The Road of Hero's Transition (S:ARG - The Wandering Swordsman)

[Closetmonster]

Arlyne's eyes narrowed as the sigil's response slid up his fingers in a soft, snake like rustle of skin. Like Marie, the very response was silent and invisible, allowing Arlyne to look much like a man in black with two swords and not so much a creature capable of more than waving two bits of steel about. Still, in Arlyne's ear, the sigil's voice rasped and broke. It curled into his neck, made a pocket of room for itself which tickled and grew. The pressure grew and before Arlyne knew it, he had opened his mouth and coughed out – well, nothing really. The sigil was gone, whispering as it went, Lies followed by an equally bone dry promise of, A way.

Far less than he'd hoped for, Arlyne watched for what the sigil's power had set into his throat yet nothing came to light. But then, the sigils were not the type which could be forced into action.

With a silent curse, he watched as, unmindful of direction or the others, the caftan covered North Man leapt from his hiding spot and burst into the thickly misted clearing at the edge of the village. Silence hung over all, a funeral march for the living. Arlyne jerked and would have done the same, taking the sudden attack as his own cue, but for the fact that Marie flared before him and her distress made him pause mid-leap. Thighs bunched underneath himself, he watched as the North Man stopped, reached out, and then, as if in a daze, began to sleepily tug at his sword. His head swung back and forth, bear-like, and he made a sound that Arlyne could not quite discern if it were frustration or pain.

“Nay,” he grunted to his companion, his own speech low and secret. “There is a great deal of subterfuge here and the Other is not the type for such tricks.” Tricks of the light, tricks of the darkness and shadows, yes. Tricks of weather even, but the Other would not see any purpose in setting fire to a village and letting loose shadows. 'Let's go,” he nodded to the man next to him without once seeking eye contact.

Silently, Marie fretted before him and the North Man wandered. With a low choked grunt of frustration, Arlyne waved her away and darted out toward a near home. His hands on the hilts of his swords, he ducked into the shadow of a house and stared at the slow motion battle going on with the fog and the North Man. A finger raised, he gave an implied direction to his own companion, that he would go forward and his companion could go around the back of the house, towards the fire which crackled dry and hissing only a few buildings down from their position. Expecting that the other man would either do as suggested or find a better path himself, Arlyne gritted his teeth before rushing into the fog himself.

The first breath of decay and Arlyne drew a blade. The blue of Marie's soul quickly surrounded him, yet what little had gotten through her spirit had entered into his mind as well and he felt himself slowing. Frustrated with the sneak attack, he blew hard to clear his nose and looked about himself. He recalled, he told himself, that this was a village and not anything other. Yet, the great wall lay before him, his sword too large in his hand to hold properly, and over it all, the wailing of the Mourning. Their Lady was dead. Dead was her child. Dead was the hopes of a hamlet, a family, a sibling. But over all, hung the over-reaching presence at the gate, holding the massive iron closed and ousting any who might have given aid. Over all, was the betrayal, the shame, the overwhelming guilt of having been more interested in gathering apples and primroses than in seeing a sister when her very eyes had asked for the most minute of aids. A touch of loaned power perhaps and she might have gone on. A little care or breath of love, and the Lady would have survived.

No child should carry the burden of a sister's death. Arlyne tried to heft the knife and found it far too heavy still. For a moment, a breath, then two, the sensation of pain was as real then as it had been the day his feet set themselves upon his journey. Then, like a slap in the face, Marie's ghost stilled scream shattered the fog and Arlyne reeled as he came free of it.

Reaching out, he grasped the corner of the house and he stared out at where, in the time he'd been distracted, the North Man was bent over and reaching to pick up what must have been his small companion, or put him down. Arlyne could not see clearly for the tears in his one working eye. He brushed the back of a gloved hand across his face, and in determination, drew his other blade. The mist had not felt at all like any sorcery he was familiar with. Instead, it reeked of Elsewhere. The thought came to him at the same moment that the man, the villager standing over the North Man, unhinged his jaw and as silent as death, opened his throat to a greater shape. It was as if he were super-imposed over a larger skull, teeth far sharper than simple rending and capturing teeth should be; teeth made for pain over all else, shining white and deadly.

Not one to fully give up his position, Arly knelt in a smooth motion as he laid bare sword across his knee and drew from his belt a simple iron throwing spike. Of little use other than against spirits and as a deterrent to bears or large animals who did not want to deal with being “stung”, the spikes were easily replaced in any town and he commonly carried five or six of them on his person.

With a practiced flick of his wrist, the slender spike sped across the space and embedded itself into the skull of what had been once a villager. The impact did not stop the creature, but it did make the creature stumble back one step and whine, high pitched and loudly, in pain. It swatted at the spike driven into its brow. Its human fingers seemed ungainly and confused as it tried to decipher the use of opposable thumbs in order to grasp what was there.

Leaving the North Man, obviously aware, to deal with what was before him, Arlyne did a quick casing of the village from his point of view and, upon seeing shadows coalesced under the house opposite of the one on fire, he made his way toward it in order to engage whatever was there. A few steps into the center of the road, however, and he realized that the shadow under the one house, was only part of a matching set, the others more visible from where he had paused to use a half heart beat's time to reassess the situation and rush, instead, toward where the North Man and no doubt the small one were. All around him, Marie curled tightly and called out what she could see on his blinded side, her constant litany of description in shortened speech as good as having an eye.

[Terminal]

He Who Lies left a hundred million curses left unsaid as Arlyne charged forth into the thick, mist-laden village. Damned he had thought he would be, and damned he was as he set a foot forward to chase after his overzealous companion, unwilling to call out for fear that some vagabond might be warned of their approach. Thankfully Arlyne stopped ahead by the home before the village square. The spearman could see many figures, including the caftaned steppe-dweller crowding the mist and his mind screamed warning after warning. He had chased the horror long enough and seen beings and shapes malevolent enough in the past to recognize the likes of wraiths and demon-dreams when he saw them. That they were there at all spoke great volumes as to what had happened here; doubtlessly the villagers who lived merely waited for their passing to be eased. To enter such a place invited undue attention, something which the tall Northerner's dark companion and their new acquaintances seemed determined to wrench free of the village and beat to death before messily devouring it. And so when Arlyne gestured at him to take the long path around before charging headlong into the village proper, He Who Lies simply let him go in the same manner one allows another to drink fetid water.

The time ahead of them was now wasted and filled with dire entities of foul and degenerate will, so there was no longer any need to fret over the inconsequential matter of staying out of trouble. They and it were now well acquainted and would be spending a great deal of time with one another, and in the case of He Who Lies it currently waited to greet him around the corner of the house where Arlyne had pointed him. And so he set off where his companion had suggested, turning to the back of the dwelling. There, a low dug-out earth pit of stone cobble and wood. Darkness and heavy smoke poured from the home's second threshold there, and He Who Lies kept careful watch of it as he passed. The mist here had a red tinge to it, and it seemed to surge and force its way into his mouth and down his throat where it lingered, heavy and thick. He felt the thing's presence before he saw it, as he had last time - a feeling of intense vertigo, and the illness of his gut as though he were falling from a great height. A rail-thin figure in his peripheral vision let loose a rattling, rasping inquiry.

He turned and answered it, as he had the time before. Despite the figure's close proximity, the response was shouted - not in anger, but as though the recipient was a great distance away. He Who Lies felt as though he were shouting down into a vast chasm. A small corner of his mind told him that his answer was not a wise one, that he should not speak as he did to the entity which stood before him, but he said it anyway.

There was nothing else he could do.

YOU SHALL NOT FEEL LOSS FOR THAT WHICH YOU LEAVE UNUSED

It left him on the ground, crimson essence dribbling from his mouth, as it had the first time. The Northerner reached up to his lips, but his fingers came away with naught but ash. His cowl was still firmly in place. The feeling still lingered in his gut, and he briefly wondered if he had truly seen the Haggard Lord again - he gripped at the ground, clenching at the dirt beneath him before finding the shaft of his spear once more and rising. He turned back to the threshold, where wisps of cloistered smoke scattered into the air as he lay eye on them. He shouldn't tarry near such a place. He raised the haft of his weapon and looked about - the plantlife appeared to be dead, although he supposed it could have been before he arrived. Another thing he had not been paying attention to...! The soil of the place did not lie though. The dirt still had the look and smell of dirt, and so it was. Had the Haggard Lord truly been present, He Who Lies would be walking on salt flat...And then he remembered that he was in the middle of a mist-filled village plagued with demon-dreams and wraiths, trying to figure out how to remove his companions from the place.

He took a step forward, realized he hadn't taken a breath since he had first fallen, and inhaled. The smoke and fog filled his throat and lungs again, but the red mist did not return. Promising. The spearman hurried forward once more, looking towards the far end of the dug-out. There, he saw a darkened figure obscured by mist, laying in a chair under the shade. He looked to be dressed in fine blue cloth, but he was gaunt, with eyes untouched by light or sun. He watched smoke and embers pour from the rear of the home with apparent disinterest.

"You there - are you well? Are you able to walk?" He Who Lies asked the man as he drew near, leaning over slightly and speaking down into the dug-out space. He felt a sense of deja-vu, and his gut roiled, but he steeled himself and resisted the urge to fall to his knees in terror. This man was not the Haggard Lord. He looked up at He Who Lies, his neck popping and crackling like burnt wood coming apart at the press of a poker. His eyes, rimmed in darkness, stared mindlessly. His jaw flapped open to utter a wheezing curse. Trailing embers coursed from the twisted thing's maw, falling to the tiled ground where they pooled as darkness and began to take on the shape of a chitinous, darkened creature.

He Who Lies calmly eased the villager's passing and then put out the embers of the fire he started, darkness framing the light in the strangest of manners. He then rounded the side of the home and observed many men and woman standing about a nearly-engulfed home across the road, the burnt-out dwelling devoid of flame but with timber glowing hot and heavy smoke whirling about, a dark figure pleased with the offerings below. The pilgrim from the steppes stood there with the men and woman, with a man writhing at his head at something that was stuck there. Turning his head just-so, He Who Lies then observed Arlyne rushing for the group. Yes, everything appeared to be as he left it - village mostly gone, villagers either dead or weird, pilgrim (and some change) serving as distractions, and Arlyne charging headlong into something in an inadvisable fashion. The only thing missing was the horde of soldiers or monsters.

He then heard a hissing sound. Glancing down, the spearman saw a horde of indescribable, shadowdy figures culminating underneath the home. He took a measured step away from the dark recess built underneath the dwelling as a thin, clawing shape lashed out only to shiver and bend against the light as though merely an odd flame-cast shadow. Glancing back at the pilgrim, he could see the rest of the men and woman, oddly listless, had turned to face the steppe-dweller and appeared to be speaking to him. Their eyes were rimmed with the same darkness as the one before.

He Who Lies charged across the road, spear readied. There was nothing left in this place that remained to be saved other than themselves - the time for humoring his companion and their newfound compatriots had reached its end. He would drag the lot of them from that dark, burning and cursed place by their hair if he had to.

[Shon Harris]

Something was awry. Listening to Isha meant the Pilgrim's attention was placed around, if not solely on, the little one he was lifting. Crouched down to make the transfer easier, he heard a whistle and meaty snap. His head jerked upward to the villager before him. Beyond the man's neck, which was still cracked to an angle, the handle of a throwing weapon now stuck out from the man's left brow. Blood streamed down his face, yet, somehow, the man managed to step forward. This was not the first sign.

"Am I so naive?" the Pilgrim choked out in a whisper as the villager swung their arm.

Strength beyond a man sent the Pilgrim onto his side. The hand with which he'd lifted Isha with still protected his companion while the other unsheathed his blade and swiped. Crisp steel caught the boot of the villager in mid attack. Before his heel could threaten either the miskin or northerner, it separated from the leg and fell to the earth. Confused, the villager attempted to balance over them. The Pilgrim sent a second strike after his slash, this time upward, piercing the villager through their armpit and out the contorted neck. A swift kick freed the blade.

The Pilgrim rose, patting ash off his caftan. His little companion, eyes keen, called out another threat. Without confirmation he shot the edge of the steel toward the earth, catching a shadowy rodent. Another threat and another strike. Isha seemed to enjoy the work, as if commanding a body larger than his own offered something new. Living a larger life through another seemed a demeaning, simple thought. The small one's jolly nature was like the beauty of a storm-cloud. Kindly, happily even, the miskin called out a foe, and as the Pilgrim dashed them down, whispering prayers all the while, there came sharp commands. A mind for strategy and a body for stealth. True threat, the Pilgrim mused, awaiting the next order. And yet, there was silence.

Across the way their darkly clad companion moved in a familiar way to them. The Pilgrim paid little mind to the Man with an Ear to the Wind, what had his name been? Out from the corner of his eye a figure more colourful than the rest emerged some paces away. Too lively and natural for a villager, he thought, either a new adversary, or the Northerner. Isha's calls informed him of the latter, but a foul breeze froze his eyes. He felt the closeness of his comrades. Not their energies or auras, as Sifu could very clearly, but he felt them as the only ones' of their kind would.

As the four converged, dark others surrounded them. The fire at the center of the village jumped to another building and spread. Tattered, contorted villagers blocked the path between the village and the road. Behind the sinister group a red fog, and a haze of another fainter hue, thickened. Despair rapped on the Pilgrim's spirit. Building smoke, a foul fog, demon-touched men and women converging for blood. Tainted always thirsted for destruction. For death. He'd ushered the group here in good faith. Thought the road might have brought them by a village in need of a little help. Not a place infested by darker spirits. The Pilgrim looked to Isha in his silence. Despite the Pilgrim's anguish the miskin peered ahead, eyes full of hope. When he sought whatever the little one saw he found himself gazing ahead, opposite of the road, toward the mountains. Though a fog collected between here and there, it was less thick, even less sinister than that all around the village.

"I see the way, Isha," the Pilgrim sighed, hands tightening around the hilt of his blade, "Yet, a strange feeling comes with it. What other choice do we have?"

With this, the Pilgrim raised his sword. By now the villagers were quickly approaching and only moments away from striking distance. Either they fought however many tainted beings roamed here, or they run toward the mountains. What the tainted villager dubbed the origin of this evil. He knew no other choices.

Blade waving above his head, the Pilgrim shouted, "Look! Our foes come with a sinister fog, all around, but less toward the mountains. Shall we try, or shall we fight?"

Even as his words went quiet the foes approached. In case his comrades voted the latter, he struck a nearby villager rather than step back. Skin parted about the thigh and they staggered a moment. Before his second attack could launch a rusted edge shot through the villager's chest. A woman, mud stained shawl bunched about her shoulders and shading her face, stood among the tainted. Her halberd pierced entirely through the chest and reached toward the Pilgrim. With no other choice he hopped backward. A quick motion of the sword deflected the point of the halberd, cutting again into the villager. Admittedly out of fright, the Pilgrim lowered his sword sent a straight on kick into villager's knees. When the man collapsed forward, the halberd lowered toward the earth with them. Isha shouted, calling attention to the woman's exposed defenses. He swung once more, this time left to right, low to high. A dark line appeared on her clothes from her lower, left hip on a steep path ending where her neck fed into her right shoulder. She projected her chest out in a moment. Confused, he guessed, though he imagined agony might be truer. The thought weighed him. Doing pain upon another. Again, Isha shouted, but this time the Pilgrim was too slow. He fell hard against the ground. Summoning whatever strength the taint bestowed upon her, the woman had used the skewered villager like a hammer. Now, the Pilgrim lay on his back, sword up parallel to his shoulder in order to keep the bastard away. He assumed Isha lie between his shoulder and the earth. Before the woman would skewer him as well, the Pilgrim twisted, pushing the villager aside while also nicking the man's neck. Again the halberd followed the villager, falling aside. This time the woman left it be, instead kicking the wooden body of the weapon and snapping it into two. In one motion she brought down the jagged wood. It pierced the caftan, pinning him down and catching a bit of skin despite his attempt to evade. The Pilgrim grabbed the wood and jerked it from the ground. The woman watched as her weapon slid in her palms, into her face. He didn't see exactly where the blow landed, but it sent her back. She fell limp.

The Pilgrim sat up, preparing his sword. One arm remained touching the ground if indeed Isha had fallen nearby and again needed a shoulder. Villagers neared them, a few on each side, enough to convince the battle-weary wanderer to remain down. He wondered if another might come to assist them. If not, he expected to cut many legs out before his enemies finally overcame him. He'd use his body to shield the miskin, convincing himself that it'd allow enough time for the small one to dig an impromptu bunker. A dream. Something he knew unlikely to pad his karma. To guard against the reality that, without help, he might soon face death. Could Sifu see him now?

[Nemaisare]

“Oh… Lovely…”

For the moment, the ordinarily loquacious miskin was left with very few words of any use as he stared up, over the pilgrim’s shoulder, at a face not even a mother would love. For indeed, no mother could have birthed such a thing. Thankfully, the initial trouble was dealt with before he could pull himself together, else he and the pilgrim would have been in dire straits. He shuddered at the unnatural angle and loose wavering of that unhinged jaw as it swayed before snapping shut again. It struck him then, as though the world had slowed, that he ought to warn the man lifting him from the ground. Or find out where that sharp spike had come from. It would be best, he had time to think, that it hadn’t come from Arlyne or He Who Lies. Better, if they, at the least, hadn’t walked into this living charnel house.

But then time started moving again and he didn’t have any left to look around or do anything other than shout as the palm beneath him shook, fingers closed and he found himself tumbling against a thumb. The fleshy pad there cushioned his fall, but now Isha’s little heart was beating fast enough to draw death close with the double drumming in his ears. If he expired before this was through, at least he’d have learned the truth of that little tale he’d once heard about every living being having a set number of heartbeats. Gasping as his flesh and bone cage rattled him about some more, he finally crawled and fell flung his arms around a finger, dragging his head out to see the ground very dizzyingly drawing away. but no, he couldn’t afford to give in to nausea now, nor to his situation. He was small and caught until the man remembered the miskin in his hand, but he could still see, and he had a voice. Without thinking, he used it. “At your feet, man!” The shadowbeast, claws raised, shriveled into dust and vapour as a blade pierced it from above. He’d felt that movement, and then he’d seen the result of his warning.

He looked about again, green eyes narrowed against the smoke. He called another warning, and again the hand and body holding him shifted, again the threat was nullified. He grinned and whooped, turning the exultation into another warning as the villagers around them pressed in close. It seemed, for the moment, that he’d caught that second wind he’d been hoping for. Adrenaline was as good as a long day’s rest just now, and he couldn’t deny that it was rather exhilarating to deal human sized damage to human sized beings, even if it was through the hands of another. The man was listening to him! And he knew how to fight. A useful combination for staying alive, so he figured.

“Arlyne! Liar! Eyes open! Watch them shades! Their necks, Northman! Nothin’ else, strike ‘em in th’neck.” His voice was growing rough, and he doubled over coughing after that long round of instructions, not even certain if he’d been heard or if he’d guessed rightly. He and his, they knew what walked in the shadows or drifted about on the wind, they knew the old ones and the distant ones, the forgotten things the world sheltered, but they didn’t often come face to face. And it wasn’t exactly a good time for studying the villagers for symptoms or common traits that might give away what they were, or had become.

When he lifted his head, the same dismal scene the pilgrim looked on greeted him, save for one important distinction. In his eyes, there was also a way out. He tried to tell him, but nothing emerged from his mouth louder than a croak, so instead, he pinched the man’s skin and pointed. Through the fog to the mountains, he did not know what was there, but he was sure it must be better than standing where they were. The hand he was on lifted, and he was back to perching on a shoulder as the pilgrim gripped his sword in two hands now, acknowledging the path Isha had found and agreeing that it might well be their only hope. What other choice do we have?

“A bad one.” The words rasped beneath the other’s raised voice as he addressed their companions in this struggle, and Isha didn’t doubt that he’d not been heard. But as the man renewed the fighting, he swallowed quickly, struggling to wet his throat and wishing he’d not let his stick drop in that first jolt. Not that he could have done much with it. At least now he had two hands to hang onto the pilgrim’s collar with as the fellow jumped back and neatly took Isha’s feet out from under him. He scrambled back up, using whatever breath was still left to him to try and rid them both of a real menace. “Catch ‘er now!” He didn’t wait to see the result of that painful roar as he found his perch again, but instead looked for the other two. Had they heard?

What he saw in their place was a flying villager, stuck like a pig and coming straight for them. “Shi-Duck!” They didn’t. He rode the pilgrim to the ground, bending his knees and leaping clear just before the man hit. He felt the wind it raised up and grimaced at the hefty thud the contact produced even as he rolled to his feet and looked about wildly for cover. The first he found turned out to be feet that shuffled and tried to step on him, the second was gold and grey dusted, the pilgrim! He slipped over a bit of blood, rushed past a splintered pole and over a dead man’s boo- then skidded to a halt and went back to the pole. Splinters were sharp… He leapt up to reach it, opening the slice he’d got from the grass earlier and ignoring that pain. Then he struggled, breath coming out in wheezing gasps, to break off a needle thick point, as far around as his fingers could comfortably grasp, but a little too jagged to be a good grip. Still, better than nothing and when he finally got one snapped off in his hand, he hefted it with a determined pleasure. That would do…

By the time he dropped back to the ground and made it to the pilgrim’s side, the woman seemed to have been dealt with. No thanks to him. He should have seen that strike coming sooner, but it was done now. He scrambled up the arm conveniently still on the ground, not even stopping to wonder why the man was still sitting down until he was by his ear. “’Ere now, northman, are ye hurt?” Craning his neck just so, he could see a bloody tear in his clothes, but he wasn’t sure to whom the blood belonged. “Fine. Up! Up and run! En’t no stoppin’ ‘ere. They’ll eatcha, y’know, they catch ye.” That was a bit of a white lie, but if it gave the man wings, who was he to complain?

Whether the man had only been waiting for him, Isha didn’t know. He’d thank him later regardless, if they lived through the day. But not now, there was a matter of survival to deal with first. He was staring into a crowd of legs right now. All shuffling closer, it wasn’t a matter of slow wits or dulled bodies making them move like that, it was the unfamiliarity of those within working with what they’d found. If they waited too long… the creatures wouldn’t be confused forever. Now, he dropped quickly into his lap and with all the ease of long practice thieving from big folk, slipped beneath the satchel cover and fell out of sight. The man wouldn’t need to worry about him anymore, all he had to do was run as fast as he could towards that thinner patch of fog without dropping his bag. Since it was already around his shoulders, Isha figured that wouldn’t be too hard. And any wandering hands would be met with a stab from his splinter. his voice rose through the material, thin and strained, but still barely audible before another coughing fit took him. “So, move!”

[Closetmonster]

Arlyne caught sight of the Northerner through an attacking line of villagers, his spear raised, also rushing into the fray. His heart lifted at the thought that they were, together, capable of making a break in the wave of bodies. Legs and arms moved in a jerky motion and under all, the shadows began to coalesce, gather substance, and reach to trip up anyone near enough. It was a good thing then, that sometimes, those legs were those of the villagers.

As he drew the second sword, reaching the attacking villagers who seemed primarily focused on the North Man and his small charge, Marie filled the blades, her soul dividing between the pair. It was almost anticlimatic how the blue light dissipated and left behind what seemed nothing but slender, fragile bits of metal.

The weapons were many things, but fragile was not one of them. The first cut through a man's body and the blades, given strength by both Arlyne's arm and the spirit of a long dead woman, slid not easily, but well, through the upper torso of the body. Arlyne spun and thrust the other sword into the breast of a second villager even as he left the first to topple.

The third villager he came across was not as easily bested, for this one turned, a small girl, and leapt with inhuman ability to the side, Arlyne's sword passing through where she'd stood but a half heart beat prior. Arlyne twisted and pursued her, only to realize as he did, that the villager he'd run through showed no ill effects. His attention on the others of his party broke while the nearest villagers turned to him. Marie's awareness of the spirit world was working in his favor, yet even she could not be all places at once as he found himself fast in need of all of his faculties to just remain free of their attackers.

Above it all, he heard a cry to run. Before him, the North Man went down and Arlyne cursed that they would lose a companion so readily after having just found him. No doubt, the small one was with him and two souls for all of the ones before him, did not seem a just transaction.

Having been too involved in the fight to have even taken note of there being any other way around, Arlyne nevertheless made his way toward the fallen ones, seeing that He Who Lies was not idle either. A sword thrust did little to slow the hoarde, but, he found, a quick high cut through the neck, so that head flew from shoulders, worked just fine. The cut proved more difficult to do and was not his usual fighting style, yet he dispatched two more shamblers even as the small girl darted around them and kept herself at sword's length.

She was, he noted easily enough, drawing him back out of the gathering, toward where a deeper shadow and fog waited. With a frustrated growl, he left off trying to deal with her, not content with the games of whatever had taken her body, and made his way back toward them all, where now he could see both Northerner and North Man. Beyond them, the fog was thin enough to allow light to flare and he noted that the others appeared to be making their way toward where the fog did not seem to want to go.

Or perhaps it was that the fog chose not to. Arlyne would have, had he had a moment to consider and time to consult, advised against running through the reaching lines of mist, set in many ways like a trap laid. No doubt, He Who Lies would have thought the same, both of them well aware of the tricks to guide an animal to its death. But perhaps there was little choice, for behind, the ruddy flare of fog pressed forward and Marie could not salvage all minds, or even promise his. To go back through that fog, to face one's demons while hounded on all sides by the possessed, promised a quick death. And while they still lived, there was always hope of finding another way forward.

Following, he skirted the attacking group which seemed less inclined to move toward the light, out of the smoke and fog. But it would not help those he traveled with. As each fought to remain alive, they had unfortunately not had opportunity to be a cohesive whole. Inwardly he cursed their willy-nilly actions, to go forth toward an unknown such as it was, as if they were somehow in no need of having a true plan. And what little plan they had, was thrown out the window at first glance, so that now they were forced to make up the dance as they went – not a one of them aware of the others' abilities as dancing partners.

The remaining sigil's power reached out and choked his throat. He clamped his teeth against it, not wanting another useless word to be thrown into the fray. What use did he have for direction at this time? Marie tore her edge through another villager's throat and his body count had risen to six, not enough to even put a dent in the gathering. As he turned to the next, a man with a large blacksmith's hammer, the word burst from his lips, a repeat of what had been said before, but at a volume even his throat could not create.

“A way!”

The last word rumbled into the earth and the villagers, as if cut from the trickle of power which moved them, paused, blinked. Arlyne did not pause, nor, he suspected, did his companions. For two eye blinks later, when the demonic crew shook themselves and resumed their attack, Arlyne was near enough to the northlanders to follow where they wished to go.

[Terminal]

He Who Lies, despite his rushed approach, was well thought out. Spearmen were typically only effective against lone opponents or when operating as a line - a single spearman attempting to take on a horde by himself was doomed to failure. He Who Lies was not a typical spearman - he knew how to fight groups, and his weapon was keen. And while not the same as the beings he now fought, he had been forced to trade blows with Barrow Haunts before, and knew the rule: Only the head was a reliable target. If he tried to simply impale the villagers, he would be surrounded and beaten down.

So he came in to meet the creatures with a deceptively gentle swing of his weapon, the long blade cleaving neatly if not cleanly through the neck of one of the men as he turned to faced the Northerner. He Who Lies pulled the weapon back and quickly jabbed another in the throat, hoping for a decapitation - unfortunately he failed to make a complete cut. When the villager fell anyway, He Who Lies felt great relief and surprise; his foes were clearly not as formidable as Barrow Haunts. They were numerous and driven by a dire force, though. Two moved in unison to seize the blade of his spear, uncaring of the grievous injury it inflicted upon them while another moved to strike the Northerner down with a farming sickle. He Who Lies managed to rip the blade free, a task which should have been effortless but was hampered by the villagers jamming the very bones of their hands against the blade to halt its retreat. The sickle-wielding assailant raised his weapon, too close for the blade of the spear to threaten. He Who Lies was forced to demonstrate that a spear was not merely a spear, but a staff, sending his assailant tumbling to the ground by thrusting the length of the weapon forward and halting the arc of the villager's arm, followed by a sweep of the spear's end, bringing it in contact with the villager's head. Backing away as he did so, He Who Lies then levered the blade of the spear - now behind him - forward again in a wide cleaving motion that beheaded one of the many foes before him, followed by another jab that felled yet another. As he marched grimly onwards, He Who Lies paused momentarily to stomp on the downed villager's face - tendrils of burnt darkness had been spewing from his mouth.

The Northerner heard a great, rumbling shout course over the heads of the villagers, though he misheard and did not catch its meaning. Looking back up, expecting more villagers and uncertain as to whether he could fend many more off, he was greatly relieved to find them milling about in a confused state of torpor. He took the opportunity to search for Arlyne - who, thankfully, was skirting the crowd and approaching him. That was good - but he also saw the pilgrim, sitting on the ground with most of the horde pressing down on him. His sense told him to leave the wanderer to his fate, but he drew the line at leaving the man and his smaller charge to die just because they had inconvenienced him as greatly as they did. He was pragmatic, not cowardly nor without valor. But the prospect of cutting through the horde was grim, and he desperately looked for anything about that might aid them. But where he looked, he saw naught but ill news. The red mist from earlier was closing around from seemingly every direction, and more shapes and villagers appeared to be pressing in along with it. Only one path, lit by the sun as it shone over the mountains, remained opened...

He Who Lies quickly looked to the shadows from the burning house - they were pressing at the edges of the light like water at the shoals of a beach. And the pressing figures at the edges of the mist bore twisted forms like that of the man from the back alley - bearing cracks and jagged edges, with the coloration of burnt and shedding charcoal. The beings were clearly repulsed by light, which left only one clear path available to the small group. It reeked of a trap, and it also reeked of extreme inconvenience given that the mountains were in the clear opposite direction of the Horror. Still, what else could they do? Fighting twisted villagers and wraiths in an ever-encroaching field of haunted fog was the errand of a dead man. No, it was much more likely that the village itself had been the trap. Why else would the numerous beings within allow the three (and some change) of them to venture so close before revealing their true nature? The trap was sprung. It was time to break free of it.

He Who Lies circled the crowd, closing the distance with Arlyne while reaching into his robes and drawing forth a talisman from his robes. One of many he carried, talismans were a unique form of Northern sorcery not known of to a great extent beyond the Great Northern Desert - He Who Lies had no doubt that with the recent incursion of the Empire into Northern territory, they would be branded as black arts. It wasn't an entirely undeserved label, given the manner in which the things were made and used, but He Who Lies found the costs of using them to be acceptable. The one he would use now was made for signalling in heavy storms - if the creatures surrounding them were truly repulsed by light, let it be.

"We need to clear the path for them." He said simply upon closing the distance with the dark swordsman. "Form with me, we shall strike these piteous souls down. Be ready to run for the mountains." The Northerner pressed the talisman - a length of what looked to be white silk with an esoteric pattern of crawling, inky text that seemed to lash out at the eyes and were painful to even look at - against the shaft of his spear and then brought the haft of the weapon down against the ground.

The village square was bathed in an intense and deep red light as a plume of angry, volatile red shot from the tip of the Northerner's spear and into the sky, piercing through the smoky haze above and dispersing it. The runic symbols that marked the spearman's robes had also begun to glow a violent red hue, and the man raised his spear and charged forth towards the crowd of possessed villagers to cut them down and to aid the pilgrim - hopefully with Arlyne at his side. And hopefully with the creatures retreating from his alit visage, else his charge would be a short-lived one.

[Shon Harris]

From the corner of his eye the Pilgrim saw the Northerner's charge. Cutting down the tainted here and there with looping, wide strikes, the warrior created a zone of safety to their body. He only watched this a second before the weight of Isha is in his pack triggered him. The Pilgrim brought his blade into action once more. First he jumped to his feet, kicking back an approaching tainted, before positioning his sword. A number of the tainted lost their patience, though their minds for killing seemed just as sharp, and two lunged forward. Stillness broke and the Pilgrim's steel jabbed twice. Each fell, one with an eye cut through, another a small slit of light showing through their brow. He brought the blade down this time, advancing forward, and produced two swooping strikes. A few bodies on each side cut open, some more lethal than others, but the force and spin of the blade had them reeling. This time the Pilgrim jogged forward, his northern kin's path now parallel with his own. He hadn't the time to look about for the dark one with hordes ebbing and flowing like waves upon the sea.

Without their breaths the two made it, the Northlander and Pilgrim. They stood with some distance between them between two buildings. Together they formed a sort of gate dotting the edge of the village and the beginning of the path to the mountains. Between them and the approaching dark one were those remaining tainted, whom their ally was skillfully dispatching. He knew dark companion held mystic qualities. A feeling, something he was trained to sense and identify quickly before such might become a threat. To simply stand and watch might mean putting them in an odd position. The dark one hadn't performed anything to prove such abilities, at least not immediately in front of the Pilgrim. To stand and reveal, or risk livelihood in the rush, neither was too comfortable for the Pilgrim to allow. He wouldn't be the reason the dark one would be in such a position.

Drawing his sheathed blade from out his belt, the Pilgrim set its end to the ground. He drew a line in the dirt from the edge of one building to the start of the next. By the end of it he murmured a few words, tucked away his sword, and reached into his pack for a small pouch. Somehow he'd paid little mind to see if Isha remained there or not. Instead he focused on a quiet chant as he sprinkled finely ground powder atop the line. Absolute focus. No mind to the northerner, to where Isha may be, not even to the tainted, some of which some yards away. Upon finished the line he drew a small bell from the same pouch and rung it once. At this point, the Pilgrim returned to the situation, setting his things away as the powder set into the line took on a mahogany hue.

One of the tainted tempted the line in the sand, disregarding the strange business. A light touch of the hand, before a bumbling shoulder, and the possessed flesh fell onto the Pilgrim's side charred. Smoke lifted from the blackened, glistening skin, which appeared to have caught fire. Yet, there was no fire, no burning -- merely the aftereffects. The Pilgrim assumed his darkly clad comrade saw this. Quiet, he looked back the Northerner too, a faint smile spread across his face. Theatrics were all well and good, but like any bit of surreal action, it'd take some explanation.

The Pilgrim looked into the horde, spotting the nearing mystic, and shouted, "Don't hesitate. The tainted have to fear, not you. That which lights this fire I doubt rests in you." And if it does, then their party will suffer no great loss.

A macabre thought, but the Pilgrim understood this wall to purge a demon's touch. Like ignition powder and a spark, tainted flesh goes white with heat, depending on the severity of course. A small touch might mean a small burn, infestation produced what lay next to him now. A demon's touch was no small matter. It stayed with you, grew, and changed you.

"When he comes through we should move. I see a patch of trees between the fog, I doubt they'll make it so far."

[Nemaisare]

All was darkness and noisy chaos from within the confines of the Pilgrim’s bag. Isha tried to sit still through the bouncing turmoil, clutching his heavy splinter and watching the flash of light between flap and bag as it grew and shrank, with every jolting step the Northman took. There was something soft on one side, and something hard on the other, and his throat was itching while his chest ached. It did not make for nearly as comfortable a ride as a shoulder, but it was safer. Or so he tried to tell himself as he waited tensely for some jerk on the strap or a sharp blade to come slicing through the contents. The truth was, he could die as easily in the dark as he could in the fog, he’d just see one death coming. And the agony of the unknown was almost enough to urge him from hiding when all motion suddenly ceased.

But instinct reminded him that caution was the better part of valour, and if the creatures were uninterested in bags, he might go unscathed if he remained within and undetectable. Or, he could climb free and help his companions… The choice remained his and they might well need him, though he heard nothing but muffled panting and a scraping sword. And they were moving again, a little more leisurely now, the swaying had picked up a rhythm that didn’t jab whatever sharp corner was digging into his ribs further in. He breathed more easily then, and shifted, climbing onto the softer material. It felt like a small bag, and some sort of meal perhaps. It wasn’t loose, but it gave beneath him, and he couldn’t feel any lumps, no, no make that one lump. Hard, beneath the fine leather. He sat against it, and then went tumbling for a corner when light flared above him and then grew instantly shaded.

Isha yelped as he rolled onto his back, this time, he’d found something a little harder to land on, and stared at the hand that reached in to drag out his comfortable seat. It was the Pilgrim’s, so he didn’t feel any need to scramble up and try stabbing it, but he would have appreciated some warning. Then again, it wasn’t like he’d asked to hide out in here.

Everything went dark again when the flap fell back down, and he sighed, rolling over and glaring at whatever was beneath him. Felt like rocks, but what lump of a swordsman would wander around carrying rocks? Rocks were for slings or kids with a trapped stray dog. This man, as far as he knew, didn’t have a sling. Curious now, even in the midst of the fuss about them, he quickly searched until he found the drawstring and then almost stuffed a hand inside before he remembered that sticking your hands into dark holes, even when the whole world was dark around you, wasn’t a very smart thing to do. The pieces didn’t feel alive or sharp or nothing, but better safe than sorry. Could be spicy enough to burn if he rubbed his eyes. Might be poisonous. You never knew what you might find in a human’s bags.

He was just thinking that maybe he could reach in and give them a feel, pull one piece out now the shadows were starting to make shapes in his eyes, when light poured in again and he narrowly avoided getting squashed by that other pouch. With a scowl clearly visible on his features, Isha leapt for the hand and caught hold of a finger, probably pricking the man a little with his makeshift weapon as it withdrew from the satchel. “Look here, Northman, warn a fellow next time ye’re like t’drop somat on ‘is head.” He swung up as the hand was lifted, grunting at the effort of hauling his body into a less dangerous position. He moved quickly, scrambling up the finger ladder until he could run over the back of the hand, up the arm and use wrinkles in the sleeve as hand and footholds until he was back to his favoured perch. Wheezing and clinging to his lapels.

When he looked down to see the charred remains responsible for the smell of burned roast, the little miskin couldn’t help losing his earlier irritation at being relegated to the status of baggage. His eyebrows rose and he shook his head at the grisly sight. “Shrikes, don’t tell me I was sitting anywhere near whatever done that.”

His voice emerged crackling, making it quite clear he was done with shouting for the time being, and he cleared his throat with a grimace before continuing to the matter at hand. “I’m with ye, anyway y’go, Northman. Only, next time, leave me t’th’scoutin’, aye?” His tone was wry, and a twist of his mouth made it clear that he was both thankful he hadn’t been left alone to do the scouting, but fully aware that they might have avoided this situation if he’d offered his plan all the sooner to them, before they’d split into pairs.

[Closetmonster]

Every man and woman, every being has a place in the universe where solidity, where reality, where selfhood become synonymous with Truth. Years ago, for Arlyne, this was the depths of the forest, where childhood, where innocence, where life abounded on every step, every breath. Years ago, Truth was the touch of a sister's hand, the laugh of a brother, the glance of a doting father.

How the years do change one.

Twin blades flashed, caught, swept through fabric, tissue, blood, bone. They killed cleanly, these instruments. With the light of concentration in his one functioning eye, the black clad swordsman slid into place beside his traveling companion. Leaving He Who Lies to guard along with the ghost of a dead woman his blind side, he bound himself to war and death in a land where death had obviously taken firm hold. Not a body was slain where he felt anything but pity. Every head dismounted from shoulders was a mercy, the souls of the folk bound to the earth no doubt cried in pleasure at that swift freedom.

With a certain nod of agreement and like a shadow, he followed the Northerner, unmindful of the spells woven into the air as each brought forth his own manner of battle. It was fate perhaps, which led a troupe of so apt warriors to this place at the this very time. That, or serendipity born from the simple fact that each of them must have survival writ into each cell of being to have come so far so alone.

The battle took over and Arlyne did not do more than acknowledge the fact their holy man had done something which would not harm them. If he were tainted, then at least his journey would be over, would it not? Without a thought, he came abreast of the Northerner and swept his blades into the gathered crowd. If the barrier which their newer companion had set held against the hordes, then all would be well. If not, then no doubt they would be overrun, despite their apparent abilities. They were in the end, only two men.

Behind his facial masking, Arly's teeth bared and he could hear the scream of his sister's spirit, her terror at the hellish beasts surrounding them spurring him to get to safety all that much more quickly. As they reached their companions, he stepped through the line, his foot catching on a charred body and punching through. A grunt of disgust broke from his lips and he pulled his foot out of the torso cavity of the dead creature, then turned to stare at the Pilgrim. He Who Lies had planned for the pair of them to clear a way toward the mountains. The plan was still a good one. Even more so with the deterrent of the Pilgrim's barrier.

“Shall we?” he panted, flicking a blade to clear the gore from it before he turned to ensure he had his Northerner counterpart with him still and that they were indeed making their way toward the pass.

[Terminal]

He Who Lie's eyes had not battened at the sight the line's power, and the explanation the pilgrim offered meant nothing to him. He supposed that, one way or another, it was best that he had already been on the far side of the line when the pilgrim had drawn it - his desire to test the will that lay within the line and how it might judge him was slimmer than a thread.

“I’m with ye, anyway y’go, Northman. Only, next time, leave me t’th’scoutin’, aye?”

"If you wish to scout, by all means, do so." The Northern gestured grandly towards the mountain passage. His tone was neither hostile nor overtly pleasant, but rather anxious if somewhat flat - in truth the man thought the motion rather prudent. If there was but one path forward, why not scout it? "It is time for withdrawal. Distance shall deter these wretches from pursuit, and we have a world of ground to traverse before the day has ended." The spearman errantly lopped off the head of one of the ghouls shambling for the line as he spoke before turning and beginning to head for the light, his own runic robes still aglow with the fiery power of the talisman born upon his spear hilt. He did not make it far - there was a loud screech, and the small girl that Arlyne had encountered earlier, possessed of inhuman agility and poise unbefitting of her countenance, was atop the roof of one of the adjoining buildings where the Pilgrim's line did not reach. With a vicious cry she flung herself from the roof upon the retreating Northerner.

He Who Lies was not one to be caught flat-footed - he intercepted the girl-turned-beast with a smooth pivot of his feet and let her leap upon his weapon. But, such had been nigh-reflexive - the Northerner did not realize his mistake until the monstrous shadow of a girl was already sliding down the haft of the spear: Only a strike to the head would fell these creatures. The wretched thing weighed down his weapon with her lithe mass, pulling herself forward - her body passed over the talisman that powered the Northerner's glowing visage, and as the esoteric symbols upon it were obscured by charred and blighted viscera, they faded. The bright red glow cast from the man's robes faded and receded, which the creature only took as invitation - it lunged upon his form like a wolf lunging up to take ahold of the neck of its fleeing prey. To his credit, he only stumbled as the frail being took ahold of his shoulders and squeezed with inhuman force.

There was a sickening crunching sound, and the spearman's grasp upon his weapon loosened as a sickened gasp drifted through the air. Through squinted eyes nigh-blinded with agony and fiery smoke, He Who Lies could see the dark being's jaw unhinging, with a stygian horror forming within. A lesser man might have given to despair then, but He Who Lies had not been graced by the Haggard Lord and chased after the Horror of the North just to be brought low by some pitiful husk of a monster. The tall man slammed his head down upon the creature's, causing a dry, rattling noise to echo forth from her. He gripped his spear once more, and simply turned the haft, forcing the monster to fall to its side - and then, with considerable effort, dragged the haft of the weapon free from the thing's body after stomping upon its skull.

"This is the last time I am ever chasing you into a burning village." The Northerner snarled at Arlyne with gritted teeth and furious eyes as his spear sagged in his grasp, the head of the weapon dragging in the dirt as he bore it along the ground, his arms lacking the strength to carry it. He was thankful that he turned away from his three companions as he spoke - no need to let them see his own look of disbelief.

'When am I ever going to take leave of my own senses to such an extent that I shall follow the damned fool into another burning village?' He thought incredulously as he headed for the sunlit path as hurriedly as he could.