The Darkest Journey [IC]

[Hymusia]

There was the sound of blades on wood, skin and bone a quiet but maniacal laughter and the dying screams of a being much like themselves. It was strange to consider the creature as 'dying', it had already died once, however this was likely that much worse for the poor half crazed critter. Then all went still and quiet and it lingered thick and heavy like fog over a moor. The house seemingly exhaling the noise and disturbance and then, once again, fading to nothing more than an interesting shape on the horizon, a little something to brighten up the gloom or extend it further. The great shadows of the broken windows like fangs and the splintered front door a gaping, screaming maw.

When it seemed the combatants had done away with each other and the stillness and silence became a part of the back ground, the shattering of paper thin window glass was heard and sailing from an upstairs window came a fat and greasy head, sunken eyes wide in their ruined sockets. The cut that severed head from the shoulders was clean and without the jagged edges blunt weapons tended to leave. It hit the ground with a sickening splat and rolled towards the feet of the others gathered around the light. The eyes rolled and the mouth fell open, a swollen black tongue slipping from the jaws in a feeble attempt to speak, however it's vocal chords were all cut and torn. “He...p...Me.”

The building it had come from seemed to teeter to the side, as if prone to faint or drunken collapse and then from the screaming maw came the shick sound of a blade running over floor boards and something heavy and wet being dragged. Doll emerged from the shadows like a deviant princess, one hand she clasped the spine and whatever ribs and gore still clung to it after being fresh ripped from the creatures body. Her other had her scythe, a fresh coat of red blood still marring the usually pristine blade. Both her hands were drenched in gore which even got under her nails and her lips, chin and jaw area were smeared in the rancid stuff, something, perhaps the shrivelled remains of a heart, being chewed upon slowly as if it were taffy.

Behind her the house seemed to groan in some joined agony with the creature that had slept within it. Then with almost no sound the entire structure collapsed sideways. Dust was kicked up with a draft that sent it spinning, lifting her impressively long hair and making it dance about her face while she approached the motley little group. A smile on her face was too gently and serene to match her actions and too 'alive' to belong on such a corpse. Still, she grinned as she approached the fat, rolling head which was now shrieking in agony. The reason for which was apparent as pillars and columns crashed inwards and from the wreckage a crimson gold light began to shine.

Fire erupted spectacularly across the dry and brittle wood, consuming and growing until it was no longer a silhouette on the horizon but a poor mimic for the sun that once shone. Doll's movements were not the jerky kind to which she'd approached but were the level paced movements of a predator in full swing. When she reached the group she, for the first time since arriving, cast a glance to those around her, seeming almost surprised that there were others there. Her insanely 'human' smile flickered on her lips as she, without warning, swung the scythe until it impaled through the squishy eye of the head that whined on the floor. “Don't touch my things.” It sounded like a friendly warning of sorts, perhaps even an explanation for her outburst and the first words she'd spoken to anything directly.

Lifting the scythe as she swallowed the remains of the organ she'd stolen she watched with morbid fascination as the skull was lifted to, the wheezing head sayign something indeterminable as it was hefted up like a pumpkin on a hook. “You aren't as fresh as my other ingredient.” She whispered in her delicate voice which seemed far too far away to be heard and yet was within hearing range of all those around the lantern. “However. You will do.”

[Shienvien]

More than an undead indeed, commented Igdalmar Am in his mind as yet another of the nearby undead shuffled up to him and stopped at a short distance, much like the sneaky one had before it. This one was thin, wore something that looked to be a dark blue robe of some kind, and had a hole going through its lower torso. The latter could be what had killed the body´s former owner, Igdalmar Am idly figured, for the living were fragile like that and otherwise the body seemed largely intact ... or it could be something what had simply come to be after the death, as was just as probable. Either way, irrelevant.
The narrow-framed undead had been around here for a time longer than Igdalmar Am himself had - yet, since the thin one had not seemed to play much of a part in the happenings in progress, he had paid little attention to it this far - which was not to say that he had not been aware of the thin one's presence, as that he naturally had been. - See, being never noticed was exceptionally much easier than becoming unnoticed while already being keenly followed... And Igdalmar Am had firstly spotted the thin one when the one was still talking to the skeletal sorcerer who had tried to set the automaton on fire shortly after. From there on, it was obvious that he had kept a fraction of his attention on the thin one the same - he was no careless individual. He did not forget such fundamental matters.
Even if incorporeal entities might - apparently! - succeed in sneaking up on him - irritating as the fact was -, physical beings still would not manage to accomplish it, or so Igdalmar Am had determined to himself. That would have harmed his rudimentary sense of self-pride. ...Which in return was not to say that it would somehow have harmed his self-esteem - his mind acknowledged no such concept. Instead, Igdalmar Am merely tended to become irate and destructive ... well, even more destructive than he usually was.
Quite often, annihilating problems was the most efficient way of getting rid of them.

For a few moments longer, though, Igdalmar Am listened to the for the others unheard speech, as woven by the one to be called Lady Moonshine. She often seemed to say things he already knew or had had guessed, or was repeating herself, but this time he figured it was because she was telling a story, unlike the golden one who spoke a plenty the same, but yet could be conclusively responded to with a single word and then ignored until it made a single more noteworthy claim ... which its shiny-armored self could not even back up.
For now, temporarily, Igdalmar Am paid little more attention to the other unliving beings than he thought necessary - that being him only covertly observing that they still were not doing something that could be considered hostile towards him. Visibly he simply took the pieces of the one-armed's left arm into his own hands and seemed to be inspecting those, beforehand moving the lantern to hang from his left arm and leaving the staff to loosely lean a bit uncomfortably against his shoulder. He will either need more arms and hands himself, or otherwise more means to hold things...

Danger? Reward? Those were the things Lady Moonshine spoke of, the first more than the latter.
"Hmm...?" Achieving anything had an associated danger, the bigger anything the greater danger - and the world as he knew it was perhaps the largest thing Igdalmar Am had witnessed - and if not having to live in an utterly boring world was not the only reward he actually had the slightest care for, the better. Right now Igdalmar Am did not know whether the reward the Lady was speaking of was truly a reward or simply - in his perspective - something of little meaning, which was what any unwanted reward would automatically be.

The bone-ends of the arm-pieces did not form a perfect match, hence those two probably were not pieces of an original intact arm. Nevertheless, the lone bone was at least of the kind which usually connected elbows to shoulders, and about the right size.
From somewhere in the depths of his ragged once-coat and rusted chainmail, he brought out a handful of various metal pieces, wires, bolts and other, then sorting through those and trying to determine which he should actually use.
- Igdalmar Am had a habit of picking up and carrying along random things he could and thought might turn out to be useful. He had not needed another sword, either, after all...

Aha, so that was why! exclaimed Igdalmar Am in his mind at the Lady's next words. What she had now told neatly explained why the dark one had been here and what had attempted to do before meeting an unfortunate ... condition, perhaps.
Another thing he noted was that the golden one had told them all that Elizier was not their enemy, however he was certain that he (they?) would meet this Elizier's opposition when they went to end its reign. That made Elizier their opponent to be, and opponent was practically the same as an enemy. (In the end, enemies only existed because they were in the way or had irritated you. Elizier, for example, was in the way of repairing the world...) Therefore it was thus that he, Igdalmar Am had been correct in saying that it was uncertain, whereas the vanguard had so confidently told its own limited vision of the state of being of things and been thoroughly mistaken. For some reason Igdalmar Am felt an unreasonable amount of victoriousness at the conclusion. ...And he would have to destroy the golden one the same, if it intended to position itself between him (them?) and Elizier. The golden one had essentially promised it would, and that spelled its end.
And sorcery... Was Lady Moonshine's power more potent manifesting - or perhaps more abundant? - than his own? Either way, that alone was worth seeing... Witnessing in effect.
"I'll fight," insisted the staff-wielding undead in the end. Fight, since the unliving could not die? He would, of course - how else? -, [B][I]try to avoid being rendered into an entirely uninteractive state of existence...

Only then did Igdalmar Am turn his attention seemingly - and only seemingly - fully to the two speakers who had addressed him, briefly even stopping in his efforts to create a makeshift elbow-joint for the arm in his hand just to show that he was paying attention to the first speaker. It felt slightly irritating that they both inquired about the lantern. It was his lantern now.
Nevertheless, he knew why the dark one had acted the way he had...
"Having been let known it's a thing the dying world needs, the dark one was to destroy Elizier," Igdalmar Am stated, his raspy voice oddly resolute. With the next sentence, the resoluteness faded to something which at least left the impression of thoughtfulness: "Wanted to save the world, yes..."
His skull turned ever so slightly on its perch, and now his empty eye-sockets seemed to be gazing at the sneaky one who, almost against his expectations, could speak and had finally spoken.
"I, Igdalmar Am, met someone by the lantern - Lady Moonshine she sayeth she could be called."
There was a short pause, and then Igdalmar Am, straightening up as much as he could, turned to everyone around at once.
"She offers us the path of saving the world; a purpose, perhaps..."


The moment was perhaps somewhat marred to those with more poetic minds when a severed head came flying, hit the ground, and unceremoniously rolled closer and stopped perhaps two yards from Igdalmar Am's feet. The staff-wielding undead himself seemed to pay not much attention to it and its pathetic attempt to speak, since a head without sorcery was not much of a threat (if it had it, why didn't it use it?), and simple, humanly compassion was not something Igdalmar Am had in particular abundance.
The background held more interesting happenings, and for a moment he simply admired the house's collapsing - Doll emerged, house collapsed. Had been a structure, was no more. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Igdalmar Am liked abrupt change, rather than destruction? Destruction that had happened when he could not see, hear, sense it offered no joy unlike that which he was personally witnessing. In the end, the main problem with creation he had was indeed that it was slow and not too spectacular sight to behold (subjective like the latter claim was)...
After the house had collapsed, Igdalmar Am continued to look at Doll. Doll was eating a heart? What for? Doll was evidently an undead, and as such required no nourishment...
“Don't touch my things,” Doll only informed them in the way of an explanation.
"Or mine," Igdalmar Am figured it necessary to add, once more rising his right hand (the left remained to hold onto Bleeder's arm) and, accompanied with an abrupt snap and a flash of light, a thread of lightning momentarily connected the tips his index-finger-claw and thumb. If there was a clearer way to hint what would happen to those who would defy him...
- Sorrily, Igdalmar Am also had a very personal approach to what was his and what was not, meaning that he sometimes effectively considered the things which he only wanted to obtain (but had not yet) his, never mind the objects he actually held in hand. The latter were always his, exceptionlessly. Sometimes, that attitude tended to forge problems.
Doll whispered something about ingredients. Igdalmar Am in return simply could not begin to fathom what use would a severed head have. (Perhaps not too unsurprisingly, he was still not bothered by the poor creature's fate.)
"What for?"

[Dark Jack]

Bleeder only spared each of the two other Undead that spoke to the staff-wielding one brief glances, having no more interest for them than his annoyance for their behavior merited. Words. He wanted them to be quiet and not disturb them, so that the staff-wielding one could concentrate on fixing Bleeder's arm. So irritating, this entire situation. He just wanted the staff-wielding one to put his arm back in place so he could hurry off after the teacher and begin learning Sorcery.
Still, he found it curious that these two other Undead both seemed so intent to learn about the lantern. One of them - the leather-clad woman - even mentioned something about a melody coming from the lantern, and a scent of fresh air. As far as was possible for Bleeder's decayed features he frowned at this, wondering what she could mean. He heard no sound coming from the lantern in the staff-wielding one's hand, nor did he catch any smells aside from those coming from the grime covering himself, and occasional whiffs of the stench of the crumbling city around them, namely those of dust and smoke. He was not even sure he knew the scent she spoke of... 'fresh air'? He understood the words, but he could recall encountering no such thing during his time wandering Morwenth. What was 'fresh air'? Where could it be found? What premise was there for its occurrence? What was its souce? He did not understand. That irritated him.
But even so, it seemed as though these others saw something more than just the lantern before Bleeder's eyes, to be so curious about it. He tried leaning in a little closer to examine its luminescent core, but still saw nothing, heard and smelled nothing that merited the attention of this many people.

The staff-wielding one seemed to be working on Bleeder's arm for a moment, taking out items that Bleeder did not care enough to identify in order to help him do this. His attention did not seem to be solely on the arm, however, nor was it entirely on the other two Undead. In fact, it seemed as though a good part of his attention was directed inwards, or at least to something whose existence Bleeder was not even aware of. Is this Sorcery? he wondered, trying to will himself to suddenly obtain imagined abilities to perceive the unperceivable, and naturally failing. Not that it mattered. His arm was being restored. That mattered.
Bleeder's head cocked to the right when the staff-wielder abruptly seemed to announce the intention to fight to no one in particular, and he briefly considered whether be was supposed to draw a weapon and prepare to defend himself. Why would he fight? But then the other seemed to forget about what he was doing and turn his attention to the two others, the ones that had inquired about the lantern. A quiet growl escaped Bleeder, from deep in his chest. His arm was not finished yet. This could wait.
Again, the staff-wielder spoke, and Bleeder's head straightened as he listened. The dark one... Bleeder presumed he meant the one who had carried the lantern before. Been let know that the dying world needs something? How? The world was dying? Since when? Elizier? What was that, and why did it need to be destroyed? Bleeder's head was starting to hurt with all the questions, all the big, scary unknowns that were spilling from the staff-wielder's skeletal mouth, piling up before him as something that both frightened and infuriated him. Save the world? It needed saving? From what? He was starting to get angry. Too many words, too many questions. Why? Why? Why? Why?
Igdalmar Am? A name. New label. Weird name. Staff-wielder was easier, though obviously not as specific. Lady Moonshine? Where? Who? By the lantern... Bleeder saw no one. Was the leather-clad one this Lady? No... He did not understand.
Igdalmar Am looked at them all. She - Lady Moonshine? - offered them a path to save the world. Why? Why should -

So many questions had come out during Igdalmar Am's short speech, and they had all burdened Bleeder's fragile mind greatly and pushed him towards anger. But just then, at the end of his speech, all those questions evaporated under the scorching intensity of that one word he had chosen to utter, that one word that was heavier and stronger than any other, that one word that defined everything worth anything. Purpose. A purpose. She offered them a purpose.
He did not even register the head landing nearby, nor did his eyes ever stray from Igdalmar Am's skeletal face. His body had become so tense that he could not move, had he wanted to. No, that was not true... he did move. He was trembling, his entire body shaking with the sheer excitement of what he had just been offered. Purpose. Had he still had tear ducts, he would have cried. Truly? He did not want to get his hopes up over nothing, but Igdalmar Am had such conviction in his words, it was hard not to believe.

It was not until an audible rumble announced the collapse of a building that Bleeder's eyes finally strayed from this dark messiah of those lost in the meaningless life beyond death, if only to ensure that the sound did not mean any approaching danger. The first thing he registered there was the magnificent familiar glow of fire, bursting forth with the infernal fury that only this mighty primal element was capable of, to devour the world and make all things ash.
Only afterwards did he notice the woman - Living? No, Undead... why is she eating that? - and her wonderful scythe. And the remains she was dragging after her. And only then did he notice the unusual object that was lying rather near him, trying vainly to speak. He cocked his head left, looking at it impassively. Head? Then he turned his attention back to the woman with the scythe, who seemed to be talking to no one in particular, and Igdalmar Am was answering. Bleeder's head tilted right, unsure what to expect of this strange Undead. When she raised her scythe, Bleeder prepared to dodge and retaliate, but her strike was not aimed at him, but at the severed head. He did not understand.
After coming to the conclusion that the newcomer was not hostile, Bleeder turned his attention back to Igdalmar Am, once more so fervent in his interest for the staff-wielder's message that he even forgot about his arm.
"Purpose?"

[Ashgan]

“I’ll fight,” Igdalmar Am assured the spectral maiden upon which she pleasantly smiled to herself. Good, he would fight; he was capable too from what she could tell, and if he could convince others of the urgency of her quest then perhaps... and only maybe her mission was not as hopeless as she had feared it was since a long time.

“This pleases me beyond words, my dear knight. Thine path is laid out before thee then: make thine preparations for the coming battle, for it shan’t be an easy one thou art to face and when thou art ready, venture into the Necropolis to vanquish its villainous ruler. For now, I shall give thee some peace of mind and not pester thee any longer with mine drawn out speeches; help these lost Undead and gain them for thine cause, meanwhile I shalt tend to mineself. Thank thee, once again, for accepting my call.”

With those words, Moonshine’s mesmerizing voice chimed out and her ghostly presence vanished from Igdalmar Am’s black soul. Once again alone in her dreadful, burning world, the moon’s daughter stood lost amongst the flames, staring into the flames with a melancholic smile on her pale lips. A golden tendril from the lantern floated by her ethereal body, wriggling in slow-motion in mid air. With an almost affectionate gesture she caressed the non-existent surface of the matterless object which nonetheless sent a sensation of rejuvenation through her spirit.

---

What a curious, lifeless bunch! All of them gathered up and chattering like a herd of excited chickens in a pen. What for? Well, he shouldn’t pry. T’is none of his business after all, is it? Maybe it is. Maybe he could make it his. Why? Well, you should ask! Why not? For the same reason that he wandered this dreary, unfamiliar kingdom in the first place. It certainly suited his interest to keep an eye on these, so to speak, seeing how the happenings just now had caught it in the first place.

About a mile away from the commotion around Moonshine’s lantern, perched high atop a half collapsed tower that rose from the inky pits of wrecked Velerath, there kneeled an undead marksman dressed in strange garb. An ankle-length, dark brown trench coat covered the majority of his form and was barely tattered at all; unlike most articles of leather clothing in Morwenth, this particular piece was in a remarkably good condition and could be from a much more recent time than the kingdom’s fall. Only the bottom part of the flowing coat showed signs of tear and was richly covered in old and dry mud splashes. Beneath the noteworthy mantle his naked ribcage showed with all bones intact and only slightly degraded by age. A pair of straight, brownish cloth pants was tightened around his skeletal waist with the help of a simple rope. Carefully attached to the same rope hung a sword scabbard to his left, and a curious leather bag to his right. The sword seemed to lack any kind of true hilt and only had some thick linen bandages wrapped around one end of the blade, which was slightly curved and about 70 centimeters long in total. Additionally, the sword’s blade was extremely thin, almost fragile, and extremely sharp; a swordsman could just as easily cut straight through a solid object as he could nick or even break the weapon by striking at a wrong angle. The leather bag to his right was tightly sealed, and looked as if it was filled to the brim with small, spherical objects. Carefully held in his leather-gloved hands, the marksman held a strange device unheard of in Morwenth. It consisted of a long, hollow, iron barrel that was open on one end, and attached to a polished, wooden stock on the other. Somewhere between the rifle stock and the barrel one could see mechanical, alien parts that no Undead could quite give a name to, though perhaps one or the other would figure out that at least the trigger was meant for pulling and then something would happen. All iron parts of the marksman’s device were slightly gilded and shimmered gently in the pale moonlight. His bald skill was crowned with a wide brimmed felt hat that, the brim of which curved upwards on the left side around a large, dark blue feather about half an arm’s length that was fastened to the hat. Lastly, a thick-glassed monocle was attached to his right eye socket with the help of four small screws which drilled into the bone. Through this monocle, he could see farther than anyone else in the land and it almost looked as if his rigid skull grinned in a more meaningful, gleeful way than that of other skulls when he observed the conversing Undead in the plaza down there.

Well, what kind of life is this? Perching about like some foul avian, spying on other people’s business! How utterly impolite! What only was he thinking? The least he could do was to move closer so that the poor chaps had at least a chance to become aware of him. Who knows? Perhaps they would even decide to chat him up a little, tell him about themselves and other, fanciful things that he was dying to hear about. Yes that sounded exciting and like a welcome change of pace from all the bloody business with them screaming ghouls. His actions were questionable – but he simply couldn’t stand their ceaseless yelling, so he made them stop and now Velerath was a much quieter, peaceful place. Why, he should be proud of himself, really.

The undead marksman rose to his bony feet and immediately sprung into action, heading into the shadowy pit next to him and dashing down the staircase in the broken tower’s ruined interior.

[Hymusia]

Doll was busy inspecting the moaning head when a nearby creature spoke up, briefly her eyes narrowed to confused slits and her head tilted in that mechanical way she usually donned for those she was not comfortable around. It was unusual for Doll to be spoken too directly and so this interaction had her at a disadvantage, she hadn't been truly listening and it took her slow brain a few long moments to percolate what exactly he had said. When finally his words reached her and their meaning deciphered her smile grew in that same mechanical way until it was eerily too big for her pretty little mouth. This one liked his things too, he liked owning things, as long as he didn't touch her things she did not care for his. The lantern was shiny but her pretty scythe was shinier, the lantern seemed to glow but Doll had no trust for things that glowed like that. He could keep his things and she would keep hers, it seemed a fair trade.

Seeing no more immediate reason to leave she stayed where she was, with the head hanging from her blade and her attention slowly filtering back to solely her own, private world. Visibly her good eye glazed over with an unfocused look before turning back to the head and that insane smile had dropped back to a thoughtless lazy grin. She swayed slightly in the spot and her voice returned to the sweet whispery tones of an autumn afternoon, she was singing but she sang with an eerie distance to her tone that might have given the living a shiver or two. It seemed to serve no purpose other than it entertained her as she toyed with the head she severed. Sticking her fingers up through the severed neck hole with the sickening sound of decaying flesh being separated by bone and finger, the scythe slowly removed. The song was in fact how she'd gotten her name, it was rather fitting after all.

“We found an old doll that was out in the grass,* She had special powers, we said a Black Mass.*
We sat in a circle all holding hands. The* Doll-bed held together with old rubber bands. She'll rise,*
she'll rise,she'll rise...Oh, Lay her down in her gingerbread coffin.* She's so pretty all laid out in white.*
Lay her down in her gingerbread coffin.* When we need her, she'll rise to the light...”

Doll meanwhile was now almost puppeting the whimpering undead's head, making it sing in time with her own tune as she turned her wrist this way and that. It was of course repulsive, no pretty features what so ever but it would be better than nothing for ingredients. Cradling her scythe into her chest and the shoulder of the hand inside the undead creatures head she used the other to trace the very squishy area around those milky disgusting eyes. Without feeling she continued to sing as she dug her nails under one eye and slowly levered on the orb until the globe popped and flopped out slowly with a growling hiss of discomfort form the one she was torturing.

“We looked down at the ground and into her eyes.*Passed around an old teacup filled up with dead flies.*Surprise, surprise! Were brought but not used, a collection of knives.*We'd remember this moment for all of our lives.*She'll rise,* she'll rise, she'll rise....”

Both eyes were levered form the undead ghoul's head and left hanging against it's cheeks as she inspected the tissue that held it inside, it was rotting and filthy but there were still some healthy strands and that would go a long way for her make up. Carefully grabbing the globes she pulled with the careful, patient hand of one experienced in the removal of such delicate tissue, a second, quieter pop meant the nerve had severed and came off, mostly, in one piece. Each eye and nerve was placed over her wrist as she slipped her fingers under the ghouls skin and attempted to peel from neck to crown like one might a banana.

“Oh...Oh...Oh, Lay her down in her gingerbread coffin.*She's so pretty all layed out in white.*
Lay her down in her gingerbread coffin.*When we need her, she'll rise to the light.”

Slowly she worked the skin of his skull off, living peoples would not be 'peelable' in such a way, but with a few tears an undeads skin came off much easier and more complete, after all the skin had had time to decay and the sinew holding it to the skull was far less strong. Especially on a creature that clearly didn’t' take good care of itself. Mind you it wasn't a pretty sight and the one that was once an undead was quite happy to make noise through the entire process, even after Doll had taken his tongue and ripped it form the back of his throat.

While busy she missed the whole mention of the word purpose, or the offer to give her one. It was true she lacked purpose, drive, something to actually do with the long and eternal day that was her life. She did not even truly sleep which made the life she had even more exhausting, if of course she could feel such. Still, she was lingering, it was as if a part of her needed to stay here and knew what was coming and wanted her, Doll, to experience it for whatever purpose that would serve.

[Aydan Tenaebra]

"My things, as well, are to be untouched." The soft, brittle voice half growled, thinking to set her limits as well while others were setting theirs. She was unsure why it seemed like a necessary thing, but it did. Her hand went to rest at the glittering ornament of her bracelet in particular when she spoke. Her defiant eyes dared anyone to say something otherwise, but thus far it appeared all would make a fair trade in keeping their own things to themselves- or at the very least the one called Igdalmar Am and the doll would be. Still, the other undead seemed uninterested anyway in her eyes. All the same, her stake was made. She would shred anyone who dared touch her things without or say or with the intention to take. Shred them limb from limb and digit from digit and throw the parts into the raging fires. She may not have sorcery, but she was no less ready to defend herself and her possessions. They were all she had left of what few good memories resided within her decaying skull.

Once her claim was made, she resumed quietly listening to Igdalmar Am's words as he began to attend to the one who had lost his arm fighting the Golem. The sorcerous undead spoke of a... something... a spirit, perhaps? Within the confines of the lantern. An intriguing thought, far more so than her initial draw to the artifact had been. A Lady Moonshine was far more captivating an idea than simply the peculiar scent of fresh air and and a haunting melody. Yes, things were getting interesting indeed. She grew more interested as the explanation turned to the saving of Morwenth, the destruction of Elizier and...

Purpose. The word hit the scarred undead, it's weight seemingly a thousand bricks in her mind. Unconsciously the hand that had been resting at the gem on her bracelet reached up to rest at one of her most obvious of scars, across her throat. Violet eyes glittered. She was sure that it had once been evidence of a purpose for her form, one she was either never a part of or simply could not remember because it had occured before she awoke to undeath. Pehaps, after all, it is not such a bad thing you did not heed my words then... You don't say? This is a chance at more than just survival. A chance at purpose. It may be the loss of my sanity saying this, but that is something for which I am willing to risk everything. Yes yes, with purpose usually comes answers or with answers purpose. Perhaps you aren't as mad as I first suggested. We should listen more. He spoke of the destruction of Elizier. Is such a thing possible? Hush. Does it matter? I have afforded us an opportunity at purpose, one you would have had us miss. Take it and be still!

Silence enveloped her mind once more, at least mostly. The initial arrival of the doll-like undead woman had phased her little, the severed head hitting the ground, and, for the most part, after noting the initial bounds of property, Ryver had paid no attention to her. Though, when the soft singing started, the leather-clad female could not help but to spare her a second glance. Quite the queer one and clearly far more held in the depths of madness than herself, it seemed. The other female had already eaten the creatures decaying heart and now she was singing quietly as she carefully removed it's eyes and peeled away it's flesh. Ryver wondered at this. They had no need of sustenance. They weren't alive. Yet she had eaten the heart of whatever the creature had been and had babbled something to it about ingredients. The raven haired rogue shook her head lightly. The curiosities of the denizens of Morwenth would never cease to amaze- particularly when most of them were walking corpses as she was, without care or true purpose to guide actions and create motives. Oh yes. Purpose. That's right, she had been contemplating the purpose offered. So much room in a mind often lead to getting off track. Another downfall of undead, she had always thought. Well, the undead that choose to think anyway.

Ryver turned back to Igdalmar Am, "Purpose, you say? In saving Morwenth? Anything is better than continuing to rot away in the supposed safety of these ruins, taking the safe way out and guarding sanity that decays anyway. Two and a half decades of it is enough for me. I shall give my aid."

[Shienvien]

The undead who had given himself the name of Igdalmar Am, naught but an animated skeleton dressed in rags and worn chainmail, sword-bearer, staff-wielder, lantern-keeper, lightning-caster ... whatever that name represented in the eyes of the beholders, he was currently once more observing those other undead nearby, the ones Lady Moonshine was at that very moment suggesting he gained for his cause. A worthy one, as far as he was concerned, for a dead world was indeed an empty one, and an empty world was doubtlessly an uninteresting one. And, not completely insignificant, the ethereal Lady had mentioned a reward, and letting him to use her powers, if need be - and as quite perilous she had described even the first step of this grand quest, eliminating Elizier. There was most certain to come an unarguably very good reason for him to use it.
Thus, Igdalmar Am looked at the other members of the little gathering of would-be world-savers with what would have been an evaluating gaze, had he had a gaze to speak of, and not just a complete lack of eyes... It however had to be admitted that the different parts of Igdalmar Am's mind combined rather saw 'these lost Undead' - his possible future companions and allies - as merely potential aiders in his doings and someones he could delegate tasks to ... as likely-useful additions, but not as possible future friends and his equals.
Morwenth simply had not been so generous as to bestow Igdalmar Am with the ability to feel empathy and disgust, to see aesthetic beauty, or, for the matter, let him possess the ability to comprehend that things could also belong do others outside of plain experiences telling him that people occasionally did not like it when he went and simply took the things they had been using or were holding or wearing. Not that he knew to miss any of these qualities, or considered what had come to replace those qualities in his mind strange. He just was what he was - Igdalmar Am.

It was about then that Lady Moonshine declared she would draw back, and indeed her voice silenced and her presence withdrew. Surprisingly, the skeletal undead found it bothered him about as much as her unbidden entrance into his mind had, for it only reinforced the fact that he had no control over the incorporeal entity's comings and goings. What if she decided to hightail out of the situation when it got unpleasant? And how would he catch her attention, if he had to, and she had opted to be somewhere elsewhere? Just speak out like he, more or less, had done before, though without the intent of attracting her attention, and hope? Of course, if she indeed came with the lantern, it would be easier... It was his lantern now, after all.

The other undead, meanwhile ... the blue-robed thin one had seemingly lost all interest in them as soon as he had given an answer to him, the violet-eyed sneaky one was still keenly watching them all and Doll was ... Igdalmar Am could quite not figure out what Doll was doing, or, more precisely, he could not explain to himself what the purpose of Doll's actions was, or what was the end result she intended to achieve. She was singing a song which could not possibly relate to the situation at hand, and was - or at least appeared to be peeling fleshy pieces off the disembodied unliving head. Doll had not replied to his question, the one that had originally followed the scythe-wielder's statement about 'ingredients'.
"What for, the head?" Igdalmar Am finally opted to repeat his inquiry, sounding more adamant than before with the simple request for explanation. Though, perhaps, it lacked a point, the scythe-wielder's activity - however Igdalmar Am could never hope to know if he did not even try to ask.
The one-armed one had leaned closer to him, and seemed a bit alerted when Doll came back, but was doing little else. Was it curious about his lantern, like its eyes had seemed to indicate before? (Not having eyes could be considered beneficial. It was harder to tell where you were looking.) Alternatively, it was merely interested in getting its arm back (ah yes...), and cared about little else, controversially to what Igdalmar Am suspected.
From somewhere a bit farther away Igdalamr Am thought he heard some sounds not produced by natural occurrences - wind or decaying structures falling apart, but mostly ignored the minor disturbance. It did not feel like a threat. Not just yet, the least.

The Sneaky one, somewhat unexplectedly, declared that it'll give its aid, and the one-armed one uttered just a single word - 'purpose' - as a question.
"Yes," Igdalmar Am's voice rasped in response, to no certain recipient, and that one word carried within it all the self-explanationality and certainty a single syllable could fathomably contain. "Give you purpose. Definite aim in saving the world. First step - end Elizier."
At this point, the skeletal undead's attention shifted onto the sneaky one, or at least his skull turned slightly, so that its frontal side with its perpetually grinning face was now towards her.
"Good. A dead world hath nothing of any worth."

Ah yes, the arm... For that matter he would have to just attach the thing to the one-armed's shoulder, Igdalmar Am figured, trying to bend the arm in his hands and deciding it could move precisely as it should... On the next moment it occurred to him that shoulders were probably a bit harder to reconstruct, with how those had to let the arm move in quite great extent in almost any direction. - In any manner which did not require the arm to pass though the body, ideally. Ah well, he would figure something out... Perhaps it would even give him hindsight into what to do to improve his own right shoulder that had those bothersome bone-growths ... or, if to think of it, his right knee, also. Both had slightly limited mobility, as it was.
"Thou stay still," he, managing to move a step closer with all of the things he held, instructed the one-armed one - who would soon be the one in dented metal armor, for the lack of other distinguishable characteristics as obvious as the missing arm had been. More folks should give out names for themselves. Those tended to be more defining than mere qualities. A name was a name was a name - a few items or body parts added or removed had no impact on it; it was a conveniently stable way of referring to an individual.
"Names?" he as if absently questioned while he was looking from the upper end of the humerus of the arm in his hands to where the said would ideally connect to what crude materials he had in his disposal, to carefully pulling rags and chainmail covering his own bones away from his own left shoulder to see how it was constructed for comparison.
Why should an undead have so much flesh as the one-armed one did? It made seeing what should go where much harder...

[Hymusia]

Was shocked from her daze of the macabre fun things to do as a voice reached across to her with more volume and presence than before. The one glassy eye rolled in it's head to the speaker who seemed most quizzical about the ingredients she planned to harvest. The head's mournful moans had become nought more but gurgling and spluttering on it's own loosened tongue and she furrowed her brows in an attempt to remember not only what he had been speaking about but what she had been. It seemed for a long moment that the undead would simply remain like this, stuck as often she seemed to get but then her hollow voice whispered out the answer to that question. “Its a sad thing, a doll needs maintenance and work, not all can be as pretty. So she has to make something to keep her vibrant. Otherwise collecting ingredients would become so much harder.”

The bones and blood of this foul thing would not be of the best quality by far, they would make very poor make-up in fact. However needs must and such would have to do. She waited for but a moment before the apathy registered in her eye and she turned back to her job. The gore covered skull was hoisted and turned, there was something she'd forgotten, something that was playing at the back of her mind but she couldn't remember it. It seemed important of course and yet it was beyond her reach. For a long moment she looked at the skull, single eye glazed over with an effort of concentration, once again missing the idea of purpose.

What she assumed was a question aimed at introduction however had the Doll freeze in an entirely different manner. What was her name? Such a thing bugged her when she was reminded of it, a name, it seemed so insignificant for so long but when asked for the first time in many a year for her own title she found herself lacking. A name was an important thing, it defined a person, it made a person, she had watched those that lived name their soon-to-be-make-up products. Upon which the living thing seemed to become truly alive, of course, she was dead, such was an obvious thing and as such should not bother her. However she felt cheated somehow, as if robbed of the chance to become more than just a husk, as if she too should have been named.

It was not that she lacked monikers that others had given her, Doll, Killer, Living Dead Girl, Argh! Popular with most places she went but these weren't names, they were descriptions. A name held no description usually it was but a gesture from an affectionate party, did she have a name? It felt like she had, a long time ago, long before the darkness had consumed her mind. She distinctly felt as if she remembered someone calling it, though who that was and what the name was she could not reach, lost to the tidal wave of madness. “A...name. No name. Until someone names me I am just a Doll.”

[Dark Jack]

The strange Undead with the magnificent scythe was singing something while seeming to Bleeder as though she was playing idly with the severed head she had previously declared her property. He did not actually listen to the lyrics, nor did he care enough to watch what she might actually do to the less fortunate Undead's head, but he was not annoyed at the abundance of words flowing from her lips, either. In fact, the now-one-armed Undead murderer found himself briefly entranced by the almost otherworldly quality of the melody. In the years Bleeder had spent crouching on the outer wall of the city, staring into the infernal pit of The Depths while contemplating all those impossible questions again and again, all he had heard most of the time was the faint noise of the fire. Once in a while there would be distant sound from the city behind him, and sometimes he had heard what he assumed to be thunder, but neither had been pleasing to his ears. Sometimes, when the wind was just right, it would sing to him, wonderful tunes that he imagined spoke of long-forgotten secrets, as if the very world itself cried to the faraway stars in despair, lost and without purpose, just as himself. In those days, the disharmonious and arrhythmic hymns of the gales had been a great comfort to him.
The scythe-wielding one's song did not compare to those the winds of Morwenth, but it touched something in Bleeder nonetheless, and he found himself suddenly swaying slowly from side to side with the ebb and flow of the tunes.
His trance was only broken when the leather clad one spoke, and almost immediately the armor-clad slaughterer of the Living found himself producing another inarticulate growl of annoyance at the plentiful words she spewed. Even so, if they were both to follow Igdamlar Am and his Lady, whoever she might be, Bleeder figured he would have to learn to tolerate these talkative creatures. He tried to listen and actually absorb the words that were being spoken, and felt a headache threatening to assail him if he did not deter from this path soon. His growl stilled in his chest, though his annoyance was no less than it had been before.
So that one was going to follow Igdalmar Am, indeed? Bleeder disagreed with her, though: there were definitely things worse than staying where they were. Boring as inertia might be, it offered a peace that he hungered for, a serenity that allowed one to delve into deep thoughts and explore forgotten parts of oneself, and search for the answers to the countless questions that were left seemingly forever unanswered.
The tranquility had done much good for Bleeder in these past years - or so he imagined - but it was definitely worth ending his days of stillness if it meant going on a quest to discover his purpose.

"Purpose..." Bleeder repeated once Igdalmar Am had confirmed that it really was what he had been talking about. He spoke the word dreamily rather than questioningly this time, his gaze turning distant as it slowly drifted from the staff-wielding prophet and turned to stare towards the unseen horizon past the structures of Velerath, seeing nothing yet feeling as though the crumbling, dirty, lifeless and smoke-covered landscape in his view was the single most beautiful thing he had ever seen, even more so than the wonderful undying flames outside the city.
Whatever muscles remained on his face that held his jaw in place tensed in what would have been a wide grin, had he still had a face suitable for expressions. Beautiful music rang in his mold-, dust- and grime-filled ears, and it was as if every inch of his rotten skin tingled with joy that might have caused the little hairs there to stand, had there still been any.
Purpose... wonderful, beautiful, precious purpose. The nature of that purpose, as far as he was concerned, was yet to be discovered. When Igdalmar Am spoke of giving him a purpose, Bleeder chose not to interpret that as receiving a purpose of someone else's choosing, but merely an opportunity for him to find the real purpose of his existence, the reason he was alive when he should not be, the unseen force that had guided his steps since the day he had risen out of that pile of corpses on that ancient battlefield. The reason his rage burned within him like beautiful fire, the reason his hands had spilled quantities of blood beyond measure, the reason he was Bleeder. Saving the world meant nothing to Bleeder on its own - as far as he was concerned, the world could take whatever form it wanted. He had never known a world different from this one, and although he could see how decrepit and vile it essentially was, he was not opposed to this. If the world was capable of dying, that meant it was Living, and if it was Living it was destined to die like anything else... and if its destiny decreed so, it would arise as Undead. That was the order of things. Bleeder saw no reason to change that. Death follows life. Only the Undead could live forever.
But... purpose!

Igdamlar Am instructed Bleeder not to move, and Bleeder complied and ceased all motion in a manner only an Undead could, with lungs freed from reliance on breathing, with a long-stilled heart and muscles that no longer relied on signals that could cause them to twitch and spasm as he had. He literally held completely still.
Only Bleeder's eyes moved when Igdalmar Am requested their names in that wonderfully sparsely worded way he spoke, the way Bleeder approved of so strongly. His gaze shifted for a moment, and he felt the enthusiasm of his newly offered chance for purpose dimmed by the shadow of this request. Name? What was a name? He had used the word himself, but had never really given it any thought. Not even during his extended stay at the edge of The Depths had that matter occurred to him, simply because he had never needed a name before. He had wanted names for everything else, labels by which to identify them, answers to the unspoken questions of the world, to fill out the void and add pieces to the great puzzle that was everything. He knew names, but what was a name? Who decided? Where did they come from? The thought had Bleeder's head spinning.
What is a name? he thought, frowning in thought, all while he heard Doll tentatively identify herself as such. A name is who you are, isn't it? Who am I?
To that question, at least, he knew the answer.
"I am Bleeder," he said, producing only a slight movement of his jaw as he spoke the words to violate the orders of the one who would restore his arm as little as possible. Then, after a second's contemplation, he added, "Henceforth ye fere."

[Aydan Tenaebra]

The irritated growl from the one armed creature by Igdalmar Am did not escape the leather-armored undead's ears when she spoke. She did, however, choose to ignore it. By nature of her own existence, Ryver did not particularly care what others thought or did. Until they affected her own motives and goals directly, she found it quite easy to pretend people or things just didn't exist. The members of her present company were no exceptions. When something coincided with what she felt she needed to accomplish, or something interfered? Then she would deal with it as it came. Not a moment before. There is simply no use in wasting the effort, now is there? She told herself. No, not a bit of use. Or even sense for that matter. Still, there is sense in following the one... Igdalmar Am. Use him to find our purpose and then wash our hands of the whole lot. Yes, yes indeed. The undead nearly smiled to herself at the thought. Nearly. Though, the familiar voice from her past once more floated through her mind as a small glint of light seemed to reflect in the sapphire at her wrist, You have grown cynical. Much more so than I could have conceived. Care you not for Morwenth and it's people? Had she a need to breathe, Ryver might have sighed, but she didn't. Instead she pushed the voice back. She had heard snippets like that often enough (and more increasingly lately) that she thought little of them. She simply accounted for it with her own unraveling sanity since Nynaeve's death.

Igdalmar Am was speaking again. She turned off the voices in her mind that she had been conversing with and listened. '..First step- end Elizier. ... Good. A dead world hath nothing of any worth.' She inclined her head slightly in agreement to this statement. Nynaeve had once told her something to that effect. It had been much more... What had she said? She had used the phrase often enough... Ah. Yes. Heart-felt. Her statement had been much more heart-felt and less matter of fact. Not that that mattered much to Ryver, particularly as she stood in the small group of undead. The repetition was what caught her attention. Surely when two such vastly different beings say something so very similar, it had to hold some merit? Didn't it? Of course. It makes sense that it should hold merit anyway, by simple logic. Of course, that left her wondering at the thought of putting an end to the Necromancer that had proclaimed his rule over Velerath. Would it be possible? It was certainly quite the intriguing thought. Perhaps with the sorcery possessed by the lantern-bearer and doll like creature- or she hoped they possessed- it could be done. She tapped one finger idly against her chin, pondering. How else might one destroy a mage? Surely brute force, such as her own combat style, would not be enough. She would make for a good distraction, yes, but the violet eyed rogue would do little in terms of heavy-hitting damage in the name of this Lady Moonshine. At least, not on Elizier. Oh. More talking. She really ought to pay better attention to audible goings on around her, she told herself. She'd yet to let a single movement escape her senses, however voices were far more easily tuned out while she thought.

The doll was using the ingredients to keep herself pretty? Hmm. Perhaps she was an older undead as well, more experienced. There could be many more things to be learned from this rag tag lot than she had initially expected. It was quite the pleasant surprise. Names? Oh. She had almost forgotten. One little word could be quite important though. A definition of person, beyond 'hey you, come here.' It would certainly make identifying the group easier and save effort on thought and speech, when speaking would be necessary. It made perfect sense. She wondered how Bleeder had chosen his name for himself. Doll's preferred moniker seemed to suit as well. She was intrigued. It also made her wonder over how suitable her own made-on-the-spot name was for her. Nynaeve and the others seemed to have thought so, but then.. Then things were different as well. She found she had left the air silent for a moment longer than was necessarily common for doings like introductions. Someone living might have called it awkward, if she recalled correctly. She was sure, though, that it was of as little consequence to them as it was to her.

"Ryver." She said at last, giving a slight nod of greeting to the others.