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When the last shadow fell, Valmjr lowered his battleaxe, holding it parallel to the ground in both hands, the handle resting along his thighs. He turned to look at the newcomers, steam puffing out of his mouth and nose with every heave of his chest as the effects of the adrenaline in his system started to wane.

As the little gnome approached, Valmjr removed his helmet with his left hand, gripping it by one of the two ornamental cattle horns that jutted out of the side. A slight smile crept across the scarred and craggy face of the large warrior. He shook his head in disbelief.

"The new friends are good, you see? Birbin brings them to help!" the little gnome exclaimed excitedly. Valmjr just shook his head again and chuckled.

"How did you survive out there on your own? Such a little fellow, you must be more skilled at your magics than I gave you credit for." Valmjr said, as the first of the newcomers approached.

The one calling himself Theodore, apparently a templar of some kind, approached and introduced himself. Valmjr rested Hela, butt-down, the head leaning against his hip as the man spoke. Valmjr reached out with his right hand, in a show of greeting. "My name is Valmjr, a warrior of Ysgard. I can tell you and your friends are not of this place..." he scanned Theodore's compatriots and shrugged, "however, I will not turn away aid from valiant warriors as yourself. Come, let us not dally out here in the open. I do not know when the monsters will attack again. Follow me into the Hall," he leaned his head towards the longhouse behind him, "and talk in safety."
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Once again, the battle was over almost before it began, leaving Katia feeling temporarily winded. This strange place took more from her than she desired to give, and although she remained uninjured, she had expended most of her energy in the batle. She spent a few seconds to collect and center herself again, trying to remember the lessons she was taught long ago. Would she ever see her family again? Would she ever walk those verdant paths, unburdened by the cares of the entire world? Or was she doomed to a life driving shades back from empty villages?

The answer she found in her brief meditation troubled her.

Katia shook off the doubt, instead choosing to approach the new face. "I wouldn't go that far," Katia spoke up in response to the man's praise of Birbin's magic. "We found the guy running for his life, and cleared out some of those pesky shadows that chased him. But he took us in for the night, so I suppose some measure of thanks is in order. You look less... Green than I expected." Katia's non-sequitur was abrupt as she leaned closer to investigate. "Valmjr of Ysgard, I am Katia Lei... of a location that now seems of little consequence. A rest in this Hall would be much appreciated, as would some further answers about this town. I hope you might know a bit more than your gnome friend could offer."
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Cesar Lorenzo Tidesong Bolivar
The Vale, At The Hall.


"Ysgard? Well, my new friend, that sounfs like quite the place to have a nice drink!" Cesar exclaimed, stretching his neck. While he was disappointed about not having the opportunity to lay out some hurt on more of those wraiths, he was still quite glad to see another friendly face. Marching up the stairs, the bard grabbed the healing potion given to him by Katia as he made his way toward Valmjr.

"I am capitan Cesar Lorenzo Tidesong Bolivar! But mi amigos just call me Cesar. Well met, Valmjr. Your skill with the axe is quite impressive! Here, have a drink, on me." Cesar remarked before offering the vial of healing, with a light chuckle. Indeed, Cesar was glad to have another warrior to fight alongside. He has felt quite lonely, for some odd reason, fighting in melee while much of his allies supported by providing ranged support. Either way, Cesar did have quite high hopes for the warrior, especially one from a land as interesting-sounding as Ysgard.

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Ysgard? On any day in his home realm, Theodore would have laughed at this man's face for making such a claim. After all, was Ysgard not just a rumour? A realm of eternal fighting amongst the worthy warriors... what would a man from said realm be doing in here? Had Ysgard been devoured by the forces of Darkness as well? Since surely this realm would not be it, would it? Those shadows were hardly the greatest warriors he had ever met, nor was Birbin, no offence to the little soul. The wide array of facial expressions he went through were hidden behind his mask, spare the occasional twitch of it when he moved his jaw, but eventually he simply replied: "I see. Well met, Valmjr." That name was tough to pronounce.

The inside of the hall was... well, it surely had seen more organised days. Theodore walked over what was scattered on the floor and made his way around the tables where he could, over where he could not. He was going through the checklist of a templar arriving on new ground that could turn to a battle. While Valmjr had held this place until now, that didn't mean they had necessarily looked through everything. A quick look around did not bring out anything wrong though, so he laid his worries to rest for the time being. Next up would be to restock.

Theodore went through what he could find, making a sort of an inventory in his mind as he passed. Most of these things he would simply call out to his friends, such as "Javelins! Seventeen of!" and whatever else he would come across. Once he arrived to the crossbow bolts though, he stopped and crouched down. He examined the build of the local ammunition, marking down that it showed much more signs of hand-crafting. Less in a workshop model, that was for sure. To finalise the comparison, he drew forth one of his own bolts by quickly operating the bolt case's finger release and could see the difference in quality from the feathers alone. Yet this was what he had, so he ended up liberating the local stocks of nine of said bolts, filling his case to the brim again.

What was next would remain to be seen, or heard. Surely the others had had a chat with the locals, or maybe Birbin would have launched on a tirade on their own?

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Ysgard.

The peculiarity of the inviolability of the residence of Valmjr struck the cleric, as the shadows were ineffective at breaching its inner sanctum. The adorned shields incorporated mandalas, unrecognizable at first, but suggestive of the blessed purity of steel and faith. Was this a shrine impenetrable where an oracle would return? Or was this the site where the altar of championed sacrifices would be mounted on the wall? The nave issued a remembrance of Candlekeep, with its hallowed vestibules and consecrated books, ordered neatly like a tabernacle, dedicated to knowledge. An iconostasis of a myriad of visions rife with tomes that the former elf curdled in the back of her cerebrum.

The gloomy tendrils that provided additional false life became fainter around Wick’s armor, once fully submerged beneath the roof of the Hall. Strange. The bucolic sheepishness afforded a taint of wonderment of such a refuge. An annex dedicated to maimed couriers to the cause, hosting a bearer of an axe, a friend of their minuscule guide, begged more questions. If such a fortified rampart dwelled among them, where were the other diviners, sentinels, and defendants? The walled juggernaut was too good to be true. Or rather too polar for the necrotic minions of Darkness to envelop?

A church dedicated to the thereafter.

The warlock waddled towards the deranged wizard, leaning over slightly so that the gnome could easily eavesdrop.

“Holy places are no longer a sanctuary for death.” She paused making sure her vibrato was clear and her diction easy to follow.

“And death seems no longer a sanctuary from anything. But this place is different. Tell us, Birbin and Valmjr, what is this temple?”
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Birbin hemmed and hawed for a moment, musing over the situation as he accompanied them into the grand Hall. Its massive stone structure topped only by wood that should have, had it not been maintained so well, long rotted away. Everything by comparison to the small man was far, far larger and almost as though it might well have been constructed for giants in comparison to his meagerness. This was not what perplexed the wizard, rather that the mysterious Green Man was nowhere to be found still, but Valmjr - a man he knew perhaps only slightly better - had survived. Not a complaint in the slightest, the gnome was visibly overjoyed, just more confused than he already had been before which was to no one's favor.

For a few prolonged moments, almost as though he had not heard the far, far elder Wick, he looked up at the distant fireplace with his hand on his smooth, almost childish chin. He muttered incoherently, clearly lost in thought before realizing he was being addressed.

"Oh, yes, yes! That is right, the Hall." He began, hands wide and illustrating over the ceiling above him as they reached up, "It is the place heroes go to tell tales of their battles, rest, eat and drink..." Birbin trailed off for a moment, looking to the hunter of monsters as he called out various goods of use.

"... but most importantly, the Hall is... well, magical. Probably, or so Birbin thinks. There's stories of how the gods used to visit them and participate in great trials alongside mortal men, looking for those to prove their worth, but this isn't something that happens. Well, anymore at least, assuming the stories Birbin hears are true!"

The gnome's worn shoes pattered across the floor with the near silence of a cat, leading the outrageous, vibrant purple robe trailing in response. He looked around, eyes wide and fixated on the fire, leaning from the left to the right to seemingly better understand what was but only a tremendous fireplace, upon which many logs were burning even now. The heat of its flames and vibrancy in light filled the shuttered room and likely kept the darkness out throughout the long night, yet this was not what seemed to glint in the gnome's eyes. It was a mystery, even to him whatever it was, but that was only temporary.

While the paladin in her plate mail stashed away a few of the javelins the man in the mask had so courteously found, she too paused as the gnome erupted into exclamation. It came from nowhere, as to be expected, but with much thought.

"Birbin knows why it is a temple!" He pointed at the floor, "The underground, of course! For the fallen heroes of Ysgard! That must be where the Green Man went if he wasn't here here."

This revelation seemed to make the small man estatic, only to have the interrupted, armored woman shake her head and sigh in visible annoyance. Her expression almost seemed to narrate her thoughts of, "Joy, a secret underground crypt." However, the wizard paid no heed to this and hurried excitedly toward Valmjr.

"We must see this, you know the way, yes?"


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Valmjr politely declined the offered beverage, the one the swashbuckler had held out. He smiled and shook his head. "No need, friend. There's plenty of strong mead to be had in the Hall."

He stood by as, one after the other, the strangers entered the hallowed structure. Nodding to himself in approval, he stepped in at last. He observed as the champions, as he was beginning to think of them, restocked from the supplies located within the Hall. Valmjr made no effort to stop them, they had proven their worth by fighting the demon things and entering the longhouse. It was obviously the God's plan that they resupply with what was on hand. At this point, Valmjr realized he was decidedly hungry. The siege the night before had taken his mind off such mundane matters as hunger and thirst, but now that things had settled down he became aware of his immediate, personal needs. Approaching the long central table, Valmjr picked up a loaf of bread, pulling it apart with both hands, and began eating one half while pouring a tankard of mead for himself as well.

As Valmjr took a long draw off of his mead, the strange human-looking member of the group asked for details about the Hall. Valmjr swallowed hard, the drink hitting his stomach oddly, causing him to burp loudly. "Excuse me," he said, lightly hitting his chest with his fist, "that hit the spot!" he exclaimed, cheerily.

"But, ahah, I suppose you've the right to know what this place is. It is a holy place, a protected place. Only the proven warriors of Ysgard are allowed to enter this building." he pointed to himself, and then extended his hand in the direction of the rest of the champions, "Which, obviously, you've all proven your worth this day."

"I am sad to say, however," his cheeriness quickly dissipated, and he looked down at his toes for a second before looking back at the group, "but there used to be many more men and women in this Hall, devout, proven warriors all. You see, when a warrior of Ysgard dies on the field-" Valmjr abruptly silenced himself as the excited gnome interrupted him.

"The underground, of course! For the fallen heroes of Ysgard! That must be where the Green Man went if he wasn't here here."

At the mention of the crypts, Valmjr's train of thought shifted. He placed his tankard down on the table, hard. He threw the remaining bit of bread in his hand onto the table as well, and reached for Hela and his helmet. "If someone is defiling the crypt," he said, pulling his helmet onto his head as he spoke, "we must not waste time. We have to get down there, now."

With a look of extreme focus and determination, Valmjr marched down the Hall, in the direction of the crypt, not even bothering to glance over his shoulder to see if the others were following.
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Theodore joined the discussion a bit late, missing the most heroic belch of their newly met potential companion. Not too many had been interested in what he had been going through, instead focusing on looking around the walls for their decorations and what shields there were. There was the occasional soul who wandered to pick up what he had called out, but not a word of thanks. He didn't need any, but he would have appreciated some. Nonetheless, mask or not, he would not let it show.

"-there used to be many men and women in this Hall, devout, proven warriors all. You see, when a warrior of Ysgard dies on the field-" was what he caught of Valmjr's words, but just before things were about to get interesting in his tale, true or not, Birbin threw in a word and interrupted him. Well, not as much Birbin interrupting the warrior as the warrior wanting to hear what the little man had to say for themselves.

Underground, the gnome stated. Catacombs for those fallen in the realm where death was hardly permanent. Birbin surely was eccentric, but they had proven trustworthy for the time being and with the new person backing them up, they would either both have to be crazy or trustworthy. Surely neither would be joking at a time like this after all, right? The so called Ysgardian marched forth without waiting for anyone else. Theodore looked behind his shoulder, many of the group staying behind. He looked back at the new person, then back at the group. These people he knew. The new ally was a wild card. He would stay and if Valmjr had not rushed off in such a hurry, he would have called out to them to do so as well. But if there was something positive to this all, Theodore had to admire his zeal. He would not stop when fighting for something he believed in, much like the templar himself.

For the hour the others needed for themselves, Theodore engaged in idle chitchat with Thea, though nothing they discussed was of much importance or interest, mostly reminiscing the time they had spent training with the templar since this so called "temple" had reminded them both of it. The ranger was still wary of removing his mask, but did lift it on top of his head to accommodate for the paladin's wishes. As soon as the other wold be satisfied, Theodore hopped onto his feet and drew the mask back down, pointing in the direction Valmjr had headed to. "Let's go. We have not one, but two people to go looking for as things are. Let's be quick."

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The cleric’s mind beckoned her white avian to tour, once more, the overcast heavens, ringing a Nietzschian spiral, in order to copiously appropriate all what the town’s labyrinthine rues and alleys had to offer. Eagles benefited from a keen sight, abundantly flattered by nature to survey a horizon to procure the positions of easy prey and wandering predators. Gliding on the circular pockets of zephyrs, the diviner’s bird soon dived into disappearance, into the safety of a pocket dimension, protected from the pangs and tribulations of which this unknown world continued to harass its new guests.

All straddled, now plump with the spoils of victory in a sanctuary which encompassed an apparent crypt, dedicated to the fallen saviors of Ysgard. Would this shrine bear an Angurvadel, of the famed Frithjof, the sword that historically blazed in war but gleamed dimly in peace? Or Sigmund’s Gram? Or even Lug’s Fragarach?

A celestial hand gently caressed her patron’s scythe, stroking and petting its hilt in efforts to quell its thirst for a grim harvest. The grip tightened as the blade unsheathed from Wick’s flank scabbard demonstrating its illustrious curved metal vane. Radiance glistened, as the warlock, mouthed words of silence and respect, waving the weapon in a simple flourish, finally skewering its brilliant shiny pointed pinnacle through the loaf’s remnant dissecting its bready corpus and piercing the center wooden table, an altar dedicated to brimming mead and crumbling food. The light, flashing from the sickle, shimmered brightly, attempting to aid any further derision as the helmeted holder of Hela turned his attention onward.

A song of Roland was morbidly absent as the heroes witnessed Valmjr wade further into the Hall, in pursuit of catacombs below. It seemed a fool’s errand without the proverbial sabres, Gramimond, Hauteclaire, Marmoire, Murgley, and Sautuerdu, gilded by his side. Her twinkled gaze no longer chased after the mighty ax wielder, knowing that numbers and rest held strength at its helm, despite the monster slayer issuing a charge as some scurried forth.

She yearned for such a respite, now, since dawn’s pandemonium of frays and skirmishes. Her attention turned to their new refuge, hoping to glean any useful strands of succor. Any additional bolstering threads that could be gathered and sewn into the tapestry of their arsenal would encourage the plight of their almost endless riots against the darkness.

The ancient librarian audibly sighed. Not with disdain but with slight apprehension for those who rushed ahead.

A deep breath was necessitated before the plunge below, lest each drowned in brooding pools of blood, given freely due to lack of preparation.


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Cesar Lorenzo Tidesong Bolivar
The Vale, At The Hall.


Cesar grinned once he had entered the hall at the mention of alcohol, and goes on to have himself a well deserved meal. Different varieties of meat, with half a loaf of bread, and, yes, a flagon of ale. Despite the fact that his needs for sustenance are naught in these realms, having a full stomach always feels nice, especially when eating in a mead hall like this.

"I've had the privilege of visiting a longhouse such as this in my adventures to the North in my lands. None of them were as large as this, though." Cesar added, taking a swig of ale. He grinned at its all too familiar taste, taking a bite from a chicken leg. After having completed his meal, Cesar had stood up to take a look-see around the Hall. There was something he noticed in the Hall that he didn't really mull over until after his stomach was full.

Their weapons, their swords and their shields, had strange inscriptions in them. Strange, harsh letterings were inscribed into them. What's stranger to the sailor was that he's seen these before, in his travels. Whatever it may have been, Cesar had assumed that these letters may serve as good-luck charms for the warriors of Ysgard. There's plenty of these weapons in the hall, and the shadows weren't able to enter the hall, so of course it had to have been from these blessed arms!

"Valmjr, new friend! Mind if I take one of these swords for my own? Sinking this ancestral blade into those fiendish shades... it's the best honor to give to these fallen heroes, don't you agree?" Cesar had requested, before looking for an inscribed sword of comfortable length and heft for him to fight with. A swordman of his caliber should have the best of swords, after all!

After spending a reasonable amount of time looking for the perfect sword, Cesar returned to the rest, admiring the blade. As he returned, however, he's noticed thst everyone seems to be disputing over heading down to the crypts. Was it to locate the ever-elusive Green Man? Or was it a darker threat in the lower levels of the Hall for them to take care of? Either way, Cesar felt a bit of disappointment at everyone's reluctance in the matter.

"What is this, I hear, about all of you wishing to stay?" Cesar asked his long-time allies. "What happened to your sense of adventure? Your thirst for excitement? The agents of darkness could be lurking at every corner... and it is our job to thwart them, even in the darkest, deepest of crevices, is it not? This unwillingness to act, this hesitation... it's the reason why our own world was consumed by the darkness! I cannot just stand by and watch Bourbon and Valmjr, our new allies and, as a matter of fact, brave men I would be proud to fight side to side with, be left alone to brave the darkness of these crypts! Is this our way of repaying them?"

Cesar shook his head, once again, at his companions, before walking with Valmjr and Birbin.

"I won't allow another world to fall in the clutches of those shady putos... Valmjr, Bourbon, you will have my blade! Let us extinguish these dark invaders, wherever they may hide themselves! Santiago!" Cesar exclaimed, raising his sword, proudly.

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Of the trio who dared press on to the next set of doors in the Hall, the rest looked on with a mixture of admiration by the stirring words - feeling the urge to join kindred spirits - and disappointment that three were so hasty as to rush headlong into what well could be danger.

In a land of oddity, the emotions evoked by the sailor were unquestionably very real again; the audience felt more alive than they had in a time. It was perhaps this mythical, ancient structure and its heroic legacy that grounded them in what it was they thought they had lost since arriving; whatever piece of them had returned was already well on its way to vanishing again however, potentially leaving them longing, speechless or more.

For Cesar, this spell of heroism - exemplified by his own words - enraptured him and drove him forward toward the unknown, following in the footsteps of Bribin; the gnome who likely had no idea if danger was to be present, but went bravely forth in his honest naiveness. Soon the man surpassed him, only to proceed down a few great steps and meet the towering warrior before a set of darker, warped wood doors. Covered in the dust of ages they plainly revealed that they had, at some point in recent times been cast open, but again closed by whoever delved deep in their depths.

Reaching out with a diminutive hand, the outlandish wizard grasped one of the rusty iron rings that made up a handle and tugged with all the might in his body; the door dared not even budge. Struggling, now with both hands, Birbin tried again and again before letting the ring drop and knock against the old metal affixed to the wood. Stricken with confusion he looked up to Valmjr, knowing the answer already but daring to ask.

"That... that isn't supposed to happen, is it?"

Shaking his head and sighing, the little man dusted his hands clean and looked around the edges of the door with all due scrutiny. A wizard like he, even a foolish one as himself, had no issue in discerning that the door was sealed by magic and not just mundane reinforcement.

"An abjuration? Odd... but... it looks like someone entered? Or did they leave? Or was it both?"

Though the real question lingering was... how to open it? How was such a thing meant to be done? It was clear there hadn't been a struggle to do so, but now the door refused to budge. Perhaps some meditation or inspection on the matter would be for the best.

After all, the three had time if they knew it or not.


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The lack of a green-hued individual sorely disappointed Katia. She was promised a Green Man, and instead got this brash, impatient, muscular absolute hunk of a man. She was not happy in the least. Of course, when life gives you eye candy, there is no reason to look away. She listened to the brief discussion that followed, her interest quickly waning. The hall was for heroes of Ysgard, despite them never having been to such a place. And so, while the not-green man jabbered on, Katia tried to find a good meditation spot.

The task was easier said than done. The hall was entirely artificial, and although it felt special, it was hard to gain that special something that she needed to clear her mind. She had just gotten settled on a reed mat before the fireplace when Birbin shouted about a passageway downstairs. Annoyed, she opened one eye and glared at the wizard, wondering how he could be so thick-headed as to suggest moving quickly after a taxing battle. To her dismay, not only did the Ysgardian follow, but also Cesar. Thankfully, Wick remained behind, as did Thea, Theodore, and Haemar. It was all the same to her. A rest was required, and a rest would be achieved. "Impatience..." she muttered before returning her mind to the crackling soliloquy of the hearth.

Her mind cleared, and she saw before her the verdant valley they had passed through from high above, as if she were soaring on the wings of the Really Big Crow. Beneath her was a hoard of soldiers darting amongst the trees. She focused her mind, harnessing the vision to show her what she was meant to see. The bird dipped low, and she gazed into the face of the nearest soldier. Instead of a man, it was an amalgum of pain and shadow, evilly twisted beyond recognition. Katia jumped, her eyes opening into the flaming hearth before her.

A glance up at Wick told her that all had remained normal in the hall for the previous several minutes, and Katia slowly got to her feet, still shaken from the vision. The mat was rolled up and placed in its spot in her pack, and she perused the hall for the first time. A shortbow and a quiver of arrows were drawn from the stores, should she have need of another long-range option, and she sat next to Wick, reaching out in silence to hold her hand. She had no idea if the vision were a product of her imagination, a deity's intervention, or some other force of nature, but in this place, this hell amongst the heavens, anything was possible.
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The chastising bard finally descended with the foreign duo.

Though, the wardens of light were, in fact, sojourners themselves, aliens to not only the maturing darkness but the very world that housed this very reliquary, in which the remnant now sought repose from within its hallowed walls. The monk, in particular, sat in full meditation, flinching and murmuring, by a likely engrossed vision.

"An abjuration? Odd... but... it looks like someone entered? Or did they leave? Or was it both?"

Such an eavesdropped danger, invoked by the gnome, local to the majority of the troupe still provided reassurance that inactivity was mandated by the Hall. An obedience to relaxation developed sluggishly only as a distant luxury to the reincarnated Aasimar, routinely dedicated to battle, exchanging individuality for purpose.

Pen for sickle. Papyrus for shield. Longevity for brevity.

Her former existence quite frequently delved into tomes and volumes, sucking the indigenous ichor from the very ink that plagued and paged such capacious digests, in the libraries she individually once called home. Now a redundant contradiction as she silently pulled the spellbook, walking, reading and yearning for a swift arcane recovery before the sealed door beneath soon loosed its disturbing croak, releasing behind its frame, the extraneous unknown, which many aimlessly searched for, in the hereafter.

Her legs tired, forcing her to plop in a dusty corner, benefiting most from the sickle’s overcast radiance.

Footsteps and then a furry arm caught her wandering eye, from above. They combined palms, allowing Katia to physically elevate the cleric from her thoughts, oblivious to the emotional torment the Tabaxi just stirred from.

“Joining this sacred militia took centuries of scholarship and conformity. From me. Now, Cesar desires to sever that connection with the snap of his briny fingers." The diviner sighed. "A pity. Companionship robs only those who are wealthy of its awareness.”


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Valmjr moved with haste to the doorway at the end of the Hall, the one that led to the crypts below. Though he was singularly focused on reaching the crypt, the rousing speech by the swashbuckler was impossible for him to ignore. A smile crept across his otherwise serious face against his will. He was more and more impressed with the heroic nature of these strangers with each passing minute.

"I won't allow another world to fall in the clutches of those shady putos... Valmjr, Bourbon, you will have my blade! Let us extinguish these dark invaders, wherever they may hide themselves! Santiago!" the man stated. Valmjr turned to him, to see he had replaced his old weapon with one of the fine swords of the Hall. Valmjr nodded approvingly.

"A fine eye for weaponry, you have." he said, as the trio walked towards the entrance to the crypt. "That is Jarlbane, a sword wielded by one of my long gone companions. It is said that sword was the one that put an end to Jarl Grundiir, the Tyrant of Fjalheim. Split his belly right open, or so the story-tellers say." He sniffed quickly, at the thought of his dead friend, then added, "Best that you honor that weapon by killing the enemies of Ysgard, rather than leave it to collect dust on a rack somewhere."

Finally, the group approached the door. However, Valmjr could tell right away something was off. After the little gnome failed to open, pushing and pulling on the knocker, Valmjr knew that someone had tampered with it. He squinted, searching for a sign of what ever was holding the door shut. They had to get into the crypts below, they had already wasted enough time eating after the last battle. Determined, Valmjr ran his thumb across the grain of the door, eyed the seams between it and the wall, and tried to recall anything that might prevent the group from accessing the crypts below.


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Everything had been fine, until Cesar started spouting nonsense about "sense of adventure" and "how inaction led to the fall of their own realm". His words struck a nerve in the templar, who darted onto his feet and crossed his arms, his gaze drilling into the bard's head. "Is that what you discern this to be? Voluntary inaction? I had always doubted you actually knew anything about fighting a war, but now it has been confirmed. One does not march into combat with ill prepared and exhausted troops, unless one wants to get swiftly defeated!" he vented.

"Taking a moment to collect oneself and prepare for the next battle is only sensible, and we will be with you as soon as we have recuperated. That is assuming you have not already found your deaths down there in your hastiness to act without a plan. The best way to repay as you put it is to not throw oneself at the enemy. And you needn't guess twice what I see you doing right now", he appended to his rant and sat back down, wondering how the man who had actually listened to the voice of reason just last night would now be ready to rush headlong into danger without taking a moment to consider.


@Cu Chulainn - Conflict between personalities has risen
@JBRam2002@Gordian Nought@The Harbinger of Ferocity - Characters controlled by you would be well in hearing distance
Hidden 1 mo ago 1 mo ago Post by The Harbinger of Ferocity
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Despite the best efforts of Cesar Lorenzo Tidesong Bolivar to do that which the gnome could not, the great door dared not budge. Perplexing as this was, perhaps some much needed inspection would resolve the issue, to which the arcanely inspired Ysgardian answered. The man's hands soon began to trace the edges and stone, even the weathered wood and rusting iron, for any size or shape of disturbance. Once over he did this before something caught his attention; the grit of ages upon his fingers, he noted that the surface of stone inset and where the door itself laid was inconsistent. Rubbing more of the grime away, starting first with a corner, the man managed to reveal a portion of text, written in the blockish, ageless format.

To neither the surprise of the accompanying wizard or swordsman, the words seemed as old as anything else here, further leaving to wonder the earlier musings of just how exactly time even passed. This became only more evident as Valmjr brushed away more and more of the chiseled etchings, revealing what seemed to be a clue of the warding placed upon it. Granted the bard could not read it, but something familiar about the text lingered, almost akin to a nagging. It certainly looked nothing like the beautiful, sweeping, elegant script of the Kingdom of Light, but some urge in him - that spark of light he carried in his heart - nudged him that way continuously.

The warrior on the other hand, now smudged with grit and grim, noted the familiar characters despite their faintness and discovered some had all but crumbled. The purple gnome had noted this too and ran his fingers over the damaged text along the stone, looking to Valmjr briefly with an amiss expression before trying to better decipher it and failing.

"Whatever it is, it's old! Really, really old! Can Birbin's friends read it?"



@Cu Chulainn, @Gordian Nought, @Hekazu, @JBRam2002, @Rig
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Valmjr rubbed his chin with his free hand, mulling the text over and over in his mind, trying to determine what was missing. He glanced at the anxious gnome, and the human, seeing neither could make out the script carved into the door. "Ah," he said, then cleared his throat. "This is in the language of the God. I believe it is called, 'Celestial'." he explained, before reciting what remained of the inscription.

He ran his fingers through is beard, trying to recall the poem carved upon the door. He must have heard it recited before, he felt like he should know what was missing. He began mumbling to himself. Willing the missing words to come to him. He didn't care if the others could hear him or not. At this point, the missing words were the key. At least, that's the way it appeared to him.


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A tremendous echo booms throughout the Hall from below, to which all can hear. The sound ripples, but dares not disturb anything in the process, not even the dust. Valmjr is able to pull open both doors, to which swing wide out in front of him and his two cohorts, only to see that the stones leading down are flanked by ritual tables, adorned with ancient armor, weapons, trinkets and treasures. No material wealth seems to be here, not a single ounce of gold, but almost immediately bones wrapped in burial shrouds can be seen.

Before anything can be done, the again deathly still air ripples to life as a band of four phantoms, likely defenders of the tomb based upon their Ysgardian wear, manifest. The arms and armor upon the tables cling to them, although their bodies are hollow and near impossible to discern, making them floating shells of sorts. They immediately sought to brandish their weapons with spectral hands that soon faded to absolute nothingness.

"What have you done, brother? These are not Ysgardians. They will steal our secrets!" Some indistinct, wavering voice called from where none could say.

Birbin's eyes grew round and large, larger than before as he realized these relics of the past had not an inkling of sympathy for the plight they were engaged in here against the darkness; the spirits, now just levitating armor, seemed to have no other intent but to defend the crypts. Almost assured that their presence, of whom were not from the realm, offended the ward and summoned them here as it were, but even with a scrutinizing glance, their arms and armor bore fresh wear...

This wasn't the first fight in recent times the spectres had.


@Cu Chulainn, @Gordian Nought, @Hekazu, @JBRam2002, @Rig
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Valmjr expected this sort of welcome to the crypt. He knew the spirits below would not be inclined to allow foreigners into their space. He also knew he had to bring these people with him. They knew who, or what, had defiled the crypt earlier. Judging by the recent scarring of the spirits' armor, he knew it wasn't of Ysgard as well.

"Brothers, sisters," he said, holding Hela at the ready but not threateningly, "let us enter. These outlanders have proven their mettle. They have attacked the shadowy beasts besieging our beloved Ysgard. They've fought and bled for our world." he explained, before continuing.

"Let us enter, we seek no quarrel with you. These companions, and their friends upstairs, are hunting the same outsider who so disrespectfully defiled these crypts earlier. Show us where he went, and we will, together, bring swift justice to them!"

Valmjr stared at the restless spirits before him, unsure if his words carried any weight, ready to attack if need be.


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Cesar Lorenzo Tidesong Bolivar
The Vale, At The Hall.


Cesar had mostly put the concerns and arguments of the others in the back of his mind, knowing well that he didn't need to have anger cloud his better judgement, especially when it’s already clouded by alcohol. He needed to steel his mind, especially after seeing that these ghosts will not be negotiated with. Taking a deep breath, Cesar flourished his blade with luminescent light, rushing in to attack.

”If you won’t falter through words, then surely, it is steel that will change your minds!” Cesar hollered, raising his sword as flames began to surround his blade, manifesting as if purely out of Cesar’s ardor. When he reached the phantoms, he swung his sword, blazing in light and fire, down at one of the guardians of Ysgard.

Alas, however, Cesar’s hand seems to be guided by alcohol, as well, causing him to stumble and miss his attack. Cesar could only brace himself for the retributivebflurry of blows these phantoms may make.

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