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Hidden 3 yrs ago Post by POOHEAD189
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The possibilities of future hijinks or present problems evaporated at Emmaline's giggle to Amal. He raised his hand to the serpent, and slowly Asp's tail lifted up to press to his palm. He shook its tail ardently, his face a mask of stoic sarcasm. After that he relaxed, watching Emmaline, smiling like a fool when he felt her fingers along his length. She might have been the priestess of snakes, but his hips writhed to the side lightly as his eyes went from mirth to craving, dark eyes dilating ever so slowly in the firelight.

Why she had this effect on him, he didn't know or care. He was still new to love, but wouldn't have it any other way he knew. She would feel him stir, already half awoken from the warmth and their close proximity. Amal's back to the couch's back, his arms slid behind it to hold on to the wooden beams that kept the piece of furniture steady, broadening his shoulders and pectorals. The alcohol tingling in his throat, he smiled his mordant smile at her teasing. She could feel his eyes roving over her, his tongue curling in his mouth.

"Consider me charmed..."

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The snake did a surprisingly human job of rolling its eyes before curling itself around an extinguished candlestick atop the hearth, finding warmth even in this chill northern land. The magic that sustained the familiar was not truly effected by the cold, but the form of a snake carried with it some decidedly snake like imperatives.

There was a perfunctory knock on the door before the wooden panel swung open on its heavy iron hinges. Greta stuck her head through the portal looking nervous and a little skitish. That was to be expected with a half dozen of the Sheriff toughs making a gauntlet for her to walk to reach the room. Fortunately Emmaline was fully clothed and the girl couldn't see what she was doing from her position by the door.

"Ummm... will there be anything else tonight master and mistress?" she asked, clearly hoping there wouldn't be. Emmaline drew a silver piece from her pocket and tossed it to the girl.

"Keep our friends there in ale if you would," she said in an encouraging tone and then took another coin from the pouch and tossed it after the first.

"And for your troubles," she added. Greta caught the coin and knuckled her forehead.

"Thank you Frauline," she said and then vanished behind the door which closed and latched with a click. Emmaline smiled and tightened her grip slightly.

"Well... I can't say you are exactly putty in my hands," she said with a giggle.
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As the sun peaked over the horizon, leaving Mannslieb and Morrslieb to fade away until the next night, Amal and Emmaline stirred on the bed. The two of them stretched languorously, sighing contentedly and feeling their naked bodies pressed, stirring further desires they had to go at it again until there was a knock at the door. It vexed Amal to leave Emmaline's embrace, but the promise of danger and the potential of profit stirred his limbs and he slid out of Emmaline's greedy grasp and placed two feet on the floor. Another knock.

"Mr. Ali Baba sir?" Greta's voice called urgently.

"Be there in a moment." He replied as he put his trousers on.

"The guards are downstairs, and they're sort of eating us out of house and home. They're also boasting on breaking this door down when they're done. You might want to-"

"One moment. We'll be out." He said firmly. Emmaline wiggled like an annoyed serpent, unwilling to get up. Amal laughed at how cute he thought she was and then he leaped onto the bed, bouncing her a foot off the mattress, making her squeal. She reared up and glared at him, but was unable to stay mad when he smiled. They both got dressed within minutes and were downstairs. Emmaline, with her disheveled blonde locks drew some leering gazes from the guards, but the captain seemed more professional than the others at least.

"It's about time you two got up. The Baron awaits you." He said, gesturing for his guards to push them forward. When one attempted, Amal grabbed his hand and shoved him back before he even touched he or Emmaline.

"I think we get the picture." He said, taking Emmaline's hand. "Come honey, let's go and clear our names so these common thugs leave us alone. Your country is so barbaric."

"Ugh, indeed," Emmaline replied, playing along. She had the facade of an innocent, albeit posh mistress. "The service here is terrible. They didn't even offer us coffee."

Amal did his best not to snort, ushering her along outside with the watchmen in tow, muttering. One took one last apple, without leaving payment obviously and stepped outside. True enough, Adolf Vandershute was awaiting them just out the door. He looked even more severe than yesterday, likely from being kept waiting. Amal almost would have felt bad were he not planning on killing the man within the hour.

"I take it you had a fine rest? You might not get another chance for some time." The Baron declared. There was no mocking humor in his placid voice.

"On the contrary, we'll be back here before noon. It is your men that need worry. I suspect they have not faced beastman in years." Amal replied confidently.

Amal had their belongings in a moderately sized pack that looked like simple traveling gear. They weren't supposed to be walking far, but the men chalked it up to being the naivety of a foreigner. Their magic carpet was curled within, ready to pop out at Amal's instant call. More than likely they were going to use it to escape if the two of them couldn't kill the six men that were to set out.

Without further interruption they headed toward the southern edge of Delbertz, drawing the gazes of any passerby and shopkeep. Some might have thought he and Emmaline were being escorted like aristocracy with the Baron showing around his honored guests. Most likely it looked like they were walking into an execution. Either way, within minutes they stepped onto the forest path...
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Emmaline giggled brainlessly. She had been doing so frequently for the past hour or so of travel, conscious that it annoyed both the Sheriff and his hung over guardsmen. They had been walking for perhaps three quarters of an hour and the forest around them was growing taller and wilder. The tidy farmsteads had vanished also, giving way at first to charcoal burners huts, then isolated hunters cottages, before signs of human habitation ceased all together. There was some traffic on the road though, a merchant and a wagon of goods, a trio of trappers bringing furs to market, all of whom nodded personably at the party of soldiers and their strange guests. They were mounted on horses from the city watch stables, Emmaline, having stolen a few in her time managed to keep a saddle, though the effort made her legs ache and her bottom hurt. Riding wasn't a skill you could afford to get too out of practice in she supposed.

"We must be approaching the sight of your... alleged attack yes?" Vandershute asked as the hunter vanished out of view behind a small hill.

"You couldn't have run very far to escape beastmen afterall?" he pressed, his tone as always faultless and yet somehow mocking.

"Not much further I think, perhaps the reputation of you and your men scared them too much to continue the chase," Emmaline replied, unable to avoid needling the sheriff just a little. She didn't know what game he was playing, but whatever it was he was clearly getting ready to make a move. Emmaline didn't much like their chances, nine versus two wasn't great odds, especially if they didn't have surprise on their side, and both Vandershute and his men were clearly watching them carefully.

"There," Emmaline said, pointing to some ripped bark on a large oaktree by the side of the road.

"Claw marks from the beasts," she asserted, it was as likely a regular bear as anything else, but she had been on the look out for anything that might give credence to her made up story and this was the first likely candidate.

"Ah, then let us dismount and see if we can find tracks in the woods," Vandershute declared. Emmaline hoped he might dismount first, giving them a moment to allow their horses to bolt, but the sheriff merely waited for the two strangers to slip from their saddles to the leaf covered roadway.
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"Yes, let's," Amal said, trying to make himself sound even more foreign than he already did speaking riekspeil. The handsome thief was never a good rider (in certain ways) but he managed to keep his horse from cantering off into the woods, doing his best not to curse in Arabyan whenever the horse did something unexpected.

He felt better now that they had dismounted, even if that still kept them on level ground with their soon-to-be-pursuers. He tried to carry himself with a detached air, but seeing Emmaline stepping over gnarled branches had him holding his hand out to her. When she took it, he would help her over whatever marred their path like a gentleman, not a care in the world on his face, save for his companion and lover. Emmaline suddenly tripped, Amal catching her easily.

"What are we doing?" She whispered to him, and he understood her trip was merely a way to speak to him.

"Trust me." He breathed, giving her a wry smile.

"No tracks as of yet, herr Baba." Vandershute said lightly, though anyone with sense could hear a forecoming pronouncement in his voice. Amal shrugged casually, turning back to continue walking, not even deigning to look at the guards as the small troupe traversed the woods. As it were, the group passed by a pretty, stone dotted creek and the forest grew thicker about them until their path was blocked by a murky pond that fed into a small tributary, likely leading to the riek itself a dozen or so miles away. After half an hour of walking, Vandershute halted them and turned around, clearly bored of this entire fiasco.

"I think we've gone far enough." He said, raising a hand with a finger pointedly gesturing in a circle through the air. His men-at-arms clearly had been drilled enough to know that meant they should draw their swords and level their spears. Emmaline clung to Amal, and before she could cast any magic or make any claims, Amal clamped his hand over her mouth, tossing a stone from the creek up and down with his other hand. Adolf Vandershute continued. "It seems you just delight in trying my patience. Do you have any last words?"

Amal tossed the rock into the pool lazily, like he was bored of the entire walk.

"I do." Amal proclaimed easily as the men circled Emmaline and he. "Are all northmen this ugly, or did we get the shit end of the stick?"

Emmaline and Amal had a very clear, conside view of the pond waters barely sending a ripple as a long, mutated arm. It's muscled form as thick a man's torso, snaked out of the murk of the pond and raised over one of the men like an otherwordly cobra. It was almost difficult to watch, but it was what Amal had planned on all along. Meanwhile, Adolf Vandershute's eyes blazed in anger, though a wicked almost-smile creased across his face, his mustache spreading like a plague. "You vile sun baked dog...you have no sense of self preservation, I take it. Much like the rest of your heathen kind-"

His insult was stopped short by a slosh of the water. The others turned and saw a man missing from their ranks, the water now quieting once again eerily. Moments later, a helmet and sword floated to the top of the water, as if the guard had simply been plucked from their very reality.

"Rolf?" One of the fellows called, just as Amal slowly backed away with Emmaline. The cry from the man grew more urgent, likely worrying on a friend. "Rolf!?"

The pond exploded with foul water and fallen reeds, sending the men scattering to the ground and soaking Adolf in the entirety of his stately dress. He coughed out swamp water, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief hurriedly, clearly his vision to bear witness to the River Troll looming over him, Rolf's legs sticking out of its gullet. Amal covered Emmaline's eyes and continued to back away, a look of 'let's not stick around' on his face as the men screamed and scrambled to get their fallen weapons. The troll swallowed rolf's other half like some freakish toad, not noticing when a solder embedded his spear into the thing's belly. It answered with a rumble from its throat that was subsequently followed by acidic bile launching out of the thing's maw, melting two men on the spot.

Now dozens of feet away, Amal picked Emmaline up off her feet, crouched low as he snuck her away.

"How did you..." She asked.

"You were sleeping when we flew into town." He told her, his smile turning into a fierce grin. "I saw a few trolls south of Delbertz. I knew if we got in their path, one would show up. Now I vote we go to the next town."
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"Well it couldn't happen to a nicer group," Emmaline muttered as they swung up into the saddles of the two most promising horses. Emmaline drew a sword from a saddle slung scabbard and slapped the rumps of the other mounts, sending them running back towards Delbertz. If any of Vandershute's men did survive, there was no point in making it easy to pursue them. Not, by the sound of the roaring troll, that survival seemed a likely outcome. Without further discussion they drove their heels into their already skittish mounts racing down the forest path away from the trolls and their grisly feast.

The sun was well sinking toward the horizon by the time the reached the town of Mittleweg. Located at a crossroad of the Middenheim road and the northern arm of the River Delb it was a prosperous looking place. With tall steeply pitched roofs and pallisade walls. Several river barges were pulled up at warves where goods were being loaded and unloaded by sweating stevedores. A broad belt of farmland surrounded the city proper keeping the towering Drakwald at bay. A temple to Ulric stood upon the small hill at the center of town, the wolfhead banners snapping in the autumn breeze. They had ridden their horses hard and the beasts were almost played out as they passed through the city gates. Emmaline's legs and bottom ached from the unaccustomed activity. For the hundredth time she swore she was going to sit down and have a long conversation with a certain carpet about its limited endurance. It was possible that Vandershute's thugs might pursue them, but by the time they found horses it would be dark and only a complete idiot would ride the Drakwald by night. Even if they did they would arrive to closed gates and have to search the city for the pair of them. A thankless task in the dead of night.

"I promise I shall keep my mouth shut about beastmen this time," Emmaline said as the trotted through the streets. At least this time she was properly dressed and not attracting undue attention.
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"Babe, you do whatever you want." The thief chuckled in his own language, smiling confidently. "I trust you to know more about what to say here than me, and even if someone takes it the wrong way, you know how sexy it is when we get into trouble."

The town was made of various smaller go-betweens all connected via one longer road, all leading to the Temple of Ulric. A barbaric structure of cone-like pillars surrounding it, there was a multi-layered roof with a towering, sloping spire at the highest point in the center. A statue of Wulfric and his wolf companions was at the center foreground on the dirt road. What was more notable were the three red haired northmen on their warhorses, decked in ornate plate armor and wearing wolf pelts. Two of them had warhammers in their strong hands and the third hefted a stout, long handled battleaxe. They spoke to each other in a barking manner, speaking riekspeil but in a gruff inflection Amal found hard to follow. He didn't really care to listen, halting in the road as wool covered men and women went about their daily lives around them. A cart passed the riders, with goods Amal certainly was curious about. The only concern in the whole town were two men loitering on the porch of one of the buildings, wearing brigandines, pistols and crossbows holstered. Bounty Hunters, likely. Amal didn't have a bounty on him, but his foreign look certainly made them curious. Emmaline just might have a price, but from what she said in Delberz it wouldn't be widespread if it even existed in the first place.

Amal decided to solve the problem now. He pointed at one of the bounty hunters, drawing his attention with a loud. "You! Yes, you herr person. Come here and speak to me!"

The other bounty hunter muttered a joke to his companion who shoved off and approached. A woman skittered away in fear of the man's grizzled appearance. He seemed a bit put off by Amal's darker skin, but he didn't make any disparaging comments at least.

"What can I help you with?" He asked. The way he spoke might almost sound helpful if the sarcasm wasn't dripping.

"Do you have any work?"

The bounty hunter went from hardset to confused in the matter of moments. "...W-Work?"

"Yes, me and my companion here are bounty hunters looking for a good score." Amal made his face seem thoughtful, almost tired as if they had just come back from a harrowing ordeal. In a way they had. A knife was in the thief's hand so fast it seemed a trick of sorcery, causing the fellow to blink and take a step back in surprise. Amal spun the knife easily, as if handling it was an idle way to pass the time. "Heard any leads?"

"Do you think if I had work I'd tell you?" He growled and turned around, clearly embarrassed at being afraid of the knife trick. "Piss off."

"Hey, at least tell us the way to Marienburg!" Amal cried after him, but the hunter had already disappeared into the crowd. Even his companion was gone. Behind him Emmaline giggled, knowing Amal diffused what might have been a problematic situation later. The shadows grew longer, darkening Amal's clothing as he sighed. Turning to Emmaline, he shrugged. "Well, at least you appreciate my charm."
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"I think my countrymen are taking a shine to you," Emmaline noted with a carefully concealed smile. Amal laughed, drawing the eye of a group of Fraus as they rode by.

"I always though you a unique pearl, I just didn't realize how unique," Amal snickered. The cobblestone streets began to rise as they reached the bottom of the hill. Predictably as they got further from the waterfront and higher the houses grew more elaborate and prosperous, and riverside dives gave way to neat taverns and chophouses.

"This looks like a nice place," Emmaline said as they reached a stone walled coaching inn.

__________

Emmaline awoke with a start as Amal's hand clamped down over her mouth. She twisted and purred in the sheets imagining this to be a renewal of their previous activities. The room was suddenly light by a flash of lightning and she froze at the expression on Amal's face. Outside rain, which had begun after dinner, slashed down on the slate roof tiles in a continuous roar. Emmaline's hand traveled slowly to the side of the bed where Asp lay among Emmaline's discarded dress. The snake shifted at her touch and then slithered silently up her arm, coiling around her wrist. Without warning the window exploded inwards a figure tumbling through it, Amal was already leaping from the bed, knives which must have been hidden under his pillow appeared in his hands as if by magic. Emmaline screamed and something flashed past her and buried itself in the headboard of the bed with a sound like an axe striking a log. She rolled out of bed and hit the ground, as another bolt of lightning lit the darkness beyond the window of their third floor room. For a heart beat she could see a figure standing on peak of the roof across the street, the squat powerful form a crossbow in his hand. She pressed herself up on both knees and one hand, lifting the staff that was suddenly in her hand. Lightning struck from the heavens, bathing the figure in light for a moment before he vanished in the ensuing darkness. Wind and rain poured through the open windows, whipping the curtains like the tentacles of a flailing sea creature.

Amal stood for a moment, kneeling over the first dark figure who was yet to rise. Emmaline whispered a spell and the oil lamps burst to life, bathing the room in flickering light as the wind struggled to extinguish the flames. The figure, was a man, and he was clearly dead. Blood ran sluggishly around a crossbow quarrel in his throat and his eyes were glazed. He was dressed in dark clothing and a cloak and in his hand he clutched a short iron cylinder. It was wrapped with a chain of dark metal from which depended an amulet depicting crossed fingers. An urgent pounding began to sound from the hall outside as Emmaline scrambled across the floor and snatched up the rod, stuffing it hastily into a draw before a key rattled in the door and it cracked open to reveal the wide eyed innkeeper.

"Mien Herr are you all..." he trailed off as he realized both Emmaline and Amal were naked and hastily averted his budging eyes.

"Are you alright?" he asked, raising his voice over the storm, "what happened?"
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Amal, glistening with sweat on his naked, caramel skinned body was what some northerner's might call "in a mood." Someone had just interrupted his sleep and nearly killed his woman. Of course, such things usually excited him, but he had promised Emmaline and himself a vacation and these amateurs had ruined a good night's sleep.

"We were attacked, herr Gruber!" Emmaline gasped, and though she didn't need much in the way of motivation, Amal knew her well enough to know when she was putting on a show. The voluptuous woman, now draped to hide her modesty in their bedsheets fell to her knees and tugged at the inn keeper's pants leg. "Who could have done such a thing!? How could you let such a thing happen in your well to-do establishment? Is this what we paid all of this money for?"

Behind her, Amal had his trousers on in a mere second and pulled the window open. The inn keeper gaped when he leaped out into the storm without shoes or a shirt.

"He um, he does that." Emmaline explained, before gazing up at him with her big eyes, as innocent as a milk maid. Even tears glistened there as she began to infer they would not speak ill of his establishment if they were to get their money back and another free week under his roof.

Amal had hit the ground in a roll, feet hitting the mud and back rolling over a small stone pathway without his feet ever touching it. He moved like a southlands gazelle, knives in hand as he leaped and pushed off a balustrade, catching the curved roof of the building they had seen the figure upon. The building was some fancy and well built trade hub with the sign 'Jaeger's & Sons' on it. Amal made it on the roof with little effort as lightning struck through the sky once more. No matter where he looked, he found no trace of whoever had been here, nor what path led away. The mud around the building had eroded from the heavy rainfall, leaving no trace as to any tracks either. It was as if no one had ever been here at all.

A minute later, he climbed back in through the window to see Emmaline now alone, the waves of her golden hair obscuring her face as she held up a pendant she had taken from one of the men in her hand, a pendant of two crossed fingers.

"The symbol of Ranald." She said.

"I know. If there's any god I can appreciate besides Allah, it's him. Are followers of his a...militant faction here?"

She gave him a wondrous smile at his improving grammar, but shook her head. Her hand pressed against his cheek, making sure he was not catching a cold. "No, my love."

"Then we need to find out why they hate us."
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Emmaline frowned and passed the pendant over to Amal, she had considered herself a follower of Ranald once, but she wasn't sure if Asaph was approve, and if there was one thing that Ranald would approve of, it was covering ones rather shapely ass. Instead she reached into the drawer where she had concealed the odd metal cylinder. It was made of blackened steel and fitted so finely together that the seams in it were almost invisible. There was a stud at the top which she tried to depress with a finger but nothing happened. Pursing her lips she began to rotate the sections against each other, imagining some kind of code. Amal placed his hand over hers.

"If it is some kind of thieves codex, there may well be traps," he cautioned her. Emmaline froze and then set the cylinder down on the table. There was a knock at the door and the innkeeper, who had vanished while Amal was outside, appeared with an officer of the watch, dressed in a rain slicked leather coat and some indifferently maintained mail. He took one look at the corpse and then a rather longer look at Emmaline, restraining himself from licking his lips with an obvious effort of will.

"Nah, its like the others, crossbow bolt, black quarrels, not this lot," he said sourly. Emmaline glanced at the corpse and saw that the feathers of the quarrel had been dyed black. The watchman scratched his armpit absently.

"I'll send a couple of boys to toss it out in the street, watch will sweep it up in the morning, if the damn barber surgeons dont get it first," he told the innkeeper and then turned and stomped out of the room. The innkeeper, clearly relieved his well paying if eccentric patrons weren't going to be carted of to the town jail, bowed obsequiously.

"I have another room for you mine Herr, Frauline, not quite as fine, though it has a nicer window," he dared to joke. Emmaline rewarded the effort with a snicker and followed him out.

Five minutes later they were drying infront of a peat fire in a smaller room that was still better than Emmaline had seen before she had been taken away to Araby. She wiggled her toes in front of the blaze pondering events. Amal was turning the odd black cylinder over in his hands, considering it.

"You know," Emmaline ventured, "this might not have anything to do with us at all. It looked to me like we maybe just..." she paused for dramatic effect. "Got in the way of a quarrel between the two of them." Amal didn't laugh, the nuisances of Riekspiel apparently not yet sufficiently absorbed to allow for puns. She pressed on.

"Maybe he was just fleeing across the roof tops and was shot at an unfortunate time. I wonder what it was about? Some schism in the local guild of thieves perhaps? Some enemy of the temple of Ranald?" That was harder to figure, Ranald was not exactly a popular god, but he wasn't hated either. Theologically on the Shyallan's had a quarrel with Ranald, and somehow Emmaline doubted the local Shyallan convent was turning out master archers.
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"Maybe you're right..." Amal mused, spinning the cylinder on his middle finger idly. He was so used to people butting into their business or trying to kill or enslave them. He saw danger and conspiracy wherever he looked. Emmaline might have felt out of place there, and he couldn't blame her from her experiences, but she had the mind of a true Arabyan. He halted the cylinder's spun and bumped it upwards with his finger, nimbly catching it with his thumb before flinging it upwards like a man might with a coin. It flipped end over end to land in his hand. "It might have nothing to do with us. But it's something worth looking into, in the morning."

Opening his hand to gaze at the pendant once more, he snuggled further into the couch they sat upon. His off hand idly playing with Emmaline's hair of spun gold. His feet had been cleaned and they now dried beside the fire. "They were either stealing something, taking something somewhere, or were simply in a fight. It's an odd circumstance. It makes no sense." Amal said. "A Guild of Thieves should be in a larger city. Any organized guild set in a small town would be ousted and eliminated, or they simply wouldn't get enough jobs to live. Whatever happened, it had context elsewhere."

"Do you think something is in it?" She asked him, eyes on the pendant.

"No." He said honestly. "I could be wrong. If we do open it, we're likely to find a myriad of scratches that mean nothing to use by can change lives if the right person sees it. But I doubt there's even that in there. It's either an ordinary pendant or a key to somewhere... A key a local guildsman wouldn't think to look for, as all would have pendants just like this one. A key..." It was just a theory, but he toyed with the idea in his head all the same. There was no shortage of tombs that were opened by seemingly ordinary items in Araby.

"The... key to solving this mystery, you might say?" She said, watching him intently.

Amal's eyes brightened, his mind catching a small subtlety there. He did not know such was possible in reikspiel, but at the word play, and he chortled. "Yes! Yes," He turned his body to her and poked her nose, smiling. "That is a joke of words, yes? Like...like..." He cleared his throat. "'Might I have a word with you' and saying only one word?"
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The next morning dawned clear after the nights heavy rains. True to the watchman's prediction the body was gone when Amal and Emmaline mounted their horses and rode out of the southern gate into the brilliant sunshine of the early morning. Neither of the pair were particularly early risers, but the possibility that some of Vandershute's ill fated posse might be searching for them didn't encourage them to tarry. Given the events of the previous night they had debated attempting to rouse the carpet, but had agreed that the situation wasn't that dire yet. They were also uncertain on what to do with the strange box they had inherited from the dead thief. Truthfully, Emmaline felt it might have been better just to toss it in the street, but Amal had pointed out that having something always put you in a better bargaining position than not having it.

The road was a sluice of mud and progress was slow. Emmaline regretted not attempting to find a boat, never having been much of a fan or horses. There were enough travellers on the road to churn the mud to a slippery muck and they were frequently forced to press their horses close to the trees to maintain any kind of a pace. She was just about to suggest they halt and eat some lunch when Amal reigned his horse in beside her. She envied him his seat, he might be a thief from the streets but he obviously had the blood of desert horsemen somewhere in his background.

"I think there are riders coming up behind us," he said in Arabyian. Emmaline instinctively glanced over her shoulder before Amal could grab her to prevent it. There was a shout from behind her as several hundred yards back she saw horsemen forcing thier steeds into muddy gallops. Sunlight glittered of blades and the tips of arrows.

"Sorry," Emmaline blushed and glanced back to the road ahead an idea occurring to her.

"Follow me!" she called and pushed her horse into a clumsy charge that carried them around the curve. The stretch of road beyond was deserted. Whispering quietly to herself she lifted her hand and the mud infront of them began to congeal and dry as she wrung the water from it with her spell. Their steeds stepped up onto the dry road and their speed increased dramatically. Behind them water seemed to return to the road, restoring the quagmire a few feet behind them. Emmaline grinned as their pursuers rounded the corner to find their prey several hundred meters ahead with no apparent explanation.

"We can out run them easily this way," Amal snickered. Emmaline nodded, a mischievous grin tugging at her lips.

"We could," she admitted, "but I have a better idea."

It must have been an extremely frustrating hour for their pursuers. They seemed to gain on their prey until they were almost in bow range, and then the pair would round a corner, and suddenly be several hundred yards ahead, their horses apparently not even tired from the leisurely pace. Somehow their horses didn't appeared to be coated in mud either, nor were they gasping for air having been driven through the mud. Emmaline was enjoying herself immensely.
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Amal was enjoying himself immensely with Emmaline's witchcraft. Back in Araby, sorcery had always been tolerated, though like everything else it was used to inflict people's wills over others, not that he could blame them. With Emmaline, it was always a pleasure to experience. Though it could lead to some problems. For instance, Amal and Emmaline had gotten so caught up in fleeing their pursuers, they eventually lost their way and the very road itself. Their hunters had long since lost their patience and gave up, and now the two of them found themselves in a small wooded area off the road. The two hardly noticed the subtle changes in the weather and wind, and as their laughter faded, they felt a small sudden shock to their shoulders as droplets began to fall from the sky.

"Oh..." She said, biting her lip. "Oopsie."

Lightning shattered the sky as the two of them stumbled out of the woods, their horses whinnying. Amal had a distinct feeling it wasn't from the wind and rain, however. His black hair soaked and matted to his face, he saw they were now facing a myriad of hills and low declines that served as pathways. The forest behind them was so light it didn't serve for shelter, but whatever these hills were might provide somewhere they could hold up.

"We need to go back!" Emmaline yelled over the increasing storm.

"No! These hills are hollow!" Amal said with surety, having robbed enough tombs and entered enough hidden caverns and sanctuaries to see the hidden signs of possible habitation.

As if the gods themselves had sought to curse them, a lightning bolt crashed into the ground not a dozen feet before them. Emmaline and Amal cried out in surprise, and even Amal couldn't keep control of his steed. The mares bolted out from under them, charging up one of the hills and bucking wildly, sending the two adventurer's into the air. Amal was dexterous enough to reach out, grabbing Emmaline as she flew through the air before they hit the grass of the hill, only to fall through the very hill and into the darkness, where travelers of middenland dare not dwell.

Within the bosoms of the Howling Hills.
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Emmaline landed on top of Amal with a decidedly unladylike squawk, driving the breath out of the thief. She sneezed violently as dust and grit rained down on the pair of them in a steady stream. Above them lightning could be seen flashing across the mouth of a small shaft. They found themselves in an ancient dusty corridor. Stonework that was worn smooth by the passage of ages surrounded them. The style was strange to Emmaline's eye, though she wasn't a scholar of architecture.

"You know, for two people with a flying carpet, we sure fall down alot," Emmaline complained, rolling onto her back and staring accusingly up at the shaft above them.

"Well I suppose it is what I get for not just running away when I had the chance," Emmaline went on, she ought to have just left whoever was pursing them mired in mud and ridden on. Now they were stuck down a hole without their horses.

"Where would have been the fun in that?" Amal asked, pushing himself to his feet and ensuring no bones were broken. Emmaline followed suit, her staff appearing in her hand, a soft golden light emerging from its golden head to illuminate the darkness which extended off in both directions.
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The torrent of rain and the thunder was a distant backdrop, and had it been closer to night, one might have actually found it soothing. Amal did too, even if his senses were keen enough to know that this wasn't an ordinary underground tunnel. No hidden tunnels ever seemed to be, in his experience. He looked at his love, somehow resplendent even with soaked hair and muck splattered. The Arbyan tapped his nose.

"Smell that?" He asked, and he took in a huge whiff to make sure he wasn't misconstruing the air. It was both cold and thick, with the only fresh air coming from behind them and above, and it was sparse. Before them a few dozen feet away, there was another opening from above. Likely someone else had fallen here under similar circumstances at some point, or perhaps the hill had simply caved in a bit. "The air is both old and new, which means this place is very old. Something keeps it hidden. Your northern lands are so bountiful, it's a wonder no one has come by here and pried open anything, as many tombs are vacant even among the dunes in Araby. Which means something here keeps them out..." In the shadow, his skin looked even darker. A sculpted stygian figure with glittering eyes of mischief. "Follow me."

"Aren't you the one that tends to look for danger?" She asked as they took a few steps.

Amal chuckled and spun, his face very close to hers. "Yes, but there's always profit in it. I thought that was how you liked your danger."

The two of them grinned like jackals, and their faces drew nearer as if they were to begin kissing. They were, unfortunately, rudely interrupted by a skeletal hand piercing a patch of earth on the wall; one of the small sections devoid of stone. The flesh stripped bare, it shot between them and caused Emmaline to squawk again. Amal's eyes widened, but he caught the hand. Emmaline scowled and raised her staff, whacking the limb clean off. It fell limp as if whatever power had enacted its animation was clipped from the source, though the dirt still seemed to move a bit as the skeleton still lay trapped within.

"So there's a few dead men." Amal shrugged, a decidedly different view of the undead that most Imperial citizens would have. Likely most Arabyans too, but Amal was quite familiar with such curses in tombs.

He would eat his words as the sound of the storm was drown out by rock grinding along rock, and loud claps of stone slabs hitting the stone floor. Slowly, undead skeletons and zombies ahead of them began to reach out from the walls where they had been lain. Amal showed his teeth in a 'that's not good' fashion. He grabbed Emmaline's hand, pulling her forward to run past the slow moving monstrosities before they could get on their feet.

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Emmaline rushed along behind amal, casting her eyes back to see the flickering witch lights in the eyes of the skeletal creatures rising from the floor and clawing their way out of the walls. Dark Magic hung in the air, oily and bitter to Emmaline's magical senses as the Winds fluttered in corrupting discordance. Ahead of them more of the creatures were rising, bony fingers scraping across stone as they struggled to raise themselves. Iron scrapped against stone as ancient weapons, were gripped in boney hands.

"Run!" Amal yelled and Emmaline complied, skipping and jumping over the half roused dead. Pausing once to swing her staff in a glittering golden arc that shattered the rib cage of a creature directly in her path. They passed under a stone arch and into an ante chamber where a door of black iron hung from vast stone lintels. It was covered in dust and strange runes which Emmaline couldn't decipher and in the center was an intricate brass locking mechanism, filaments of metal running out like spider webs in all directions. Emmaline's throat was dry but she wasn't panicking. After witnessing the procession of Settra's unholy legions in the half remembered tomb city, a mere walking corpse was only alarming rather than marrow freezing.

"Dead end," she announced as Amal began to examine the door barring their passage. Emmaline turned and lifted her staff begining to chant and draw upon the winds of magic. Her eyes began to shine as threads of golden light extended from the arch way to form a net of glittering golden filaments, that hummed and pulsed like the strings of a strange instrument. The first skeleton stumbled into the net and shattered like a clay pot dropped from a great height, pieces of smoking bone scattering back down the corridor. Emmaline flinched slightly but maintained the spell as a second skeleton duplicated the act.

"Any luck?" she called through clenched teeth.
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Amal methodically checked the spring mechanisms of the lock with the tip of his dagger, the thief being familiar with over a dozen different types of locks over his tenure in the trade city of Al-Hiekk. Unfortunately, there was almost nothing that gave away this lock and Amal couldn't grasp how to manipulate it. The third skeleton was disintegrated by Emmaline's magic, but it was clear she wouldn't be able to hold them all day and night.

"Abn eahira!" Amal cursed, knowing he could get into whatever tomb or vault this was if he had the time and wasn't worried on himself and, more important, Emmaline. He felt along the wall for a minuscule crease or a slight indention that betrayed a way in. Still, nothing. It hurt his pride, but he tried something desperate. Reaching into his sack, he pulled out the key to his inevitable release, shoving the cylinder into the hole and giving a sigh of jubilant satisfaction when it opened the chamber. The figures on the door suddenly unlatched and pulled back from an unseen power source. The central stone spun twice before the two slabs detached and the door swung open.

Old, stale air that was almost suffocating to breathe in flowed out, buffeting Amal and causing his mane to billow a bit. Emmaline's mystical trap had decimated six of the undead so far, but the golden bands were thinning visibly. Amal tugged at Emmaline's shoulder, grabbing her attention from her magic. The doors behind him began grinding again, and he realized to his shock they were closing again. Well, they had the key so it was best to capitalize on it.

"Em!" He called, sweeping her off her feet. She squeaked and clung to him as her magic dissipated, and four skeletons reached at them with bony hands, fingers sharpened like knives. Emmaline was yanked out of their reach by Amal. "This is my treasure." He quipped, and leaped into the closing of the doors. One skeleton was apparently full of vibrant energy as it elbowed past the others and attempted to pass through the door. Amal kicked it back as it lurched through the closing entryway, for it to stumble back into the doors and be slowly crunched into dust as the doors closed shut upon it.

The lights were blotted out by thick darkness, until Emmaline alited her serpent's staff once more, emitting a pale golden light in the darkness.

The room was in far better condition than the corridor outside, though cobwebs and a few normal spiderwebs clung to the walls. Three archaic and ornate statues in the center of the room of old northern kings, framing the central throne in the middle of the small vault of a decayed skeleton with a crown of jewels and a red robe, covered in golden chains. Beside him, a large chest was closed, though the wood had rotted.
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Emmaline let out a deep relieved breath as the door closed behind them, the golden light fading from her eyes as the spell faded. The sound of boney hands slapping the far side of the tone were muffled and insistent, though it seemed unlikely that the skeletons would be able to make much headway.

"That was too close," she gasped, amazed that Amal had managed to open the ancient door.

"Even the dead are slower in this land," Amal joked, running his fingers around the top of the chest, apparently searching for any kind of traps concealed in the ancient metal rim. Emmaline was about to respond when her eyes fell upon the jeweled crown on the head of the chained corpse. Gold lust surged inside of her like the tug of a vast tide. She took a shaking step towards the throne, stepping between the stern eyed statues that seemed to be standing some sort of guard. Despite its evident age the corpse was well persevered, shrunken layers of muscle and sinew curled around it as tightly as the golden chains that still glittered. Almost without thinking, the sorceress reached out and lifted the bejeweled crown from the things head, marveling at the way the jewels sparkled.

"Em... I don't," Amal began but before he could finish there was a sudden gust of sourceless wind that seemed to drown even the spell wrought illumination. A high pitched ping of parting metal echoed through the room and the cadavers hand, ripping free of the chain shot out and seized Emmaline by the throat, lifting her into the air as the ancient corpse ripped its way free of the chair. Emmaline kicked the thing in the chest, but the attack had about as much effect as attacking a boulder. The corpse king shouted something in a booming voice, fingers tightening around Emmaline's throat. In desperation she struck at it with her staff, the golden metal bouncing of its shoulder with no effect. The corpse began to laugh but was cut short as the staff struck of its own accord, the golden fangs of head piece sinking into its neck. The undead thing yelled again, but this time in pain, dropping Emmaline to the floor as it reared back. Veins of gold were spreading slowly from the snake bite, but it didn't seem to have mortally wounded the thing. Emmaline scrambled backwards away from the creature, the crown still gripped in her left hand.
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"HARLOT! RELEASE THE CROWN OR RELEASE YOUR LIFE!"


The voice tore through from another veil of reality to spew out of the King's dried skull-cave, echoing in Emmaline's mind so loudly even Amal heard the psychic aftershock. It jerked its other limb upwards, seemingly attempting to shake off an advanced and overdue case of rigor mortis. Clearly it did not need to breathe, but a ghastly flow of air emanated from its throat nonetheless as its head twitched from the golden assault the snake bite had gifted it. Amal stepped in the things way before it fully got to its feet, Emmaline clearly it's target.

"I don't think you'll need the crown." He said in Riekspeil, grinning a grin that would make Ranald proud. "Or whatever is in the chest. We'll take it off of your hands. What do the dead care?"

The Wightking swiped at him savagely. It was as if his hand was at his side one moment and across the small chamber in the next, but amazingly Amal had ducked. The thing wasn't angered, and it merely attacked again. It was hardly larger than a normal skeleton, but there was a magic weight behind it that told Amal whatever it hit would be sent flying. Despite his agility, the thing pushed Amal back into the right wall, slamming its fists into the rock and leaving terrifying indentions. Amal dodged and slid, and as the Wightking continued to attack the wall began to crumble. The rock cracked and the integrity of the structure deteriorated, giving Amal cause to smirk. Small beams of light shot through the holes.

"Thank you for the way out." The thief mocked, but it was one mock too much. It's next punch hit the wall and was dodged perfectly, but without pulling back, its fist shot through the rock again and hit Amal in the side, sending him flying into the next wall. The thief barely caught himself before his head cracked against the stone surface, and the Wightking strode past him towards Emmaline, blue witchfire eyes fixed upon her and the crown. Amal saw it approaching her, and he found a new strength in his weakened limbs and pushed off the wall. He tackled the Wightking to the ground in a hopeless, impossible contest of grappling strength.

"Use your magic, Em!" He cried, desperately holding onto the thing's wrists as its inhuman, inexorable strength threatened to dislodge or harm Amal.
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That was easy for Amal to say of course, he hadn't spent all morning playing magical peekaboo to annoy some anonymous horsemen. Nor had he just blocked a doorway against the vengeful dead. Magically speaking, Emmaline was nearly exhausted and didn't know how much more magic she could work. Still given a choice between being torn apart by an undead monstrosity and trying, she was certainly going to make the effort.

"Let go!" she yelled at Amal, hoping that he would obey and then tossed the crown underhand up through the gap the creature had punched into the ceiling. The wright roared and leaped after the circlet. Amal tried to cling on but the eldrich powers that kept the thing together gave it predigious strength. It leaped after the crown, crashing through the ceiling of the barrow dropping the Araybian thief to the ground. Emmaline raised both hands and began to chant frantically. The wright fell back into the tomb, the crown gripped in its hand, landing on the floor with both knees and one hand down.

"Now you will..." the doom laden voice cut off as the creature realized that it wasn't actually on the stone floor it remembered. Rather it was six inches deep in a pool of mud.

"Pathetic Sorceress you seek to undo me with water?" the creature sneered, derision dripping from its lips. Emmaline released the spell and the mud wavered back into the original stone, entombing the lower six inches of the wright in solid rock. It let out a roar of pure frustration and tore at the entombing earth, bones creaking and popping.

"Em..." Amal cautioned but she had already begun to chant again. One of the ancient statues now appeared to be half standing in a pool of mud. Hundreds of pounds of stone began to tip, slowly but with increasing speed as the statue toppled over, coming down atop of the barrow wrigt with a crash that seemed to shake the very earth and kicked up a wall of sepulchral dust that coated everything in the chamber. Emmaline sneezed violently as the dust began to settle. All the remained of the creature was a disarticulated arm protruding from beneath the ruin of the kingly statue.

"For my next trick," Emmaline coughed, sitting down heavily and leaning back against a wall, "I shall need a volunteer."
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