Lugubrious

Overlord : Advent of the Gods

While the Comet Chaser and Shield Lord set foot within the hidden village, the girl-turned-horror revelates herself in a rush of blood

Foothills Forest near Woodstop

@TheFake @Lord Zee

An odd glance flew Revenmar's way following his near-slipup; resolved though it was, the split second mistake on the knight's part suggested some form of duplicity in Randall's eyes. All the same, the ridiculous-looking made said nothing. Mistakes happened, after all, and taking issue with one tiny error would cause needless strife now that the two newcomers were to be introduced to the town. If the pair's equipment was anything to go by, these warriors had grown rich thanks to what must certainly be great fighting ability—skill that could benefit the village beyond compare. All three of these hunters reasoned as much, but nevertheless they didn't take the chance to fawn over the duo or try to convince them. They either knew that such attempts at persuasion might cause more harm than good, that the best relationships formed naturally, or that they simply didn't care too much about the fate of wherever the five were headed. It could easily have been that they just didn't enjoy talking. Though pleasant enough, not one man of the three seemed overly social.

The forest continued to thicken as the party trekked on, and after a short time they came upon a veritable wall of trees. Effin made a left turn, leading the group, and they trudged through the thigh-high plants -to Oswalt's vocal displeasure- until they reached a giant, gray-brown boulder wedged in between the trunks. Without any sort of explanation nor a hint of hesitation, Effin walked straight into it, and instead of slamming into a solid surface he disappeared inside it. An illusion, Emile mused. No wonder there's a mage out in the middle of nowhere with normal people. The others followed suit, with Emile and Revanmar bringing up the rear.

Before he proceeded inside the magicked obstacle, the strigiforme turned to address his companion. ”Did you hear what he said about your armor? The stuff we've got on is way high-class for this area. So here's the deal: let's say we're wealthy mercenaries from, uh, the north. Good life, but we got bored and decided to travel far and wide to find adventure. I dunno if you're, um, curious 'bout this world or anythin', but if you find someone who looks like a talker, don't be afraid to ask questions. We gotta know where we ended up. And since we're supposed to be friends, just call me 'Emile'. That's my real name.” By now, Emile understood this fellow as not a fellow player, but an NPC like the Lena woman he'd spoken to last night, for whom everything -including the lofty status of the players- was absolute reality. He felt that though this might present difficulties, it might be better in the long run than another person. Players were unpredictable, after all, and now that they had the power to back up their whims they presented a true danger.

With that out of the way, Emile and Revenmar entered the hidden valley.

A few minutes later, and several meters down into the wide, bowl-shaped depression, Emile spotted a walled-in cluster of wooden buildings in the shadows of the towering trees, which were far older here than elsewhere in the forest. Effin glanced over his shoulder and noted the interest with which the strigiforme looked from structure to structure. “Welcome, mah friends, to Woodstop.”

They passed through the main gate, sparing a glance to the guards stationed both outside the open doors and on top of the walls. They regarded the newcomers with a guarded curiosity, and once inside Revenmar and Emile were treated to the less-restrained stares of the village's inhabitants all the way to the place's center. Along the way, they passed numerous workshops and uniform, multi-floored houses, all designed with very little regard to aesthetics. Indeed, the entire place had a no-nonsense atmosphere of almost frenetic industry, and even the people who watched the well-dressed foreigner and the opulent knight as they passed hurried off afterward rather than sticking around to learn more. Oswalt split off from the group almost immediately, giving a muttered farewell as he headed toward what appeared to be a bar, and soonafter Randy took a bow and excused himself, citing the need to present a report to the Corps. Before long the three people left stood before a squat central tower, one of the few edifices in Woodstop to be made of stone. “C'mon in with me. I reckon milords Ingvar n' Niklas might wanna greet ye two personal.”

Moments later the duo stood on the tower's third floor landing, face-to-face with two rugged-looking men in crisp noblemen's clothing beneath green armor. Both sported black hair and short beards, but one kept his slicked back while the other allowed it to cascade around his head. The latter remained behind his desk, sifting through papers, while the former came forward with a hand held up in greeting. “Still in one piece after your fox hunt, Effin? I could use some good news today.” He glanced at the furry tail tied at the side of the old man's belt, ignoring the newcomers for the time being. “...One tail? It was a hasty report, but I believe two were spotted fleeing through the Mirage.”

Effin grimaced. “Er, well, milord, Oswalt put an arrow in 'em, and we thought we'd take care of 'is friend then go back-!”

The man of authority waved his hand dismissively, and Effin fell silent. “Ah, I suppose we'll deal with that later. Shame. Who have you brought here?” He looked the new arrivals up and down, taking in every detail their appearances had to offer.

“Emile n' Revenmar, milord. Mercenaries from far away.”

“Not adventurers? My guess was off, then.” The Count extended a hand to both. “I am Sir Niklas Asgierr, commander of this town alongside my brother over there, Ingvar. Say hello, brother.” The seated nobleman gave a polite nod of his head before returning to his documents. “Gentlemen, you are a sight for sore eyes in this trying time. I can only pray that your services are up for hire, and not too impatient when it comes to receiving your wages. We are soon, I fear, to be in dire straits.” He expelled a short laugh. “Of course, I am being too forward. You have only just arrived. Perhaps I could have an answer by sundown? If there's anything we can offer, do not hesitate to let us know.”

-=-=-

In the brisk span of seconds, two of the foxmen lay dead, one cleft in twain with the other become as desiccated a corpse as one left to dry in desert heat for months. The shocking suddenness of their companions' demise awoke some of the remaining beastmen from their bloodlust, and despite wielding an advantageous weapon against cavalry one of the spear-wielding foxmen turned tail to sprint away. Another one, with an eyepatch, headband, and twin daggers, sped away in the opposite direction. Chances were any single pursuer couldn't get them both. That left four, three still compelled to attack but halted for the moment at a 'safe' distance and the rather more hesitant archer farther away, currently backing off one step at a time. None of this concerned Lenore in particular, who gawked at Kallahar as though octopi were squirming out of her plate mail.

“What? A-are you nuts? You're a player, right? What's this ravin' like a game character about 'true natures' and goddesses? Hh...have you even looked at me?” Lenore reached with her right hand to push up the leathery, crownlike coif that adorned her head, revealing her sunken eyes. They festered a pinkish red, like freshly-congealed blood, and they featured neither pupil nor iris. Looking within was equivocal to peering inside a kaleidoscope stuffed inside a cadaver. “Anyone who t-thinks I'm hideous is right...” With a small sob, Lenore crossed her arms across her chest and glanced toward the remaining foxmen.

While she spoke -unbeknownst to her- a trio of flesh tendrils extended from beneath the hem of her 'dress' and snaked across the ground toward the nearest fox body, moving with ravenous intent. They clasped around the corpse, using the teeth protruding from their outsides to help snag the bloody limbs, and began to pull it back. Distraught, Lenore only noticed when the tendrils yanked the body beneath her living vestment, but by then it was too late. She could only tremble in terrified revulsion as she inadvertently consumed the dead meat, a process as autonomous as blinking her eyes, and added the biomass to herself.

For a moment, there was complete silence. The foxes stood stock-still, flash-frozen by the horrific sight, before dropping their weapons as one and scattering in different directions. Abject terror gave them wings, making them run faster than might otherwise be possible, but if so inclined Kallahar could run them down before the paralysis of their panic initially wore off.

Lenore, meanwhile, sank down to the ground. Her dress spread out around her, and with her head in her hands she leaned forward until her head touched the ground. “This isn't me, this isn't me, this isn't me...” she whispered over and over, trying in vain to convince herself. Though the ghastly act of devouring a corpse had stunned her, it hadn't been nearly so bad as the nightmarish sensation of liking it.

Overlord : Advent of the Gods

Split into two groups, the intrepid foursome makes first contact with the people of this world

Foothills Forest near Woodstop

@TheFake @Lord Zee

Nobody disagreed with Emile's assessment and following suggestion. It was with some surprise that the Comet Chaser noted this; had he really been so lucky to land himself a couple of companions who didn't try to assert themselves at every opportunity in the vein of so many players? That said, not everyone explicitly approved of the idea, either. Emile's words served as another painful reminder to his niece about her new, monstrous form, and her relative amorphousness almost allowed her to actually shrink down in unhappiness. Her uncle wasn't the only one who noticed her discomfort, however. Revanmar had addressed her a brief time ago, and now -after a few moment to collect her thoughts- Lenore opted to respond.

”Um...thanks, sir, but...I don't think you can help me with this. I just have to get...get over it, I guess.” Knowing what had to be done and doing it were two different things, and even though the thought of coming to terms with this nightmare did not lift her spirits, it was plain that the knight's genuine desire to help had brought her some reassurance at least. Nobody was showing disgust with her, as she feared, but at the moment she counted her company a cadre of special cases. When an average person showed up, she woefully knew, she would be treated to all the horrified repulsion a Shoggoth realistically deserved.

Once again, Emile's hand came down on her shoulder, but this time he pulled her into a brief hug. “Don't worry 'bout it, Li. Brave little lady like you can do it no problem.” He turned to Revenmar, and gave him a discrete nod of thankfulness before addressing the group. [color=5D8AA8]”Alright then, let's check out this town.”

As much as he wanted to further indulge in the incomparable sensation of flying, Emile kept himself grounded as he and Revenmar began their expedition in order to avoid drawing attention. Feeling maybe a little too confident from the high of soaring through the air, he did not prowl forward with a hand on the hilt of a sword, but instead strode at a brisk pace. The grass underfoot, though wild, was kept from growing too thick by the lack of consistent sun filtering through the roof of leaves above, but while the underbrush wasn't too profuse either, the trees certainly were. A rich, ruddy shade for the most part, they grew in greater proximity to one another than one might expect, and their gnarled roots curled and clawed at the soil like giants' fingers.

The pair continued for a short time, navigating the thick forest without any real difficulty, until a shout reached them through the trees. “Good morning! Pray identify yourself.” Not too surprisingly, Emile could tell with nary a second's delay where from the sophisticated yet reedy voice originated. Owl ears coming in handy already. He looked toward the voice's source, but was not prepared for what he saw.

Standing to the pair's right, on top of a fallen log, was a lanky man in what appeared to be scholarly robes with pointed ears, pale skin, what appeared to be eye shadow, and a mint-green pompadour of all things. An open book was clasped in his left hand, and the fellow appeared to be in some sort of stance. A mage? While Emile stared, a readout appeared on his visor.

POWER: INCONSEQUENTIAL
CONDITION: FATIGUED, DRAMATIC

More noise told the strigiforme that this bizarre individual was not alone. In an instant Emile's mind was racing with how to best deal with the situation. A number of thoughts flew by, more than a few drafted earlier while he was flying. He didn't want to step on Revenmar's toes, but he needed to take initiative here in order to assuage the fears of whomever these people were. As he began to speak, Emile kept two points in mind: the obvious human-beast conflict in the region, and the secret nature of the town. If he messed up on either front, he'd give himself away.

“Morning. Emile, mercenary.” He gave his companion a chance to introduce himself as well. ”You caught me off guard there! Thought you were one of those damn beasts for a second. What're you doing out in the middle of the woods?”

The strange magician's eyes were nothing but scrutinizing, but they held little hostility. After a moment he lowered his hand a touch. Being an enemy of his enemy was, evidently, good enough for a smidgen of trust. “Mistook me for a beastman? What, you haven't been confronted with Bunnies as of late, have you? If you have, I confess myself devoid of envy. Furry freaks.” He only seemed to acknowledge Emile's question after a moment. “Oh! In pursuit of a Vulp scouting party. Cleanup duty, if you will. What, may I ask, brings you out to this remote neck of the woods?”

Lot of questions. Makes sense for someone trying to hide his activities. Trying to figure out how much I know, but I don't even know what a Vulp is. Beastmen, maybe? It struck him that he hadn't gone over any sort of plan with Revenmar. If the two of them told different lies at the same time, just like in the movies, their new acquaintance would know something was amiss. “Traveling, looking for work,” he replied, quickly as possible. “If you couldn't tell from our gear, we're not from around here.”

A chuckle escaped the mage's lips. “I supposed as much. Your armor in particular, sir knight, is nothing short of incredible. Even the highest order of knights under our Empress don't have such dazzling equipment. I would have thought you were some sort of lord were it not for the sparseness of your company. I, ah, hope you'll forgive my manners. Around here, we maintain a high alert. My name is Randall.” He turned his head to the side and called in a louder voice, “All is well. You may reveal yourselves.”

From on either side of Revenmar and Emile there emerged another man, one with an axe and another with a bow. The axeman was a muscular old man with voluminous white hair, a stern face with kindly eyes, and dark skin. His counterpart was short, stocky, bespectacled, and balding. The former was dressed in light brown and murky red workman's gear, while the latter bore worn, dity clothing of a style perhaps befitting a noble, and of the two the axe-wielder was the first to speak. “Good mornin'. I hope our precautions didn't offend ye, sirs. I'm Effin Ualiel, and this here's Oswalt. If yer lookin' for work, there's a village very near here that can always use more help, but it is impertinent to keep it a secret from the beastmen. Even if ye don't, I reckon ye could use some food n' rest before ye carry on.” He did not flash an unnecessarily familiar smile, but the generosity that his words implied spoke enough about his kindly character.

Emile glanced at Revenmar to see if he had any questions or concerns about accepting the strange trio's hospitality. They didn't seem dishonest, but even if they were, what could they really do? The thought was a strange and worrying one—not having to care about the consequences of bad judgment because of one's power. It also occurred to Emile that he could not afford to take off his helmet in public, or if he did, to try and make a big deal out of having abandoned his kin, since for all intents and purposes he was a beastman, too. It would be tricky going.

-=-=-

For all their barbarity, beastmen weren't stupid. Their animalistic cunning combined with intelligence resembling human, more so in some races than others, to accomplish such things as winning as the war against the Draconic Kingdom. As such, when the 2nd Order scouting group of the Vulp Tribe's warriors spotted a pair of strange figures standing upon an old dirt path that separated hill from woods, the foxmen lay hidden to observe.

One appeared human, though clad in menacing armor that the foxes knew would confound their short swords, knives, spears, and even arrows unless they managed to sneak them in through chinks in the plate. Based on that alone, and the ominous feeling that radiated from her, the beastmen did not feel inclined to attack. Yet, when they looked closely at the second figure, they could not help but to feel a rage boiling inside them. The fleshy being before them was a loathsome abomination, a disgusting thing that made them want to slaughter her and burn her to cinders. Her very existence was an insult, a mistake that they longed to correct.

In a few minutes, a conclusion was reached. Two of the foxes retreated to find reinforcements, and the remaining six fanned out before moving in. They rushed from cover to cover, low to the ground and difficult to detect, getting closer all the while. Finally, when the squad was in range, the beastmen burst from their cover and charged. One remained behind to shoot arrows, while the other five surged toward Lenore as one.

”Huh!?” The sudden noise and commotion startled her, and by the time she turned an arrow had already lodged itself in her midriff. ”Agh!” Yet, the noise she made was one more of fear than pain, for the next moment the arrow fell out and landed in the dirt. Lenore stared at it, then at the incoming foxmen. ”...Huh?” She said again, quieter this time. Two assailants leaped toward her at once, causing her to flinch.

The Crucible - Winner Take All

@Lugubrious
OK. Sorry 'bout that.

Edit: Did that thing. Sorry once again.

@Banana

No worries!

The Crucible - Winner Take All

@Banana, I'd like you to remove that stuff with Saria in your last post. I have given no indication that's how the 'soul' collection works in any prior match, or in any part of the OOC. You didn't even use it for anything significant, just a couple of random questions with no reflection about the emotional end to the battle. Not to mention, bringing Saria back would void the closure that the duel provided.

The Crucible - Winner Take All

Knight Sylvestre

Location: Neighborhood Market

Cyril did not wish to dwell beneath that hollow gaze for long. Muscles slack from the exertion, and flesh burning from the pain his adrenaline had dulled, he rummaged around beneath his gambeson for the heart-shaped device borne by every entrant into this wretched Crucible. After his fingers closed around its familiar shape, he pulled it free and held it in front of his face. With his other hand, sore though it was, he pried open his visor to reveal features stained by sweat and grime. A small chip of wood was stuck in the bridge of his nose, though it fell out when the vanguard went to wipe his eyes. Into his phylactery he spoke.

“Oren, I am ready to make my requests.”

For the first time he became aware of the whir of that mysterious metal device; he assumed that he'd been tuning it out this whole time. Would that he could so easily ignore the grating voice that issued from it. “Hehey, short time no speak, tin can. Looks like ya've done a real number on miss martial arts here, huh? Gotta say, I've never seen such a crazy fight in a market of all places-”

“My first request is that you shut your blasted mouth around me unless I talk to you first, and if I do, you answer me in a completely straightforward manner, with no prevarication or moronic chatter. Understand?”

There was a moment of stung quiet before Oren piped up weakly. “That was three things.”

“That was a three-parter.”

A growling noise issued through the microphone, somewhat muddled by the static. Evidently the announcer had to honor this request. “...'Kay.”

The semblance of a bitter smile formed on Cyril's face. “Number two. How do I take the girl's soul without killing her? Explain fully.”

There came through the drone a creak, followed by a barely-audible whisper: ”called it”. A moment later Oren's voice reappeared loud and clear. “Okay, take your phylactery. Needle on the bottom. Stick it into hers. It'll hurt like hell as the link is undone, but it won't kill her. Good?”

Clonk was Oren's answer—the sound of the butt of Cyril's halberd smacking Juniper in the temple. Aware of her toughness even in defeat, he leveraged enough force to put her out cold. In a matter of a few seconds he recovered her phylactery, but instead of immediately siphoning it he laid it aside. Wishing he had access to fire, he ripped up Juniper's white kimono to tightly bandage her legs, staunching the flow of blood. Only then did he carry out the announcer's instructions. The God Hand's body convulsed every few seconds during the transfer, but she did not otherwise stir, and the task was done before too long.

Cyril stared at the side of the device. At a leisurely pace came three lights interspersed by three little tones. He was about to let the pendant dangle when a fourth alit, this one brighter than the previous for a brief moment. Huh? Oh. Of course, Juniper's phylactery contained an extra soul of its own.

The Knight Sylvestre now owned four. He wasn't an eighth of the way to his wish, and already he felt like death. At the very least there would be no more fighting today, so he had leave to figure some things out.

First and foremost was his opponent. After a brief moment of reflection, Cyril felt sure that he hated her. He hated her for what she did more than what she said: she'd made him doubt himself. Going into the battle, she'd derided his dream as the ravings of a madman, too obsessed with his misguided vision to consider the path he'd have to walk or the consequences of his actions. That's not true. He would have been very, very happy to not have to hurt a fly, and even if they were in pursuit of a noble cause he regretted the bad things he'd done. I feel remorse for ensuring the self-destruction of the inventor from yesterday, though he had been a true lunatic, and surely that means I'm not a monster? Yet who could look at me now and not say what I've done to this girl is monstrous?

To deny that punishing her for standing in his way, full of scorn and mockery, hadn't been a little gratifying would be to lie. It was easy to thrust a blade into the heart of a demon since it was a horrific creature of evil, guaranteed to cause untold suffering if left to run amok. It was only a little harder to put down an unrepentant murderer, who was like a demon in all but form. Cyril had been numbed to cutting down rebels, starving bandits, and petty thieves whose backs were against the wall, but he felt none of the gratification from destroying them. This duel had been the second battle in a war he was fighting for himself, for what he believed in. Was it appropriate to delight in the fair defeat of a foe who opposed his ideals, not those of someone who ordered him around? He'd never done it before.

Cyril stood to his feet. He retrieved his fallen shield and replaced it on his shoulder, then leaned his halberd against the wall. As gingerly as he could, he reached down and lifted Juniper up onto his back. He could spite her by leaving her here to bleed out...or he could spite her by proving that he was no madman. Besides, what would the chivalrous knights of old say if he left a poor maiden, who had only one functional limb, to die of blood loss or thirst on some floor? The vanguard almost chuckled to think of it, though it was as much of an acerbic sob. Wincing with every step, he grabbed his weapon and carried his burden outside.

Parked out in front of the neighborhood market was one of those strange, carriage-like machines, this one being larger than any he'd seen before. Beside it stood a hulking man who kept his face downturned. Stopping a safe distance away, Cyril wondered who he was. There were no civilians in this city. He glanced at the open back of the vehicle and spotted a variety of surgical tools, bandages, and other medical knickknacks, including several bags of what appeared to be blood. “Are you a healer?”

The quiet giant nodded.

“With the College?”

Another nod.

“Then I have someone you ought to look at.”

The Fungal Knight

Location: Port District
@Banana

Sand, littered with beach umbrellas and towels disturbed by the previous night's rain, gave way to a stretch of grass, then street. For one accustomed to nature, the transition from shorefront to storefront was sudden indeed. From there lay a maze of squat, colorful buildings, none more that two stories high, both houses and places of business. So prized was real estate near a beach in the City of Echoes that almost every structure here, well removed of the industrious aesthetic and fishy smell of the port on the Amusement Mile's opposite side, exhibited a high degree of attractiveness. Along those pristine roads the lone skeleton strolled, armed and ready for whatever lay in his way.

The low buildings afforded him a decent glance into the distance, and the much taller edifices that loomed there. Bonesword could make out great towers of steel and glass that stretched skyward, and the rotating disc shapes of clown tents that hovered between them like clouds of cotton candy. At the very least, the freaky creeps were a long way off, affording the undead warrior time to explore and prepare.

Had Bonesword a nose, he might have been able to detect an unpleasant smell wafting from behind an overlarge wall of white stone that ran along one of the widewalks. Along its length were windows that permitted glimpses into a variety of different habitats, some sporting various animals. Following the wall led to the complex's main entrance, where empty ticket booths and rotating metal contraptions lay below a large yellow sign with red letters that spelled Roarke Zoo.

Inari

Location: No-Man's Land
@Kapuchu

The sound of scratching hair could be heard through the faulty drone's mic before Oren responded. “Cactus? Huh? Well, I couldn't really tell ya who this mission would help, but by the same token it could mean life or death for everyone in the City for all I know. I'll just give ya the run-down...”

Kzzt.

The defunct drone sparked and died, now no more than a pile of scrap. It wasn't a minute, however, before the familiar whir of a second could be heard on the approach, and before long the fresh drone appeared from around a corner. It floated up toward Lily, and Oren directed it to give a salute toward its fallen comrade before it fixated upon the kitsune and projected an image of the announcer for her to see.

Oren hadn't changed much since Lily saw him last, other than he appeared to be wearing a purple cape, and about an inch away from his left hand was what appeared to be a golden arrow. He took a breath before, speaking quickly, he began to deliver all he knew of the situation. “The other duel in the East Side -which is the zone of the City you're in- ended just a few moments ago. Captain James Teller and Smiley the Demon duked it out across a subway station and onto a train, which started rolling. Teller was just about to clinch the match when the train flew shot out of its tunnel into a massive pit—the pit that a couple of grade-A bombs blew into the Commercial District last night. The weight of the thing broke through the last layer of rock holding up all the debris, and down they went into a deep, dark hole. I sent a drone down and...well...”

The screen changed to show a different image. It displayed a city in darkness, rather than a stormy sky or starry night, overhead loomed a ceiling of stone. Purple lights interrupted the gloom—purple lights and a single spotlight of sun, beaming down through a hole in the earthen roof that looked to be, in comparison, rather small.

“Boggles the mind, doesn't it? A hidden city, far below the City of Echoes, with such a strange, old-fashioned architecture. That's not all, though. Ever sine the pit's opened up all the way, some other factions have started to move. The unknown choppers that were already in the area have either landed nearby or descended through the hole. The giant crow sighted above the Park is moving in that general direction. Admins are saying this might be bigger than the tournament...an answer to what happened to this place, which is the reason why the College was founded here in the first place. Search team's in the works, but any info ya get if ya go down would be great.”

Oren's face replaced the subterranean city, and this time he was smiling. “Neheh. Then again, aren't we forgetting something? Right now we can't tell who won the fight, but this much is clear: your next opponent is down there somewhere. So you don't really have much say in the matter. 'Nothing so quaint as volition at play here', I guess!”

The Cereal Killer and the Book Keeper

Location: Holy Grounds - Catacombs
@Propro@BCTheEntity

Pain, to the likes an immortal vampire who unwound the very fibers of his being to deliver the most visceral of attacks, was nothing; yet, this agony was something altogether new and exquisite. Moments after the blast of Runch's decidedly unhealthy Hellberry surprise, Crue's face was already healing, but by then it was too late. The sensation of tearing filled him, concentrated in his head, and he wasn't alone. Heavy Fuel poured from his mouth, manifesting in its full form amidst a series of terrible spasms. Although seemingly impossible for an ethereal being, cracks began to form across its oily surface, spreading and actually pulling the Stand apart. The breakup worsened quickly until it reached a certain level, at which it grew no worse until the pain subsided. Heavy Fuel's tears closed together as the Stand faded away, and the catacombs were quiet once more.

Ten minutes later the good captain pulled a lever in light of his luminescent berries, and a secret door slid open to admit the sunlight. Floating outside, in a scene very reminiscent of last night, was one of the drones belonging to Oren the Announcer. Beside him stood a newer face: the Bashibozuk, arms crossed and face arranged into a sneer.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the flying machine beat him to it. “Well well well, look who's continuing to expand his posse! How in the name of Zentopia did you survive?” Oren's surprise, odd for such a disingenuous individual, appeared legitimate.

Serhen jumped in when he had the chance. “So you didn't get yourself killed. You know, while you were off fighting I had an interesting conversation with this thing. He told me that those defeated but not killed in this tournament are not, in fact, forced to do whatever the winner says. They are only kept from attacking. 'Aggression suppression', he calls it. The rest, a 'placebo effect'.” His dark eyes were as hard and sharp as glass as he sighed. “With that said, I will be leaving you. I have no interest in joining your 'posse' as the construct puts it.”

“The construct has a name, ya know.”

With a curt inclination of his head, which encapsulated all the respect Runch had managed to earn from him in the short time they'd been allied, Serhan turned to depart. For once Oren was quiet, and the purple optic of his drone was fixated upon the trio before him expectantly.

Sunspot

Location: Hidden Settlement
@FloodTalon

The flames licking at the grass, trees, and buildings coalesced into a roaring wildfire, the second to rage through the Park. From the area the mists cleared away, leaving the place once shrouded in a remote sort of mystique to go up in smoke. Bit by bit the inferno engulfed the campgrounds, consuming the cabins within half an hour, and the still body of the Seraphim way before that. By that time, however, the victor of Settlement's final deadly bout had vacated the premises, spoils of war in hand.

You got:
28. Egg
It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all
Messily consumes a loved one of the owner to grant the owner's one wish

It was a little while before Oren's drone appeared among the trees, homing in on Jin's location. No doubt the announcer had been busy attending to other matters, and his voice rang with a touch of irritation as he spoke. “Another brutal kill from our assassin. Everyone's been wrong to underestimatecha, huh? Usin' the hole to penetrate Sophia's armor...if I had to wax poetic, I'd say a true killer instinct lies behind that douchey attitude. Neheh...” He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. The flying machine was not, at the moment, projecting a holographic image of the Crucible's announcer, but it was still a simple matter to tell that he wasn't all there. In fact, a semblance of fear tinged his tone, but it couldn't be -as his words might imply- for Jin, could it?

“Guess your work's done for the day. If you're hankering for some civilization, heading due east for long enough oughta do it.” He leaned away from the mike, muttering to himself. “Jeez, whole forest's toast. That and we've lost our lead on the crow fortress. Still, shouldn't be much of a problem-” The feed blinked off abruptly, leaving Jin alone in the forest with his loot and his thoughts.

This neck of the woods wasn't, however, devoid of features. In the direction Jin had gone, the trees had yet to be touched by fire, and ahead the terrain grew more wild still. The earth rose before him, though split by a river-carved chasm. On one side of the grassy rise, hidden in the shadows of the canopy, lay a hard-to-spot cabin.

Later that day

“Uuugh...who knew double crossing could take so much out of ya? I haven't even done anything yet.”

Squish, squish. Once his palms had rubbed his tired, frazzled eyes to a sufficient degree, the young man replaced his glasses and waited for the blurriness to fade. He didn't need to see to know which buttons to press to deactivate the surveillance system, but he didn't feel particularly rushed. Oren stood up from his chair, moved a couple steps away, yanked the window shade off, and began to perform a couple of stretches to work out the stiffness. Once his bones stopped popping, he declared the routine good enough and set to looking out the window while he adjusted his cape. Without a mirror he couldn't know for certain, but Oren was pretty certain he looked mighty fresh. “Soon enough,” he muttered aloud before pulling off the cape and stuffing it in a box beneath his desk. With the air of a salaryman grabbing his keys to head off to work, the Crucible's wisecracking announcer snatched the arrow from the desk and started down the stairs.

It was a long climb down, and a boring one. All the nasties had been eliminated by the College escort that established him here in the first place, after all. Not for the first time, Oren was glad that the cocksure sniper hadn't tried to climb any higher than where he'd spent the night. Without much in the way of dungeonesque traps, he would have had to set Mountain straight himself, and there was just no telling how many problems that would have caused. Once he reached the ground floor, Oren leveraged his measly strength to barge open the heavy wood door, and out into the warm afternoon light he sauntered. “Ah, the outdoors. Truly, I have not missed thee.” He put his hands in his pockets and set off.

A couple of minutes later he stood just inside the automatic glass doors of an office building. From there it was only a few seconds' meandering to the appointed conference room, and with gusto Oren pushed open the door. In an instant nine pairs of eyes were upon him. Oren regarded the mostly-unfriendly stares with a carefree grin as he entered and took his place leaning against the walls. At the far end of the room, the most baleful eyes belonged to a paradoxically friendly face, set in the middle of the well-trimmed red hair and admirable beard of Professor Edward Barnaby.

“What took you so long?”

Oren shrugged, unperturbed. “Gotta say my goodbyes, don't I? Anyone thinks I'm not acting like my usual gregarious self, they might start thinking something's...” With unrepentant dramatization he held a hand in front of his face. “Amiss!”

A roll of Barnaby's eyes greeted this nonsense. “Enough games. Do you have it?”

With a light sigh, Oren produced the arrow and tossed it toward the wooden conference table. Despite the unlikeliness of such an occurrence, it landed point-in and stuck there, quivering. Barnaby nodded, sagacious, and turned to the screen behind him. All eyes were on the television as footage of one of the day's battles appeared. The announcer recognizing it without delay as the brutal match between little Ryan and Tyrant. While those assembled stared at the destruction wrecked upon the amphitheater during the course of the fight, he scrutinized them. Having been given access to the employee database, he could rattle off each of their names. Doctor Howell Hallow. The twins, Davian and Aralynn Thule. Pieter LeGroning...'Noseless', he's called. Professor Margaret Fontain and her nephew Sylvester Baxter, not to be confused with our brave Knight Sylvestre. The big man, Professor Edward Barnaby, and his wife Raleigh. Even little Emilia Redsmith, their granddaughter. He glanced back at the screen, which now showed the Runch-Crue fight. The unhesitating use of their powers awed everyone present, save him and Edward, who froze it on a frame of the vampire electrocuting the pirate.

“What you've seen is only a glimpse of what's out there,” the portly man stated in a low voice. “We were amazed by the artifacts we discovered in this unnatural place, but now you know they were only the tip of the iceberg. Any of the contestants in this tournament could level a town, killing hundreds of people, even trained police forces. Magic, incredible technology, forces beyond our comprehension...we must wonder, how can this exist? How is it happening? But those are answers for another time. Rather, for those not present.”

Barnaby gazed with intense eyes at each attendee, one by one. “We must act before it's too late. Now, more than ever, I am sure that the wishing machine will what we have hypothesized it will. I am terrified to think that one of these lunatics might actually have a wish granted, whatever that may be. Could you imagine? We have no clue as to the extent of a 'wish', but would it be possible for someone to wish for world domination? Unfathomable power? The cessation of existence? No!”

His hands slammed upon the table. “We cannot allow this to happen. Director Wernicke was a shortsighted fool to enact this overgrown 'study', and we were fools for failing to see what it would unleash. We have to end this tournament. We have to destroy the machine.”

Silence filled the room, thicker than pea soup or peanut butter. It was only after fifteen full seconds that, from the back, Emilia piped up in a squeaky voice. “...H-how?”

Standing back up, Barnaby clasped his hands behind his back. “Excellent question, Em! The answer is here.” He turned to the screen, still showing the man known as Motley Crue. “His abilities were a mystery to us, made tougher to discern by their sheer quantity. In the end, we were able to deduce that many of his more natural feats can be attributes to his state of being. As best we can judge, the man is some sort of vampire with an exceptional degree of control over his body. That did not account, however, for his degradation abilities. You all saw how he's able to disintegrate the pirate's projectiles or constructions, and wither his body. This occurred separately from his body, but at a consistent range. Professor Fontain posited some sort of invisible barrier, and using a thermal scanner we turned up this.”

The screen progressed through a series of images, each showing an area of heightened temperature surrounding Motley in different ways. “Thanks to this, we have determined that he is assisted by some sort of entity with its own abilities...not unlike a certain pigeon that we discovered along with this arrow in this district's Art Gallery. To be sure, our conclusion involves some guesswork, but Oren tells me that he's put the nail in the coffin. Oren?”

Smiling the announcer spoke up. “Yeah, I used it to shank this crow I found. Blood everywhere, but the instant the arrow's gone, the wound closes. I let it go, and what does it do? First, when it flies past me, I get punched in the face by nothing. Then it flies right into a billboard screen. But uh, not smack-dab into the glass. Inside it. Like, it became pixels in the screen and disappeared behind a tree in the ad.”

Nobody knew what to think of the news, save Barnaby. “There you have it. The means, alongside what artifacts we have discreetly taken, to bring this calamity-in-the-making to a close.” He navigated around the table to the arrow, which he pulled free from the wood. In the bright daylight it shone as brilliant as a star. Its holder smiled as he turned to his left, then his right. “My friends, in every story, the heroes must accept their mantle in order to save the world. I ask you: are you ready for the power to do what's right?”

Overlord : Advent of the Gods

My mistake, I misnamed the team in the first header and somehow got a wrong mention into the third header.

Overlord : Advent of the Gods

Alright, I've gone and posted part of what we've been working on. Let the adventure begin!

Overlord : Advent of the Gods

Northbound Team - to Whiteside

@Rune_Alchemist @drewccapp @Spanner

“People ask me, 'What is the use of climbing the Frostfell Summit?' and my answer must at once be, 'It is of no use.' There is not the slightest prospect of any gain whatsoever. Oh, we may learn a little about the endurance of the human body at such heights. But otherwise nothing will come of it. We shall not bring back a single bit of gold or silver, not a gem, nor any coal or iron... If you cannot understand that there is something in us which responds to the challenge of this mountain and goes out to meet it, that the struggle is the struggle of life itself upward and forever upward, then you won't see why we go. ”

-- Utgar Reinholdt, famous explorer and mountain climber

Like a prodigious white fang excrescent from the jaw of the world, Frostfell’s greatest peak tore through the clouds and towered into the sky. The pristine white of its glacial sheets blanketed its northern slopes and shelves of ice formed stepped terraces along its southern base. The treacherous range was cold and windy. Few people would ever travel here willingly, hoping to avoid the blizzard-plagued mountains.

However, some were forced to eke out a living in this unforgiving winter landscape.

The cool waters of a running stream snaking down the mountain slopes cut a shallow trench through a narrow gulley. Nestled between two steep crags was a small village marked by the rime-covered wooden bridges that span the gap. Frostfell Summit loomed above the horizon behind it like a foreboding monolith. Rickety abodes seem precariously settled on natural ledges while others seem to make homes in the stone itself. A warm orange glow filtered through several of the shuttered windows. The largest of these structures, a hunting cabin, straddled the modest river. The wind smells rich and earthy as a warm, resinous scent faintly prickled the back of the nose. Drifts of dark smoke forms tapered columns above the cabin’s chimney.

Having caught sight of the chimney smoke at a distance and travelled towards its source, four adventurers enter the small gorge and lay eyes on the quaint mountain village.



A rider on horseback races away from the quiet stables in a furious gallop. White plumes erupt from the steed’s snout every time it thrusts its powerful legs forward. Even at a distance, the rider seems to be in a hurry. It takes the downward slope at a breakneck pace, then cuts eastward along a well-kept mountain trail. His fur-trimmed coat billowed in the wind as he cut across the adventurers’ path.

Southbound Team A - to Arcos City

@Rune_Alchemist @Hammerman @13org

The sinuous path of the mountain trail lead southeast to fork. A sign marked the way, but was timeworn and covered in rime. Ultimately, the decision of which direction to was left to fate.

The road winded into an old forest tightly packed with ash and fir. The air was heavy and stale. It tasted of mulch and loam. Snow dusted the leaves of the canopy except where bald hills, barren of any foliage except the most stubborn of shrubs, crested above the tree line. Thin pillars of light strike the ground and while a warm, yellow haze meanders along the forest floor, banishing much of the darkness and gloom. Only a few distant patches remain occluded by shadow.
Parts of the trail were hidden by overgrowth and disuse, but eventually merge into a well-travelled highway. The boughs of the trees have been trimmed back and arch over the road as if to form a natural tunnel. The passage of many wagons over the years have etched troughs into the ground, marking the lane.

Three adventurer’s have taken to the road, eager to discover a new world. A lone caravaneer approached them from behind. With a tug of the reigns, the stalwart auroch slowed to a halt. The portly man driving the wagon regarded the three travellers with outright suspicion at first. Easily underestimated, the man possessed a large, stocky frame and seemed naturally capable of supporting his ponderous girth. A stark contrast to the rest of him, his face was lean and rugged. His thick moustaches bristled forward like a prawn’s and partially hid the frown tugging on his lips. His eyes were calculating and corded muscle tightened beneath a deceptive layer of fat. In another life, he might have been a famous pugilist or wrestler, but the various barrels and cloth sack in the bed of his wagon suggested a different profession currently. The man’s intense expression slowly became a bit softer as he continued to scrutinize the strangers.

Three women alone on the road with no escort? Bandit’s I’ll wager… or adventurers. They’re obviously not pilgrims, and they’re dressed too strangely to be natives. They’re not wearing adventurer plates... perhaps they were new recruits? Still… they’re young enough to be my daughters! The man’s stomach churned at the thought.

“Are you folks by chance from the Adventurer’s Guild?” His shoulders were relaxed and his voice polite, but one hand was already slowly reaching for the short sword hidden beneath his cloak. Depending on their answer, he might be forced to overrun them and escape.

Southbound Team B - to Woodstop

@TheFake @Lord Zee

“By now I’m sure you’re aware of the dire state our once-noble kingdom is in. Entire cities have been razed by the beastmen, with their inhabitants slaughtered on the spot or taken back to their camps to stay fresh until they, too, are to be eaten. The military is stretched thin; what few adventurers haven’t abandoned us can’t make enough of a difference. Morale is at an all-time low. Queen Oriculus has in secret conceived of a desperate gamble to turn the tide: to construct a hidden base in the forest at the edge of the territory our family once governed, and after the hordes have swept past it, launch an offensive behind enemy lines to eliminate the beastmen’s leadership. It’s fallen to you, my sons, to spearhead this endeavor and strike a blow for humanity against the savages before they can rally their full strength into an all-out invasion. I assure you that I do not exaggerate when I say this endeavor may be our last hope to stem the tide.”

-Countess Signy Asgierr

Through the hours of nighttime the journey lasted, rolling steadily onward until a smidgen of brightness on the horizon heralded a crack of dawn. Even as the comet overhead was masked by the radiance of the breaking day, Emile flew overhead to chart the course. Having elected to descend from the mountain where realities’ conflux had desposited them, the four skirted the range’s edge along the boundary between tree and stone. From on high the strigiforme could scout the oncoming terrain with ease, swooping down to inform Kallahar, Revenmar, and Lenore about obstacles and paths to avoid or traverse. The southbound group’s aerial scout also got his first glimpse at this new world’s life, and he could not say he liked what he saw. In clearings in the wood, or atop hills and knolls rising from the canopy, he could spy crude settlements of tents with their plumes of black smoke. Creatures that appeared to be half man and half animal inhabited them, resting, making preparations for battle, or fighting among themselves. Even in the air he could detect the sickly scent of what they were eating, and it was with a palpable grimness that he went down to tell the others that this region was home to beastmen who devoured humans.

Some time into the morning, during one of his chance rangings farther away from the main group, he spotted something curious. In a part of the forest filled with enormous trees packed too think to cram a fox through, his golden eyes could make out the shapes of buildings below the canopy. Curious, he descended for a closer look. After Emile landed in the upper bows of a towering tree, he discovered to his surprise a fortified village hidden in the dappled sunlight. It was filled with people, all working with a degree of industry that seemed usual for an ordinary town. Rather, it didn’t suit his expectations. He stared, wide-eyed, at everyone bustling around. Okay, okay, okay. Real people, got to think this through. Can’t come in and make a big scene. No dropping in out of the sky, surrounded by nature. Judging from all the walls and guards, this place’s got to be guarding against those animal tribes I saw earlier. So wherever we are, it’s a struggle between man and beast. We have to tread lightly. As quietly as he could, the strigiforme lofted into the air and made a birdline back to where he’d last seen his team.

He touched down on the rocky hillside across which the knights and the Flesh Smith were riding. As she’d been for a while now, his niece was moving using ‘Body Surf’, which in Yggdrasil had been like standing on top of a fleshy wave but in this world was far more disturbing. Like Scylla, the monster from greek myths, Lenore moved using an extension of her lower body that took the shape of a mass of fleshy beasts to drag her quickly across the ground. At first refusing to take her head out of her hands, Lenore had been able to proceed after some time by doing her best to ignore the mess beneath her, but even now she was still teary-eyed.

“There’s a village a ways off in the forest to the right. It’s well-defended, and looks like it’s mostly human.” He pulled off his helmet to get a breath of fresh air, and scratched his feathery head. “Maybe we oughta split into two groups. We don’t wanna attract attention, so it’d be best if me an’ Revanmar went ahead.”

Project Crossover [SMASH ARENA - Only PXO members allowed]

Slayer
Level 3
Day 2
Location: In-house Smash Arena
Word Count: 1034
Experience: |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| (27/30)

From the head honcho of the meatheaded mooks there issued a guttural shout of rage, forcing Slayer to remove his shoe from the unconscious form of a gnorc and look his way. The moment his body began to change, expanding outward in bursts of uncontrolled growth, the gentleman was reminded of the grotesque transformation of Odin in the place of twilight, Erion. Murky spikes split Gnasty Gnorc's skin, and his comedic face twisted into a fearsome, warlike visage of savagery. This creature, far from the laughably-proportioned goon who'd stood there seconds ago, was a brutish monstrosity with a killer's crocodilian eyes. Slayer watched, newly apprehensive, as the beast flexed. The torsion of his muscles launched the black spikes in all direction with explosive force, and like a flechette gun the shards of corruption lodged in the bodies of everyone in the vicinity.

”By Jove!” Having sidelined himself from the gnorc warchief thus far to focus on eliminating the small fry, Slayer happened to be far enough away that he had enough time to react to what he saw. Normally he would not have thought twice about blocking with his mantle or a puff of smoke from his pipe, but having blasted forth from a monster festering with the dreaded M-Virus, these black spines set off alarm bells in his head. Reaching down, the vampire scooped up the knocked-out gnorc he'd been dealing with prior and held him up as a living shield. Not a moment too soon, the impromptu defense was pierced by spikes. The two impacts shocked the mook into wakefulness, but his consciousness was short lived as he, too, began a violent and disturbing transformation. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on, and Slayer nipped the new problem in the bud by unleashing a devastating left cross to obliterate the gnorc's spinal column before it could change.

As the hideous, twitching body slumped out of his grip to the floor, Slayer glanced around. The collective efforts of the heroes had vastly thinned out the gnorc horde, but it appeared that those remained had undergone similar changes to their master. Mutated by the M-Virus, they resembled undead more than miniature ogres, and Slayer suspected both their strength and durability had increased greatly. ”Repulsive curs. This is the virus in action, mm?” With a moment of peace before the transformed wretches converged upon him, the gentleman considered his options. There are enough heroes here to put this thing down, if Odin was any indication. Things are more complicated now, however. We must contain the virus, keep these things from leaving the arena, but there are civilians around as well. One of the vile little beasts lunged at him, claws extended, but Slayer blinked out of the way. An elbow to its back caused severe damage and sent the miscreant skidding along the ground; Slayer's musings proceeded without interruption. More troublesome is how this happened in the first place. Seeds of corruption in the hub of heroes...conspiracy, perhaps? If not, those in charge must be more scrupulous about who can enter. If the infection is running rampant, there has been an egregious oversight.

Another rabid gnorc assaulted him. He ducked back out of the way, employing his signature Dandy Step, and dismissed the mongrel with a Pile Bunker. Though more tenacious and dangerous in this state, the gnorcs were still idiotic and predictable, albeit in different ways. They could be disposed of as before, Slayer decided, so long as the heroes took care. It was a different story for the horde's repugnant master. No longer was he an inconvenience to scratch off the list once his cannon fodder was wiped out; now Gnasty Gnorc was no doubt a deadly foe, not just for his capacity to harm, but his newfound ability to infect. Any fight against him would also be a test to determine the limits of the heroes' vaccine. Avoiding a physical engagement until a safer way to kill him -like bringing down the ceiling on him- would be the better option, but Slayer's options were limited. In addition, he bet that Gnasty would come after the heroes rather than standing by while his 'army' got decimated. It was a precarious situation, but there wasn't much time to ponder it. Slayer needed to act.

He walked forward with purpose, headed straight for the virus-suffused boss of the gnorcs. The nearest minions charged him, their numbers preventing him from putting them down as easily as he had their precursors. Three leaped at him at once, and without flinching the gentleman teleported forward beneath them. With their would-be victim vanished, the three ripped into mere air and landed in a heap, allowing Slayer to pivot and punt them away with a wide roundhouse kick. While his back was turned, two more approached him from either side, and in response he hopped into the air. There he span, both legs extended in a revolving twirl kick, strong enough to knock both gnorcs back but not so powerful as to incapacitate them. Skipping forward, he executed a slide kick into the ankles of the nearest one, dropping it to the ground and into the perfect position for a definitive heel to the skull. By that time the other had returned, jumping onto the gentleman from behind. Its limbs ensnared him like the coils of a snake, but the instant before it could dig its fangs in, Slayer disappeared again. "Mediocre!" The question of where he went was answered a second later when both of the vampire's feet slammed into his attacker's back from above, smashing it into the floor to explode in a plume of pinkish fire.

With that, and a bit more walking, he stood somewhat closer to Gnasty Gnorc, though still well out off attacking range. "Let's see what you're made of, shall we?" Slayer then attacked the floor, striking it repeatedly until a large enough fissure had formed for him to reach down and pry a chunk of the ground out with his hands. The gentleman utilized his massive strength to tear the slab free, then a Pile Bunker to reduce it to a barrage of heavy, jagged stones hurling Gnasty's way.

Project Crossover [SMASH ARENA - Only PXO members allowed]

I'm on it, boss. It'll be done tomorrow morning.