Gully woke that morning with a start, remembering it all vividly, each terrifying detail of it. As was usually the case, probably, with children whose imaginations were still fully engaged, and who hadn't yet grown skeptical and jaded like the old all too commonly did. Old; as defined by a boy of seven; as those pushing forty at best but more usually, thirty-five years of age.

The same age, he'd guess, that they stopped asking the really important questions and stopped believing that virtually anything was possible. They even tended to cast off unceremoniously the magical stories and myths of childhood, even the really lucrative ones, without asking why. For the most part, not Gully. Many childhood myths were simply easier to believe than not, so long as they weren't the punitive ones. On the contrary, a select few of them seemed to warrant an ongoing state of belief.

Still, there was one notable exception to Gully's fondness for the whimsical stories of childhood. It was all well and good to think that a lost tooth slipped under the pillow might draw an honest to goodness fairy in through the window in the dark of the night in order to collect that tooth; leaving a shiny new coin behind them. Fairies were real, so why not? But taking it further by questioning motive, was where things took a darker and creepier turn. Belief in a generous fairy that came in the night was one thing; but when you started to wonder....Exactly what was that fairy doing with all of those teeth? It conjured images of something like a dragon's lair in Gully's mind, but in this case not filled with a mountain of glittering treasure and coin. Instead, a mountain of thousands, hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of tiny teeth collected over who knew how many generations of children? Human ones, elf ones, dracon and dwarf ones...Even fairy ones.

To date, no one had been able to answer this question to his satisfaction, and it couldn't help but install a fairly dim view of that otherwise generous fairy, deep in Gully's young mind. Particularly when the priests and priestesses at the orphanage he'd already ducked out of; had seemed to be fully onboard with this fairy's nefarious plans.

As for the details and questions surrounding questionable myths and nightmares, Gully would think on all of it later. He had another day's business to attend to. Him and Dunder, his little white canine companion who followed him virtually everywhere, and sometimes even acted as a partner in mischief of sorts. Which was why, in addition to taking great care with his own appearance first thing in the morning, Gully made sure to do the same for Dunder with a good brushing and smartening up.

The pair might be without a home at the moment. It might even be rare that they'd pass the night, each night, in the same place as the last. But considering where Gully tended to pick up his living in the city, it rarely did him any favors to look the part of one of Jaedaxia's many grubby street urchins. His favorite haunts, on this day and most others in fact, weren't in fact where the richest and most well titled of the city resided, but instead, where the richest and well titled of the tourists tended to stay, eat and shop. It was easy to convince an infrequent traveler with coin to spare...someone who'd probably never see him again, nor them, him, that he was simply a well cared for and well dressed, adorable and clever young boy who'd managed to become separated from his adoring parents. They'd be all too eager then step in and make sure he was well fed, and armed with enough coin to book the carriage ride home. Wouldn't work in the southern quarter where the same exact scam might only work once, and never again.

It was simple enough to look the part too. Gully preferred to save what wealth he was able to lift for some future endeavor. But in the southern quarter in particular, the rich tended to cast off clothing and other goods that even the upper middle class of the city would be proud to own. And in the dark of night, Gully wasn't above going about collecting those things from the bins, while making sure to avoid being spotted by the armed patrols.

Jaedaxia was his turf, and Gully did well. But while he didn't often look the part of a street urchin, unless it suited him to look it, he still lacked a regular, reliable place to lay his head down at night. He could probably spring for the rent, assuming anyone would rent a regular room to a boy of seven. And buying was out of the question. He did alright though. The night just passed in fact, and the one before that, had been spent in a bed just for him in the servant's quarters just on the edge of the southern quarter. Not that the homeowners knew it, they probably had just mistaken him for a messenger or stable boy...by design. Well fed and well rested, he'd be gone again before they figured it out.

The day of the dream, however, turned out to be a day like most of the others; except that he'd spent more time in the south quarter than usual. He'd enjoyed a late breakfast of fresh pastries both savory and sweet washed down with a cup of sweet tea at a bakery in Le Quartier du Sud. It had been refreshingly easy to convince the proprietor that due to his upcoming birthday celebration, his mother had sent him to taste test the finest local offerings, after which she'd surely arrange with said bakery a very large order. Gully could only use that particular story once, at least not twice in the same location.

Otherwise, he'd charmed a handful of tourists and picked a few pockets so he didn't fall out of practice. He'd visited the open market later in the day, in order to regale the stall owners there with a similar tale, though not an identical one, to the one that had charmed the baker before them. Nearer the end of the day, it was a temptation entirely too powerful to resist, that resulted in a chase through dark alleys and nearly got him caught by the guards. He'd spied a black carriage pulling up to the donation bins outside a charity resale shop. The well dressed driver had hopped down from the bench and retrieved a large leather sack from the carriages interior, only to unceremoniously drop it into the bin, and then drive away.

The sign on the shop's locked doors stated that the charitable folks had gone home for the evening, and even the usual crowd's on the sidewalk had thinned out, the foot traffic slowing down to a trickle. His imagination fully engaged, thinking of what might be in that sack, had spurred Gully on and he'd dashed in, grabbed the sack and ran. It was much heavier than expected. It was an awkward load and as fate would have it he was spotted by a passing pair of guards, out on their usual evening patrol. It all resulted in an invigorating, even thrilling chase and game of cat and mouse though narrow streets and alleyways, until finally the boy gave them the slip completely, and ended up in the same place he'd begun his day.

And there, alone by the light of a bedside lamp, he'd searched through a bag that turned out to contain a handful of useful treasures. The most prized of them turned out to be a child's hat, a fancy black one that as good as looked new, if it hadn't been for a slightly undone seam on the crown's interior lining. But the most curious find was the book. Something that he wasn't convinced the original owner had intended to throw away. He'd begun by expecting a travel bag that he'd found inside the sack. Made of leather, it was a little worn and faded on the bottom corners, but the brass clasp still shone and worked as well as ever. Still, the case was heavier than he thought it ought to have been, and it was only after having pried up a false bottom in the case, that Gully happened across that book.

The sack and all of it's contents, he pushed aside onto the floor and settled himself into bed with just the book in his lap. It was a curious looking thing, and set his imagination into high gear. He'd never seen such an unusual looking thing before and it made him wonder, who had owned it? And why was it hidden away in the bottom of that leather traveling case? With all those questions in mind, with Dunder curled up at his feet and snoring, Gully left the lamp burning, pulled the covers up to his chest, opened the book and looked inside.

 

[Eaclyrtan Arche]

Eaclyrtan awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright in her bed.

She looked around reflexively, but nothing was out of the ordinary. She was still in her tiny home in Ziel Aerca. Her LIVE. LAUGH. LOVE. sign was still hanging above the hearth. Her fur-lined boots were next to the door, by the end table with several scented candles on it. Other than the miserable nightmare she'd just had, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary.

Still, she didn't like it.

She ran one hand through her hair, which was long -- certainly long enough to hide her damaged ear. These were not good vibes.

These were bad vibes. And E hated bad vibes almost as much as she loved big knitted scarves. Almost as much as she loved a warm cup of coffee on a crisp autumn day. Almost as much as she loved heading to the local theater when they were showing her favorite play, Romance, Forsooth.

E rolled out of bed with a sigh. The weirdest thing that had happened to her since the whole "accidental Ikonomancer" business. Ah well. Best to put it aside. Strange as it was, it was still just an odd dream. It wasn't as if it were going to have lasting consequences, or somehow result in her being swept up in an epic adventure of Good vs. Evil.

And she had work to do.

The coffee shop was only a block away, and E arrived just as Clarissa was opening the doors. "Morning," E said, and then walked into the back to grab her apron. A crowd of other people was filing into the shop, all eager for their daily caffeine fix. E tied her apron on, and strode behind the counter.

"Welcome to Moonbucks," she said to the first customer in line, a human woman in her forties wearing a green dress. "What can I get for you?"

* * * * *
​

The brightening was finally over, and the shop had closed. Clarissa was wiping down the counters, and E was straightening the chairs, picking up trash, and generally making the place presentable for the next morning's guests. It was something that E could do on autopilot, and that's more or less what she was doing, until she got to the very last table in the corner diagonally opposite from the front door. As she started pushing the chairs in, she noticed an object resting on the table.

"Hey Clarissa! Has anyone come by looking for a book?"

The other woman, a blonde human in her 20s, stopped wiping the counter and looked up thoughtfully.

"I don't think so? What kind of book?"

E examined the tome in front of her. "Not sure. It's a weird one though. Some kind of buckle on the front and...plants growing out of it?"

Clarissa snorted. "I feel like I'd remember if someone had been looking for that." A pause. "Anyway, is there like, a name on it or anything?"

E nodded to herself. "Hang on, let me check." One hand reached out to open the book, so that she could ascertain if its owner had written their name inside somewhere.

 

[Usira]

Dominus too awoke with a start, also sitting bolt upright in his bed. Panting and looking around reflexively. As one does.

But it had only been a nightmare. The heartbeat was his own, nothing more. He was alone but for the dead around him. As it should be.

Dom's bed was, in fact, a bedroll wedged into an ancient stone sarcophagus. He rose from it now. Carefully felt about for a nearby torch, and lit it, then made a circuit of the chamber, lighting several more in turn in their sconces along the walls. Aside from the torches, there was no light at all this deep in the old crypt he called home. He drew on his black robes. Placed his mask over his face. And as he did every brightening, he glanced under the stone lid of the sarcophagus where it leaned against the nearby wall. And as always... and contrary to the nightmare... the bones were still there, just where he had left them.

A moment's concentration to reanimate them. And the bones assembled themselves into a skeletal cat. Dominus lifted the thing in his arms, and ran his fingers along the vertebrae of its spine, worn smooth from many eras of caresses. The undead beast rubbed the side of its skull against him in turn. Because as always, its only command was to be a cat. Nothing less. Nothing more. And that was how Dominus Deathblight began his day.

He ate a simple and joyless rosyun of dried meat and berries and other things that he hardly tasted, his eyes staring into the middle distance the entire time, thinking only that the dead did not have to sustain themselves in such a way. And finally, once the needs of his weak mortal flesh had been attended to, the Necromancer was free to go about his business. Checking on the bones in his barrel of lye. They were coming along nicely. He'd have a new skeleton to animate, soon. He raised a couple of others that were already good to go, and then spared a considerable amount of time dressing them in what pitiful scraps of armor he had scrounged for them: a shambolic collection of weathered leather and extremely rusty iron gear. Still, with it on, they looked the part: soldiers in Dominus's service.

Their first task was simply to push aside the lids of the various sarcophagi in which Dominus kept his collection of fleshly corpses. Keeping them sealed in stone caskets help limit the amount of damage done to the corpses by rats and roaches and worse. And once they were out and inspected, Dominus raised those, too. A half dozen undead in total, not counting the cat. The four zombies, at least, could be left to "sleep" in their ragged armor, rather than having to be dressed up like dolls.

Each of the undead clutched at least a rusty dagger in its claw. Here was Dominus's army, such as it was.

The little undead force would march in formation, clustered around Dominus, on the long march through the dark forest to the trade road that lead to Aelyria prime. And there, at any one of a dozen possible ambush sites, they would shamble forth to sack whatever unlucky traveling merchant who happened to come their way. Some brightenings no one came at all, and Dominus went home with nothing. Other times all he would see was a caravan too big for him to hit. But some brightenings fortune favored him, and once the merchant and his guards were dead or fled, Dominus would have a wagon of useful things to rifle through.

Maybe he was in luck this very brightening. Maybe not. Either way, when Dominus ultimately returned to his lair, his dark eyes immediately fixed on something strange and out of place. A sign that someone had been there, in his very crypt.

They'd left a book. Just lying there on the dusty stone floor.

The Necromancer knelt to pick it up. As if of its own accord, it fell open in his hand...

 

[Unum]

Unum Bumbulum woke with a grunt and a cough, as his throat rejected a half swallowed snore and filled his mouth with a thick mix of phlegm and snot. Wiping it on his shirt the young beardless dwarf lay back with eyes still closed and burped as his muscles stretched and his body settled back into place before he had to drag himself awake. His blankets, he noted, had been kicked into a complex knot around his feet and the sweat-damp of his back and shoulders had made his linen nightshirt cling and ride up around his belly. exposing a broad expanse of buttocks and balls to the morning air.

“Lex, Ordo, Iustitia” the dedicated Aslanite trilled invoking the Sacred Three as he sought to subdue the th-Thwoom and lightning clash looping in his minds-eye, spreading vast wings of darkness to obscure the whole of the red roiling sky.
This was not like his previous dreams where he had been running through a slough of custard, star anise and honey while being chased by a trio of cyraxians and a large, stuffed roast chicken - No this was a very different dream, and the warrior-priest honestly hoped it was not some prophetic warning of impending doom - perhaps he ought to raise it with a superior?

First though was morning ablutions, which is always proper of a member of the Honorables Ones sect. And thankfully the sect provided warm water and scented oils for their morning rituals, so the Warrior-Priest was able to remove his soiled nightshirt, bath comfortably and quickly change into a more appropriate set of day clothes, including a burnished breastplate and suitable trousers.

Quickly, Unum crossed the outer courtyard and entered the gates of the fourth chamber where, bowing first to the Master of Drums, he took his place up on the the platform with the other two signallers ready to strike out the call of Morning Thunder. With a broad and satisfied grin the warrior-priest raised his mallets into the air and brought them down on the drum with a loud boomph, then the ringing of his neighbours gong, and a rhythm of beats and rolls rung out through the 36 chambers of the temple rousing its various inhabitants to quickly rise and start a new day.

“That was fun” the Warrior drummer spun, a final flourish as he gave his drum a final series of strikes and then used his hand to sweep the drums surface and quite the vibration. Performing the Morning Thunder was always invigorating, a good drummer needed strong wrist, a strong back and strong legs to be effective, ensuring that the drums could be heard throughout the temple or across a battlefield. It kept a drummer fit and of course hungry and ready for the morning meal.

”Did you sleep well?” The Master of Drums inquired as Unum and the others put away their mallets “I noticed there was a slight lagging in your broad strikes, an uneasiness in your thoughts?”

“Oh - I, forgive me master” the warrior-drummer stammered, though he should have known that the Old Master would notice any slight variation on the rhythms he had taught “I had a disturbing dream, a strange one- though Morning Thunder has eased some of my tensions”

”I see” the Old Master replied in the knowing way of such aged sages “perhaps after you have eaten you can tell me about it. Dreams sometimes link to dimensions beyond our own experience and carry messages of importance.

but first” the aged Master then took a wrapped package from his table and handed it to Unum “this came for you from the Librarian, its seems that this is a day of portents…”

 

[Umbranax]

The time had finally arrived. Pandemonium. Chaos. The dusk that consumed all was finally falling, heralding the empty and forlorn dawn.

The ebon beast's heart beat in time with the nightmare's pulse. It echoed in his head and his chest, sending an electric thrill through his form. It would have stirred his very soul, were he to have claim to such a thing. Sentinels of steel and stone bore no such encumbrance. Such a weakness would not be tolerated by the masters of the Dark, and the Deep. Those that had found their servant. Those that had forged their lieutenant.

Cry havoc, monsters of nightmare! Embrace your brother as he strikes down the world at your side and devours the hope of the doomed!

Massive gauntleted hands slowly, almost sensuously, grasped the wire wrapped hilt of a titanic, dark-bladed greatsword. Tendrils of emerald energy encircled the enormous armored figure, moving with the sinuous and pervasive signature of Entropic essence. The ill-favored power bathed the figure's heavy black platemail in a grim and sickly light, highlighting the embossing and reliefs that proclaimed it's wearer a servant of the darkest powers that haunted the shadowy corners of the world. Reptillian eyes the color of embers and blood peered out at the devastation from behind a dark helm carved into the likeness of a dragon's skull. The time had come.

The monstrosity known as Umbranax gave himself utterly and entirely to the nightmare...

And awoke.

Slowly, his crimson eyes opened. No rapid breathing, no physical agitation of any kind, indicated that he'd experienced a nightmare at all. With calm and measured movements, the onyx Dracon pushed himself up from where he lay resting on the stone floor of his cell. Bereft of clothing, he was a daunting sight that immediately brought images of dragon kinship to mind. Immensely built and monstrously large in every respect, with powerful muscles that bunched and shifted visibly even beneath his ebon scaled hide. Menacing looking horns and spikes decorated Umbranax's head and swept back toward his spine, where his appropriately massive black wings lay folded against his rippling back. Though Umbranax appeared more than mighty enough for any physical task imaginable, his wings were unsuited to carrying his sheer mass aloft in flight. It did not bother the beast, however. No... he had been given another gift.

The gargantuan Dracon's form began to shift and change, and soon a tall and muscular male Elf stood nude in the stone chamber. This new form was notably far taller, broader and more muscular than any natural born Elf-kin, but seemed at first glance far less imposing than the Dracon form. The Elf's features were sharp and angular, but grim and fierce rather than beautiful, and straight hair so dark black that it almost shone deep blue spilled down from a central part to drape upon the Elf's shoulders. Red eyes had darkened to twin pits of black, as cold and deep as the eternal Void. Though less physically intimidating than his natural form, an almost tangible aura of menace and danger still surrounded the shape-changed juggernaut.

Umbranax strode to a corner of the cell and casually picked up a black robe from where it rested folded upon the stone, covering himself with it in an unhurried fashion and securing it around his tapered waist with a black silken cord. His feet and hands remained bare, for discomfort was a thing of the weak and the frail. Next, the enforcer reached out and grasped his greatsword, housed in it's sheath and back harness designed to accommodate both his Elven and winged Dracon forms. The weapon would have looked impractically large in most other's possession, but it had been forged for Umbranax himself in the magmatic forges of Those Who Dwell Below. The coal-hued blade was just over five feet by itself and as wide as a large man's hand, waved in the kris style of make, with a cross guard shaped to look like stylized dragon's fangs and a wire wrapped hilt that would ensure a firm grip even when drenched in blood. Though the entire weapon was as dark as pitch in color, it gave off an emerald green shimmer when reflecting the light, testifying to it's symbiotic attachment to the Entropic essence it had been forged to harmonize with.

Zahkrii Do Maar. The Sword of Terror. Blade of the Nightmare in Obsidian.

For this brightening's duties, Umbranax did not need his heavy suit of ebon platemail and so he left the small stone cell and began his rounds. As one of the Fists of the Dark Masters, it was his charge to remain vigilant and serve as a visible reminder of the penalty of insubordination to the Great Design. Slaves cowered in his shadow and beneath his stern gaze as they labored ceaselessly, and lesser soldiers stood taller and trained more zealously under his scrutiny lest he find their dedication wanting. No words need be spoken by the Ebon Dreadnought here, in the heart of their sanctum. All knew of his dispassionate, remorseless dedication to enforcing the will of the Dark Masters. One misstep, a mere hint of disloyalty, and Zahkrii Do Maar would part the offender's head from his or her shoulders. If they were fortunate. If not... if the emerald-green Entropic essence began to coalesce around that Elven goliath...

Needless to say, none failed to demure before the Dreadnought. The will of the Masters was in motion. The world would feel the wrath of their labors soon enough.

Upon circling back to his cell however, Umbranax stopped short and glared at something new. Something unexpected, and brazenly placed where he could not miss it. A large book had been set at the threshold of his chamber, intricate and maligned cover closed to protect the pages. The large Elf cast his furious gaze around the immediate area, but there was not a soul in sight. Who would dare approach his cell uninvited? Who would dare leave this book, assuming he'd retrieve it like an obedient hound?

Of course. The Dark Masters.

Umbranax glided toward the book, his steps uncannily fluid and balanced for a being of his size. He moved with the liquid grace of a born predator. The Nightmare in Obsidian reached down and grasped the book in one massive hand. It was warm to the touch, though it had been hidden from the sun's rays. He frowned at it, heavy brows furrowing in contemplation. What were the Masters trying to show him? What would they have him learn?

The Ebon Dreadnought slowly opened the tome and peered within it's pages...

 

[Kettle]

@Gilliard Beauchêne

At the end of a long and adventurous day of grifting, pilfering, and leading Jaedaxian guards into states of lost confusion, the triumphant youth had returned to that familiar, safe, yet temporary place where he could finally rest and examine the spoils of his latest and greatest procurement. Dunder snored quietly, white fur warming Gully's feet, while the candlelight cast flickering warmth into the evening and the long-stalked mushrooms of the buckled book cast a luminous blue shine.

The buckle yielded easily to the little thief's hand, and the book itself gave off a woodsy aroma of turned earth, dewy moss, and decayed plantlife, as if he held a terrarium, not a book, in the precious light of a single candle.

He opened its pages: inside he found blocks of shifting, undulating script that warped and twisted and took hold of his attention with a gentle yet unyielding grip, and though they caused a squeezing pain behind his eyes he could not look away.

At his feet, Dunder awoke and looked up, pressing closer, whining. But the book had already taken hold.

The world blurred and expanded like an optical illusion; the shifting words of the page became bigger until they enveloped everything he knew. Gully would feel himself pulled through a pinhole in the fabric of reality that had opened between the pages of an unreadable book.

When it was done, the moss-covered book clapped shut and buckled itself again, and the boy-- and his dog! --were gone.

Spoiler: Go forth!

Gully and Dunder's adventure continues here!

​

@Eaclyrtan Arche

The day had been tiring yet rewarding, filled with kind smiles and generous tips and the sweet smell of honey and freshly brewed coffee. A consistent murmur of voices had lulled the shop into a place of safety: a bubble of warmth away from the world of war and famine, where E was a consistently bright and comforting part of the locals' daily rituals of calm. They called her by name, told her their stories, ordered their favorite drinks and settled at their favorite tables.

But none of the staff had noticed anyone sitting at that lone dark seat, and certainly hadn't noticed anyone reading a book as strange as this: such a moss-covered, fungus-laden thing-- growing with luminous little mushrooms --must have been read by some mysterious figure in an unseasonally heavy cloak, but no such stranger had appeared at E's counter.

The book's buckle opened easily and the leather strap unfolded soft as cloth. The pages were rough and uneven, a shuffle of new and ancient papers, many of which were not secured in the spine but stuffed like notes between the chapters. The cover was warm while E lifted it open, like the compost beneath a rotted log in the forest.

Inside, the first page writhed with shifting, undulating script that hypnotized her unblinking attention. She might see shapes in their dimensional writhing, but the world around her had begun to blur and expand in her peripheral vision, and the book drew impossibly close. She would feel herself pulled like a thread through a pinhole in reality, into the space between the shifting glyphs.

The book clapped shut, clattered on the table, and buckled itself again. Behind the counter, Clarissa looked up with wide searching eyes. "E?" she called.

But Eaclyrtan was gone.

Spoiler: Go forth!

E's adventure continues here!

OOC I'll continue later on today! More posts forthcoming!

 

[Kettle]

@Dominus Deathblight

How unlucky it was to need to eat and to breathe in order to continue consciously in this dismal world. On the bright side, the army of the dead-- which heeded his command with mindless obedience --had begun to contribute to the already-cursed reputation of the Loremark and of the roads the bled out of it. Rumors circulated that anyone who died upon that road would rise again to kill the next trespasser. But Dominus did not speak with living creatures, and so he would never hear of his own infamy. Though he had forgotten the living world, the living world had not forgotten him--

--as evidenced by the appearance of a book that had found its way into a place where living creatures did not go.

The book had the mild warmth and glow of cooling brimstone, and an eye that peered shining through the Necromancer's presence. As soon as he held it, the locks and chains slipped with a jingling clatter and the coarse pages fell open in welcome. Inside he found a haunting script that shifted and blurred and twisted into itself on the page: his aching eyes could not focus on the patterns, yet could not look away. The dim stone lair seemed to expand in his peripheral, he felt himself pulled impossibly forward into the writhing pages while the bony cat clamped its teeth at his wrist to hold him. But the dead feline was not strong enough.

Dominus would feel himself pulled through a pinhole in reality that had opened in the fold between the pages. The soldiers-- left behind at attention --collapsed into piles of bones and armor. The book clapped shut and the chain hissed back into place. The eye blinked.

When Dominus reached the other side, he would find the undead cat still attached to his wrist.

Spoiler: Go forth!

Dominus' adventure continues here!

@Unum

The thrum of the drums had drowned out the monstrous heartbeat of nightmares, and the thus-eased dwarf had done well to raise his own spirits and those of the temple. It was a beautiful morning that promised to be a fruitful day. And he would get to experience the entire day, because the mysterious book in Unum's hands was still dormant in its package.

The book-shaped, slightly hefty package that Unum held had a slight warmth to it, and it smelled a little like the forest after a storm. But until he decided to open the package, and then the book, it would wait with infinite patience.

The Master gave a cryptic smile and silently shuffled away, leaving Unum to his meal, to his interpretation of prophecy, and to the unopened package. It was a long while until evening.

Spoiler: Not yet!

Things happen in this RP as a result of character initiative. Unum must take initiative and act before he will proceed in the story. As well, we wanted to see his entire day until evening, yet he hasn't had breakfast! You're free to make a supplementary post.

@Umbranax

In the presence of the monstrous Dracon, terror trembled in the bones of every lesser living thing. His ebony sword broke their bodies while his iron command crushed their spirits and molded them into whatever he wanted them to be. The result of his unyielding leadership was absolute obedience in his subjects: they would to meet Umbranax's expectations despite exhaustion and thirst and crippling anguish. The compound operated like clockwork, and he alone was to commend for it all. Nothing could refuse to kneel at his feet. This was his calling.

And yet, there was still so much to learn.

The book, though hefty, weighed little in his grip so accustomed to the greatsword. It was warm and it glowed like brimstone, its chains and locks shining gold. A dragon's eye stared out of the cover, watching him with a predator's glare, as if he and the book shared a murderous heritage filled with blood and power.

Upon taking the book between his strong hands, the locks clicked and the chains slipped away: the scaled tome recognized Umbranax as its rightful owner, though he had never touched it before. Inside, the cryptic symbols twisted and writhed on the page, shifting nauseously in the back of his eyes, and his gaze was trapped in the hypnosis of those unreadable glyphs.

The world around him expanded and warped in his peripheral while he felt himself being pulled into the center of the book, where his entire being was yanked through a pinhole in reality, stretched and squeezed and threaded into the space between the writhing glyphs.

When Umbranax reached the other side, he would find Zahkrii Do Maar still strapped securely in his back harness--

--but there was a deep crack split down the center of the ebony blade, broken in the transition between worlds, and its once-dangerous glow of essence was gone and dead.

When it was done, the book clapped shut and the chains returned to their locks. The dragon's eye blinked in silence.

Spoiler: Go forth!

Umbranax's adventure continues here!

 

[Unum]

Making his way to the gardens Unum spotted a large ripe melon and some arguta berries which he gathered and popping the gooseberries into his mouth broke his fast. As a drummer in the signal corps Unum was not a strict ascetic like some other orders and thus he was able to enjoy his meal, adding cheese and a bowl of milky gruel sweetened with honey.
The day that followed was a typical one, he chatted happily as he worked in the gardens, prayed devoutly to Aslan and Ioannes, fidgeted during study of the Tenets of Aslan and then afterwards went joyously to the exercise yard.

Unum enjoyed the martial disciplines the Master at Arms took them through, stretching and breath work, defensive stances, quick footwork, blocks, strikes and kicks. The Honorable Ones were a Militant sect ready to battle the Aeternian menace and thus trained in weapons mastery, field command and military strategy.
Unum relished the chance to bring out his cudgel, shaped like a gong mallet but with a heavy metal head, it required strength and a firm wrist to wield it well - Unum used it like he was playing a drum, to devastating effect and a number of wooden mokujin ended the sessions with cracks and splinters.

”good fight brother” the warrior-priest grinned as he helped his sparring partner up from the ground
“heh, good when you’re not the one on the ground” his friend jibed “I’m sure you left me with bruises, I’ll need a massage after this”

The assembly thanked the Master at Arms before refreshing and then were lead into the blessing of Aslan, stretching meditation to restore the body after exercise. The Masters moving about, massaging and healing those who needed it.

The afternoon meal was fish and five vegetables, bread and cheese and fruit which Unum proudly noted he had helped grow and collect. It was a good meal and Unum helped himself to three bowls of the fish and some large fruit, ending his meal with a prodigious burp which gained a laugh and then a gassy blurt that earned him rebukes and a stern frown from the Master of Drums.

The evening quiet was a time for rest and reflection, Unum sat upon his stool and finally pulled out the book-shaped package he had receive that morning. While it had no villanous winking eyes embedded in the cover it did seem to be warm, alive with mushrooms and other forest things. Unum gave it a sniff, wondering if the mushrooms were edible as he opened the book to see what might be inside …

 

[Slimeworm (Luca)]

Slimeworm woke up, painfully, groaned, and pulled his cloak tighter around himself.

It took a few minutes to clear the mists from his mind. A dream, it had only been a dream. He hated dreams---but they were no worse than reality, or were they? His dreams often involved alternate versions of the horrific scene from his teenage years that had changed his life forever. But in one's waking hours, one could attempt to forget. This dream was different, however. It was recurring, and he'd been having it more and more frequently until it was almost nightly now, the exact same scene every night playing itself in exactly the same way. And it left him with a strange feeling each time, as if it were not a flashback, but a premonition.

He'd try to shake it out of his head. Eyes still closed, he tried to orient himself to his surroundings.

The ground was hard. Not a bed. His cloak largely protected him, but an exposed foot felt wet--morning dew? Ah, that was right. He'd slept curled under a bush, taking shelter where he could. Just when he'd seemed to be getting settled, to be gaining the trust of the leader of the gang of thieves someone had outed him as a potential spy (he WASN'T a spy, not that he wasn't against being one, but he wasn't this time), and he'd had to flee, lucky to escape with his life, leaving everything behind, money, even his visa. He only retained his wax tablet and dagger because he wore them at all times on his person.

Ugh. Next time he'd have to find some more honorable leader to ally himself to, someone in good standing with the law, known as a "good" person, whatever that was. Good people were more trusting.

He spent most of the morning in the same spot, to clear his mind and heart. He watched the sunrise. He drank from a brook, breakfast could be skipped. After a while, small animals, no longer frightened of his figure rooted in place began to stir, wild rodents, birds, insects.

But he couldn't stay here forever, and when it was noon, he began walking along the road, towards the nearest town.

He reached it when the sun was low in the sky. The first domesticated thing he saw was a chained black dog outside the town's gates, and a small child playing in the dust nearby. Slimeworm unconsciously gave them a small smile before heading for the town's gates.

It really seemed too small a town to HAVE walls, a gate, and a guard at that gate. Was it smart to have those things? Yes, very much so. Most people, and most communities were far too naiive about the world. But he was surprised to find that such a town had the resources for such construction. Or maybe he was underestimating the place. He'd spend a few days, learn more about the place, ascertain whether it was a good place for a longer stay.

The guard raised an eyebrow. "Do you have a visa?"

"I, uh, I came to tell you, someone, anyone, the farmhouse, further down the road, the one just hidden by those trees, it's on fire! I think I heard screams, get help, quick!"

The guard gasped, and ran into a nearby building, his voice could be heard yelling for a group to go with him to help.

Slimeworm smiled, and passed through the gate unnoticed.

Stealing a few vegetables from a street vendor was an easy task, and made for a small meal, not quite satisfying, but better than a completely empty stomach.

When night fell, he made his way to an inn. He'd find some story, some way to convince them to let him stay there for one night. Or if not, he'd come back with stolen coin.

As he was about to enter its door, a hooded figure, rushing out, brushed against him. Something carried by the other man dropped, and Luca caught it before it could hit the ground. The other man continued on his way, seemingly oblivious to his loss. Luca regarded the object. It was a book, a strange-looking and thick book with an eye in the center. Maybe this could be useful, maybe it could be sold or traded. Or maybe it held some special knowledge, something of us.

He opened the book to the first page.

 

[Kettle]

@Unum

It had been a good and fulfilling (and filling!) day of friendly fights and delicious meals. The temple rang with laughter and with the reverberations of the drums that always seemed to linger deep in the walls. It was a happy life. A good life. One that Unum could be proud of living.

The book, a gift from the library, weighed in Unum's big hands like something alive. The luminous blue mushrooms did not, in fact, appear edible, nor did the mossy green that softened the old leather binding. The book's buckle was easily undone, and then-- while Unum could still taste the fruit on his own breath --the book lay open in his palms, its pages writhing with a shifting script that made Unum's head feel as if he'd been slugged in the skull with a hammer. And then... was the room around him getting bigger?

The walls in his peripheral seemed to stretch and warp, and the book grew closer and closer while his very being felt as if he were a noodle sucked through a straw in the fabric of reality: that is, between the pages of the book.

Unum's stool clattered emptily and the book dropped alone on top of it, fell closed, and buckled itself shut again. The mushrooms continued to shine a comforting blue.

Spoiler: Go forth!

Unum's adventure continues here!

@Slimeworm (Luca)

To coast through life was to admire its intricacies: the birds, the insects, the way the branches of trees crossed over the path. The town greeted him with an endless supply of sights and sounds and sources of amusement, including the whistle and shout of guards armed with buckets of water crashing along the emptied path, searching for smoke. But the town didn't get many visitors, and Slimeworm was a novelty. Surely his stories would fall on interested ears, and he might find one or two gullible enough to believe them.

His advantageous plans, however, ceased to be of importance when that curious book weighed heavy in his hands. The shining dragon's eye stared at him, unwavering: the chains and locks fell with a flowing clatter at his touch, as if it had expected him and him alone. Like jaws, it opened, and inside Slimeworm would find the first page writhing with a nauseous shifting script that unfocused his eyes and commanded the full attention of his mind. The glyphs undulated, he couldn't quite grasp the shapes they were making, but they were getting bigger, they were engulfing him, while the world behind him swelled and faded. He felt as if he were being yanked through a pinhole in reality, pulled swiftly into the page.

The book clattered into a bush beside the door, where it locked itself again and watched, unseen, while the night's drunkards stumbled by.

Spoiler: Go forth!

Slimeworm's adventure continues here!

 

[Bertram Donnalson]

Bertram's eyes shot open and the breath left his lungs in a panicked whoosh as he sat bolt upright in his bed.

(There was a lot of that going around this brightening, although Bert had no way of knowing it.)

The screams of the damned faded into the pleasant sound of birdsong outside his bedroom window, and the last vestiges of fire and shadow vanished slowly from his mind, replaced by his dresser and the jug and basin for water. He took a deep, calming breath, drawing his hands slowly down his cheeks as the nightmare faded. Only a nightmare, yes, but there was something unsettlingly different about this one, something that felt somehow more real. He shuddered, though the morning was warm, and swung his feet out from under sheets made clammy by his sweat.

As on all too many of his days, Bertram had much to do this brightening. He ran through the list mentally as he washed his face, combed his hair, and dressed himself. As he left his small bedroom, he collected his trusty quarterstaff, made by his own hands from a fine length of sturdy oak, from where it leaned against the corner by the door. He grabbed the small loaf of bread his mother had left for him by the hearth and shoved roughly half of it into his mouth to break his fast. He was in such a hurry and so distracted by his upcoming day that he didn't even notice the moss-covered and faintly glowing book sitting on the kitchen table in front of his customary place.

Bert left the house through the back door, not bothering to lock it behind him. Nobody did, here in this tiny hamlet, and the villagers thought his family odd enough as it is. What would they think if they started locking the door, as if the neighbors weren't to be trusted? What hidden riches would they speculate Bertram's father hid in the house, that he needed to keep so secure? No, it definitely wasn't worth the hassle. It wasn't like Bert or his parents had anything worth stealing here in the first place.

First on his list was the regular chores. He finished his loaf of bread as he crossed the yard and entered his father's carpentry workshop. Donnal nodded at him in greeting but said nothing, continuing to work on repairing the neighbor's chair. Bert did his chores quickly. Sweep the floor. Check the supply closet. Wash the stain brushes. Organize the tools. Sharpen any that needed it. Sweep the floor again. His father half-watched him with a discerning eye, seemingly waiting for any small mistake, but Bert gave him no excuse for a scolding. Instead, once the chores were done, he simply looked towards his father for permission to go. Donnal nodded, and Bert grabbed his staff once more to head out the door.

"Wait, one thing," said his father. Bertram paused and looked back. "Make sure you get back in time to finish sanding those table legs. I'll need them finished and ready to go brightening after tomorrow." Bert nodded. "I will." His father nodded again, and Bert left to go find his mother.

As expected, she was wandering the rolling countryside outside the village, harvesting useful herbs. Always bright and friendly despite the suspicion with which the village viewed her and her family, she waved happily when she saw him. "Bert!" she called, once he was in range. "I didn't expect to see you until this afternoon."

"Aye, well," Bert answered, "I need to go watch the Master Finnig's sheep for a couple hours this afternoon so Pat can help his pa and brothers dig out that old stump they've been plowing around the past three years. Dunno why they wouldn't rather have me help with that, except...well. Anyway, Father wants me to finish sanding the legs for the new table they've ordered for the inn's greatroom before supper, so I had to come out earlier today."

His mother blinked, perhaps surprised by how much Bertram had on his plate, or perhaps by the surly tone in which he'd delivered his litany. "Well! Sounds like you've a busy day ahead! You did eat your breakfast, I hope?"

"Yes, Ma, I did. It was delicious, too, as always. Thank you."

"Ooooh, you! you're a flatterer, you are, just like your father." But it was true, despite his mother's protests. She was a great cook, and with her mastery of herbs she always managed to create new and delicious recipes. Today's loaf had been seasoned with poppy, anise, and honey, and had been every bit as delicious as Bertram said.

"Well, anyway, I'm glad you liked it. But let's be about our business, hmm? Today will be a good day for gathering, I can tell." With that, the two of them separated, roaming over the plains and meadows and gathering whatever useful herbs they found. As he'd been taught, Bertram made sure never to take so much of any given plant that it wouldn't survive, except for the ones where it was the roots which were needed. For those plants, he was careful to leave two growing for every one he harvested, to make sure that there would be enough for next time.

After about a candlemark, Bertram came across a small creek he'd never seen before. Not terribly unusual in and of itself, since Bert was hardly an expert in all the land around the village. Still, he didn't remember any running water in this area. As he followed, it only grew stranger. Rare herbs, things he saw but once or twice in an era, grew along the banks in suspicious profusion. It was obvious something weird was happening when the brook turned into a stream, and the rolling hills around him turned into a forest. But the herbs growing in such profusion were too valuable for him to pass up. This day's work would keep his mother supplied for a year or more with some of these things, and the cures would be lucrative to boot.

After perhaps ten minutes wandering along the stream through the forest, Bertram came to a clearing. It was painfully obvious now, even more than it had been before, that something supernatural was afoot. The stream ended in the middle of the clearing, pouring incongruously out of an arched bridge in the largest tree trunk Bertram had ever seen. Steps, seeming naturally grown, rose around the trunk to a large platfrom formed from the cut stump of the tree, which must easily have been twenty feet across. Squarely in the middle of that platform sat a raised pedestal made of some material Bert couldn't identify. And on the slanted top of that pedestal, precisely in the middle, sat the strangest book he'd ever seen. Dark green moss grew on purple leather, with tiny fluorescent mushrooms growing here and there.

But the book was securely closed, and it didn't belong to him, and it was in this weird place. Bertram wasn't the smartest person in the world, but he knew when he was being tested. He didn't trust whatever force had led him here, seducing him with rare herbs to lure him close to this strange tome. "No, thank you," he said to the book. "Maybe some other time?" He didn't know why he was talking to the book, or even if that was in fact the object of his speech. But he suddenly felt an intruder. Not necessarily unwelcome, but no longer an honored guest. "Here," he said to nobody in particular. "I don't need all this unwarranted generosity." Half his basket of herbs, including almost (but not quite) all the rare ones, were placed politely next to the book on the pedestal. Perhaps it would be taken as an apology or a token of respect. He didn't much care, as long as it was clear that he had no burning desire to be involved in whatever weirdness was afoot here. He had things to do.

With that, he hurried back along the stream, which quickly turned into the small creek he'd found, which shortly led back to his mother. She expressed amazement at his finds, asking how he could possibly have gotten his hands on such rare plants, some of which weren't supposed to grow within a hundred miles. "Honestly, it was pretty weird, and I don't think you'd believe me if I told you," he said. "I don't really want to talk about it. Can I go tend the sheep now?" "Really? Well, if you're sure, then of course you can, pumpkin." And that was that.

Or at least, it should have been. The same book was waiting for him once he reached the Finnig farm, resting quietly and without nearly so much pomp or circumstance next to the stool at the paddock where Bertram was to watch the sheep. He turned to ask Pat if he'd seen it, but Pat was already gone. Discomfited, Bert resolved to ignore the spooky thing as best he could, instead taking from his pocket a small piece of wood that he was attempting to whittle into something resembling a horse.

The day should have been easy from there, but fate had other plans. The third or fourth time that Bert stopped his whittling to count the sheep, he came up one short. He circulated among the skittish flock, counting and recounting, but the conclusion was unavoidable. One of the sheep was missing. "Feth," he muttered, secure in the knowledge that nobody was near to scold him for his language. "I'll catch bloody hell if one of these walking roasts goes missing on my watch. Better find him, I suppose." So he located the fallen plank on the paddock fence where the sheep had presumably jumped out, moved it back into the crosspost where it belonged, and went off to find the missing sheep.

Almost immediately, things started getting weird again. The sheep's trail was clear, even to a tracker as clueless as Bertram, and that was strange enough by itself. But Bert could also hear the sheep in the distance, always over the next hill. Before long, he found himself in the same forest as he had before. He felt watched this time, as though some force was there to ensure he did whatever it was he was supposed to do. He found the sheep, calmly standing next to the same pedestal as he'd seen earlier in the day, his herbs still piled neatly right next to the book. "Really, though, no thank you," he said, looking around the silent clearing.. "I have to make sure the sheep gets back or the Finnigs will never trust me with their flock again. Maybe some other time." He said it as firmly as he could manage, then grabbed the sheep and began the long walk back to the paddock.

No sooner had he returned, though, than he noticed that selfsame book was back again. This time it was sitting not next to the stool, but on it. Bert heaved a heavy sigh. "Someone is bloody playing games, and I don't like it," he muttered. "But fine."

"Fine!" He addressed himself to the general area, sure that someone was playing a prank on him and watching from some hidden place nearby. "I'll play along, just leave me alone after that, yeah? I have shit to do today, and I'm not amused by the games." Not expecting an answer, he turned his attention to the book itself.

The purple leather was supple under his fingers and slightly warm to the touch. The moss, somehow, seemed as much a part of the book as the leather itself, and didn't scrape off when Bertram curiously scratched at it. The small mushrooms were of a type he'd never seen before. He made a mental note to ask his mother if she'd ever heard of such a thing. As he undid the buckle, he let out one last sigh at the strangeness of it all and how he'd clearly not been given much of a choice.

And then he opened the book.

 

[Kettle]

@Bertram Donnalson

Surely Bertram's mother would have been proud of him for his skepticism and for his respect toward the denizens of intersecting planes: what else could this harassment by an inanimate object have been but fairies playing a game of confusion? Like an obsessed stalker, the mossy book appeared in the unlikeliest places, presented and spotlighted, a final request at the heart of a trove of rare growing treasures. But Bertram was too smart to fall for such an obvious trap.

Never take what seems too good to be true! Never wander into forests that appear out of nowhere! And certainly never open a mysterious fairy-book!

Smartness had its limit, it seemed.

The book, triumphant, fell open in Bertram's hands. The pages inside writhed with shifting, churning symbols and script, each like something alive. Their undulation hypnotized his attention: he could not look away, even while the farm seemed to stretch away in the distance. the pages grew closer, the sounds and smells of the farm like distant memories, and he had the sensation of being pulled like a thread through a pinhole in reality.

The book clapped shut, the buckle back in its place, and dropped with a thud into the chewed grass. The once-missing sheep snuffled at the cover, then nibbled at the glowing mushroom before waddling away into the open pen.

Spoiler: Go forth!

Bert's adventure continues here!

 

[Tomoe]

Blood. In her, on her, everywhere. Where did it come from? Instinct meant a quick inventory of her fingers, toes, neck, head, skin—a fidget, a movement, a measurement. Everything responded. Everything was fine. Well, they, at least, was fine. Weren’t they? Wait. No. They went out of order. Breathing should have come first. Control the breathing, and the rest would follow. In, then, and out, and then back in and out. Let it flow. Let it relax. Slowly, brown eyes blinked. The world around them came into slow focus.

Ah. Here. Yes. Now they remembered. The back room their handful of coins had bought was more privacy than they had had in months now. The sound of customers already riotous just outside reminded them that it wasn’t quiet, but at least the planked walls and the roof over their heads ensured that there wouldn’t be any prying eyes. It had made for the first decent night’s sleep in quite a while, too. Or, at least, it should have been. But that dream…

It was a dream, wasn’t it? Or a nightmare. Did it matter? They sat up now, slowly, sloughing off the ragged blanket and then leaning heavily over the edge of the cot. Another breath. Slowly was the heart following, they felt. The beating was just a little less frantic, just a little more controlled. Blinking, dark orbs roamed the shadowed room again from corner to corner. No one was here. Family, friends, familiar faces, memories that were better left forgotten—they weren’t here. They weren’t here, they repeated silently one more time, and then let another long breath whistle through their teeth before pushing up off their knees and onto their feet.

They would think about all of that, all of them, at another time. Probably never. That was probably better.

Another inventory was taken. Daggers, blades, throwing stars. Tools, lockpicks, rope. Poisons, tinctures, smoke. It was all positioned as it always was, hidden in various spots around their person, in their utility belt, and the small pouch on their hip. It was balanced and habitual. There was something ritualistic about how easy it all was, how little active thought those long years of practice and repetition all required now. Soon enough, the last night was forgotten. There were too many other things to do, anyway.

Out of a pack sitting in the corner came a bowl. Half a dozen packets followed, the contents of which were poured with delicate precision into it: first noodles, then layering dried vegetables, spices, and sauce. Finally, with a quick a quiet step, they exited the room to the kitchen that was around the outside corner, then returned just as wordlessly. Now, though, the bowl was steaming with the efforts of boiled water poured inside, softening and mixing and steeping.

And then, they enjoyed.

Sitting cross-legged in the center of the floor, they slurped, they tasted, they reveled in all of it. There was a lot to do today, after all, but there were basic needs to be seen to first. Nothing could be properly done on an empty stomach.

Just when another noodle was moving down into its hold, thoughts turned back toward the dream. Faces of mothers, fathers, figures, friends, all gone. They were swallowed, really, and lost forever—lost in more ways than they already had been. Why? Those weren’t things that they ever thought about on purpose. Why in dreams now? Why now, in dreams?

It bothered them more than they liked to admit, but in the private closet that they had rented, nobody was there to notice. So, instead, they finished their meal in continued silence, used the cracked wash basin to clean out their pewter bowl and utensils and then replaced it back in their rucksack, and then finished packing the rest of their personal belongings. Slinging the canvas over their shoulder, they took one last look around the space before sliding soundlessly out the door.

And into the city.

Contracts were hard to come by for an assassin with no master, so contacts had to be made. Inquiries had to be found. Seedy taverns were occupied and watched and sat in, watching, waiting, listening, trying. There was a lead on a rich merchant who had a rival that had brought them to this city in the first place, but finding said moneymaker was proving more difficult than anticipated.

Hours went by. When the suns began dipping toward the last bit of horizon, they were walking along the docks, sack still tied diagonally across their chest and hair a bit messier than when they had originally set out. A few more coins had vacated their purse, but at least they had gotten a hint about which merchant it might be, and what exactly the job might entail. So, at last, they found a more isolated corner and sat well out of the way, lost in the bustle of the workers and inspectors and all the rest of the mortal souls that were beginning to say farewell to their day.

Back into the rucksack they dug, looking for that same perfectly-kept pewter bowl. But instead, hands fell around the very thick, very uneven cover of—a book? What? How did that get in there? Eyebrows crossed into a question as it came steadily out and into view, leaving patent confusion in its wake.

What now?

 

[Kettle]

@Tomoe

How does one get paid to kill someone when killing people is (in theory) illegal, and no one who wants the service has any clue where to find it? The undeterred assassin could have passed a dozen merchants with pockets full of gold and lists of angrily scrawled names, but they could not have known what roiled hidden in the thoughts of hateful people, and so opportunities passed like ships in the night.

Instead, the taverns and pubs-- sticky, bile-glazed places spattered with old blood --housed the riotous and deadly rumors that fueled Tomoe's livelihood. How generous that gilded merchant will be when the answer to their problems shows up at their door!

But then there was the book.

Scaled and warm, a dragon's eye staring out of the cover, shimmering like a smoldering fire, the book weighed heavy and alive in the assassin's hands. Its chains and locks clattered away at a touch, beckoning the assassin to open it, but the book did not have a self-opening mechanic and so would sit in Tomoe's hands for as long as they cared to hold it.

Whether Tomoe decided to open the book remained to be seen: should they simply place the book back in the rucksack or leave it on the table for some other hapless drunk to deal with, the assassin could go on with their death-filled life uninterrupted, blissfully ignorant of the proverbial bullet they had dodged.

If, however, the assassin's curiosity overpowered their sense of self-preservation and they dared to peer inside, they would find pages writhing with symbols that seemed to undulate on a dimensional axis their eyes could not comprehend. Their attention would be chained to the headache-inducing script: they would be unable to look away while their surroundings stretched and warped and the horrible churning script filled their vision. They would have the sensation of being forcibly pulled through a pinhole in the veil of reality, which happened to exist between the book's pages, before the book would thump shut and chain itself closed again, shining and staring in the place where Tomoe had been a moment before.

Surely the assassin, faced with this choice of action without knowing the consequences, would choose wisely.

Spoiler: Go forth! (unless?)

Should Tomoe decide to open the book, their adventure continues here! If not, Tomoe is far more intelligent (and far less bothered by unannounced adventure) than the rest of us.

 

[Skegg]

Darkness and blood. It was a world Skegg was all too familiar with. Darkness and blood was what he had been born into, having been birthed in the middle of the night on a moonless eve, the squalling verdant child wallowing in both placenta and his mother's innards as he came into the world, violence and death the hallmark of his arrival. Growing up his life had not been much different. So as the drumbeat of an eldritch heart resounded throughout the dreamscape, the half-blood's head slowly rose up to glance at the source. Except the source seemed to be everywhere. When finally his crimson eyes resolved upon the source of the ungodly screech that felt like it would split the skull of those who could hear it, he rolled his shoulders back and the grip tightened on Eviscerator. His double-bladed waraxe would see him through this fight, as it had the others. His prized possession. He looked up at the source of the foul presence and in the face of a heartbeat that thrummed through his whole body he let out a loud roar of challenge. It was inescapable. Indescribable. There was no chance at fleeing, even if one wished to, because these creatures not only occupied the space in front of him, their thick choking miasmic aura suffused into every square inch of the world around them filling him with the certainty that escape was a non-option. But what caught him the most was Molly. He had very little left in his life that he truly cared for and that he adored. No home. No family. No Friends. But Molly...watching her be consumed by the screeching darkness ripped fear and anger through his heart. Part of him wished to flee, the other to murder that which consumed her.

And Skegg was no coward. he would not hide or run or cower or snivel. That was not his way. That was not the Blooddrainer way. If he had been inclined to any of those things he would have gotten his skull crushed before he could hold his first weapon. Such weakness was not tolerated. Would never be tolerated. His people did not accept cowardice or squeamishness. So he had been taught that despite being weaker than the rest of his people, there was still honor and glory to be had in death, by facing an opponent head on. So he lifted and shook his axe, a roaring cry of wordless rage and challenge drowned out by the mere throb of this collective darkness' heart. He could not even hear himself in the brainmelting thrum of the sound. But he would not let this be the end of him. He could not. Despite the fact that the dozens of glowing embers of empty eyes that stared back at him shattered his very soul and caused razor-like claws of insanity threatening to shred his very being, he tried to stand against this ancient and unknowable force. And even as he did so, he knew he would fail. He tried vainly to let his roar or challenge drown out his own fear, yet despite it he felt the barest twinge of it even as he faced what he knew was oncoming death.

And then he awoke.

A small fire outside of Aelyria Prime. He sat propped against a tree, the coals of the fire he'd had going little more than smoldering cinders as he gazed into them, vaguely reminiscent of the unknowable eyes of whatever ancient horror his dream had foretold of. He let out a long slow sigh As he blinked awake. Dreams of death and blood were not unusual for the half-orc. He had seen many such dreams in his day, mostly due to his upbringing, then in his time as a mercenary. A quick inspection of his travel pack made sure he had everything on him that he usually brought; by far the two most important things being his dagger and his axe. When he was confident he had both he sighed and leaned his head back against the tree he was propped up against. He truly had no idea what to do. He had a few trinkets in his bag from Molly that might help with spellbreaking, but largely he knew very little except the basics. That he knew that at all was astounding but thanks to her, his life was not entirely blood and combat. it was all he had known before that. The only way he knew to survive. He had been wandering for a while. The Ardent Avengers had split up months ago, and he'd been taking whatever odd job he could find in the meantime. He was used to dreams of blood and violence. It had been his way of life.

But this?

Something about it had been deeply disturbing. The previous ones were more run-of-the-mill. More traditional combat. This had seemed very deep. Very unknowable. Very ancient. A deep evil that went beyond petty mortal concerns so trivial as one's own life or death. This seemed so much more massive. so much more grand. So much more impossible. But what had it meant? He chewed lightly on the leftover meat from last night's dinner for a rough, if filling, breakfast. This seemed beyond him. It made him feel petty and small and tiny and weak and unimportant. He did not like that feeling; he'd gotten enough of it from the Bloddrainers. But this was so much more oppressive than that had ever been. As though his very being threatened to be stifled; the likes of which he'd never experienced before. What could such dark dreams portend?

---

The Bloddrainer spawn moved with practiced precision. He'd been travelling a while, only just now making it back into Aelyria Prime. He entered the city with relative ease and made his way to The the merchant district first. He swung by the leatherworkers to get a small gash in his armor patched. He left it there to be repaired as he headed to the nearest weapons shop to get his blades tended to as well. They were his lifeblood, and so he needed to keep them in as good of order as possible. The giant axe usually rested across his back cradled in a sling for an easy draw, where his dagger was almost always comfortably in its sheath in the small of his back, ready for a quick draw if need be. Lastly he stopped by the general store and restocked his travel supplies just in case.

After only a few moments of getting his gear squared away he re-donned them and made his way to the Crown. It was a popular hangout, and usually a reliable place to drum up some business. As he moved through the bustling district he found his eyes moving to those around him. He saw the way they shied away from him or would get looks of fear or disgust at him. Not everyone did, but several. Especially given the condition Sherian was in. With a silent mental sigh he made his way to the popular hang-out, set his gear down at a table in the corner, and began looking for work via either flyers or people needing an escort. Mercenaries would do just about anything if the price was right, but usually they stuck to being people's muscle, and he'd long ago resigned himself to the idea that such a thing was all he was good for.

And so, the wandering merc began the arduous task of looking for his next paying gig...usually harder than actually following through on the gigs themselves.

---

In the end he was back at the Crown. A small job--eliminating rats in a basement, if you can believe it--but it got the job done. He got paid. It was enough to get by one more brightening. He slumped at the table he'd posted up at that morning, head bonking the hard wooden table as he let his body relax. The rodents were quick bastards, and far too much trouble for the low pay he'd gotten for the day. It took a long moment before he realized a book was at his table. It had been since he sat down, he just hadn't noticed it at first. Who had left it behind he did not know, and as he raised his head to look at it closer he realized something about it just seemed unsettling, especially when paired with the odd dream the night before. Pushing that feeling to the back of his brain he slid it towards him, feeling somehow drawn to it. It was just a book after all, what harm could it do to see inside? If only to see if it might give him a clue as to the owner. Maybe they'd give a reward for it's safe return? With vague hopes and a curiosity that generated a feeling in his gut of immediate regret, he slowly opened the book to try and find an inscription as to the owner, wondering at its' strange contents.

 

[Kettle]

@Skegg

The Blooddrainer, the Spellbreaker, the Ardent Avenger with his great axe and greater potential, had been reduced by circumstance to basement rats and a quiet table in the dark corner of a barely-accommodating tavern. The available work had been as thin as the gruel in his bowl: invading swarms of Ratta to the west had devoured and demolished food supplies and trade routes, which only darkened the peripheral patrons' glares when Skegg-- a red-eyed half-orc brute! --dared to eat anything at all. But he, like all of them, was surviving in the best way he could, and for that he was afforded enough respect to be left alone.

Except, it seemed, someone had left a book in anticipation of his return.

The thing glowed warm like a smoldering fire, wrapped in scales and leather, chained like a dangerous beast. The dragon's eye at the center of its cover watched Skegg intensely, its pupil roiling with distant colors. At his touch, the locks and chains fell with a shimmering clatter. The book almost seemed to grin as he opened it.

Inside, the rough weathered pages roiled with headache-inducing script that shifted and churned into itself as if each glyph was held to a thousand moving mirrors. He could not look away: the text captured his attention and gripped it tight, despite the shift and stretch of the tavern walls behind him. The sounds of ambient conversation and music became hollow and distant while the undulating text filled the entirety of his vision and he felt himself yanked through a pinhole in reality that opened between the pages of the smoldering book.

When it was done, and Skegg's chair was still warm but empty, the book dropped closed on the table and chained itself shut. The eye blinked vacantly.

No one in the tavern had noticed anything strange at all.

Spoiler: Go forth!

Skegg's adventure continues here!

 

[Unity Kentigern]

Unity woke with a start, auburn hair wild and unkempt, sleep-tangled, the bed groaning a bit as she shifted, rolling to her side and pressing her elbow into the straw mattress so that she could push herself half up. Her eyes darted about her, heart beating frantically against her chest, the sort of rhythm she could never hope to achieve with her own hammer against the anvil--too fast. No one screaming, not herself, not her sister--she was already up and gone, her bed disheveled and unmade. The darkness was gone, too, swallowed up by the pale light of the morning, the night receding into the softness of dawn. "Fuck," she grunted, scrubbing at her face with a rough, callused hand that shifted up to push back the mess that was her hair. "Ugh."

Unity was not a morning person.

She sucked in a deep breath and used her feet first to kick at the thin layer of covers, then finally her hand to fling it off of her so that she could roll begrudgingly out of bed. The bed's groans of protest seemed loud this morning or maybe it was just that the act of getting up and out of it was always enough to make her remember how small and fragile the damn thing was compared to her own, bulky frame. One would think that living with a family of very tall, very broad people meant that they'd know how to secure a decent bed for their stature but here she was, stuck with a bed better left to a smaller, thinner individual and body-sore because of it.

The blacksmith took a moment to glare at her reflection in the mirror, using it to comb her hair into submission and tie it neatly with a rough strip of leather so that was pulled back off of her shoulders and out of her eyes. She was quick to dress, for all that her movements were slow: just a pair of simple black slacks and a white shirt, the sleeves of which were so worn and dogged from being rolled up past her elbows that they billowed loosely about her forearms. She paused and she looked at the mirror a little longer, nose wrinkled as she combed through the fading memory of the nightmare. Just a dream, nothing more.

And so Unity set about her day from there, tucking the dream at the back of her mind to focus on the essentials: a bit of breakfast, set out by her mother, and work. The forge was a crowded place between herself, her mother and her sister but there they were, banded together to get the job done and bring income in for their household. Fate, her mother, was the senior of the three women but mostly oversaw speaking with customers and making sure the specifics were just right about this and that. Fealty, Unity's sister, oversaw the forge itself and directed Unity this way and that as they worked on one project or another. Put her head down and get it done, that was Unity's motto, but she looked forward to the end of the day when she could escape for a little bit and practice slinging her flail about at the makeshift dummy in their small space outside their forge.

So it was that, by the time Unity returned back to her shared bedroom, she was sweaty and tired and ready to drop down into bed, for all that there was still a bit of daylight left to burn.

That's when she saw it... the book.

She glanced at it briefly, then at her sister's bed, wondering if Fealty had somehow accidentally put it in the wrong place. Books were of some interest to Unity--they gave some glimpse of the world beyond Arkdun--but Fealty was less inclined to own one. She cared more about the forge, about growing their family's business, than she did of learning about the world beyond the Hammer of the Ram. And this book...this was an odd one.

She reached down and picked it up, turning it in her hands and studying the weird clasps that bound it together. Did it open? Seemed so and that wasn't a hard feat at all--quite straight forward, despite its initial appearance. She turned the cover aside and peered down at it, brow furrowed. What...?

 

[Kettle]

@Unity Kentigern

There was nothing like the heat of the forge on a warm summer's day to drive off the chilled memories of a nightmare. The hammer struck away those images that lingered, the furnaces burned clean the fears of the night, and the douse of water sent it all away in a cloud of scalding steam. Memory drowned in the rhythm of white-hot steel and conformed to Unity's will: predictable, reliable, perfect, as everything should and always would be.

The Hammer of the Ram had been choked with customers that day: orders piled in, Fate and Fealty darted in and out of doors, voices raised above the roar of fire and the clatter of metal. Only when the sky had cooled and the suns had turned red as the smoldering furnace did the world outside send a reminder to Unity that there was, indeed, a world beyond the fire. That reminder glowed with blue fungus.

It weighed heavy, like a living thing in her calloused hands, like an ancient rock dug out of damp soil. The thin, luminous mushrooms shivered; the moss was soft, almost luxurious to the touch. The book's buckle, though old, released easily to her touch, and there was not so much as a creak as she turned open the cover and found, inside, a page filled with churning script.

The writing instantly gave her a headache, as if the script could twist in the spaces behind her eyes, but she was unable to look away. Entranced by the writhing script, she could perceive the stretch and warp of her shared bedroom pulling away behind her, and the book grew closer and closer until it filled her entire vision. She felt herself pulled through a tiny pinhole in reality, yanked through a small space like a rag on a string, before the book clapped shut and buckled itself again, silent and luminous on the shared bedroom floor.

Spoiler: Go forth!

Unity's adventure continues here!

 

[Annalise of Crestwood]

Spoiler: Annalise is a monster hunter. Therefore gore, violence, and death are in this post. Ye be warned. :)

Annalise was no stranger to nightmares.

They were a constant companion, born from a childhood steeped in suffering , loss, and violence. She knew a myriad of them, but a few were the usual suspects. At times it was her mother; all dead eyes and gaunt frame, flesh barely clinging to the skeleton, accusation dripping from a lipless mouth. Others, the headless corpse of her father, maggots squirming in the wound that killed him. No words, just the knowledge that somehow, this was her fault.

And in some twist of irony, those weren't the worst. The terror that always ripped her from slumber wasn't an otherworldly creature summoned from the deepest, darkest pit. No, merely the face of Lawrence staring at her with disappointment, and worse, regret in his eyes.

Still, she was used to those.

This one was different. The world bled before her. Dead grass crunched underneath her feet, the scent of something burning tickled her nose. She heard screaming, saw the creature rise and blot out the light.

Annalise stared. The immediate response of any rational person - to run, far away - came and went. She tried to ignore the creeping terror that tried to steal her limbs.

Focus on the mission.

Insane as it sounded? It was simple: A grotesque monstrosity threatened the world, stole the sun, and left ruin in it's wake. She killed monsters. Anna sized up the gigantic mass, shadows drawn to it as if by some unknown force, likely connected to the creature itself.

I'm probably going to die. She surveyed the ruins around her, a vast swath of nothing left in the creature's wake. Nowhere to run. It would catch her. The creature shifted, looking down in her direction. Anna sighed. Nothing for it now.

She withdrew her sword. The weathered steel shrieked as it came from the scabbard. Annalise glanced up at her foe, and leveled the blade at the creature. Only for a titanic foot to smash down next to her, flattening a house to rubble. Anna swallowed down the nerves fluttering in her stomach. This is a stupid thing we're doing.

The ground rumbled beneath her as the creature moved again, and Anna, with little other recourse, charged to meet it. At least I'll distract it enough for whoever is left to get away.

Darkness swallowed her.

Her eyes snapped open. Within the fog of waking she saw movement.

Then a sunbeam sliced through the darkness, and promptly stabbed the hunter in the eye. She winced, cursed, and turned on the bedroll. Tree trunks rose around her, silent sentinels ringing the small copse she made camp in the previous night. Anna groaned and rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from her eyes. The dream was already fading into sparse ideas, pieces of sensation and images that floated further from her each time she tried to grasp them.

Anna sighed, stretched, and rose. "Points for originality at least." She complained to no one, settling into the morning routine as she officially started her day. First? A fire. Within a few moments she rekindled the embers of her previous efforts. A few more and the smell of oatmeal permeated the area around her.

As she ate, Anna glanced over the contracts she'd yanked from the notice board the day before. None of them seemed particularly out of the ordinary. One might be a case of mistaken identity. In her experience, just because an old woman swore up and down that her house was haunted, it did not guarantee ghostly activity. Anna set that one aside.

The other though. A series of murders, particularly brutal. Flayed skin, dismemberment, and in one particularly gruesome case, a mere puddle of organs and blood were all that remained of the victim. More baffling, it seemed the intent was to merely cause pain. Nothing was taken from scene of the crimes. That level of violence, plus a distinct lack of theft suggested a few options, but she couldn't know for certain without investigation.

And all of them, without exception, drained of blood.

Anna set the paper down, her brow knitting together as she mulled it over. Vampire? Gods, she hoped not. Those were difficult. Powerful, crafty, and a right bitch to defeat. And, she thought with uncharitable truth, I'm pretty sure one would wipe the floor with me. There was a reason Lawrence took those jobs by himself. Protecting her, he'd say. Anna sighed.

She reached down and pulled out a whetstone from her pack, grasping the sword at her side. With slow, methodical strokes, Anna slid it down her weapon.

Whatever the culprit was? She'd need it nice and sharp for the coming day.

--

The guard were the originators of the contract. Anna found it tacked onto a notice board in the middle of the street, crinkled parchment curled at the edges, stained and battered by rain. It'd been there a while. The other items on the board were new, crisp and clean. Judging by the state of the document she held now? It was at least a week, perhaps more. Simple fact, nobody wanted it. Most people were unprepared to kill monsters, especially if said monster could be your neighbor.

And the question too, why the guard didn't handle this themselves? Why were they seeking outside help? Well, one need only look at the cataclysm that had befallen the Imperial Palace. Two craters, all that was left of a storied history dating eras back, lost in balefire. She wasn't present when it happened, but Anna heard the stories, saw the aftermath; guards with that thousand yard stare, recounting the slaughter as they tried to lose themselves in drink, civilians terrified out of their mind, blood and death. Demons that crawled from the wound in the earth.

Quite simply? They had other things to concern themselves with. Even if, as she approached the designated outpost on the contract, Anna felt the judgemental stares of the guard around her. Outsider. It said. They put the contract up, but that didn't mean that these men and women were happy about it. She brought the contract up to the guard at the door. With a grunt, he waved her through.

Without fail, Annalise felt like a rat trapped in a cage, surrounded by leering predators. She quickened her steps, answering any question given with a show of the contract. Gods, why did it feel like an inquisition when, in the end, she was doing them a favor?

Eventually Anna made it to the commanding officer. He was a nondescript man, with a shaved head and armor that seemed a bit too tight for him. He peered down his nose at her, and snorted. "You here about the Vamp?" He asked, and the tone of voice reminded her of a flute, all reedy and thin. Anna frowned. "You're awful quick to brand a serial killer as supernatural." She said, nonplussed.

The man - who she noticed the placard on his desk said Lt Cornelius Archibald - waved his hand in the air like he was swatting at a fly, albeit in the most lackadaisical fashion imaginable. "Oh please, it's just a nickname the rank and file came up with." Archibald frowned, and added afterward. "That, and it's easier for them to stomach. Supernatural creature? Witch hunt, have it killed. One of their own though? Just an average person deciding to commit evil? That's not as simple." He smiled, though the gesture wasn't pleasant. Instead, it drew his skin back into a rictus against his teeth, pronounced the sunken quality of his eyes. In a word, it made him look ghoulish.

He must've notice her displeasure because the smile disappeared quick as it appeared. Archibald snorted. "Anyway, you already saw the reward we're offering. Dead or alive. If it's a creature I want it's head. A person, you bring them here." He reached down and pulled out a cigar, stuck it between his teeth, and lit it with a match. "You can check in with our undertaker. We kept the most recent bodies for research."

Archibald turned away from her, an effective signal their conversation was over. Anna left without another word.

She made her way to the aforementioned undertaker without issue. The aforementioned person turned out to be a woman so gaunt she couldn't help but wonder how this lady didn't break in half. The woman grunted as Anna explained her reasoning for being there, merely being led into the back, where the bodies were laid out.

Among the most important note here, was the lack of scalps. It seemed that whatever, or whomever killed them was responsible for that.

"You'll notice that the bodies are drained of blood." The undertaker told Anna. She frowned, peering closer at the three corpses: a woman, a child, and an older man respectively. "Yes, but no bite marks." No, in fact the body was entirely devoid of that. Further inspection yielded more results. For her part the undertaker kept a watchful eye while Anna looked over the remains. "Death caused from a mix of blood loss and trauma." At this she gestured to the gaping wounds across the bodies, all of them avoiding specific vital areas.

Anna frowned. Whoever did this wanted to cause as much pain as possible before death. Drained of blood but no bitemarks. Likely not a vampire. She looked to the undertaker. "These wounds what would you say caused them?" Anna asked. The other woman made a noise in her throat that resembled a frog's croak. "A sharp implement. Those slashes you see? They're pretty defined, likely made by a weapon. Probably a blade of some kind." Anna nodded. Made sense.

So we're dealing with a killer that drains their victim of blood through a series of multiple wounds, but doesn't suck it out like a vampire. Nor do they have any hints of mauling from a beast.

As she pondered something else caught her eye.

"These marks on their shins. They all have them. Do you know the cause?" She pointed to what she was referencing. Disregarding the broken bones poking through the skin, there were also splotches of color, a mix of brown and blue stained each victim's shin. The old woman rubbed her chin as she glanced at it. "Blunt force trauma. It's why the bone is broken." She said after a moment. Anna nodded. "From a weapon?" The other woman nodded. "Aye, though it's peculiar. I'd say this is likely from a kick. It's a little hard to assault someone with a weapon and leave pointed, specific marks like this one."

Anna paused. Could it be? "Almost like someone with metal boots?" She posited. The woman shrugged. "Could be, not outside the realm of possibility." The undertaker wandered over to another, unrelated body. Anna got another minute or so before the gaunt woman expelled a loud sigh. "You done? I got other work to do, can't be babysittin' your ass all day." Anna repressed the urge to roll her eyes. "Yes, that'll be all. You've been a great help."

She left soon after.

--

Outside the city, Annalise stared into the forest ahead of her. All of it made some sort of sense. A killer that tortured their victims, used bladed weapons of some kind, had metal boots, possibly? Add in to the fact the bodies were drained of blood, a Redcap could be the culprit.

Murderous, viscous fae creatures, akin to goblins. Squat, saddled with armor and metal shod boots that they used to attack their victims. Carried a blade of varying quality, but always sharp enough to do their work. Most important, the blood loss. A Redcap required fresh blood to keep the skull cap on their head nice and wet. If it dried out, they died.

If she was right? Well, now all the hunter had to do was lure the creature out. The last murder was a day or so again. It'd need to douse it's cap in more blood. So a trap needed to be set. Anna frowned as she considered it. She needed blood, and lots of it.

An hour later Annalise doused the area in blood from a recently slaughtered animal. It pained her to kill the creature, but needs required. At the least she'd kept the meat for sustenance, it wouldn't go to waste. The trees and ground became a dripping abattoir, reeking of iron from the blood she painted around.

Now all that was left, was to wait. Hopefully the smell would draw the Redcap out. No meat left around to draw predators themselves, though she expected more than a few would wander through before leaving. Anna settled herself behind a rock to await her quarry.

--

The sound of clinking metal, and grumbling heralded the Redcap before she saw it with her eyes. Anna peered over the rock, careful not to make too much noise. The creature was as she remembered: large milky eyes, a squat body, metalshod boots on it's feet, a blood stained blade. The cap on it's head shone crimson with fresh blood. It cackled widely as it scooped the hat into the blood painted around, imbuing the cloth with it. On it's belt, she noticed hung three scalps of the previous victims.

Well then, that's enough.

Anna crept around it, keeping herself quiet. She needed to strike quick and fast. The little monsters were crafty. With her blade out, Anna approached. One strike in the back. That's all she needed. Of course, fate had other plans. A twig snapped under her boot. The creature froze, turned, and yelled.

Then it attacked. A rusted cleaver spattered with stains. It swung for Anna first, attempting to catch her in the leg. Anna moved back, allowing the blade to merely pass through air. The creature snarled as it's new prey evaded it. Furious, the Redcap kicked at Anna's leg. Fortunately, her movement - and the creature's stubby legs - kept it from connecting entirely, merely a glancing blow. Still hurt though.

Anna twisted around the creature's side, rolled away from another swipe. With her left hand she yanked dirt from the ground. The Redcap's newest charge got a simple response. Anna thrust the dirt at it's eyes. With any luck she'd blind it. "Not used to prey that fights back, huh?" The hunter asked. The creature stumbled, it's wild swings no longer coordinated as it tried to clear the detritus from it's eyes.

That was all Anna needed. She stepped forward, took both hands on the hilt and swept it down toward the creature's neck. It's head neatly rolled from it's body, which thumped down on the ground next to it.

Anna slumped down on the ground, rubbing at her shin. Ow. She'd have a nasty bruise no doubt. The hunter barely had a chance to appreciate her handiwork when she noticed a book peeking out from the pack of the now dead creature. Perhaps it was her innate curiosity, perhaps it was spurred from the high of recently defeating a monster, but whatever the case Anna reached for the book. It was light in her hands as she pulled it from the corpse, opened it, and stared at the pages.