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[b][h2]Meeting Amongst The Graves[/h2][/b]
[img]http://images.fasocdn.com/3209_714277l+v=201206021716/lovely-locket.jpg[/img]
From the journal of John Cleaver.
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"M-Mother!" John called out as he gasped, awake now in the forever twilight that was The Land Betwixt. He grasped his chest as he panted, trying to push through the confusion that was his second Awakening. It was similar to the first time, except now he knew [i]something[/i] was wrong. As if he had forgotten something important, but at the same time felt warmth and calmness from something in his hand. 

A locket. A simple one, something a farmer's wife would buy for only a few silver. Even so, the intricate carvings showed that someone had put a lot of work into it. The wear and dirt on it showed that it had been around for a long time. Still, it was something to hold onto. John knew instantly that it was something from his past life. A memory, tangible and lasting, unlike the slivers in John's own mind. 

The words [color=DarkGray][i] "Dearest John..."[/i][/color] were carved into the top of the pendant, bringing a chill throughout John's body. He remembered back in the crypt. That [i]thing[/i] had spoken to him in [i]her[/i] voice. The chill seeped through his bones until John opened the pendant, gazing upon the image inside. "Mother," he mouthed silently, before noticing his surroundings, including his newest companion. 

The darkness hides all manner of secrets, and all manner of nightmares – and, as some would like to believe, all manner of truths to be unearthed by those who would dare find it. The nameless vagrant stood at the precipice, hunched like an animal ready to pounce and pressed against the wall, as she stared down the black corridor descending into the bowels of the crypt from whence terrible noises escaped. Though distant and muffled, she interpreted the cacophony as the sounds of a desperate battle, where something – or someone – was being slaughtered. Perhaps somebody foolish enough to have believed the tales of those who claimed to have ventured into the darkness, and have escaped being all the wiser and more powerful for it. She had been in the darkness before, she knew it was all fabrication – there was nothing in the black corners of this land save for one’s own nightmares, and the deaths that followed. If there was somebody down there, they were long past salvation, and she had no business trespassing further.

Shaking her head, she removed herself from the mausoleum entrance and returned to the carcass of her fallen prey, one of her largest kills yet – and also one of the most tragic. “What’s done is done,” she muttered under her breath as she drew her iron sword and leaning the glaive on the monster’s flank. Eyeing the monstrosity’s muscular arms, she settled for taking meat from those first. Like a butcher in the slaughterhouse, she began hacking into the flesh and cutting, trying her best to free as large a chunk of meat as she could with the inadequate tool she had. A large axe would serve her much better here, she knew.

“M-Mother!” a juvenile voice called out some distance behind her, and immediately the sounds of hacking and wet, ripping meat ceased. Bewilderment and surprise gripped the vagrant’s mind as she spun around so quickly that her cloak and hair briefly fluttered in the wind. Gritting her teeth, almost snarling, and staring forward with a squinted, singular eye, she saw them – two persons, sitting on the ground not far from her in between some ancient, crumbling headstones. How was this possible? How could she have missed them? Careless! Stupid! Had one of them not called out, they could have gained even more ground on her. Too dangerous. She dexterously unbuckled the shield from behind her back and donned it on her left arm before taking a few, small steps forward and stopping again. Who were these creatures? Were they mere shells of men, lusting after her memories, or were they survivors like her? Was it even possible, that she was not alone in this place? Or was she simply deluding herself into wishful thinking? Whatever the answer might have been, she stood there, poised to strike should the need arise, sword and shield in hand.

Artimus swooped down and landed upon the hunter's knee as he looked around the cemetery, his memories now further blurred by his latest death. The only way he knew this fact is because he remembered having the memories from his past life, but perhaps the day would come when he forgot them all and forgot about having them, turning into a husk. A shell of his former self wandering these wastes in pursuit of those with memories, taking them for his own and forgetting who he once was. Who's to say he hasn't already done that and has already forgotten who he was? Maybe he came to his hellish land a completely different man than he is now. It does not bode well to dwell on these kinds of thoughts though. His attention snapped to his young companion and former prey; the boy had yelled out upon his awakening from the temporary grasp of death in this land. The hunter dove at the boy, slapping his gloved hand over his mouth and shoving him to the ground in fear he would cry out more than the one time. 

"G-get off, you'll break it," John said harshly as he wriggled out of Rook's grasp, angry and clutching something important to his chest. 

"Shut up. What if that thing is still pursuing us? Break what? What do you have," the hunter asked as he raised to a crouch and grabbed his crossbow, scanning the cemetery once more. His gaze fell upon a shape near the center of the graveyard; it was human in shape, but he couldn't discern too much from it other its stance. It looked ready to fight. He brought his crossbow up to aim at the shap, standing slowly and watching it for any violent movement.

John ignored Rook's question, opening his hands slightly to peer at the locket. It felt [i]good[/i] just to touch it. To hold it. To remember. Mother. Then he remembered the hell he was in, cursing under his breath as he shoved the locket into his pocket, noticing Rook's crossbow bearing down on someone. John's eye was caught by the mass of flesh and bone that sat, dead, behind the stranger. "Be careful," he said as he stooped to pick up his cleaver, no longer trusting it to keep him safe. "D'you see that thing behind it? The dead thing."

"Aye. I saw it, boy. That only means whatever it staring us down is strong enough to kill that mass," the hunter responded, his crossbow never waivering from its aim of the shape before them.

Slowly inching closer, the vagrant’s one eye observed the two ill fortuned men with care, examining every last detail as well as the dim twilight allowed. They seemed unaware of her presence for a brief moment, and unaware of their surroundings in general as they recollected their consciousness and sense of self. One of the two, after silencing the short outcry from his companion, lifted a strange, alien-looking device in front of himself, seemingly aiming at… her. Expecting some kind of ranged threat – perhaps akin to the bow that her culture was more familiar with – her knees bent and she managed to contract her entire body behind what remained of her shield, save perhaps for part of her feet or legs occasionally being exposed during her sluggish forwards advance.

The vagrant swallowed a small lump of saliva to wet her parched throat before calling out: “Art ye sane?” to the two men, voice clearly different from the city folk.

John swallowed the lump that was in his throat upon hearing the person. No doubt about it, it was a woman. A woman wearing armor and hefting a sword and shield. Though, he couldn't blame her in a world like this. "A-Aye. We're sane. Can we please put away the weapons? I don't wish to fight anymore." 

"Aye. We're sane like the boy says," the hunter called out, but did not lower his bow any. His years of hunting game of all sorts had engraved the instincts of the beasts he hunted into him. His instincts told him to keep the bow raised until he had definite proof that there would be no harm in lowering it.

“This world knows not peace nor trust; it offers me none, and I offer none. Not until you’ve earned both,” she replied, a hint of bitterness in her tone, “How did ye get here? Why did ye creep up behind mineself?”

"We... we died. We died down there in the crypt. We only just awoke, here above ground. I promise you we mean no harm. I know not if laws still mean a thing here, but 'love thy neighbor' is something I wish to follow," John said, letting out a sigh as he dropped the cleaver and sat on the ground, starting to pull out his journal. "I'm tired of fighting. That... thing down there... It was too much. I only wish to rest and write."

"The boy speaks the truth. We did not creep upon yeh. We awoke here after the monstrosity resting in the crypt killed us," once again Rook spoke to strengthen John's point but refused to lower his guard as his instincts urged him to stay on his toes in this land.

[i]Fools, both of them,[/i] she thought. [i]Fools, but not liars.[/i] She had heard the sounds of conflict in the crypt, and they appeared ill suited to combat the darkness of the land betwixt, and so died as they deserved to. And no amount of foolishness could obscure the fact that they also appeared truly sane – still filled with memories of some kind. The empty ones she had encountered, they were not this clever, could not ruse her so.

“Cease pointing that [i]thing[/i] at me, and I shalt lower my blade,” she commanded with confidence as she reluctantly straightened her legs once more to stand upright.

Pausing a moment to think about the woman's command, the hunter did eventually lower his bow ever so slowly. He only did this because he was confident he could raise it quick enough should the woman charge at them through the headstones.

John opened the journal to the hastily drawn picture of the Lamentor. He would have shivered if not for the warmth that emanated from his coat pocket. "Come, maiden. We'll all sit down and share our tales. You... wield weapons, I've never seen a girl with any. Isn't that only for men?" John asked as he started gathering twigs and bits of wood from the ground, forming them into a small tent. Then, he noticed the bird on Rook's shoulder. It was beautiful up close, he smiled as he held out an arm to the creature, letting it jump onto him. "Artimus. She's even more beautiful up close." 

Rook kept his gaze on the approaching woman warrior, still paranoid of attack as he spoke without turning to the boy,"I wouldn't make a fire, lad. There could be things out there lurking about," he felt Artimus hop from his shoulder to his companion, surprised she wold trust someone so readily,"Aye. She's a beautiful bird and a loyal companion. She's helped me on many hunts."

The vagrant snorted with amusement when she heard the term ‘maiden’. It implied a certain innocence, or at least evoked images of a reserved, juvenile daughter in her mind; certainly not the kind of woman that her life had made her to be. From what place did this mere boy hail from, she wondered? To hold such a naïve view of the world, it was nigh on inconceivable for her, wielding a weapon was second nature to her, they were a part of her body. It could all still be a ruse to fool her, but she allowed her senses to become lulled in the illusion of security, and her posture became notably less tense; sword hanging low, though shield still raised as she casually walked towards the two.

“No need to be a man to run someone through,” she commented dispassionately. If all went well, she would eventually stop about two meters from the two, now more clearly visible to the naked eye; splattered with filth-ridden blood, one-eyed, unwashed and dirty.

As the armed woman came into view with her comment about not needing to be male to kill, the hunter gaped at her appearance as unnoticably as possible. [i]How long has she been here to be marked so?[/i] It had to be longer than the boy and himself; either that or she had worse luck with the creatures lurking in this land and came upon them more often than they had. Though, she seemed to have learned from these experiences, if the pile of flesh behind her was any sort of indicator. The hunter had only met two hostile things in this land, and they had both killed him. The crazed and dillusional cries of the warrior in rusted armor still reverberated within his skull. Would he some day become like that poor soul? The thought sent a shiver through him.

"Why did you kill that beast?" John asked as he began to take out the quill from its slot and dabbing at the next page of paper, starting to draw the locket from his pocket without realizing that he probably shouldn't. "It would've been easier to run away, or just leave it be." 

“I want to eat it,” the vagrant answered plainly, raising an eyebrow as she observed John. She had never seen someone draw on paper, and could not quite fathom what he was up to.

"...Eat it?" John asked, cocking an eyebrow as he kept drawing, pausing every so often to scratch the chin of Artimus, who eagerly watched from his shoulder. "Why would you eat [i]that[/i]?"

"Aye, boy. Eat it. She's a hunter. What else is there for us to eat in this land? Roots and berries? You can't eat those forever. You need meat."

“Eat your enemy and you eat his strength, I say,” she almost absentmindedly added, perhaps more to herself in an effort to recall an old adage, or perhaps a lesson to the others.

"An interesting mantra to live by. Personally I just believe in eating and using whatever you kill out of respect to Gaithea," the words left his mouth automatically. He barely realized what he had said.

In a different world, she might have shared his view, recalling the faintest memory of having hunted at least once in her youth. But respect was dead in this world. There was only strength, and not dying like all these antiquated concepts had.

“What art thou doing there?” she asked, nodding towards John.

"I'm drawing. Isn't it obvious?" John asked as he held up the journal page, exposing the partially finished locket image. "I've drawn more than just this. This land is full of strange things. Places, creatures I've seen, objects," he flipped backwards to a drawing of the cabin that seemed so far away now. "See?"

Intrigued, she bent down slightly to take a closer look at his partial drawing, lowering her shield in the process. The artwork was reminiscent of her people’s etchings that they might leave in wood or stone, but much more detailed and sophisticated. She had never made one, did not have the steady hand or artistic mind for it.

“Ah, so thou art a chronicler. Rather young, for one.”

Rook glanced down at the unfinished drawing of a locket as he allowed himself to drop down next to John in a sitting position, only now noticing the tears in his trousers from the skeletal puppet that had attacked him. The wounds beneath the tears had since scarred over. The rips were what bother him though, and so as he sat down he pulled his rucksack from his shoulders and rumamged through its contents. He eventually pulled out a needle and spool of dark thread. With barely passable skill, the hunter began weaving the needle through his trousers, closing up the rips while still wearing them.

"Chronicler? Do you mean... a bard, or a writer? I... I guess that could be what I am. It's the only thing I'm good at," John said as he returned to the locket, sighing as he made a slight error. He then noticed Rook sewing up the rips in his clothing. "You know, Rook. I could do that for you. I don't have many memories, but I'm fairly certain I did my fair share of fixing things." John blinked before speaking again. "Oh, I almost forgot. I am known as John, and this is Rook. The bird on my shoulder is Artimus."

“A storyteller. One who remembers one generation’s exploits of the clan to share it with the next,” the vagrant elaborated, paying only loose attention to Rook repairing his clothing. She had done something similar many times, only she lacked a needle and thread. All of a sudden, John chose to introduce himself and his companion to the vagrant, who now simply stood there, uncertain what to do with herself. Names. Huh. Had been a while she was last made to even remember one. They certainly expected a name from her; but she had none to give. Long seconds went by before she eventually, and reluctantly spoke up:

“Very well. None in this land saw fit to grace me with a name, so I have none.”

"No name, eh? Well with that beast dead behind you, I'm tempted to call you Huntress," Rook spoke up in the midst of sewing up another rip near the knee of his trousers, pricking himself in the thumb. He cursed under his breath and stuck his thumb in his mouth and sucked at the blood in an attempt to stop the flow. She shrugged. [i]Huntress?[/i] She was not much of a huntress, she thought. A wolf pup in a forest of giants, who eats those few weaker than herself whilst living only by the fortune that the true hunters paid her little heed. John grabbed the needle and thread from Rook with a stern look, getting to work with a much more dexterous hand. "Huntress isn't that great a name. You seemed amused earlier at my calling you 'maiden.' Why not that? It's ironic, and I'm sure it will send your foes running in fear." He chuckled as he finished up mending the tear, moving onto the last one. 

“Perhaps if I was young and innocent, it might be a descriptive a name. I am neither,” she commented with regret. John looked up, "Under all that mud and gore, I don't doubt that you're quite the sight. That eye might serve a few problems if you were to court someone. What happened to you? Were it beasts that gave you all of your markings?"

“Lost it. An eye for an eye, if thou wilst.” John’s attempt at flattery found no soil to grow on as she chose to ignore it. He was much younger than her for sure – it was natural for him to try and gain the favor of women, she thought.

"Yeh don't remember losing it? Must be the land taking your memories for itself...," Rook trailed off after his interjection, taking his needle and thread back from John as he finished mending his trousers for him. He set to rummaging through his rucksack to take an inventory of what he had.

“I remember enough to know not to lose the other. Thou wouldst do well to remember my lesson too. Thou hadst no business in the darkness below.”

Looking up from his rummaging, the hunter responded with, "The only reason I was down there was because the boy was following me, so I set a trap for him below. Then the monster came..."

He set a trap for his own companion? She was sure to remember that. Was there some underlying tension between these two, a dispute that she was not aware of? She would have to be wary of these two after all – no surprise. Exhaling a deep breath through her nose, the vagrant bent down to ram her sword into the undisturbed soil so that her hands might be free to buckle her shield behind her back once more.

John stared at Rook a bit angrily. "You shot me, and I was following you because there was nothing else for me." He returned to the journal, setting the finishing touches on the picture. "It might not have been for naught. That thing down there... it spoke to me. In Mother's voice. I woke up with this." 

He pulled out the locket, feeling the warmth between his hands. It made him smile at how closely he had drawn the locket, the picture resembling it perfectly. "I have no clue why... but it holds power. A lot of power. It might hold a clue as to the meanings of this world."