@Hekazu, as a rat, can Torus tell that the monk is unconscious?
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Accommodating pupils witnessed scattered auburn islets of fervor aeronautically echoing Escheresque cartography and Dali-like landscaping, from the bonfire, fluxing smoke amidst the unraveling mist; reality’s backcloth had quickly dissected into visual pointillism, with the abyssal flames consuming but remnants of radiance and rock, as the herald’s owner, a cachectic elder, evicted from the memorial’s merriment and the sweet agony of martyrdom, approached the five. His right forearm wiped a smiling cheek, dripping a thin trail of blind tears. His conflicting burgundy and jade attire betrayed his sight and fashion, mirroring the absence of distress in his bleached eyes, as the tempter hobbled closer into view to better glean the friendly quibble between Egil and Talran.
'No need for a fight, my friend; we surely have time to discover what draws us together, in this place, since we don't appear to be in grave danger.'
Starovir finally cackled, to the blue-eyed blonde’s piercing miscarriage of an assessment. "Do not fret. Draw near. Be warm. We all have no wish to make enemies of Lady Eva.” His elbows spread wide, stretching out a facsimile of a crucifixion. “I would like to tell you all a story before we go.”
As the archaic silhouette heedlessly impregnated the silvery smog once more, several fresh garlands burdened over disturbed soil could be deciphered, only for a mere moment, from the puzzling horror, before a bubbling verdant flagon somersaulted, eventually landing afore the feet of the handler and the knight.
“First drink, then listen."
'No need for a fight, my friend; we surely have time to discover what draws us together, in this place, since we don't appear to be in grave danger.'
Starovir finally cackled, to the blue-eyed blonde’s piercing miscarriage of an assessment. "Do not fret. Draw near. Be warm. We all have no wish to make enemies of Lady Eva.” His elbows spread wide, stretching out a facsimile of a crucifixion. “I would like to tell you all a story before we go.”
As the archaic silhouette heedlessly impregnated the silvery smog once more, several fresh garlands burdened over disturbed soil could be deciphered, only for a mere moment, from the puzzling horror, before a bubbling verdant flagon somersaulted, eventually landing afore the feet of the handler and the knight.
“First drink, then listen."
@Lady Selune Mhyrienne - The Mildly Suspicious
Two by two they came, apart from her. She had been thrown our first it seemed, head swimming with strange premonitions and the swirling mire that was her memories, now filled with more unrest than ever before. Every twist and turn that fate and decision had conspired to lead her through hurried through her mind like thieves in the dark.
Most of them were pretty fucking terrible decisions, if she was being honest with herself. Brushing a strand of hair, now matted and dirty, behind her ear, she looked around at what was surrounding her. A thick, foggy haze, clinging to her face like spiderwebs. Her clothes barely kept the chill out of the air around her, leaving the creeping fingers to continue to caress her skin.
In front of her were... Travelers. Gypsies. Colorful, baubled people with horses all tied up and restrained. Her fingers played through the air and she felt the night solidify there, her face contorting into a grim sort of smile. Her patron, it seemed, had decided that his services would continue to be applied even here.
She was startled a little as more people came through. Strange fellows, all of them. Some bore chain, others tattered robes and leathers. Then came the herald's call, and her head whipped towards the source of the noise, even eyes trained to the darkness struggling to eke their way through the fog.
Brushing down the dirt off of her cloak, she took a half-step forward, before her hand instinctively went to her belt. The kiss of cold steel. Just what she always needed there. Adjusting her clothing a little to hide the knives better, she took her first proper step forward, raising a hand to her face. This was no dream. Pale skin stared back at her, each finger distinct and impossible to ignore.
"Welcome to where?"
@Hekazu The Unnamable
The man carrying the puppet on his hand rubbed his eyes with the other. Something had to be clouding his sight. No fog descended and thickened this fast. Not at home in the least. But once the arm was removed from before his eyeballs and he allowed himself another look into the fog, he could only admit that it had done so here. He turned to look at his puppet, nodding after a second. Followed by his face turning quite grumpy. And then back to normal again. "That is more like it George...", those close to him could hear the man mumble.
With... whatever that had been out of the way, the hunched individual began taking slow and shaky steps towards the beckoning figure. The road crunched under his bare feet, his knees bucking perhaps a bit more than a usual person would. The face of the vagabond was difficult to read, the corners of his mouth shifting their alignment all the time. But he had been invited. Summoned. Called. That had not happened often in this land, if at all. And so he followed the summons, quickly peeking behind himself to see if his new friend also followed. It did seem so. Were the other approaching people friendly? Or even those that he moved towards? Betrayal, now that was no stranger to him. But he was willing to give them the benefit of doubt.
The "silence" of noises of merriment was broken again by one of the other approaching ones, a woman no less, asking a question. Welcome to where? "She has a point, George", the puppeteer mentioned to the one sitting on his hand.
@JohnSolaris Zaerith Dustborn
It takes what feels like an eternity of monumental effort to lift his eyelids. For a moment, the man half-entertains the thought of closing them again, allowing himself to sink back into oblivion and away from the clutches of this wretched existence, this laughably futile struggle… But no, that will not do. He is still trying, after all, isn’t he? Besides, if only escape can be that easy…
Movement is like wading through an unholy mixture of lead, mercury, and toxic treacle bled by some flesh-devouring plant found in the depths of the Feydark. As usual. But pretending to be capable of ignoring the omnipresent ennui is also routine. The curious tingling on his skin as he flexes his muscles tell him that the Mage Armor is still intact, at the very least; it should last him quite a few more hours still. And he feels the familiar weight of his owl familiar, perched on his right shoulder, the bird’s pitch-black feathers almost blending into the misty gloom. The rapier, short sword, daggers, piece of carved ebony strapped to his left glove, and the pack of miscellaneous things he somehow manages to lug around despite the feeble strength of this body. They’re all still there. Good. Who knows what mischief the Jester may be up to this time, potentially transporting him without his equipment.
Come now, Zaerith. You know as well as I that in here of all places, I will not have you take chances. The words are serious, but the subtly mocking tone makes it impossible to take them seriously.
Pointedly ignoring the voice in his head, Zaerith instead casts his gaze toward those near him, likely other unfortunate souls who have been claimed by the Mists. An unusually pale man in chainmail. A grizzled warrior carrying a longsword on his back. A cloaked elven woman. And a barefoot man, with a strange posture and a… puppet on his hand? No matter. They will all be dust in the end.
A group of gypsies frolic around ahead of Zaerith, their carefree mirth a stark contrast against the misty gloom around him. Something that will no doubt be right at home in the Jester’s domain… But that’s neither here nor there. Cheerily, likely willfully ignorant of the newcomers’ plight, the gypsies bear them welcome.
To which the cloaked woman asks, “Welcome to where?”
“To the Demiplane of Dread, of course! Land of eternal darkness, forsaken by the gods themselves…” Zaerith's voice is raspy and gravelly with the usual bitterness, but the words flow out all too smoothly. Are they his own, or is the Jester speaking through him? He can’t seem to know or care. “I sincerely hope you have no pressing appointments elsewhere, because you’re going to be staying here for a long, long time.”
@William Cade Egil
He gasped for air. The fighter’s grimy hands clenched the dirt as he rose to a new world. Egil clutched his battle stained war pick and squinted through sweat and his disheveled hair.
Must and fog seemed to swirl in the air, while shadows crept through the forest. It was quite unlike the dank pissed filled streets, he once roamed, with of the sound of slop buckets being splashed on the cobble stone streets, and toothless moans of the disinherited as they held out their hungry hands for coin and bread —This forest had an evil filth even the trees were not innocent.
Egil wiped the sweat from his brow and peered through the fog. In his battle stance, he inched toward the group and having already picked his first possible target, Egil readied his pick and said, “It's either it, or it isn’t. Speak fast or we begin.”
@BCTheEntity Talran Galelove - Medium Friendly Paladin
Sight eluded Talran for a little while, after he'd made friends with the man controlling... "George". He had to admit, the fellow's demeanor was still odd to him, but he was nonetheless charming in his way. Frankly, the fact that he managed to remain in sight of the man in question through this odd mist was all but miraculous, and he thanked Helm for his guidance in such trying times.
Nonetheless, it ultimately faded, revealing unto both Talran and the nameless puppeteer a caroling troupe of travelling folk, the colours of their carts and horses and their unique frolicking almost dazzling compared to the drabness of their surroundings. And as quickly as they were revealed, they vanished with a rustling of tree branches and a blotting of the sky, leaving only the voice of a herald calling to them, and a couple more accompanying the paladin and the puppeteer. The female elf to one side of him asked where exactly they were, and another continued where the herald left off, describing how they were stuck in a land of eternal darkness forever, forsaken by the gods themselves... the new voice seemed oddly familiar, actually. Like that of somebody he'd spoken with a decent while back, though he couldn't quite place whom.
'Oh, come now, surely it's not quite as bad as that,' Talran nonetheless admonished with a slight smile, observing the reaction of the other human and instinctively stepping toward him, the easiest way to help protect others who didn't need the harm. 'No need for a fight, my friend; we surely have time to discover what draws us together, in this place, since we don't appear to be in grave danger.'
K. Anyone want to give Brannor back-up?
The soon to-be-bear is gonna save the monk. Hop on the Torus train.
The soon to-be-bear is gonna save the monk. Hop on the Torus train.
He paused, to preserve the stillness, before flattering mockery spilled its guts.
“Cat caught your tongue?”
The gabby gambler endured as an entranced Abelard, infatuated with the hopeful response by the possible Héloïse, afore him. Behind the camouflage, the stench of a forty year old’s perspiration beaded its permeated sweat and tears. The exudative sorrow of a physique unable to match a younger and exuberant woman, unaldulterated, behind the veneer, always evolved its instruction, stressing the importance of an exacting poker face.
Poised under pressure.
The guise exhumed itself as a shared allegorical tombstone at Pere LaChaise, the famous Parisian cemetery that not only sheltered the corpora of his favorite famed tutor and niece of Fulbert, but his radioactive Polish mother. Perhaps, Spices had summoned him as an exorcist, but after one gander at the watchmaker's dark eyes and cascading copper hair, awaiting the rationale to banish his own demons, it was clear. Lady Luck delivered the pregnant answer to a piercing inquiry in silence.
Soon, the hookah toting Master offered the welcome subpoena’s motivation.
Certain individual? Correct the mistake? A marriage of protest and propaganda, a tactic to stir the people, toiling through selective and manipulative use of facts and falsehoods. Simultaneously. Was it in regards to a mere betrayal? Or a subtle ploy to eliminate the invited competition? A task nothing less than to cleanse the Augean stables of sin and corruption and restore national innocence?
Alfred obeyed rules.
That’s how winners were declared in games, after all. However, he could no more endorse this agitprop than one could fold after checking whilst on the big blind.
He slowly slinked away from Bellerose, marching to the aroma filled host. “Excusé moi, Ray, but I believe we must each call or raise, before the dealer’s flop.”
At least, Zorko was all in.
@Lady Selune@Hekazu
“Cat caught your tongue?”
The gabby gambler endured as an entranced Abelard, infatuated with the hopeful response by the possible Héloïse, afore him. Behind the camouflage, the stench of a forty year old’s perspiration beaded its permeated sweat and tears. The exudative sorrow of a physique unable to match a younger and exuberant woman, unaldulterated, behind the veneer, always evolved its instruction, stressing the importance of an exacting poker face.
Poised under pressure.
The guise exhumed itself as a shared allegorical tombstone at Pere LaChaise, the famous Parisian cemetery that not only sheltered the corpora of his favorite famed tutor and niece of Fulbert, but his radioactive Polish mother. Perhaps, Spices had summoned him as an exorcist, but after one gander at the watchmaker's dark eyes and cascading copper hair, awaiting the rationale to banish his own demons, it was clear. Lady Luck delivered the pregnant answer to a piercing inquiry in silence.
Soon, the hookah toting Master offered the welcome subpoena’s motivation.
Certain individual? Correct the mistake? A marriage of protest and propaganda, a tactic to stir the people, toiling through selective and manipulative use of facts and falsehoods. Simultaneously. Was it in regards to a mere betrayal? Or a subtle ploy to eliminate the invited competition? A task nothing less than to cleanse the Augean stables of sin and corruption and restore national innocence?
Alfred obeyed rules.
That’s how winners were declared in games, after all. However, he could no more endorse this agitprop than one could fold after checking whilst on the big blind.
He slowly slinked away from Bellerose, marching to the aroma filled host. “Excusé moi, Ray, but I believe we must each call or raise, before the dealer’s flop.”
At least, Zorko was all in.
@Lady Selune@Hekazu
Time is now.
3 brothers. All younger.
Being the eldest always bears its fruit first, ripening with age, spoiling any delicacy if the season has past, without any current progeny of this fraternal vine to yield its own hundred fold.
Being the eldest always bears its fruit first, ripening with age, spoiling any delicacy if the season has past, without any current progeny of this fraternal vine to yield its own hundred fold.
Inspiration! Yesss!!!
Will post. Soon.
A peculiar evening exhumed a quintet of eccentric souls. Somnambulism gingerly brought these living corpses, huddled together at the crossroads of a sinister reverie, under a cancerous miasma.
Amidst the murky and maddening laughter.
Two by two, adjacent sleep walkers were strangely birthed, untimely severed from the umbilical cord of reality that prompted their existence moments before, but still pregnant with deadly arms at their disposal.
A puppet and a paladin.
Then.
A pauper and a pariah.
They soon witnessed in the hazy distance, a dozen men and women, gathering around a crackling bonfire. The gypsies’ barrel-topped wagons were parked at odd angles. Carriages seemingly anchored as if no danger loomed in the whistling forest. Tied to a nearby tree, grazing, six draft horses bore bright coats. Their bangles and tassels audibly shivered in the frigid dusk upon them. The colorful folk appeared ostensibly in good spirits. A few of the prancers crooned and capered gluttonously around the flamboyant conflagration, conjured in preparation for the wayward night. Others searched fervently for beads of happiness in their flasks and wineskins. Wakes were funny that way, in bringing familiarity to strangers.
Mirth to the macabre.
The woods suddenly darkened as branches began to close ranks, their needle-covered arms interlocking to blot out any remnant of the unfriendly moon. The shroud of mist that covered the shifty ground turned into creeping walls of gray fog, silently enveloping, preventing any sight of the source of the twelve’s cackling, ghosts forever lost to the silver air. Eyes, unable to pierce more than a few feet in the glee’s direction, quickly misplaced the disappearing tracks of their impromptu existence, as a herald beckoned them.
"Welcome!"
Amidst the murky and maddening laughter.
Two by two, adjacent sleep walkers were strangely birthed, untimely severed from the umbilical cord of reality that prompted their existence moments before, but still pregnant with deadly arms at their disposal.
A puppet and a paladin.
Then.
A pauper and a pariah.
They soon witnessed in the hazy distance, a dozen men and women, gathering around a crackling bonfire. The gypsies’ barrel-topped wagons were parked at odd angles. Carriages seemingly anchored as if no danger loomed in the whistling forest. Tied to a nearby tree, grazing, six draft horses bore bright coats. Their bangles and tassels audibly shivered in the frigid dusk upon them. The colorful folk appeared ostensibly in good spirits. A few of the prancers crooned and capered gluttonously around the flamboyant conflagration, conjured in preparation for the wayward night. Others searched fervently for beads of happiness in their flasks and wineskins. Wakes were funny that way, in bringing familiarity to strangers.
Mirth to the macabre.
The woods suddenly darkened as branches began to close ranks, their needle-covered arms interlocking to blot out any remnant of the unfriendly moon. The shroud of mist that covered the shifty ground turned into creeping walls of gray fog, silently enveloping, preventing any sight of the source of the twelve’s cackling, ghosts forever lost to the silver air. Eyes, unable to pierce more than a few feet in the glee’s direction, quickly misplaced the disappearing tracks of their impromptu existence, as a herald beckoned them.
"Welcome!"
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