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Me three.
This is all from what I remember being poignant, so some stuff might be wrong - all, please feel free to correct me if I slip up.

Rift Event
- Other-worlders all wake up and meet one another
- People are missing some personal effects
- Bloody altar and sacrifice and bodies
- Enter MERCY/TRIDENT who is coming in to pick up the pieces

Dragon attack
- Members of TIGER-unit are killed
- Flesh wall/barrier/dome thing Twain makes to protect the party

Escape to HQ

- Interviews and tests, more other world people wake up
- Otherworlders contracted to join TRIDENT
- Twain offers to teach Necromancy

- There is an attack
- Magic defences flash - runs over surface of base
- Weird shit happening to certain PCs
I'll add some stuff when I can, however I'm busy over the next week or so, but I claim dibs on purple!
This one reminds me of Herbert.


It was as though Stormy was trapped inside the head of another person, shrunk down and forced to watch the events transpire through the two shimmering windows that were eyes. Everything felt uncomfortably numb. She didn’t dare look behind her, towards her subconscious, the dark recess of her mind, where the memory of what had happened was rebuilding itself, begging to be confronted. With abject, muted horror, she watched only ahead, at passing reality, realising how grave the situation was, but unable to force the body to act – no words or movement came when she willed it. She just looked at Zino, and the Brazen boy, with wide, glassy eyes. Their words were harsh and hurt.

The full extent of her injuries had escaped her notice, but as her brain raced to catch up with her heart, it sent far-off tingles down her spine and pulled a hole deep under her stomach.

Unable to move, the pain pulling only a singular whimper as her arm was reattached. She watched it stitch and thread together, like some grotesque loom – she was not sure she would have turned away if she could – it was morbidly fascinating, and equal parts awesome as it was terrifying. She knew it should hurt, but it was as though the pain were inflicted upon another person. All she felt was the twinge of empathy.

Turning slowly, she looked from her arm to Zino. She could see his lips moving, but the words were garbled and deafening.

After a pause, she heard her voice ask, “What?” She felt her lips quiver. The image of Zino became blurred.

Warm water trickled down her cheeks; silently she cried.

Shivers still plagued her body – it wasn’t just that she felt cold; there was something more than that. She drew away from Zino, pulling both arms in close. One arm was now sleeveless, blood smeared and drying all along it. She lay on her back, and focussed on her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In. Out. In. Out.

The grass and ground were springy, the air had a steel edge to it, the smell of iron filled her nostrils, and her mouth tasted of copper. Stormy focussed on these things: reals things.

Still, she cried.

A grin split like a bough, branching and growing as she clutched the bounty in her hands.

“Thanks man, these look pretty, uhm, pretty tasty.” Her eyes lingered perhaps too long on Zino: straight as a razorblade, tight as a tourniquet and dry – there was something about the way of speaking and those mannerisms, too serious, that stirred memories in their oubliettes, rattling the bars and riling up thoughts Stormy would rather not be having. Then it was broken, and things were smoothed over again.

She gave a mock salute Michael, almost dropping some of the food, “Sure thing Mikey, jus’ minding my manners.”

Turning back to Koda, she handed some food, or tried, but he didn’t seem very interested, in that or anything, so she shrugged – Perhaps later then, my dude – and began chewing on a pale green leaf, tinged with purple. It was similar to rocket, or perhaps basil, in texture and taste, save for the odd anise and… something else running throughout; pretty trippy.

Everything still seemed quite dream-like, all haze and hues, just a touch from being real. The monolith, black as jet and sin, only added to the fantasticality of it all.

The story unfolded, and Stormy shuddered, seeming to shrink further inside her cardigan, her mask pulling her down. She was powerless. A brazen tirade left worry settling in Stormy’s gut like pebbles in a lake. She smiled when Koda at least held some food; he looked as though he needed something.

If one was paying attention, they might have noticed Stormy visibly deflate, the crushing tension somewhat lessened when the others didn’t seem to share in the Brazen boy’s fervour.

“Bee Bee hun, I agree with Mikey here,” She walked closer to them, speaking softly, kind, not pitying, “And besides, it’s in the past now, like, attacking him ain’t only dangerous, but it won’t change much, y’know? And it’s real mean, to boot.” Her mouth opened to say more, to try and clarify her addled spew, but it was then she felt a tug on her shoulder.

“Hey hun-” the sentence was cleaved; the diaphanous and congealing swathe of shadows only vaguely resembled Koda. And then it didn’t. Mortality clarified in an instant – this was a dream no longer.

Pain devoured all. Explosion of agony from an arm. White needles blinded her. Black spots crept in. For as real as it all was, it slipped away: overwhelming.

The sunlight kissed her fluttering eyelids, warm and gentle. Halos shimmered in the darkness. The breeze brushed past, carrying smells of rich earth and the tinkling of rushing water: almost the sea. Almost. Stormy opened her eyes, and the hazy smudge of his face vanished behind the real world.

Words of leached wood ash and crystal veils. From her rock, she watched, for a time, before, stretching, draping down like a willow, smiling at her feet, where the others’ words spilled like sliding stones. Through the shroud of her hair, she turned to Koda, and her returning smile proved fleeting, skittering away once more. Something of his aspect robbed the words from her, and she turned back to the group.

“Mikey-Michael, hun,” She called, pushing up off her knees to stand, nodding briefly at Zee-zee with a wink, “I can jive with whatever, but before we go, or, do, uhm, anything? I think I’d like some food, for myself, and uh…” She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, returning with knitted brows, “He seems to need it, y’know, a real lot? We can move and eat, it’s cool and all. ”
Isaac Camphor

The room was white.

Light rebounded and scattered off every hard surface, of which there were many. Far away, extractor fans and AC units groaned and whirred to keep the lab air cool and clean. Microscopes, pyrex containers, twelve-channel pipettors, blood agar, tiles, linoleum, and strained underlings all glistened in the iridescence of the halogen lamp. Pure. White. Perfect.

This world was locked away from Dr Camphor. Behind glass screens, tunnels, decontamination and protocol. He was shackled by will and stubbornness, to the LCD computer screen in his office. He could only watch them through the full height, one-way window that served as a wall. A pristine lab coat hung on the door behind him, waiting.

His eyes glinted like lancets. Number twelve surgical scalpel blades; unyielding crescents.

Answers lay wrapped and tangled in data, raw and processed alike. Dr Camphor seemed intent upon breaking it with his glare, bending it to give up its secrets, understanding and dominating it. He scrawled a mess of ink upon a pad of paper, and underlined a previously scratched ideogram.

A thudding at the door, and its immediate opening.

Dr Camphor whirled round. However, his flaying glower was blunted by the sight. Standing there, a man, or maybe a woman, in full S.C.A.R.E. armour.

“Are you doctor Isaac Camphor?” came the modulated projection of voice.

He chewed the inside of his lip. “I am.”

“Come with me.”

And then the armoured figure turned and began striding off. Dr Camphor put on his glasses, locked his computer, and lastly, squeezed his bursting notebook into his back pocket.

He muttered only a single word before following.

With dawn breaking, shafts of sunlight slipping through the cracks in the curtains, spiralling specks of dust were illuminated. Distant clangs came from the kitchen followed by sharp inhales of breath. The whole inn was waking up. The timbers stretched and yawned.

In the room, it was quiet. Idani, were she awake, might have noticed the proprietor leave, tiptoeing over mischievous floorboards. She might have heard the slowing turning the key in the door, the lifting latch, and the woman teasing a crack just wide enough to fit through, and then slipping out, a faint rustling of her dress as the only sound of her departure. Breath escaping in a yawn. A shift in the sheets.

Were that tiny girl awake, she might’ve counted the seconds that passed until the woman returned. But no, the woman had been careful; she had been quiet as a mouse and gentle as a mother’s touch. Secrecy shrouded her. Time went missing.

Idani sat up, her slight gasp chasing away the phantoms of a dream that seemed to have been strangling her. While she had no cause to think of it in such a way, the pit in her stomach told her of nightmares. She grumbled, rubbing at the back of her head; taking a few quick glances around the room. The kindly Miss has probably already set about her day. I should be on my way, soon. The Drasilian girl checked her sleeve, finding her dagger still in its proper place. Then she wiggled her toes, still within the confines of her soft leather boots. That didn't do me any favors. She hopped to her feet, stretching and replacing her hood before grabbing her makeshift pillow and slinging the strap over her shoulder; familiar weight thudding against her hip.

There's no excuse for me to be so tired. Though she did little to recall how long it had been since a roof had been over her head and something more hospitable than grass beneath her as she slept. Travelling did have its rigors, but Idani thought she was well past feeling their strain the following day. Yesterday was hardly anything difficult. Today will be better, regardless. I have Oakheim ahead of me, and a lot of planni-

Her thought was interrupted, the door opening and the barkeep lady stepping in with a tray that Idani eyed with reserved longing and a holler that would have easily set her to skittering were she still in the grips of slumber.

“Rise and shine!” The woman stage-whispered, “I fetch’d ya sim fud.”

A broad, broken smile upon her face, the woman swept in with a pewter tray, filled with plates of sizzling bacon and plump sausages, a loaf of bread still steaming from the oven, cheeses various, oats, dried fruits, fresh fruits, fruit syrups and jams, churned butter in a little ceramic pot, a pitcher of iced water, a pitcher of warm, clove-spiced mead, and a tiny metal cup of a thick brown liquid that steamed the most.

“Ach,” she pressed her ring into the small of her back, massaging it, “That bed be doin’ nuffin fer me old back.” The she shrugged her shoulders and huffed.

“Eat ap!” the woman chortled, sitting at the foot of the bed and setting the tray next to her, “Got a lut fer yer to hear, ‘fore yooz be settin’ af.”

Idani waited, patiently, until the woman had rubbed the knot from her back and taken a seat; the tray properly sat and permission given. She didn't think much about what she grabbed, but she began eating. Voracity was not usually in her nature; or, at least she liked people to think it absent. It was bacon, first, followed by a sausage.

"Again," she said through half-chewed bits of breakfast, "you have my thanks. I hadn't expected food, as well as board." Idani gave a smile, after she had properly swallowed, and allowed herself a moment of restraint. Instead of continuing to gorge, she took up a piece of fruit and nibbled at it. "What sort of things, if I may inquire?" That had her curiosity, to be certain; forestalling the urgency she felt at thoughts of Oakheim. By the time I arrive, it should be well near the middle of the day. I suppose a few minutes couldn't hurt. I owe it to her, after all.

“Oh, jus’ an ickle gift, a lucky charm, cud say,” She drew a small brooch from her skirt pocket, a rose flower of opalescent ivory, with two emerald leaves by the clasp. It would be slightly like soap, or carved jade, had Idani touched that before. “I fink et neds tah see the road again, been locked away so long an’ all.” She handed it over. “Et kept me safe all them years, mebbe et’ll be the same fer yerself, I hope. I see a lotta meself in yer, troof be tol’. Wear it proud.”

Idani eyed the brooch with interest. She wasn't used to having nice things simply handed to her, at least not over the last six years. Her eyes might have widened, her control slipping for a moment. The kindly Miss spoke, and despite the Drasilian's girl fixation on the twinkling emeralds and lovely ivory; she listened to every word. "I will do what I can to ensure its travels are as safe as my own, dear lady." It was put gently into her hand, bringing a smile to Idani's face that could melt the ice from a snow troll's eyebrows. "And I hope it keeps me safe, as well," her heart strings had been adequately tugged on, and Idani couldn't help but want to embrace the old world-worn woman. She took another sausage and plopped it into her mouth, savoring the slight pop of the taut skin and the juice and grease beneath. "I..." she wasn't the type to trail off, but Idani was searching hard for the words.

"I think you and I are much alike, Miss. I hope, one day, that I can stop back by one day." It was a strange truth. Despite her only spending a few restless hours on the floor, Idani had felt true kindness from the matron of The Traveler's Respite; an unspoken kinship, beyond what they had acknowledged in common. "When I do, you will be hard pressed to keep me from begging to stay!" She gave a hearty laugh, at that; a musical sound, many had said, through her years.

“More than you realise, I think,” then the woman cleared her throat, and swallowed a smile, “Right, next bit, important, sah you listen, ‘ere. A Magi and her Watcher are likely heading to Oakheim, stopped in las’ night. Might be able tah meet them on the road - mebbe even travel pass Oakheim with ‘em, wherever your business tek yah.”

A Magi and her Watcher, though? An interesting prospect. Mayhaps they will be interested in this book. As the thought crossed her mind, something railed against it. Strangely, she reconsidered. Maybe it's not for them. After all, I found it. Doubt a wandering Magi has as much coin as I want, anyway. Either way, protection on the road is always a bonus. I'll have to seek them out.

"I'll do just that. Thank you! I will be certain to find them, along the way," she took a deep sigh, one not entirely feigned, "I'm going to miss you, Miss. The brief time we spent together has been unexpected and not unwelcome." Idani Umbele adjusted her satchel, taking another small bite of fruit before turning. "I will not be forgetting you, any time soon. I hope you will let me sing for you, when next I pass through!"

* * * * * * *

It might be interesting to note that at some time between the woman leaving Idani alone, and then returning to her with breakfast, Aleora and Karl had left the inn and set upon the road to Oakheim.

Aleora’s head hung as she road, he brow ever so faintly furrowed, and for all her grace, something seemed to be sapping her usual poise.

Karl sensed this, upon returning from scouting ahead, “Reshi, what is the matter?” Morning mist had left dew on her beard.

She sighed, and looked up at Karl, a smile lapping at the shores of her cheeks, thawing her icy façade, “The dreams, Karl, I am afraid of what they foretell, when I find them.”

“All the stars are sucked from the sky, trailing coils shape into a hand that reaches for a candle flame and snuffs it out. Then there is nothing – an empty sky and total darkness. Afterimages of an incandescent hand dancing across the blindness. Then I am elsewhere, and I see men of bones and rotten flesh, dressed in rags and ancient fashion, dancing, or fighting, and one, with a crown, it approaches a robed figure, and gives it something, or perhaps steals, I could never get close enough – when I try, they would vanish, and a door would appear. If I opened it, inside golems are standing amongst great swelling dunes, sand continually falling, never stopping, burying them. The door always closes after that, except at this point it’s not a door, but a book, and it laughs, then vanishes too. And then…” She faltered, trailing off, or catching herself, “Then, then… I think that is all that is apt for you to know.”

He grunted.

“It is always the same Karl, never flinching –”

“You will figure it out,” gravel and thunder rolled from horseback, “You are one of the best Dreamers the Demense has had in centuries.”

Aleora smiled. I know what it means, Karl, I just hope I can change it.

A rock offered itself up as a stool. Stormy gladly obliged. Lichen and moss cushioned her seat. Damp seeped through her dress, but it was bearable; her legs sighed almost audibly, and she deflated, sinking down and downwards. Her feet pulsed inside her boots, and she longed to throw them off and lay down for hours, but they had more to be done.

She tilted her head to Koda, “That would be stealing, dear; even if we were back Lightbridge I’d advise against it,” her eyes scanned the people, smiles plastered on the whitewashed walls they had instead of faces, “And things are different here. We don’t know the rules.”

Tickling upon her hand. Looking, she saw a Ladybird, ruby and encrusted onyx – its hair-like legs brushing along her knuckles, a teasing breath. She brought her hand level with her eyes.

“Hello there,” She tipped her head in a curt nod, “How do you do?” She brought her hand close to her ear and bobbed her some, before bringing it back in front of her, “I never expected to see something quite so beautiful here. It’s odd, how something familiar as you can make this world even stranger.”

As she was staring at the bug, the Brazen Boy came back with what looked like food, and a story of convenience wrapped in his words. She only paid half mind, the bug crawling along her fingers now, but her eyes were fixed upon what Michael held. Her stomach complained. “Soon,” she rubbed it.

A twisted tune made Stormy look at Oedipus. Her face was blank, but her eyes shimmered. “Someday he’ll be free like you,” she whispered to the insect on her finger tips. It cleaned its mandibles, and Stormy smiled.

Then someone new: beaten silver and slender lines. Stormy waved once, and offered closed smile, before focussing on the bug once again.

“Seems there’s another,” It began buzzing the tiny glass wings, “You’re off then? Good journey friend – this talk has been nice.” And with that, the ashen films became a blur, and it was gone with the wind.
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