It had been several weeks since Ohannakeloi had left the Eye and during that time, much had transpired at the Eye. The Marble Star had been explored in its entirety and when the first rain came, its possibilities became unlocked for the Nebulites. Its grandeur and beauty would continue to be expanded upon as time went on, Orvus knew. Furthermore, land was being cleared, fields plowed with stone tools and seeds planted for the coming harvest. In the meantime, Arya had been showing the Nebulites how to hunt food and eliminate waste. They did not have large game on the home island or as the Nebulites were calling it, Nebulan. Thus trips to the other islands were being established and exploration hunting parties were going out at all times. He had also shown his people the Monument of the World Tree and Laurien had… Well she had been there several times.
But as night fell, Orvus found himself back at his home. His daughters sleeping and Rowan had her head leaning against his shoulder as they sat on the porch bench, watching the sun set. Sometimes he forgot he was a God, with a life the life that he lived now. His past self simply felt like a bad dream, yet one who would not slip away so easily.
"Laurien huh," Rowan started, pulling his attention from his thoughts to her. "She seems to be… busy huh?"
”She sure is. She seems happy though, and I haven’t seen her this happy for a long time.” Orvus mused back.
”What if she gets pregnante?” Rowan asked quietly.
Orvus whistled before saying, ”Well, that’s her decision. I’m sure she’ll make a fine mother.”
”Well, having a baby is a lot of work you know.” she yawned.
”Having two at the same time is double the work.” he agreed.
”Say, do you think, maybe we… could try for another?” she whispered under her breath.
Without missing a beat Orvus said, ”There would be no trying, dear, we would have another. Because of your gift.”
Rowan sighed, then sat up to look at Orvus. ”Always a way with words. Now,” she said getting up, ”Come on then, if you’re so sure.” she said with a sly smile, before disappearing inside. Orvus looked up at the moon with a smile, then got up and wandered inside.
Later, Orvus sat down at the table with a box. He still didn’t sleep, but stayed in bed most nights for Rowan. Tonight however, he had a strange feeling. He opened up the box to reveal the orb, which he placed there so the girls wouldn’t get ahold of it. He watched, holding his breath to see if it would come alive.
A rune flickered after a short while: ”Hello.”
”Hello orb. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it. I am sorry for putting you away like I did, but with children, one can never be too sure what they might get into. I had to make sure you were kept safe.” Orvus said softly.
There was a pause and then unseen light managed to bend inside the orbs translucent body, a wave of glittering runes appearing: ”Did you miss me?”
”Yes, I’ve missed our little discussions of questions.” Orvus said with a smile.
”Do you like K’nell’s gift?” The Runes shifted quickly, almost excitedly.
”Yes, more than you could ever know, little one. Without you, none of this would have been possible, and for that I thank you.” he said humbly.
”Will you put me back in the box?” The Orb suddenly asked.
”I…” Orvus began to say, confused. ”I can, but why?”
”Is there another option?” The question betrayed the Orb’s potential displeasure with the box.
”Ah I see. You are upset with me over the box. Well, I suppose I can leave you here upon the table, or I can build you a shrine outside. There are many more who you can ask questions too, that is, if they can understand you. Or, how about this, what do you want?” he said, spinning the question around.
The orb seemed to lose is light for a moment, a shimmering of runes appearing as light shattered across its surface: ”What is it like to be alive?”
Orvus leaned in closer to the orb and thought upon it’s question for a very long time. Then he said, ”Such a question is too hard to explain. What if I just show you instead?”
”Can you?” Another question appeared.
”Of course I can, but only if you want it.” he said placing his hands on the table.
There was a thoughtful pause, the orb pulsing: ”How could I not want to be alive?”
”Good enough.” Orvus said, gently taking the orb within his hand. He walked over to the front door and out it, down the porch steps at a quick pace. The world outside was a chorus of night and only a few Nebulites were stirring, chatting to each other or doing... other deeds. He then bent down and placed the orb in the grass at his feet, before standing and backing away. ”This should be interesting.” he mused, cracking his knuckles together.
With a wave of a hand, Orvus willed a soul into the orb, and with it; life. He shut his eyes and focused, for there was much to do. The orb had many different things inside of it, blueprints for life, and those had to be done away with for the orb to truly shine. It was easy enough to isolate the figure he had seen so long ago, and when he did, he imbued it with soul. He opened his eyes, and the orb lit up like a falling star as it grew in size.
It turned to a hot white as it began to pulse and morph wildly. The sound of glass wildly shattering sounded, the flashes lighting up the night around Orvus. Through the blasts of light, a crouching figure was slowly forming. As it became more than a shadow in the sea of light, it started to rise, almost shakily, to two feet. There was another crack of light as it finally stood completely upright. Slowly the light began to fade, leaving the figure alone and in full view.
Standing just under two meters was a heavily cloaked figure. Its shaggy moss covered cloak hid the details of the body underneath and its hood covered most of the head. What wasn’t hidden by the cloak was covered by a faceless mask, two sparkling eyes staring out from behind two tiny peep holes. A pair of gloved hands poked out of the cloak as the figure stared at itself in silence.
”The first step of life, is living. You can do that now. I have given you a body that can never die, but this also means you cannot have children. There is a price for everything. Now, tell me, how do you feel?” Orvus asked, scratching his beard.
A voice came from past the mask, it was strange -- as if somewhere between the voice of an adolescent boy and the raspy voice of a grown woman. It spoke in a funny swooping language that was both as pretty as it was staggered. Orvus figured wisely that it was simply the spoken word version of the runic language the orb used to use, and luckily, he could understand it just fine: “I feel funny -- oh!” There was a very excited laugh, “I didn’t ask you a question.”
”And you never have to again, not unless you want to.” Orvus said, crossing his arms with a smile on his face. ”Now, do you have a name, little one?”
“My name is Orb,” Orb answered with excitement, “Another statement!” There was a heavy breathing that snaked past the mask as the being shivered with delight, “I’m warm. I have a body and it is warm.”
”Yes, bodies tend to do that, Orb. A fitting name, if any. You have life now, what will you do with it?” Orvus asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.
“I can think,” Orb nearly ignored the question in their excitement, “I have thoughts, so many thoughts. I will think about it!”
”Well, that’s good enough for now. Come on, let’s get you a room for the night.” he said, waving Orb over.
“I want to stay outside and look at things,” Orb insisted, “I already have been in a box.”
”That’s fair. Well, you will find many things here, and many people. Come on, I’ll show you around.” Orvus said, walking past Orb.
The runic language pounded with one syllable, “Yes!” The cloaked figure had an almost hopping run as they energetically followed Orvus. And Orvus did just that.
Orvus talks with his wife briefly before making love. He then decides to chat with the orb, their conversation is brief and eventually leads to Orvus concluding that he will give the orb life (not unprovoked by the orb itself).
Orvus does this and the new being who names themselves ‘Orb’ is born from the orb (fitting) This being is a little shorter than two meters and is completely covered in a mossy cloak and faceless mask. They speak in a strange spoken version of the runic language and have a funny little voice somewhere between that of an adolescent boy and the raspy voice of a grown woman, making it very hard to place. Either way, Orb is very excited to be alive and refuses to go to bed despite the late hour, so a tour is alluded to.
For safety, the trip through Limbo was short and done very much in the embrace of Xiaoli -- Hermes’ mortal mind barely keeping it all together. With a rush of light, the two suddenly landed on a big mossy patch. Hermes let out a hollow cough, her eyes adjusting to the new light around her.
Her heart quickened, she was in a forest -- just like last time -- except this one was different. Her rush of anxiety quickly turned to curiosity as she looked around: the trees were a lot bigger, a lot older and wider, with gnarled roots that threaded out of the thin mossy ground and branches that lumbered above, darkening the understories. Leathery shrubs and other hardy plants cut out territory among the roots and moss, above them tiny lightning bugs flickered with unusual brightness, giving off most of the grove’s ambient light, but what stood out the most was the wind.
A gentle breeze seemed to cut through the area without end. It was silky and slow, with a thick plant-like fragrance stuck to it and when Hermes closed her eyes and really tried to listen, she could make out gentle chimes -- almost reminiscent to the snapfruit chimes when a stiff wind blew by. Xiaoli followed the sound with watchful skepticism.
“... It might be a trap,” she whispered. “Anything that resembled the real world can be a lure hiding greater dangers…”
Hermes slapped her Narzhakian mace into her grip and held it close, “You’re probably right -- as always.” She smirked at her wife, but her eyes stayed serious, ever flickering while the cloudling in her hair crackled menacingly. Hermes pursed her lips.
“Which way do you think we should go?”
Xiaoli put her hands on her hips and hummed. “... I mean, straight forward is usually not the worst - then again, straight forward may as well be backwards in Limbo…” She snapped her fingers repeatedly as she weighed the multitude of options. “We should stick to a roofed road, still - would rather you not stare at the night sky so much.”
“Afraid I might see something more beautiful than you?” Hermes joked, a tiny laugh attempting to keep the conversation light.
Xiaoli snickered politely. “Close, but not quite - I would rather not have a repeat of the last time you looked up, that is all. I therefore suggest we continue through the woods.”
”Pop?”
Hermes looked as if she was about to say something when suddenly a stuff breeze powered through the trees. The rustling of the leaves seemed to immediately put Xiaoli on edge, her hand rocketing to Hermes’ arm.
“Alright! Let’s get going already - better get this over with sooner rather than later, right?!” Xiaoli said with almost interrupting quickness and pulled Hermes along, keeping a borderline hostile, watchful eye on the canopy above.
“Well hold on, now,” Hermes said as she was tugged along, one hand keeping her club close to her as they blasted through the snapping underbrush, “I don’t think we should just rush through all of this!”
”Zzt!” A crackle erupted from Hermes’ hair.
Xiaoli furrowed her brow anxiously. “Hermes, dear, do you not remember anything? Nothing about the night sky or the… Things that followed?”
“I remember everything,” Hermes insisted, her brow falling, “Horrifying dreams, strange visions while awake, asking K’nell about it.” She twisted her lips as she thought, “I remember he showed me the night sky, it was a test… but what--” She squinted as if trying to force a memory, “I just remember dread, cold shivering dread. The world was empty again.” She shook her head, her long messy hair snagging a few low hangings leaves from their homes as they hurried by.
Xiaoli caressed the palm and fingers of the hand she held softly, her sandy skin giving the move a slightly rough texture. “It’s hard to see from the outside, too… Awful, really. You just stand there, and nothing we do gets any response - unless you start talking gibberish in that odd accent…” She shook her head. “I don’t trust him at all, but I trust the shifting nature of the environment even less. If there’s a chance that the stone ring can help us avoid the night sky, then we should seek it out.”
Hermes opened her mouth and then closed it, “Well, if we are going to do this -- let’s do it the old fashioned way, then.” With a push of her leg she hip checked into Xiaoli, her free arm wrapping around the river-girl’s waist, Xiaoli blushing and smiling reminiscently all the while. Hermes’ sandals fluttered, as if stretching from a long sleep and then all at once the trio sent a shocking boom through the forest, themselves turning into a blur.
The dreamer’s eyes flickered quickly as she zipped between trees and over and under branches. Her eyes drifted upwards, and then as if a needle suddenly sunk into her eyeball, her entire body cringed, a look of terror slicing across her features briefly. Her chest sank and body shivered: a featureless black sky peeked menacingly through the trees -- but in an instant the canopy overtook it once more and she released a breath she didn’t know she was holding, ever thankful for the speed she was going at.
Quickly a wall of trees came flooding in from the distance as they zipped forward. Hermes quickly slowed down, the trio landing softly onto the mossy floor below. Hermes let her hand fall from Xiaoli as she held a hand up to her chin, eyes scanning the trees before her. They had grown in such a way where each giant trunk was pushed up against its neighbor, creating a palisade of impenetrable trees.
“Xiaoli?” Hermes said almost commandingly, eyes still on the trees.
The river girl gave the wall a frown and voiced a quiet, “yes?”
“It would seem we have bumped into an old nemesis of yours,” Hermes’ eyes flicked over to give Xiaoli a look from the side, a curl on the edge of her lips.
Xiaoli rolled her eyes, but could not help a snort-like laugh from escaping her firmly-pressed lips. “You dumby.”
“Oh!” Hermes turned her head, a wide smile on her face, “I got you! Ha! I knew I was funny.” She rested her club on her shoulder and looked back at the tree. She hummed in thought -- a habit picked up from Xiaoli, “So, my first instinct was to smash it all down, but then I remembered that those branches--” She pointed up to the canopy of the trees before them, “Are all that’s keeping the night sky away from us.” She gave Xiaoli a sideways look, “Pretty clever, eh?”
“Yes, yes, quite clever,” Xiaoli returned. “Do you think we can walk along this wall until we reach something of note?”
“Maybe,” Hermes bit a finger, “Or…” She looked over at Xiaoli, “You could cut us a hole? Just big enough to squeeze through.”
“Didn’t you just say this wall keeps the night sky out?”
“Well,” Hermes put a hand on her hip, “Yes, but a small hole; the trees are pretty big, I’m sure one little bitty hole wouldn’t knock ‘em down.”
Xiaoli gave her a skeptical look, but couldn’t seem to find a good counter-argument. Thus, she drew a small circle in the air before the wall, only to see that the leaves and wood covered by the circle began to rot and fade to dust, leaving a Hermes-and-Xiaoli-sized hole.
“There. That ought to do it.”
“So talented,” Hermes smirked, but her hair crackled with indifference. Xiaoli didn’t pay Poppler much mind and without much more, Hermes trotted in front. The eager adventurer slipped through easily, only having to reposition her club once. The Dreamer stretched her legs, a wet dew brushing against her ankles.
She stood in a dim glade, tall dewey grass of a dark green carpeting the area. Rings of mushroom pocked the ground, and the canopy above was so thick that she could barely see much further, the only source of light being a set of glowing runes that swirled across a standing ring of stone.
She strained her eyes, but she couldn’t read the runes. She took a step forward, the sound of Xiaoli clambering through the hole right behind her. The head of her club fell to the ground as she dragged it behind her, eyes perplexed by the suddenly familiar writing. A breeze snaked through her hair, leaving a soft whisper in her ear.
“Why are you so worried?”
Hermes’ eyes widened, a pang of worry seeping into her chest -- had it always been there unbeknownst to her? She grit her teeth and walked on, but the breeze slipped into her ear again.
”Why are you so mad?”
It was true, she didn’t notice it before, but the coals of a burning rage sizzled in her stomach, pushing a tingling energy out to her limbs. Why was she so furious? It mixed with the worry, turning into a stew of emotion, and yet the breeze lapped at her conscious once more.
”Why do you hold so much?
She looked down at her fist, fingers clenched over the club, her other hand on the hilt of her longknife. She sucked in a breath and let go of the hilt.
“I don’t,” She whispered harshly back, her free hand tentatively touching the stone ring before her. She turned her head to look at Xiaoli, but for a moment all she saw was a flash of furious black eyes. She quickly closed her eyes and let out a slow breath, heart racing. Slowly she opened them again, Xiaoli standing in front of her. Her face had contorted with anxious worry.
“Dear… How are you feeling? You look…” She gulped and took her hand in her own. “Would you like to take a short breather?”
"I'm fine," Hermes nodded and gave a reassuring smile, "Let's just do this and hope it doesn't put me off from adventures forever."
Xiaoli looked as though she wanted to continue asking, but evidently decided against it. She squeezed the hand affectionately and gave her a small smile. “Yeah… Yeah, let’s. Just… Make sure to tell me if you feel anything strange, okay?” Xiaoli then gave the stone circle a hard look. “What do you think this is?”
"Bit of a tall order when everything feels strange," Hermes smirked, the light hearted joke not easing her chest or stomach, "But sure, if anything sticks out -- you'll be the first to know."
"Crackle."
"No I stick by that," Hermes grabbed at her hair before scanning the stone ring. She pondered for a moment, eyes glued on the runes and hand on her stomach; it was curling again. "Time to go through then?"
“Yeah. Stay close - it may affect you like the portal into Limbo did.” Xiaoli’s body took on the familiar dim glow and she placed her palm on the stone, and the whole structure began to hum softly. Hermes’ hand squeezed Xiaoli’s and she gently tugged her along with her to the center of the ring. Wisps of white light zapped from the ring as the two approached the gaping center, snapping off of them like jolts of flaming lightning. Hermes’ face held firm, her stomach groaning with displeasure as the light grew and grew, the tendrils growing more frequent until there was only a blinding white and an electric crackle.
Sensation returned.
The first thing that graced Hermes’ senses was a soft music. It nearly reminded her of the palace, but it was laced with a certain sorrow that hit her heart with a forlorn arrow. It was exotic, it was sad and then her vision came back. It was blurred, with pools of different greys mixing and fading into each other. A warm wetness fell down her cheek and she raised a hand to it. With the back of her hand she wiped her face, collecting a tiny puddle of tears -- she was crying.
She felt the sandy skin of Xiaoli touch her arm and she turned away from the empty grey landscape, finding Xiaoli’s face an oasis in the depression. The river girl pulled Hermes into an embrace and took a deep, shivering breath.
“Here, come here… Did you see anything?”
Hermes pulled out of the hug, “No, I-” Her eyes widened. Behind Xiaoli stood a completely monochrome figure, it looked exactly like her save for long feathery hair. Two dark eyes stared unblinking at Hermes, a flat line for a mouth. In its hands it held a strange instrument with a fat hollow bottom and long neck of two strings. It’s fingers were dancing along the length, while the other hand held a bow to it, plucking the sounds into existence. Behind the figure the empty grey of this world swirled.
Xiaoli turned her head quickly and spotted for an instant a gray shade in the middle of fading. She sucked in a breath and raised her hands in preparation for battle, sand coalescing into a dagger in her hand. However, whatever it had been was already far too gone.
“... What-... What was that?”
Hermes spun around, her sandals making tiny splashing sounds as if she was standing in a puddle -- but all around was just endless grey. She squinted, the anxiety in her stomach balling into a stone and boiling into something else entirely, “I don’t really know.”
Though the empty landscape never shifted, the sounds of the instrument lingered, each pluck causing Hermes’ left eye to twitch. She tilted her head, as if listening to a voice under the music, her eyes rising to look back at Xiaoli, “I think we should keep going...”
”Pop?”
“I don’t know where,” Hermes hissed at Poppler, a stress in her voice. She immediately swallowed and sighed, “I’m sorry, Poppler.”
”Zzt...”
“Let’s just go forward,” Hermes let the head of her club fall onto the ethereal ground as she dragged it behind her, kicking her sandals in what was her best guess for ‘forward.’
“Babe, I-...” Xiaoli began, but stopped herself. She sighed noiselessly and stuffed her hands in the folds of her robe.
“What!?” Hermes spun around, her voice a tad more aggressive than it should’ve been, the music quickening. She ran a hand through her hair and let out a hollow whistle, eyes bouncing off of Xiaoli, “Sorry,” she cocked her head, eyes abuzz with frustration “What do you need?”
Xiaoli’s eyes widened, then jumped away from Hermes, turning to the ground. “N-nothing, it’s fine… You’re right, we should continue.”
“I know,” Hermes said uncharacteristically, “That’s why I said it -- forward, away from here.” The dreamer turned again, her fingers shaking with energy, only tamed by clutching her club tighter.
A pained expression washed over Xiaoli’s face, and her eyes did not move away from the ground for a long while as she followed her wife deeper into the dream world.
A tense silence followed, save for the plucking of the instrument. Each resounding strum seemed to cause Hermes to flinch, her footing quickening into a faster walk. She could almost feel the pain she caused Xiaoli linger behind her, but as it swirled into the furnace that was her stomach, she just felt angrier. Her lip trembled slightly and she tucked it behind a bite, eyes closing with frustration.
Xiaoli, meanwhile, kept a somewhat cold distance from Hermes, as if the raging radiation burned her delicate sandy skin. Her way of walking was careful and somber, her neck inclined forward all the while. The hem of the robe swished airlessly around her feet, dragging across the empty plane of existence. After a while, she went, “Hermes?”
“What?” It came as a snap.
Xiaoli gulped and feigned a smile. “Do you remember when Chagatai and Wenbo stole your quoll shoes and buried them in the vegetable garden?”
“Yes,” The answer was short and sizzling, a dam between Hermes’ growing rage and her voice.
A small snort of laughter forcefully escaped Xiaoli’s nostril. “Y-yeah, it took us a week to find them and by then, they had already begun to mould. You scolded them so hard, and of course Chatagai took the brunt of it because of who he is.” She giggled and smiled weakly. “... He probably still would do that for any of his siblings, or children…”
There was a long pause, save for the music, as if Hermes was digesting the story. The music quickened, and Hermes could feel it in her heart. Her brow furrowed, “Are you trying to make me happy?” Her voice was quiet, yet jittering with energy.
Xiaoli’s mouth flattened out. “Trying’s a good word.”
Hermes looked over her shoulder, her face stern, “Why can’t I just be mad? I never get to just be angry, I-- I--” She closed her mouth, brow slanting, “I’m sorry Xiaoli, but-- can I just be mad?” The plucking twanged and Hermes closed her eyes, letting a slow breath out of her nostrils, teeth clenched. The grey figure flickered, walking next to Xiaoli, plucking away.
“Is that okay?” Hermes asked, the energy in her voice more of an assertion than a question.
“... This is all very new to me - usually I’m the angry one,” Xiaoli admitted. “It just feels wrong - you’re not supposed to be angry. The realm is affecting you, it must be.”
"So I can't be mad?" Hermes huffed, "I can't always be so cheery -- does it have to be the realm's fault? I can't just be mad!?" Her voice raised and she exhaled quickly, "What about me, Xiaoli, why can't I just be pissed for once?"
She stopped and turned to Xiaoli and the musician, ignoring the latter as the music increased yet again. Hermes' face was reddened, her eyes watery with frustration, "I have plenty to be mad about!" Her fist clenched.
Xiaoli recoiled, seemingly unable to really wrap her head around the concept that Hermes could be this angry. She cleared her throat, opened her mouth and thought better of what she had planned to say. Eventually, she just replied with, “Want to talk about it? The things that make you angry?”
"It won't change anything," Hermes defended loudly, "You don't want to hear it anyway."
“But I do, Hermes!” Xiaoli insisted. “Please, just talk to me. Like you always do.”
“Fine!” Hermes’ body shivered with anger, “I hate Galbar, it doesn’t make any sense and the--” She cut herself off, eyes flickering with rage, the music following her thoughts. She clenched her teeth, “It is all wrong, and we have to pay for it -- our babies have to.”
“W-wait, wait, what’s the problem with Galbar? What is it doing to our children?” Xiaoli asked in baffled confusion.
Hermes groaned, “No, what I’m saying is it--” She let out a frustrated grunt, “Xiaoli. I... don’t... matter... to... Galbar. Our... kids... don’t... matter! I made... we made life and we didn’t.. I didn’t.” Hermes furrowed her brow, “Why am I alive if I’m just supposed to go away?”
The music stopped.
Xiaoli’s look flickered around to pin down the source of the silent void that had replaced the music. Feeling anxious moisture on her brow, she took a step closer to Hermes. “Hermes, you’re not supposed to go away - you have a purpose; our children have a purpose. Where are these thoughts coming from?”
“This isn’t about purpose,” Hermes anger choked for a moment, as if snagged on the silence, “I’ve always had a purpose, Xiaoli -- but I am mortal, our children our mortal.” Hermes pursed her lips, the anger resurging, “We aren’t allowed to last forever on Galbar, we are meant to go away -- so why do we even have to live first?” Hermes shook her head, “I’m not a tool, Xiaoli, I’m not a source of entertainment, pity, pride, or even worship...” Her eyes flared and her voice rose, “I’m Hermes, and I don’t want to go away-- I don’t want to watch our children go away.” She exhaled sharply, “And I can be mad about that.”
Hermes looked down, as if the rage was subsiding. There was a soft crackle in her hair and Hermes let out a softer breath. Her eyes seemed to scan something that wasn’t there, as if examining a thought. As she did, the grey world seemed to fade into blackness.
“... Hermes,” Xiaoli said with a somber sigh. “None of us are meant to be around forever. In time, even the gods might shrivel up and blow away as dust on the winds. As all life is born, so it must eventually die so it can power the cycle that brings more life into this universe. It’s tough thinking about death, I know, but-...” She stopped herself, surveying the surrounding void. “... But it’s not coming for any of us any time soon.”
"Then what's the snapping point?" Hermes voice raised but never reached a cord of anger, everything sinking deeper into the darkness. "My original purpose was to experience but I broke that mould, K'nell praised it and I felt good -- only to be told later on that none of it mattered and we all are some... Fuel for a process that I could give a damn about."
The grey flickered back on, and the music began, Hermes' voice having found its energy again, "No, I'm here now, Xiaoli, and I'm alive -- there has to be a better reason for life than some sick ring-a-round or damn life, damn Galbar, and damn creation. There is more than purpose, Xiaoli, there is reason -- and I demand it!"
All at once the grey world suddenly bloomed. Greens and yellows swirled back in -- the smell of wet soil, the creaking of trees. They now stood under a mess of gnarled branches peppered with crab apples. The ground was a short dark moss, and the forest stretched in all directions.
Hermes stood in shock, her anger leaving her with a breath. The figure with the instrument slowly faded away again, its instrument having long since dissolved into nothing. Xiaoli’s now-teary eyes nevertheless took on a skeptical scowl as she surveyed the forest.
“Ugh! I hate this place so much - now where do we go?!”
Hermes furrowed her brow, the anger in her stomach residing slowly. The energy stayed, but the blind anger was gone -- it was a fury, but a different kind. She sighed, the cool forest air swirling into her lungs, "Xiaoli, I--" She stopped."I wish I could say I'm sorry for the things I said, but I'm not-- I am sorry for how I said it though."
Xiaoli’s frustration with the environment subsided as well. She gave Hermes a sad, weak smile and said, “It’s… It’s alright, dear, it’s just… Uncanny, seeing you this way. I didn’t know how to react. I won’t pester you about it anymore, though…”
"I think you should," Hermes countered, "Clearly I have some things pent up..." She frowned, "Do you want a hug?"
“Yes, please,” Xiaoli whimpered and held out her arms.
Hermes sighed and stepped in, putting her arms around her wife. Almost instantly, a voice like escaping steam sounded.
"Ssso, you're the onesss doing all that ssscreaming?"
The two turned, a surprised crackle coming from Hermes' hair. In front of the two stood an animated skeleton, flanked by a nearly identical looking ethereal copy, and a ball of light.
Hermes, Poppler, and Xiaoli go to limbo, make jokes, have a swell time while tension builds..
Then they pass through a ring of stone and shit gets weird. Hermes encounters a being, and gets pissed... She argues against Galbar and then eventually finds herself in another wood... Then cliffhanger.
Echoes rampaged Jarren’s mind: several attempts at convincing the crowd he wasn’t Raatcher gone awry, with them suspecting him either modest or changed by the stress of the battle. Some even claimed his nerves were simply shot from the fight, and that he should rest -- a prospect Jarren warmed up to once his adrenaline left. There was no way Jarren could go back to his little hole, so after some leg work, he found Ratcher’s own bed.
It wasn’t bad -- in fact it was much better than his own by a mile. Not only did Ratcher have his own room in a stone house, but he had two beds and a litter of things. If there was anyone to be pretending to be, Jarren hit the jackpot.
Jarren made a satisfied face as he stepped up to the hay and cloth mattress, running his hand along it. He had changed into the dead man’s clothes -- a simple brown tunic and stitched together pants of various cloth. The other denizens of the hovel were quiet, leaving Jarren to his thoughts. The man plopped down onto the bed with a poof and gave the room another once over.
His newly acquired sword and shield leaned against the second bed, and inbetween the two was a rotten crate covered in nicknacks. A heavy blanket covered the doorway and clothes were folded by each bed. Interestingly enough, by the second bed Jarren spotted a single dress made of rough fabric dyed a faded blue -- and he’d be a liar if he didn’t suddenly get up to try and hold it up against himself. He twitched his nose as the scent of a woman entered an inhale and he closed his eyes.
“Tied, this is creepy.” Crumpling the dress into a ball he tossed it at the crate with a snapping throw. It thumped against the wood, jostling something stuck between the crate and one of the mattresses. Jarren narrowed his eyes and snuck on over, rawhide shoes creaking against the floorboards. With a flick of his wrist he snatched the object from its hiding spot. It was a stack of binded vellum -- a book. Jarren’s brows arched and he turned to sit on the bed, setting the book into his lap.
Immediately the thin book opened to a spot where a cloth was stuck between the pages. Furrowing his brow, Jarren plucked the cloth from the book and upon realizing it was folded around something, he unwrapped it. A crisp piece of parchment laid in the cloth, it’s edges nearly brown from age and alien etchings written in the secret brown ink of Illistair littered the page. Jarren nodded slowly, a fundamental truth flickering into his mind: he can’t read.
He folded the ancient paper back into its cloth and poured his eyes over the book. It was written with different letters, the kind he saw now and again in the city. He rubbed his hand over the charcoal letters, suddenly retracting his hand as one of them began to smudge. Curious, he flipped through some more pages, but it was all letters -- until.
Jarren’s eyes widened and a face stared back at him, a soft smile on drawn lips. The visage of a regal looking woman was sketched on the page. Jarren’s stomach pumped, it was very rare to see something like this, let alone done so well. He ran his hand on blank of the paper, eager not to ruin the drawing. His eyes followed the lines, from her jaw, straight nose, stern eyes, all the way up to her scalp, where a crown lay. Jarren snapped the book shut, his stomach abuzz with strange feelings.
He sat in silence for what felt like forever, contemplating the strange turn his life had taken. In truth, he had no idea... but he wanted to.
The morning heliopolis cast its gold over the red fields of Tendlepog and a stirring wind leapt the grass into a waving dance. The sky was still painted pink from the dawn, and the clouds were saturated with that morning golden glow only the early and very late can enjoy -- and on the horizon peeks of a child’s blue began to bleed into the sky.
This scene hung openly above a flat rock amid the fields. It was an old stone, and on it sat a dreamer, one black panted leg over the other. A draping coat blossomed behind him, his eyes a striking silver, cornered by experienced wrinkles. His lips were a line, serious, and his alabaster hair was combed and long.
His fingers slid down the neck of a stringed instrument, causing a tiny squeak of friction. The hollow of the instrument, a wooden dome, sat in his lap, the neck sticking up past his left shoulder. Slowly the dreamers eyes closed and he sucked in a long silent breath through his lips -- exhaling it just as quietly through his nostrils. As the last puff of air escaped him, his finger plucked the first string over the hollow, announcing the music to come.
One string, two string, a quick strum, a new sound. He raised a single eyebrow as he strummed, eyes closed. The wind seemed to play alongside him, rustling the grass in such a way as to compliment the slow thoughtful plucks and suddenly bursts of sound. The vibrations resounded over the field, caressing the dreamer’s body in the melody. His fingers moved as if independent of each other, lifting and plucking in perfect rhythm. The clouds seemed to part, heliopolis itself attempting to listen.
Across the field, two dreamers stood -- one man and one son. Golden speckles adorned the face of the man as he watched on, his ears melting into the music. The musician seemed to pay them no mind, his hands as graceful as the song and just as the song hit its zenith -- an angelic voice called out but the musician’s lips remained sealed.
It swirled between the trio, dancing along with the sweetgrass as it sang -- “A wistful-simple thought...” The voice trailed with the sorrowful music, fingers strumming.
“...Crest o’ morning dew ‘mid a nest...”
“...Since birth it has been in your chest...”
“...Sorrow on the wind...”
“... a whisper from within...’
The voice called out, holding its notes in tandem with the increasing volume of the music. Slowly the music began to fade, only to suddenly belt -- the voice yelling out as a crystal chime raveled in the notes of the instrument.
“...Your wind is howling...”
“...The land is fouling...”
“...Thoughts of old...”
“...For the new, sold...”
The musician shook his head slowly with the rhyme of the strings, the voice pleading with the ears of all the dreamers.
“...A simple-wistful thought...”
“...Close your eyes as taught...”
“...Cancer of time flies...”
“...Old feelings will again rise...”
The strum of the instrument picked up and the voice howled with it, foregoing the chime of heaven and taking on the voice of the wind--
“...A simple fruit, a tiny seed -- in your chest since birth...”
“...A scary thought, a sad idea -- it waits for you...”
“...It blooms, a weeping flower -- it knows the truth...”
“...It knows that you don’t remember...”
“...Yet you still feel it...”
“...You were there before...”
“...And now you are here-after...”
“...Was your birth a death, is your death to be a birth...”
“...Who is to say, save a flower...” “...A wistful-simple thought, lost in the puddle of reality...”
The instrument jerked and the music faded away. The gold speckled stared in awe, his eyes a runny pink, a tear stain on his cheek. His son looked up at him and the two took a tentative step closer to the musician.
“Who are you?”
The musician slowly opened his eyes and stood up. The silver eyes of the man were sheened with unfallen tears. The sight caught the others by surprise and then swallowed their breath. With a voice, as if strained from singing, the musician simply said.
“...Close your eyes with me and pray...”
His voice fell to almost a whisper as the dreamers did so, “Hear what the seed has to say.”
The night was clear; there was not a single cloud in the brooding midnight sky. All along the great walls of a Illistair, braziers threw out a flickering orange glow. This gave the wall a certain halo and illuminated the stones below, showcasing the frankenstein of architecture -- a mirror of its varied past. Atop the burly bastion, Silhouettes paced back and forth, their legs hidden behind the parapets.
Tink!
Something smashed into the wall. Heads peeked over the lip of stone.
Tink! … TINK!... TINKTINKTINKTINKTINK!
Shooting up the wall was a flood of crawlers, their stiff legs punching into the side of the wall and ripping large stones out as they clambered upwards. The orange of the braziers cast over their slimy bodies and reflected off their almost metallic spearheaded feet.
Bells began to chime, soldiers began to yell, and strings began to twang. Arrows whizzed through the air, some slamming into the mucus bodies of the crawlers, while others bounced off their legs. Stones and filth alike toppled from the side of the wall, but after the fourth volley, suddenly blood poured as well.
Two mighty legs curled over the edge of the parapet, suddenly shooting outward and punching through a cuirassed soldier before flinging him over the wall -- a curdling scream on his dying breath. Soldier’s leveled their spears, but soon a myriad of the crawlers swarmed over the lip of the wall -- and then there was a crumbling noise and the wall began to shake…
Elsewhere in Illistair…
“You’re very lucky you know,” The young nurse put on a sympathetic smile, her hands deep in a bowl of murky water, “Not many people take a hit to the ribs so well -- if the hoof had cracked it, it could have been a slow death.”
A wide eyed man with shaggy black hair and a stubbled face stared at her. He was naked from the waist up, a patchwork of white bandages over his chest and side. He was laying on a thin mattress of cloth and hay that itself was laid in the corner of a small room, an empty blood stained bed pushed up against the opposite wall with the nurse in between.
“I’m not sure if that makes me feel much better,” He said dryly, his eyes falling down to look at his bandaged side, “Now- now we are sure it’s not cracked?”
“Trust me, you would know,” The nurse flicked her hands dry over the bowl, old bandages floating atop the water.
“How?” He asked, leaning up on his elbows - -a wince of pain wringing his mouth and causing him to squint.
“For one the pain would be unbearable!” The nurse said with what the man could almost pin as joyful enthusiasm.
“It hurts, a lot,” The man quickly said.
“Unbearable?” She finally turned to look at him and he shook his head slowly, “Well there.”
“...How else?”
“Mr. Jarren,” The nurse chastised, “Don’t you think you may be a bit too distrusting of my diagnosis?”
Jarren looked away and the nurse continued, “This is Wisserbury, after all -- we are the best of the best… now please, try and relax. You need it.”
“I suppose you’re righ-”
Thump... Thump....
Jarren cocked his head, “What’s that?”
“Mr. Jarren…” The nurse turned fully to him, a scowl on her face. Before she could continue her scolding, a great crack deafened the scene, stones erupting from where the wall used to be. By the grace of god, gods, or luck, Jarren managed to spring (painfully) from his bed just in time to avoid a large chunk of building from collapsing onto him. His eyes widened with terror, grey dust filling the entire room alongside globs of silent monstrosities.
The grunts scampered quickly towards him, a great pool of blood seeping out from under a segment of broken wall and splattering over their legs. Jarren swallowed a gulp of air and dust, quickly turning away from the beasts. He sprinted full speed out of the room and into a long corridor. On either side people were darting from their rooms, wild with terror and all funneling into a singular direction. Something itched at Jarren’s skull and he turned around, sprinting in the opposite direction of the masses, his side flaring with pain.
The grunts began to pour out of where his room was, along with a handful of other rooms on his side of the corridor, but as he sprinted away and snuck a glance back -- they were chasing the panicked crowd going down the other end of the corridor, arms flailing at the stragglers and beating them to death with sickly thumps. Jarren’s head snapped back to his fore, and just in time.
Quickly, Jarren ducked under the swing of a lone grunt, the fist slamming through the open door it caught instead. Without missing a beat, Jarren kept running -- giving thanks to Teid for his luck. The hall whipped by him, and he no longer dared look to see what could be chasing him as he ran. He turned left, right, ran straight through a ward of the dying and sick -- turned left into an empty hallway, sprinted down it -- the ground shook.
Ducking again, he slid under a falling wooden beam and his side roared with pain. He cut off a squeaking yelp and pushed back to his feet -- right. Straight ahead he ran, the moonlight of the outside playing on the dust that now filled the hallway. Another slam and he gritted his teeth, the exit so close. Slam! Sweat began to form and he pumped his legs as fast as they would go, the pain ricocheting all over his body now-- SLAM!
Jarren leaped with all the force he could muster, the open night air washing over his body right before it was hit with a blast of rubble from behind. The impact forced Jarren forward through the air, eventually slamming into the debris and filth covered ground with a skin scraping roll. Dazed, he looked behind him.
Half of the Wisserbury hospital laid in a pile of crumbled stone and broken wood, a heart seizing gap in the Illistair wall next to it. A cold shiver fought his heated pain as his eyes were sucked into the emptiness that was between the two sides of the broken wall -- the emptiness moved, he blinked. His eyes quickly adjusted and there he saw in the distance, the largest giant he ever laid eyes on. It was at least seven men high and was engulfed in a swarm of grunts and crawlers, it’s massive arms colliding into the remains of the monastery. Its minions were making quick work of displaced soldiers and survivors alike in the most brutal fashion, the pops of bone and metal crackling over the crumbling battlefield. A powerful breeze blasted by Jarren and stole his attention away from the army of destruction, his eyes making out the culprit as it passed him -- a horse.
It was heading right for the army of filth, and atop sat a man dressed in chainmail with a fancy great helmet atop his head, a fine looking steel blade held high in one hand, and a well battered shield in the other.
“Idiot…” Jarren coughed to himself, slowly getting back up to his feet, legs shaky. He turned away from the onslaught, eyes scanning for his freedom. He cringed. There at the opposite of the fight a mass of soldiers were beginning to form, arrows notched and siege engines rolling up.
“Not that way,” He wiped the corner of his mouth free of gathering dust and spun back to the army of filth, the sight of the hero on the horse all but consumed by the lingering dust clouds. He furrowed his brow, dark brown eyes finally landing on the gap in the walls -- specifically the rightmost side as it was rather clear, with most of the filth coming around the corner of the leftern hip. His ears twitched -- the ropes of the engines were being pulled. His brow dropped and as best as he could, he began to sprint again.
The dust scratched at his eyes as he ran, tears welling. His heartbeat was in his throat and anxiety conquered his stomach -- he lost track of where he was. An arrow whizzed from behind him and he gulped. His fingers crossed, praying he was heading towards the clearing in the gap and not the-
He slammed full force into a grunt, the ooze slapping across his bare chest. He hissed, the gloop stinging his skin ever so slightly. The beast turned, bringing an arm with it. Jarren closed his eyes -- but the blow never came. A sudden shlink! erupted through the air, and Jarren opened an eye to peek.
The horseman sped off, his blade dripping with filth. Jarren looked down, he was standing in a puddle of filth. Saying a second prayer to Teid, Jarren continued his run but this time he found himself heading in the same direction as the horseman -- something wasn’t right.
Before he could turn around, a mighty ball of stone came crashing from the sky. As it landed near him with an amazing clap of sound, the dust was pushed aside, revealing a large puddle of filth and crushed crawlers. Another stone fell, then another. Jarren could feel his pulse in his teeth, his adrenaline boiling. A glint caught his eye, nearly causing him to trip over a clump of corpses.
He turned slightly, the glint signaled again. He squinted through the dust and dirt, it was metal. A curiosity overtook his sickened stomach and he sprinted over. As he approached his heart froze; there ahead of him the horse stood, wild eyed and frightened, it’s reigns pulled down to the ground by the metal clad knight that once rode it, a large pool of blood seeping from the helmet, several massive dents pulverizing it inwards.
Jarren swallowed hard and necessity overtook his compassion. He quickly scooped up the knight’s sword, and snagged his shield. Looking hard at the horse, he suddenly swung a leg over it. He kicked the knight’s hand from the reign and with his knees pressed against the saddle, he kicked the horses flanks -- and just in time.
A stone fell from the sky, smashing into the corpse of the knight and burying in into the debris and piles of bodies below. The rubble bounced off of Jarren’s back and spurred the horse faster -- CRACK!
A terrible leg that possessed the width of a bundle of pillars slammed into the ground next to him, causing the horse to buck. Jarren held tight, his eyes wide with horror as he looked up. The giant stood directly above him. Arrows littered the monster’s body, but still it attacked -- lifting a leg.
CRACK!!
Another near miss, Jarren barely holding onto the horse.
WHAM! A wet crash sounded as one of the stone projectiles of the defenders hit the beast squarely into the chest. It stumbled.
WHAM! Another hit; it fell to one knee. It lurched and then collapsed, nearly toppling over onto Jarren. The man held his horse still, he himself frozen with fear as the great monstrosity began to bubble and ooze next to him. He raised his stolen sword, either out of reflex or fright. Time slipped, the great big body began to melt and the dust began to settle. The sounds of the battle slowly quieted down, but still Jarren stayed still -- until…
“There he is!” A shout called out and Jarren turned in his saddle towards the voice. A line of soldiers, many maimed and battered, stared at him, most with large smiles of relief. Looking across, the soldiers saw Jarren sit on the horse of the hero, a giant melting right behind him and his sword raised high.
A cheer suddenly erupted from the soldiers as they began to chant, “Ratcher! Ratcher! Ratcher!”
Completely shaken, Jarren raised his sword, the cheer grew louder and so did the pain in his side.
This will be added to the Great Know All:
Illistair has suffered its first wall breach in many many years, but it was thwarted by the combined effort of the wall soldiers and the strategy of an unknown hero named Ratcher. Ratcher had alerted the rest of the soldiers around Illistair of the breach, allowing them to reposition the siege capabilities to focus on the gap just in time. After this, Ratcher rushed selflessly into the battle. He managed to save many stragglers from the destroyed monastery of Wisserbury, only to once again dive into the thick of the fight. In the end he was found before the giant, the beast dead. He had discarded his chain and helmet at some point during the fight, but stood victorious over the giant nonetheless.
Wisserbury has been destroyed. Illistair has suffered a great many casualties.
Illistair has a new champion named Ratcher, claimed to be able to take down even a giant with his blade.
Rumors of the wall breach and Ratcher spread across Pertovia -- some Illistair citizens contemplate moving, uneasy by the idea that the walls could be breached. The Apothecaries petition the mayor of Illistair for help rebuilding the monastery but are denied, the funds going towards the repair of the wall and the recruitment of new soldiers, driving a wedge between the two parties. The destruction of Wisserbury -- a place of Parrel -- spreads doubts.
Kendles
“I would wager that they would rather slit their own throats before going with you,” Derick folded his hands together, a ring and pinky finger missing on his right hand. The man was in his early thirties, with predatory eyes the color of steel and cleanly cropped light brown hair. He sat on a throne of glorified wood, nails and knuckle-bones. His clothes were ratty and old, but not as shabby as the crooked hut he sat in. The man in front of him was completely bald, at least ten years older, and draped in an unusually nice black cloak. He wore a sneer that never seemed to leave his face, only deepening at Derick’s suggestion.
“Some have tried, but that’s a simple matter of a mallet to the hands now isn’t it?” His eyes narrowed, “Don’t concern yourself with the packages once they are out of sight, keep your eyes on the payment.”
“Anything for good old Kendles,” Derick opened his arms.
“So it’s a deal then?” The man smiled a yellow toothed smile and Derick returned it with one of his own.
“Not quite,” His words made the cloaked man wince, yet still sneer. Derick cocked a head, “You said this deal has been going on for quite some time, yeah?”
“The Friends of Foy participated,” The man jabbed a finger into his palm.
“Wolf?”
“He didn’t know, he didn’t need to.”
“Well if they did then I’m sure that means I should,” Derick gave a dumb look and the man greedily nodded, the sarcasm escaping him.
“Yes-- you’re the--”
“I know who and what I am,” Derick stood up, his height beating the cloaked man’s by an inch, “And that’s why I have to decline, find your elderly and beaten somewhere else.”
“But-” “No buts,” Derick folded his arms behind his back, “Despite what you may have heard, the Filth Eaters do not deal in human lives, not at that price at least, not on my watch.”
“The Friends-”
“Then ask them,” Derick waved a hand, “If you can even find them anymore,” He laughed almost menacingly, his eyes turning to daggers, “I’m not to be insulted by such a price ever again or I’ll take both your ears and feed them to your-- I’m sorry are you married?”
“No,” The man grit his teeth, yet somehow was still sneering.
Derick stared for a while, “Who would’ve guessed.”
“An eighth more.” The man suddenly offered. Derick pointed one finger at him then slowly swerved it so it pointed at the ceiling.
“A quarter.”
Derick raised his hand further and the man growled, his sneer finally gone, “A half more.”
“There it is,” Derick flashed a charming yellow smile, “It’s a deal.”
“Good.” The other man seemed too ashamed to sneer any longer and Derick flicked his wrist.
“It’s getting late, Mr. Keeley.”
The sneer was back. Keeley looked as if he wanted to say something but instead pulled his cloak close to his body and stormed out of the room. Derick rolled his eyes and slumped back into his throne, a bored expression taking his face.
Boots silently crept across a dirty plot of land. Ragged shacks littered it in no real order, and the sound of both coughing and snoring filled the birdless sky. The owner of the boots were two large men, their footsteps eerily silent compared to their size. As they walked by a dark alley between two different rows of shacks a sudden laugh caused them to stop. They turned to the sound, a scabby man laughing into his own naked lap, his body bruised and beaten. Next to him a now bloated body laid, it’s face a hue of blue. A swollen tongue stuck out of the decaying fat cheeks. The men shared a look and continued, this was nothing unusual.
The pair passed shack filled with laboured grunts and moans, a dirt covered child squatting outside, fingers drawing in the mud, a big frown on his face. The kid’s gaze caught one of the men, the booted man giving the child a twisted face, forcing the kid to scramble away. The jokester turned to his partner, but received nothing but a stonewalled frown. The jokester rolled his eyes and flared his nostrils.
Slowly the two walked away from the cluster of shacks, finding one that was quite alone, far from the stench of the rest. Trees loomed over it, and the flicker of fire peeked through its thin wooden walls and a puff of smoke exited a latched hole in the roof. Without much ceremony the two thugs walked up to the front and only door, a thin piece of wood and slammed their foot right into it.
With a loud crack, the door jumped off its simple hinges and plowed into the one room shack, slamming into a kneeling woman and knocking her right into the open fire. She started to scream as her clothes jumped with flames, a young girl screeching in the corner while an older man scrambled to his feet. One of the thugs pointed at the young girl before roughly kicking the woman out of the fire, bringing a second boot with a resounding crack against her skull, her scream stopping, but her chest still rising and falling.
The old man tackled into the thug, but his frail body barely caused the tall man to flinch. With a strong hook, the thug slammed a fist into the man’s stomach, curling him over to the floor. The girl was still screeching madly, then with a snapping sound, the other thug brought his boot to her small body. The screaming stopped.
The thug by the unconscious woman and coughing old man turned to the other, who gave him a shrug. The little girl was slumped over, a drizzle of scarlet and saliva dripping out of the corner of her mouth. The first thug hissed a breath.
“Nevermind that, grab the woman, I’ll get the geezer.”
These things will be added to the Know All...
Kendles is under a new administration. With the death of Wolf three years ago, Kendles was thrown into a gang war between the Filth Eaters and the Friends of Foy, and for the most part it was fairly even... until Derick showed up. No one is truly certain where he came from, but he joined the Filth Eaters rather quickly, his intellect rocketing him to the top, where his charisma and backing threatened the old leader of the gang. When approached about his ambition, Derick supposedly defended his own life by slaughtering the much bigger, much stronger and much quicker gang leader. This unexpected victory sent Kendles on edge, as up until this point he was simply a numbers man who brought in profit -- but now he was dangerous too.
Derick became the leader of the gang soon after, and as the leader he lead a pinpoint war against the Friends of Foy that not only broke their hold on Kendles but sent most of them into hiding, if not outright disbanding the bulk of the gang. He is now the de facto kingpin of Kendles, a fact he is quick to remind people. Word is spreading, however, that abductions are on the rise in Kendles, more so than usual -- and strange men (clearly outsiders) have been seen with the Filth Eaters, the once ragged gang becoming slowly more and more rich and powerful. Some of the denizens of this lair of scum are upset with Derick’s iron grip, but none so far are brave enough to oppose him.
Reminder: don't forget to periodically check the Know All in the CS section. I will try to always mention updates in the discord chat, but in case I dont: I usually will update it following posts.
Illistair is currently the largest settlement in Pertovia, and that's due to its high walls and thick regulations on who enters and when. The people are cramped and grumpy, but relatively safe when compared to the rest of the Pertovian population; that is not to say it is without its dangers. Illistair suffers from sieges every now and again, but luckily it's isolated northern position keeps it away from bulk armies of filth, or at least small enough regiments to usually outlast a siege -- but with casualties. Illistair has fallen in the past, having existed for roughly 300 years, and founded by a mythical figure known as Aethel.
It is currently run by a mayor named Orvin, an elderly man of great wisdom but perhaps calloused compassion. His great rise to fame was his introduction of the ration stamp, a piece of bark signed by him in brown ink -- nigh unrepeatable by the populace, as its ingredients are highly kept secrets. These stamps are exchanged as currency and are redeemable at the granaries for rations.
Illistair has just experienced its first wall breach in a very long time, the attack destroying the Wisserbury monastery and causing tensions between the Apothecaries and the Mayor.
Kendles is the ever changing town. If you want something, you can likely barter for it in Kendles, but safely? Perhaps not. Kendles has no authority or government besides sour honesty and sharp points. Not many people go there to stay, unless they have no other choice. Roving gangs and thugs aren’t the worst thing you will find in this ragged park of debris and poorly built homes, no, the worst thing is the attention that it can garner.
The Filth has moved through Kendles more times than anyone can count, and each time is devastating, and yet -- it never seems to die. People are of habits, and when you pick one spot to be The spot, it stays, much to everyone’s aggravation.
Kendles is currently run by the Filth Eaters gang, headed by Derick Eight Fingers. The town is experiencing an unusual amount of abductions.
The least visited, yet populated, settlement in all of Pertovia (or at least our best guess) is Jornorston. It is said to be rather quiet and unsettlingly safe. As long as anyone can remember there hasn’t been any filth seen in the area, and the locals aim to keep it that way. Outsiders are not usually welcomed in Jornorston, the people being suspicious and downright rude.
This sort of attitude breeds suspicion of its own, and many have created rumors concerning what may really be happening down in Jornorston. Some say the high priest (An angular man named Thomas) of the highly religious settlement is a polygamist who steals young girls from surrounding area for his own pleasure -- a sick way to worship Oorick and thus pleasing the Filth. Others go right for the throat and suggest human sacrifice, or even cannibalism. No matter the rumor, many believe they are in cahoots with the Filth.
It is rumored that people are being smuggled into Jornorston by the droves.
The iron crown is currently in the possession of Sister Candle and was discovered on one of her journeys through the wilderness. It was a miracle at all that she had found it amid the mineral and rock it was embedded in, it being a rusty iron itself. It is clearly very old and openly bears the hammer marks of when it was forged as well as very neatly carved etchings on the inside ring, giving it less the look of a blacksmith’s work and more of that of a long dead artist.
Sister Candle has not been able to discern the etchings to mean much of anything, not recognizing them as any of the letters she knows.
The silver crown is currently in the possession of Gerrick the Grey and was discovered in a stream. The ripples of water nearly hid its sheen, but the glint of red rubies gave it away. The crown itself has suffered some damage, with a dent in the soft metal and a ruby missing on the front left side. Strange overlapping circles only a pin’s nose thick are sculpted along the silver, leaving not a single area smooth save where the dent smooshed the metal flat.
The ivory crown is currently in the possession of Isolda Foy and was discovered hidden in a ruin. It is a thin circulet with a large hunk of onyx on the front. It is uniquely smooth and somehow sculpted from a single piece of ivory -- but whatever has a ivory bone that big is beyond Isolda. The craftsman ship is impeccable and on the inside of circlet rin are four notch marks inlaid with a strange silvery white metal.
The golden crown is currently lost. It is a very vibrant metal adorned with many gems, all arranged in a strange circular pattern, with overlapping etchings inbetween the set stones. There is no telling how old the crown is.
The bronze crown is currently in the possession of Kiera and was discovered in her old homestead. It is a heavily decorated crown, with a lot of stones (many replaced over the ages) and geometric patterns. Despite what should be a beautiful craft, something looks wrong.
The ruined crown is currently in the possession of Rodrick the red and was discovered deep in a ruin. It is a mess, with no real telling what the real crown looks like underneath, and no real way to release it from its blackened, charred prison of grim and rust -- no matter how hard you try.
The Signet ring: Currently in the possession of Red, it has a puzzle motif on the head.
The Ledger: Currently in the possession of Jarren, it holds the key to finding Castle Hope.
The Map: Currently in the possession of an unknown Kend, it holds the way to Castle Hope.
Jank Blades: While not an artifact, jank blades are common enough to be important to note. They are what you get when you smelt all the scrap metal you can find into one questionable medley and pound it into an axe head or sword.
The filth tend to attack at night, sallying from their stone ringed portals -- but that is not to say all return to the portals after the night ends. The tend to bypass wretched fools who wallow in the dirt, but will bring entire armies against settlements. Worst yet, they tend to steal tools and objects as they leave the destroyed settlement.
The filth don’t react to pain or retreat, nor do they rely on sense of sight.
You don’t know too much more about the Filth yet.
The first three are shameless rips from the inspiration cited.
Grunt: Perhaps the backbone of any Filth incursion and everyones (hopefully) first encounter with the strange beasts. The grunt is the height of a short man, but moves incredibly quick on its short fat legs and is rarely alone. It has arms that train all the way down past its knees and pack a deadly whallop capable of breaking bones and caving skulls. The body of the grunt is bloated and stocky, covered in a viscious slime. It lacks a head or neck, with a simple puss covered lump atop its shoulders. Upon death, the grunt begins to melt into a puddle of filth… fitting (as do all the rest). Encountered by all members of the group.
Giant: Looking almost identical to the grunt, save for it’s towering size of easily four men and expansive girth. It is all muscle and much like all filth, seems to be immune to pain, moving forward until its goal is met or it is destroyed. The giant is a staple to every seige, their massive battering ram arms able to crack stone itself, leaving walls vulnerable to their assault. What’s worse is their ability to puke up grunts. It is not reccomended to attack or defend against a giant, not without some seige weaponry of your own. Encountered by Ethelsten, known by the rest of the group.
Flyer: What could only be described as a floating squid or perhaps tentacled clam of flabby flesh, the flyer is a very feared version of the filth. Luckily for most, they rarely are seen, seemingly saved for the defiant settlements and ambitious leaders. Their tentacles snap up people as they fly overhead, smashing them into their cavernous maw never to be seen again. The horrid truth is while the first two types of filth seem to focus on destroying civilization, the flyer seems content with simply destroying people. Known by all members of the group.
Crawler: a bulb of slimy flesh centered between ten razor sharp legs, the crawler looks like a bizzare spider -- if a spider could be the size of a horse. Unlike a spider, however, the crawler doesn’t rely on acrobatic legs to climb even sheer walls of stone, but pure power. It’s piston like strength slams it’s pointed feet into the stone as it climbs, making it insanely deadly to fight alone -- it’s front two legs serving as spears to the standing and all the rest serving as an executioner to anyone who may have fallen from their feet.. Encountered by all members of the group.
You don’t know any more types of Filth.
Most of you aren’t known by the people of Pertovia.
Isolda: known for killing the leader of the Friends of Foy in Kendles. Isolda isn’t known for anything else, anywhere else.
Ethelsten: Known as a doctor in Illistair, Ethelsten isn’t known for anything else, anywhere else.
Candle: Candle is known in the Kendles region for her charity over the past year. Candle isn’t known for anything else, anywhere else.
Red: Red is known as a scrapper working out of Kendles and Jornorston. Red isn’t known for anything else, anywhere else.
Greum: Greum is a well known scholar of the past, he works out of Illistair.
Orin is a barber/dentist, or so he claims. Not a lot of simple folk can move like he does in the thick of a fight.
Stats:
Might: 2 Coordination: 3 Fortitude: 2
Intelligence: 3 Wisdom: 3 Willpower: 2
Derick is the de facto kingpin of Kendles and leader of the Filth Eaters gang.
Stats:
Might: 2 Coordination: 2 Fortitude: 2
Intelligence: 3 Wisdom: 3 Willpower: 3
Jarren is also known mistakenly as Ratcher, hero of Illistair.
I'm not really a bird.
[center]-0-
Where did I play,
A land of twisted branches,
A kingdom of clay,
A swamp of memories,
A never-ending day,
Where did I run,
Across the dawn,
Through the sun,
Across the sky,
Through laughs and fun,
Where did I walk,
Pristine grass green,
White cliffs of chalk,
Pools of sky so blue,
Orchard stones that talk,
Where did I sit,
By the gates of silver,
Near endless pit,
By forever horizon,
You may remember it.[/center]
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">I'm not really a bird.<br><br><div class="bb-center">-0-<br><br>Where did I play,<br>A land of twisted branches,<br>A kingdom of clay,<br>A swamp of memories,<br>A never-ending day,<br><br>Where did I run,<br>Across the dawn,<br>Through the sun,<br>Across the sky,<br>Through laughs and fun,<br><br>Where did I walk,<br>Pristine grass green,<br>White cliffs of chalk,<br>Pools of sky so blue,<br>Orchard stones that talk,<br><br>Where did I sit,<br>By the gates of silver,<br>Near endless pit,<br>By forever horizon,<br>You may remember it.</div></div>
Unlucky0013
Lord Zee
DracoLunaris
Frettzo
Vec
Eviledd1984
Kalmar
POOPHEAD189