Human Settlements

While the day continued and the hustling and bustling little streets of narrow, cobbled stone were filled by the feet and bodies of many a pedestrian, it seemed like time had almost slowed down. Slowmotion was the word here, for everyone seemed to be moving sluggishly and the normal, fluent motion and blurs that was the streets seemed now more like a puppetshop correographed in a bowl of thick, dark syrup. But while most of the population dragged their feet and did their best to fight off the autumn depression, there were a few, zippy characters that moved with astounding speed and agility! These were young men, dressed in simple brown vests, white shirts, brown baggy shorts and the simplest of shoes. They were holding several items under their arms, scrolls of paper and parchment, hammers and buckets and cases of nails and other such things you used to bash things against - or into - other things.

One of the young fellows approached a certain house and began to hammer away with great glee, adding one of his scrolls as a new decoration for the building. Sadly, the owner of said house was less than pleased when he stuck his head out the window and witnessed just what was going on. Pottery, shoes and other rough and unsoft items came flying towards the scroll-nailing man, who fled in a frenzied panic as the projectiles landed around and about him, while the angered house-owner squealed and cried out curses of every variety you could imagine. Yes, that was right, these young lads in their brown and white clothes were the town criers, runners and sometimes jesters. Apparently they had been assigned a job to do and was now carrying it out, with moderate consideration...

While the one fleeing from the house vanished from sight, another appeared and began nailing one of his scrolls to a different house, and another appeared to nail another to a message board, which was already cluttered and well beyond the brink of overpopulation, with paper and parchment sticking out from all it's sides in every direction. On the scrolls were a simple message scribbled:

A Vote has been passed at town hall.
Exploration of the heartlands will proceed.
Need volunteers to go and investigate the cause.
Solving the mystery will bring about rewards!
So say the Elder.

Not a very enlightening message, nor very detailed, but at least it provided the important information. Some kind of democratic vote had been held at town hall, it had been decided that the foggy center of the isle was to be explored and those who were willing to go would be rewarded for their trouble. An easy enough concept, but it seemed like a bit of an act of desperation, maybe there hadn't been any volunteers after the actual vote? Then again, who could blame anyone for not wanting to go to the island-core? The place was always, always covered in deep, thick mist. Sadly, the notes failed to specify where the volunteers should meet or how they should proceed in order to justly sign up and claim the responsability of an explorer. But perhaps you didn't need to fill out any paperwork? Maybe you just had to go to the middle of the island and find out what was there? That sure would be nice, by-passing all the beaurocracy and whatnot.

In the Heads of the Undead

You there, yes, you! Listen to me! Don't be alarmed, my voice in your head means no harm! You can hear me, right? Why am I asking? I know you can! A voice suddenly rung out. It was a ghostly voice, like an echo from within a tunnel or closed space, yet it did not actually sound or have any kind of hearable noise follow it at all, it was almost as if the voice spoke directly inside the undead ones' heads. Like a thought, a memory.

Listen up! You should head towards the center of the Island. You've already felt yourself wanting to go there, right? Follow that instinct, it'll guide you through the mist and to where you need to go. I'll be waiting. The voice in the head stated more, encouraging those who heard it to move in the direction that their subconcious (and concious?) will wanted them to. But was it safe? Could a voice in the head that appeared out of nowhere and invaded one's thoughts be trusted? Then again, what was it going to do if it had some kind of trap prepared? Eat them?

Oh, one last thing. Doon't ask questions or try and speak to me. While you can hear me it's not the same for you, I can make my voice heard by you, but you cannot make me hear yours. But trust me, what you want most of all waits for you at the heart of the island! The last lines almost sounded like a poorly rehearsed sale's pitch, and seeing as that wasn't a particularly new invention, what with all the merchants in the towns and what not, ghosts and others might've been suspicious, had they ever dealt with such people before. Then again, the voice didn't demand any form of payment, so perhaps it was offering a free sample?

Inside the Fog's Heart

"Oh my... Miss Minerva? What might you be doing outside of the library, at this time of day? If you're not careful, you might evaporate~"
"Quiet you, I'm busy working."
"Outdoors? Oh my! Don't tell me the library caught on fire?"
"Of course not. Why would it?"
"Oh, really...?"
"... You almost sound disappointed."
"Fufufu... Of course not~"

Minerva raised an eyebrow but then quickly returned to looking down into the book which she held in her hand. Her hazel eyes quickly darted back and forth, scanning and reading the rows of text in a fascinatingly rapid pace. Her shoulder-length, black hair gently fluttered as the breeze picked up and she was forced to place her free hand ontop of her head, to keep her white hat from getting stolen away.

The other one, Chloe, seemed to rather enjoy the sudden wind and stretched herself in all directions, letting a deep, long sigh of relief escape her lips. Her red plaid skirt fluttered along with her hair, a golden orange tone, and she seemed quite content as she stood there in the midst of a flowerbed, watching the little saplings and sprouts dance and bend to the will of the wind. The pink parasol she held onto didn't seem to get tugged by the wind in the slightest, but then again, on closer inspection it was obvious that the parasol was faintly translucent.

"So, what kind of work brings the Mistress of Books all the way out here, into the world of sunshine and scents?""
"I told you, work. And the library has scents."
"Of dust."
"Quiet you."
"Fufufu..."

Kabang!
Crash!
Slammer!
Roar!

"Aha~ Little Cynthia's awake~"
"Either that, or the library just exploded."
"Now why would the library explode, I wonder..."
"You tell me."
"Dandelions."
"... Do not cause explosions."

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