Dark Jack

Betwixt the Eternal Light

Now the mistake has been made a couple of times and I feel the need to correct in on Shien's behalf: Shien is female.

The Prophecy

Duchy of Pelgaid, secluded pond, in the dark embrace

I wonder what that is, Gerald pondered as he watched the hands of bloody shadow start to spread from somewhere behind the Grand Master and begin the process of capturing them both in a dome of darkness. They had appeared as soon as he had set the tip of the quill against the parchment, but to his eyes it did not seem as though it made any difference when Jillian set her signature on the contract; the hands seemed to continue their spread relentlessly, regardless of what the two of them were doing now that the contract had been infused with the power of their free wills. That was where Gerald presumed the contract drew its power from, anyway; it siphoned the freedom of others to the sealed demon lord, letting him use the freedom of others to act rather than the freedom that was taken from him. Those hands... I don't sense any magic in them. In fact I don't sense them at all; I don't think they're real. But what are they, then? Are they appearing? Because of the contract?
He felt more than saw Jillian move closer to him, staring at the wicked embrace that was moving to surround them, and he realized that she had not been able to see this visage before she had signed the contract as well. We can see them because we made the bargain, he thought grimly, thinking that maybe he had some semblance of understanding of just what those hands really were. They must be the embodiment of his sealing; captivity incarnate, not truly magical, but made up by his contained will. We can see it because we partake in a small part of his imprisonment now, and the hands are reaching out to seize the freedom we have given to him. Very interesting... and quite unnerving, honestly. I wonder if the vision is necessary, or something the Grand Master does to make his partners realize the gravity of the bond they have just made?
Frowning, the wizard looked behind him, wanting to check what could be seen there before the shadows completed the sinister dome around them and blocked out the outside world completely. He noted that the two others back there both seemed frightened at what was happening, but for different reasons. Renold was staring directly at the demon's avatar, eyes wide in horror, as was to be expected; especially now, when it was emanating such a sickeningly strong sense of raw power. Crone, on the other hand... Crone was looking at the shadowy hands. Aah, I see... so you made a deal as well, since you can see them. Interesting.
His attention returned to their infernal accomplice. The Grand Master, the Ancient One, oldest of the immortals, one not made by the Spirits of Union... just what are you?

Then, once the apparent euphoria that came from receiving the freedom they had just sold him had passed, the Grand Master wasted no time in keeping his end of the bargain. The necromancer furrowed his brow as he listened intently, determined to find a way to end the Withering within their allotted time and to not betray the trust Jillian had shown him in agreeing to this. He would find a solution, he had spent years of his life on this... he would not fail now, when they were so close to achieving what no other being in all the planes had ever done before.
"How indeed," Gerald murmured in response to the witch's defeated remark, but he was not ready to forfeit just yet. Their enemy was not Himyth, as he had thought, but rather Kreshtaat himself, the most powerful immortal in existence. And he committed his deeds from the Spirit Realm, which mortals could only enter in their sleep. That explained why demonspawn and tarken appeared to be immune to the Withering, at least; neither of those species were capable of dreaming, tarken because their souls were too interwoven into their physical bodies, demonspawn because...
"Immortals can't enter the Spirit Realm," he said out loud, looking at the Grand Master in wonder. "That is a well-documented fact. Kreshtaat shouldn't be able to go there. And why would he do that, anyway? The Spirit Realm is parallel to Reniam; he could reach our plane as easily as that."
"Because it is not Kreshtaat," the Grand Master explained gleefully. "I told you that the one spreading the Withering in the Spirit Realm is Kevin the Insignificant, though few remember that name today. The Lord of Darkness remains imprisoned in the Lower Plane."
Once again Gerald found himself frowning confusedly. "What do you mean?"
The demon sighed. "You are aware of the fact that most powerful immortals are capable of splitting themselves into fragments and existing in multiple physical forms and places at the same time, yes?" He continued without waiting for an answer: "This is the ability that Kreshtaat is taking advantage of now, in spreading the Withering: not only is he shaving off splinters of his essence by the thousands and planting them in mortal souls to spread the Withering, the fact that he is in a position to do so is because of this property of deities as well. Immortals cannot enter the Spirit Realm, this is true, but Kreshtaat was not always immortal. Even now, millennia after his ascension, part of Kreshtaat retains the humanity he once had, and this miniscule part of him remains mortal. By breaking off that part of him and forcing it into hibernation, Kevin - Kreshtaat's human self - is still able to dream."
"So Kreshtaat is not actually in the Spirit Realm?" Gerald asked, starting to grasp the situation. "Physically, I mean."
"Only Kreshtaat's mortal soul is in the Spirit Realm," the other confirmed. "His mortal avatar, if you will... with only the power Kreshtaat had before he became immortal and, as a mortal, capable of being killed."
Gerald's eyes widened in disbelief. "We can kill Kreshtaat?!"
"No," was the disappointing reply. "I thought I told you that Kreshtaat isn't in the Spirit Realm already? You can kill Kevin the Insignificant, not the Lord of Darkness. And in killing Kreshtaat's mortal self, you will make it impossible for him to ever return to the Spirit Realm."

Betwixt the Eternal Light

I think that would depend on how far things are going to advance in your next post; if it's a matter of seconds and containing specific events in localized areas, I'd have no problem with you going ahead. If it'll be an advancement of several minutes, however, and advancing the situation across the entire scene in a manner that would produce immediate consequences for the characters depending on whatever position they're in now, I think I'd like to throw in a post, too.

Betwixt the Eternal Light

...Perfect's going to want a few of those.

The Prophecy

Zerul City, the Drunken Dove

"Yeah, I've got some beds to spare," the innkeeper replied to I'on's inquiry, his gaze straying only briefly to his two companions before shifting to the guardsmen behind them, whom he watched until they had left his inn... which was only a couple of seconds, but enough to make his awareness of their presence evident by the attention he gave them and his curious expression. Once they were gone, though, his focus returned to I'on, and a smile replaced his puzzled mien. "As always it'll be four rodlin a night; five, if you wanna throw in a meal per day."
While he waited for the penin's two acquaintances to decide how long they would be staying, he continued addressing I'on directly. "I'd ask if you'd like anything else, but I think there's someone else that'd like to talk to you first." He nodded in the direction of the corner of the inn, where the evidently female deo'iel was rising out of her chair, snatching up a short spear that had been resting against the wall behind her, which she rested passively against her shoulder. The other deo'iel, shrouded in cloak as it was, was standing as well, though much more slowly and clumsily. Its right hand emerged from within the cloak, clutching the knob of a sturdy, but otherwise ordinary wooden cane, which the person leaned on heavily as it got on its feet. The hand was clad in a black glove, but even through the garment it was obvious how unusually thick the joints of its fingers were, and how there seemed to be odd round little protrusions on the back of its hand.
"Don't worry, they've been asking everyone questions all day, but they haven't harassed anyone," the innkeeper felt the need to assure his guests. "They're on our side, anyways; they're deo'iel, after all, and of the sixth circle at that."

Morgan, with his attention caught and focused, would first and foremost be able to confirm what would already be evident from the one common visual trait all of their kind shared - that of their mirror-eyes - and their twisted physiques, which was that these two were demonspawn. They both gave off an ominous sense of danger and raw power, their souls being made up by a mass of swirling darkness surrounding a center of calm light, which constituted the mortal part of their beings. Moreover, while the infernal energy that permeated them was different, their mortal parts were surprisingly similar; enough so to suggest that they shared the same mortal parent, these two, in addition to having the Dread Mother in common. Finally, he would be able to sense that the more human of the two - the blue-haired woman - had a finely balanced soul, nearly half-mortal and half-demon, whereas the other, cloaked one was far more corrupted by its demonic heritage than its companion. Its mortal self had shrunk away to almost nothing, and its infernal soul was immense, pitch-black and contained colossal power, even for a demonspawn.
Patrons of the inn stepped aside to as the deo'iel advanced, opening a wide path for them to walk, and a palpable silence seemed to follow them as they crossed the room, as the patrons nearest the two fell silent until they were at a comfortable distance again. It was not surprising that they did so, as became evident when the deo'iel came close to I'on, Morgan and Ixion, as while the blue-haired one seemed a bit odd and disconcerting at best, the other one was downright frightening. Not only did it give off a feeling of cruelty and murderous intent, but every step it took with its left leg was accompanied by a dull, nasty screeching noise, like hearing someone gnashing their teeth loudly in the next room.
"Greetings," the blue-haired one hailed them when they were but three feet away from the nearest of the three. Her voice was quite feminine and melodious, and she spoke with a slight lisp. "Would you mind answering a few questions? It won't take long, I promise, and you would be doing the Order a favor by doing so."

Betwixt the Eternal Light

To be perfectly honest I actually intended my previous comment (specifically pointing out the location occupied by Prince and Maldron as one from which Perfect would be visible) to be an obvious suggestion, but I guess it ended up being a more subtle hint than I thought it'd be. Yeah, that'd be realistic enough, so it wouldn't be a problem to work with.

Betwixt the Eternal Light

Yes, I've been wondering that as well, though I'm never completely certain until I actually write out what he thinks and does. On one hand Turncloak (who I only now in this writing moment realized was not called Turncoat) pretty much unceremoniously murdered Tomb the moment it showed up, or so Perfect would interpret it, which would not exactly bode well in regards to them being welcoming towards strangers... nor would Turncloak practically assaulting Prince and aggressively interrogating him. On the other hand Turncoat was accommodating enough to instruct Maldron not to attack (though the fact that such an instruction was necessary would be a point against him revealing himself), and Tomb was rather evidently not human, so slaying it might be interpreted as a matter of necessity and/or hostility that would not necessarily encompass humans as well, and it would additionally imply a familiarity with the world that Perfect doesn't have, and the strength needed to dispatch creatures that have departed from the mundane.
So what am I saying, in the end? Perfect might want to reveal himself already, or he may still be too unsure about their group to do so, but considering that they did not outright attack Prince, I'd figure that odds were in favor of the former option. But what would be ideal? A show of obvious hospitality towards Prince would lure him out for sure, or the revelation of resources that Perfect knows he can't do without, such as water. Beyond that, the most surefire - and quickest - way to reveal him would be to have someone notice him. Such as someone conveniently located at higher ground, in position to see over the rocks and weeds he's hiding behind, and spot his large frame lying conspicuously flatly on the ground there. Such as a ways up the walls of the canyon.
He'll definitely be interested in Tomb, though. Heh, maybe his curiosity in that regard would be enough to prompt him to reveal himself. But that's the situation as I'd estimate it at the moment.

Betwixt the Eternal Light

Well, I told you I would... but I already made that edit last night. It should be fine now?

Betwixt the Eternal Light

Ah, I see; my first thought actually was exactly that Perfect probably wouldn't b able to see any weapons on Maldron, but was surprised when I checked your CS and interpreted it as him carrying around a bunch of daggers on him, plainly visible to anyone who'd bother to glance at him. Makes sense, though.
I still don't think that Perfect would perceive him as the smallest threat, though; a person wearing leather armor, but with no visible weapons?

Betwixt the Eternal Light

What do I do? Perfect pondered, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, pressing heavy, occasionally trembling body flat into the cold, hard ground as he peered between the leaves of a little tuft of yellowish growth, hidden behind two outcroppings of rock that now served to prevent anyone from spotting him past the furtive little plant... unless they peered over it, of course, which was quite possible. Laying flat as he did, still and unmoving, simply endured the cold and peeked at the people he had been following for nearly two days now. It had taken all this time to catch up to them, and another long while for him to maneuver - mostly by inching across the ground from cover to cover, flat on his stomach as he was now - to this position, where they were unlikely to spot him. He was still too far away to hear what they were saying to each other when they spoke - in fact he could barely hear them speak at all, as long as they voices remained at normal speaking-volume - so they were very unlikely to hear him, but even a psychopath knows that sometimes caution is the better virtue, especially when one finds oneself in a strange land one knows nothing about. And especially when the people one was spying on were... well, like those people.
The strange man with bells on his clothes seemed, if intuitively rather odd to look at, like the smallest threat out of the four, about as poorly armed as Perfect himself, if not even worse than his own armaments. He had spotted a sickle in the man's possession - a tool for farming, ill-suited for hurting people, he reckoned - and a broken sword, neither of which seemed like they posed a significant danger to him. His own sizable knife was still clutched in his right hand, blade resting snugly in its sheath, and the sharpened sticks lay beside his left hand, ready to be snatched up and used as needed. Perfect was much bigger than the bell-wearing fellow, too; the little guy seemed like he could be knocked over with but a casual wave of the great serial killer's hand, so Perfect was far from intimidated.
Then there was a guy in black leather armor, who struck Perfect as logically an easy target as well, but his instincts warned him to make a final decision about how much of a risk this person was. He had not actually seen a weapon in that man's possession at all, which made him suspicious to say the least. What kind of person would have the common sense to don armor, but not to acquire as much as a basic piece of weaponry? It could be that he had simply entered this world with armor but no weapons, of course - Perfect had no idea what determined which objects were in their possession upon coming here - but even then... nothing? Perfect had just come here, and had managed to craft some additional basic weapons already. It did not make sense, which probably meant that it was not true; he was bound to have a weapon hidden somewhere. Either that, or he was unbelievably stupid. He was small as well, and immediately unremarkable, but he was a difficult target.
The woman was, intriguingly, of more concern than the two men. She was tall and sturdy, though not quite as tall or as sturdy as Perfect, and carried a sword and an axe with her. Never mind whether she actually knew how to use those weapons, both had longer range than anything at Perfect's disposal (unless he opted to throw his knife), and were ultimately very dangerous in even inexperienced hands. She was pretty, though, at least from a distance... Perfect liked her.
But what really motivated Perfect to keep to the shadows, and to keep respectful distance from these people out of fear that they might notice him and either drive him away or downright kill him, was the armored figure. Forget about the fact that they were potentially four against one, that they had food and water (unlike him), that they were all armed, and that this particular behemoth of a man wielded a halberd that was a deterrent against approaching them by itself; what troubled Perfect most of all was the armor. Everything else were odds he could, in theory, overcome by sheer strength, speed and wits, but platemail armor like that? Neither his knife nor his sticks could ever hope to ever reach the man inside that suit, no matter how much he stabbed or slashed at him. At best he could maybe manage to land a blow against the warrior's head with the butt of his knife and knock him out through the helmet, but even that would be a troublesome feat to accomplish. That one was dangerous... exceptionally so. If just one piece of armor had been missing, or the shape had shown any signs of the existence of a vulnerable area, things would have been different, but as things were...

Not that Perfect actually meant to kill these people, or even fight them at all if it could at all be avoided. Why in the world would he want that? The most important resource they had that he needed - their experience with and knowledge of this world - could only be acquired from them as long as they were alive, after all, and preferably amiable to and honest with him as well. And aside from whatever meager resources the four of them could be lugging around, what reason did he have to kill them? To remove the threat? It would have been a wiser and simpler course of action to wholly avoid them, if that was his intention, rather than stalk them for the better part of two days' trek through harsh terrain and heat-that-turned-inexplicably-to-cold. He wanted to approach them openly if at all possible, to take advantage of everything he could garner from interacting with them, but he did not want to die (again) because he did so. It was not fear; psychopaths were not very susceptible to that, nor was Perfect. It was simply the logical conclusion that his chances of surviving the encounter were not very good, if they proved hostile.
Not that he would have much of a choice, soon. The fact that he had caught up to these people at all was - as much as he wanted to accredit the feat to his own physical shape - mostly due to him being newly awakened and not as ravaged by the reckless environment of this dreadful place, and thus in possession of greater vitality and stamina. Over the past couple of days, however, their situations had reversed; they had food and water, while he had not. Their condition had presumably been maintained relatively stably at the stage they had been on when he had first spotted them, whereas his own thirst had gone unquenched and his hunger unsatisfied. The thirst in particular was bad; already he felt himself weakening, and he knew rationally that he would only grow weaker the longer he went like this, and would ultimately not last long without water. It helped that the heat had given way to this infernal chill, but he still needed something to drink. He already felt downright sick from time to time from sheer thirst, which was a much more troubling notion than the feel of hunger gnawing in the pit of his stomach. Already his limbs grew heavy, and his mind did not function as well as it could have. The water-situation needed to be fixed - soon - or he was really going to die.
Not yet, though... first he needed to make sure. Either he had to end up in a situation where he literally had no other recourse than to approach these people for help, like finally being on the brink of succumbing to thirst altogether, or he had to witness some kind of confirmation that these people were not hostile to strangers.
And a chance for them to prove whether they were hostile or not, as luck would have it, was exactly what occurred now. Perfect did not smile; he simply stared. Still. Watchful... desperate.