The Prophecy

[MeinKampfyChair]

Meila listened as the Ascended deigan replied in rhymes once again. Zacharias and William... Once he finished his poem Meila smiled brightly and said, "William and Zacharias...My name is Meilaedia, but just call me Meila. Nice to meet you both!" Her gaze moved over to the third man there who had handed Zacharias a bottle of... Something. Obviously it was a liquid but what that liquid was she didn't want to think about it too much. That aside William turned to Zacharias and spoke again in his familiar rhymes. He told Zacharias what the old scholar of the manor as well as the others had spoke of earlier while she had been there. When William squeezed his robe once more like he had done so earlier, water splashed onto Meila's feet. She pouted only slightly since now her feet were cold. Water was better then blood and guts though.. Like all the gross entrails around them from a massacre which she thankfully hadn't been present in. One of the people from the manor had approached the group as well, yet was gone fairly quickly after he said his part.

One thing that caught Meila's attention though was that William really was planning on going through with the plan to head on off to Zerul. It seemed he wished for Zacharias to accompany him on the journey, too. If Zerul was where they were going to be going, perhaps she could assist them? If they wanted to learn more of the Withering then maybe... William continued to speak as the new-newcomer's form faded in the distance. She didn't catch what he said last though... Something about victory. Zacharias voiced his thoughts on the matter of the Withering's magical effects as well as asking a question in regards to what sorts of pain magicians felt if they had stronger magical prowess. Before she could ponder on just how many rhymes the Ascended deigan knew he walked over to a large corpse. He knelt down, obviously being careful not to make contact with any entrails on the grass and placed a firm hold on the blade which had been resting in the body. Meila winced a bit at the sound of the blade pulling away from the flesh, and William had returned to his spot next to Zacharias. His final words were that he had no problem if anyone wished to join them on their journey, but needed their own means of transportation.

Zacharias agreed to journeying to Zerul and added that he was glad that he'd be away from that Annabelle character. After suggesting that they return to the manor the True deigan turned to leave as did the other man who had been standing with them this time. Now it was just her and the Ascended deigan, William...

"Umm," she began, a tad nervous at what kind of reply she may receive, "So you and Zacharias are heading to Zerul, right?... To tell the truth, my father had actually caught that foul illness some time ago," she clasped her hands behind her back, "He recovered from it though about a month ago. I'm not so sure how knowledgeable he is on the subject, but if you wish to go to Zerul to speak with the scholars studying the illness.. Perhaps my father may be able to help too?..." she ended that phrase somewhat like a question. Though she isn't really familiar with these people she felt a need to help them, even if it was in a small way like this. Meila straightened up a bit and said once more, "Oh yes... You've been soaking wet this whole time. Here, let me help you with that!" The deigan girl extended her hands, and with a simple gesture a wisp of air came forth and picked up all the water from William's clothing. With another movement of her hands she tossed it away on the wind quite a ways from the pair. "Now you won't have to keep squeezing water out of your robe," she smiled happily.

[Dark Jack]

For what felt like impossibly long time, as if minutes, hours, days and weeks ticked by in seconds, Jaelnec just sat frozen in place, staring off into space where Annabelle had been just a moment ago, previous to her abrupt departure from the library. The strange numbness stayed within him, lingering in his bones and muscles so that Jaelnec had the odd sensation of suddenly no longer having a body - he could see his body, could see his chest heaving with his breathing and his arms move at his command, but he did not feel them at all. It was as if he was trapped in someone else's body, a mind imprisoned in a nerveless puppet, an automaton without purpose or feeling. The only thing that helped Jaelnec battle the madness rising in his consciousness, as his very being refused to accept this unfeasible state of existence, was the faint ache of his right hand. He could barely even feel that anymore, but little slivers of pain managed to penetrate the numbness and prove to him that he still existed, that he was still a mortal of flesh and blood. But even then the pain was not nearly as great as it should have been. He had heard the bones gruesome orchestra when the paladin had forced them back into place, and he knew that he should have experienced blinding agony, not just a slight sting. He should have been on his knees right know, vomiting from anguish, not sitting impassively staring into space, alienated from his own body.
But as much as the practicalities of the state of his own body bothered him, it was not what had thrown his soul into such turmoil that he found himself unable to act. To his inner eye, the image of Annabelle's face remained fresh and detailed, and his consciousness kept examining what he had seen occur when the paladin had stared so intently into his eyes. The shifting irises, the red glow... and then this unusual effect. He did not know much more about magic aside from what he needed to know in order to fight it, but he was positive that it would take an insanely powerful spell of illusion to induce such a state as the one he found himself in. And Annabelle had done it without even speaking a word that could have been arcane, and her hands had been clutching his face, making it impossible for her to weave symbols with them... she had done this without a spell, and without prayer - though he already knew that no Paladin of Liya had Favored power to do something like this. And her eyes...
His thoughts were so chaotic that he could not even keep up with them himself anymore, and as a thousand questions crowded together in his mind, they all blurred together in an unintelligible mental ruckus, until they all seemed to merge into a single question that ran in an infinite loop in his mind: Whatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwh atwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhat whatwhatwhat?

Sluggishly, the Nightwalker tried to stand, hearing and seeing his legs bumping against the edge of the table, seeing his left hand on the armrest of his chair, witnessing floor and ceiling suddenly switch places as the chair tilted and fell over, him crashing to the ground next to it - seeing and hearing it, but not really feeling it aside from as a distant tickling, as if something was just barely touching the tips of the hairs of his body. His sense of balance was completely gone, it seemed, and moving in general was extremely difficult when he could not feel what he was doing. His right hand helped - it still throbbed, like a beacon in the mist trying to lead him back to the shores of sanity, providing a single connection between his mental and physical selves.
He tried to rise from where he had fallen, and failed, not even getting to his knees before he fell over again, his eyes wide and staring, seeing the faces of those around him fly by as he involuntarily rolled onto his back. His eyes fixed on the flames in the fireplace, and he felt strangely mesmerized by the fact that though his vision grew failing and blurred, he did not feel the burning sensation that usually assailed him when he looked into the light. He mused for a moment, examining the dancing fire, and wondered if Annabelle had granted him a pass into the world of light he had been denied for so long, simply because of his heritage?

Tearing his gaze from the radiant fireplace at last, a big blind spot having formed in his vision, Jaelnec turned his head to look at Aemoten. He tried to speak, but he could not feel his tongue, his teeth, his lips... his words sounded halting and lisping, sometimes sounding entirely different from what they were supposed to.
"Helped me," he managed to say in a manner he figured would be at least partially comprehensible. "Don't understand... but helped. Could have killed. Didn't. Not... bad."

So many thoughts, so many questions, all garbled in his mind. So much he did not understand, so much he had to do, so many responsibilities burdening his young consciousness... It all crashed down on him now, everything he had taken upon himself these last couple of days, all the things he blamed himself for... the exhaustion exploded within him, the mental kind he could still feel, and the physical kind lost to him, and as he closed his eyes weakly, he fell asleep right there on the floor.

[Autumn Leaf]

William could feel light pressing against his infinitely vigilant gaze, and he went blind for a moment. He could see nothing as the treacherous sun beamed down on him once again, that thing that he had cherished and loved for so long he now cursed for interrupting him. William quickly shut his eyes tight as he could. He had not realized how close he had wandered to one of the many entrances to the cave as he had wandered last night lost. At least now he knew he needed to move in the opposite direction as that blazing ball, and away from the world that he had left those years ago for the one he held now. William wore the same cloak always, the black one with no decoration whatsoever. Simply there to disguise him if need be, and shield him from cold if he did not wish to feel it's sting. The difference now, however, was that the runeblade was nowhere to be seen. All about the cave entrance that was growing less illuminated by the moment as William moved away from it, the sword that he would hold so close was absent.

William's walk continued till finally he could savor the pitch blackness he had lived in for so long, and he smiled as he heard the voice of another off in the distance. In these narrow caverns, pinpointing the direction of a voice was sometimes rather difficult, but William knew much of the familiar marks. He had seldom seen them, but he felt them, the three stalagtites togethering going from biggest to smallest on his left, and his hand glided across the largest one's body. A boulder met his leather boot, and he smiled as he stepped around it and continued on. Dim light farther on, and the voice grew louder. He would not run, in case he tripped and was injured, but he did quicken his pace. A Nightwalker would see a cave that forked in three directions. However, in the rightmost cave, dim light shone, and William approached this one. A few paces down this path, and directly to his right, the place for a wooden door is carved out, though the door is wide open, and the light that he recalled as well as the voice grew stronger then ever.

William's transe was smashed by Meila's speech. He had heard, but not listened to what Zacharias had said, and so he replayed it in his head in the same way that a person would recall the number of times a beat is struck in order to count them. William realized then that he had not taken into account the condition of the group's health in his plan. They were all tired, and some were injured. William felt poorly for disregarding such a vital aspect these journeys would have to consider, and he internally frowned at himself. He could again hear Meila, but did not listen at first. He shook his head and his attention was thrown back to her just before a gust of wind flew by him swiftly, and he shivered. The wind had nearly completely dried his clothing, and for this William was grateful, but he did not like it when magic was used on him unless it was vital to his survival. Of course, it was unknown if perhaps in the near future, his cloak being dry wound indeed save his life, so he dismissed it as her trying to help and smiled as she spoke and he replayed what he had missed in his mind. She began with a nervous 'Umm' but continued with astounding information.

"So you and Zacharias are heading to Zerul, right?... To tell the truth, my father had actually caught that foul illness some time ago..."

William's heart sank at this thought. Her poor father, subjected to such a horrid death. It was one thing to see the statistics, but to hear of an individual who actual suffered and died from it was much more saddening. He continued his replay, and surprised William, which was not always easy to do.

"He recovered from it though about a month ago. I'm not so sure how knowledgeable he is on the subject, but if you wish to go to Zerul to speak with the scholars studying the illness.. Perhaps my father may be able to help too?..."

William's heart rose back up from it's lowered state and would have burst out of his left shoulder if his anatomy did not prevent such a thing from being possible. He smiled and placed a hand on Meila's shoulder.

"Come, inside, let us tell them
Perhaps now our plan may bend."

He guided Meila to the entrance of the manor, his massive runeblade pressed against his back still. He entered the mansion swiftly, and the dark hallway, though daunting, seemed oddly familiar. His mind's eye flashed back. As his hand glided over a table pressed against the wall of the hall, he felt a stalagtite instead. He continued, shaking his head, and his foot bashed against a bit of wood that William could not see, but felt as though it might have once belonged to a chair. He felt blind besides the light far on and to the right. William's mind flashed, and as he felt the wall of the hallway, stone glided underneaeth his gloved hands. His feet, pressing against a wooden floor, gave the sound of dirt and stone crunched beneath his boot. The light was bright and sound was great now, and he wanted to escape the memory. He quickened his pace, possibly leaving Meila behind who had completley left his thoughts, and he gripped the door frame and his foot stepped into the room, and a memory.

"William! Come here, let me show you..."

A hoarse voice called out to him. The Ascended Deigan brushed back the cowl on his cloak and looked on in the room, surrounded with tables covered with vials of all kinds of concoctions and ridiculous things. The eye of a tarke lay beside a Deigan's ear on one of the tables. A human arm and deigan arm lay side by side on the same table, as well as several other body parts and pieces of all sorts of different races. William was not disgusted by the sight, but rather by the smell. The candles that lay all about this room gave it just enough light to keep the eyes of the two mages protected from the light they were so unused to. William approached a figure leaning over a table that appeared to be covered in blood. The figure wore a similar cloak to William's, but on the back of the black cloak was the unmistakable sign of the Black Tribunal. William patted the man on the shoulder and then peered over it at the table. A goblin's corpse, torn up with guts hanging about and face rotted and nibbled by the rats that inhabited the cave, lay there motionless, even more grotesgue then it had when it was alive if that was possible.

William swiftly turned around and peered back out the door he had just entered the populated room through, and the image of the piles of goblin a villager's corpses flew through his mind.

William curiously peered at the body, and backed away as the figure placed a hand against William's chest. The figure then also backed away himself, and pressed a hand on the bloodied, skeletal face of the goblin. He began to spit out powerfully sounding words, words that William understood some of but not all. The cavern began to swirl with a massive gust, the tables and vials shaking rapidly and the wind throwing back William's fellow mage's cowl to reveal gray hair falling down beyond his shoulders. The figure backed away, raising his hands high up now, the bloodied hands he held flew down and the gusts seemed to converge on the body, and the thing screeched. The corpse screamed out and William jumped, his heart skipping a beat. William had not seen this done before. He had seen undead, but not seen a corpse turned as this one was. He smiled at the power that one could weild with such magics, and his mage turned around and faced him as the goblin leaped up and began swirling about the room aimlessly, bleeding, limping, and knocking things over.

The face of the man was almost as horribly deformed as the goblin itself. It too was skeletal, and half of it was completely scarred with burns, blinded on that right side of his face. He spoke slowly and raspily as if the smoke from the flame that scarred him had found it's place in his body forever.

"Add this one."

William nodded and ran over to the goblin. He had encountered undead before, and this one was obedient to his master as most weak bodies were. The thing turned around sloppily as William approached, and the burned man spoke out loud, commanding it to follow William and do as he asked. The goblin made no further motion, it's rotten, empty eyes staring into nothing as it followed William to the exit of the room.

William turned back around to face the group, and felt bewildered. Jaelnec lay on the floor... Asleep? William's eyes danced around the room looking for some kind of reason, and he found none, but the smell of goblin corpse from his memory was overtaken with that of stew, and he began to search for the source. He barely recalled even gripping the bowl and spoon, but he knew he dashed by others and lifted it up, sniffing it and eating furiously and quickly. Something finally began to fill his stomach... His mind was not at ease now, and he could not gauge reactions or movements around him. His memory was obsessed with him, and would not let him leave. He could see the bodyparts of tarken and men and deigan across the table besides the source of the glorious aroma, and he lifted the bowl from the table and moved away from the table, eating closer to the door, leaning against the wall.

"Meila, this deigan girl
Has knowledge you all should heed
Her father is one who survived
This magical threatening disease."

[Shienvien]

"I... That..." she sounded uncertain, hesitating, as if fearing the reaction what would come to be if she finally admits the truth- about her powers, about her true nature... Whatever it was, she was unwilling to reveal it. For a second or two, silence ensued, but then she appeared to gather herself, as if finding new strength within her body: strength she no longer had thought she had.
There was a change in her posture, her head turning up and her eyes fixing themselves on his- involuntarily, Aemoten pulled himself back by an inch, leaning his body away from hers. For a moment his eyes flickered to the side, him instinctively not wishing to maintain an eye-contact for any longer than absolutely necessary, not after her display of what he perceived to be an extremely powerful kind of sense- and/or mind-control, furthermore of a kind he couldn't determine- it had neither been a power granted by the spirit favoring her nor was it the conventional magic he was familiar with, unless Annabelle had somehow overridden the need to incant or perform the spells. -That'd no doubt require an extremely skilled and powerful mage- but this far, the paladin hadn't displayed any kind of noteworthy magical prowess, rather none at all. Whatever it had been, Annabelle had either hidden this side of hers by not displaying any of her abilities of this kind and avoiding speaking of them or she had more simply not felt the need to uncover the more sinister side she had. Taking away a person's ability to feel pain, (Permanently? It was only a matter of time before a person like that would end up severely harming oneself by not realizing he's doing something damaging; that the damage is there or worsening.) but most likely it was not the peak of this sense- and possibly mind-bending quality. The only ones he had heard of possessing this kind of abilities were the Illusionists- if such even existed.
A mere fraction of a second later, his green- and brown-patterned eyes had found her face again, his look intent and expectant. This time, however, he was not looking directly at her eyes- which thankfully were their original silver-gray color, if those two things we related then hopefully indicating that she was currently not using her power- but rather at her face, fixing themselves on a vague point somewhere in between her eyebrows. Some kind of ungraspable connection floated about in Aemoten's mind, but he couldn't define it to himself. For some reason he vividly recalled the paladin talking to Thelos earlier, once even hugging him, whilst all the rest of them could at best only guess what the half-deigan half-demon attempted to tell them, save from the rather universally obvious gesture he had made when stating his name and the off-toned gurgling 'please' the Demonspawn had produced when he asked Aemoten for a lift. But even black magic required some performance or words being chanted, did it not?
The paladin's expression, however, was everything but promising. When before it had almost seemed that the woman was as if defeatedly ready to stop her dance in between saying nothing about who she really was, 'teaching' others and speaking in general terms of a person who was (tried hard to be?) a paladin of Liya, finally giving to personal notions, but nothing... The moment Aemoten's eyes found her face again, he could bury all hopes of it. It was not defeat he saw; it wasn't even confidence or determination to face whatever comes- it was defiance in its purest form, accompanied with the look of shock and confusion, both of which had been notably and suspiciously delayed. Judging by the look she gave him, one could almost assume as if he had just said something extremely insulting to her just moments prior, whereas he had only asked a honest question... A sincere and plain request to explain what had occurred, surprisingly neutral considering that the recipient had not only tried openly killing another of their group and hiddenly killing him, furthermore doing something she should on all accounts be unable to...
"That was ME aiding"- aiding? I am still not sure what you just did- "our LEADER."- then treat him as such- "Get some sleep. You must be too exhausted, having failed to realize that."
"My body might be tired and weary, but I assure you, my mind is still fairly clear. By the name of the Six-Eyed God, why to conceal the truth under retaliation, unless it's something worthy of hiding?" Aemoten looked almost tormented.
Annabelle's expression had meanwhile turned into a cold, if not threatening and angry one. There appeared to be no result in civilly talking to this woman, no matter how determined he was to solve this knot of misunderstandings and true offenses to the best of his abilities, as painlessly as possible. If she continues this way, she'd end up successfully killing at least one of them (and probably being stripped of Liya's powers on that occasion, like Gerald had pointed out) or managing to drive him mad and paranoid for good.
"Now, if you would excuse me, a lady needs her bath..." Without a further word she had went forward to down her bowl of stew, stood up and almost hurriedly exited the room. Aemoten took a step towards the door the same, but after a moment of hesitation, stopped, remaining to purposelessly stand in the middle of the room, halfway turning around and looking absentmindedly back at the table at which Jaelnec was still seated. He had asked him a question the same, though one of a different kind...

At first it appeared as if the Nightwalker tried to stand up, too, but before he had managed to detach himself from the chair the thing suddenly flipped, ending with both the now-upturned chair and the man lying on the floor. Mildly bothered if not alerted by the sudden distraction and the loud sound it brought along with the chair crashing into the stone floor, Aemoten turned around to slowly cover the small distance to the table, mechanically bowing down to lift up the misplaced chair without any particular reason other than the sudden restless need to do something, his mind at once strangely empty of thoughts aside of some sort of queer urgency as he saw their self-nominated commander attempting to get up without any success to it, finally falling over to his back and wide-eyed staring- if he was even seeing anything by that point- straight at the fireplace; a thing which a Nightwalker certainly shouldn't be doing... And if the lack of pain could explain that, then why couldn't he get up!? Suddenly, the alarming realization that Annabelle had done far more than just removing the Nightwalker's ability to sense pain settled in and Aemoten immediately, with all the past paranoia which had accumulated during the time which he had spent alongside Annabelle gathering up into one cluster, feared the worst...
For a moment he was unsure of what to do, but then the Nightwalker- much to Aemoten's relief- turned his head to look at him instead, apparently managing to recognize him to at lest some extent. Jaelnec attempted to say something- to him, it seemed- but as his words came out as incoherent and lisping as those were, he couldn't tell out a single one for certain at first; kneeling down to hear better he finally managed to decipher a few independent bits, but with those being as detached as those were, he couldn't tell whether he understood those correctly or whether he put those together the right way or whether the Nightwalker even was fully conscious at that point and thinking clearly, meaning that the words could have meant practically nothing sensible... Helped? Was this the sarcasm of a-... Or? Cold have killed? Did Annabelle try to kill Jaelnec, too, not succeeding to? That Annabelle hadn't managed to kill the Nightwalker was not bad? What!?
"That is no aiding..." Aemoten muttered slowly in a low voice, "I..." He fell silent, noticing that Jaelnec's eyes had closed- it appeared that he had passed out; at least the Nightwalker was not dead. -Or wasn't dead yet, the more pessimistic part of Aemoten filled in the gap.
For a moment he attempted to wake the other man- in vain, then glanced back over his shoulder, at the door, and, not wishing to leave the Nightwalker exactly where he was at the moment- lying randomly in the middle of the room- moved the limp body next to the wall, setting him down over there, wanting to spend no more time over it than necessary nor having too much strength left to spare over things which weren't actually improving much. He didn't mend the damage done to Jaelnec's hand right then- for one Jaelnec hadn't given his permission for it, furthermore Aemoten was rather convinced that a few damaged bones in one's hand were the least of his concerns now.
The next moment the foreigner had rushed out of the door, figuring that both Zacharias and Immanuel had seen what happened and hence didn't require him explaining anything to them.

Aemoten half walked, half-ran past the paladin's two 'followers' carrying in some additional tableware- whatever they were, they weren't of concern right now. Should he have warned the others about the stew, just in case? Even when the whatever happened to Jaelnec was most likely the result of Annabelle's this-far underlying ability, he couldn't have been certain the soup was safe, too- No time for it now, probably. He had to count on their own intelligence.
A moment later he was past the horses, moving forward in the corridor with his steps echoing back from the walls, floor and ceiling like before- but he barely noticed it anymore.
Say, if Annabelle is one of the Illusionists, what can he do then? He didn't know what those truly were, no-one did. The Karakon called them beasts or Ascenretril, and claimed they neither divine or demonic by origin. That was as much as they had managed to get and this was where the certain knowledge ended and the myths and assumptions began- the most common theory being that they were simply mages of some rare barely-known race which just happened to have a strong natural predisposition for or lasting tradition of creating illusions and, in the more far-fetched versions, outright controlling minds and even having people's bodies simply shutting down at their will. Most of those hypothetical beings were said to be not outright tending to be evil, however being rather exceptionlessly sadistic and easily amused, not caring much is someone simply happened to die as a consequence of their actions. Annabelle had taken the effort of looking directly into the Nightwalker's eyes- did it mean that the power was stronger this way and some effect of it could be avoided when he didn't meet her gaze? Hadn't those eyes flashed once before, in the battle or before it? Aemoten couldn't remember.
What was she? What had she done to Jaelnec?
Aemoten cleared his head, forcefully removing the intruding thoughts as he strode forward and finally noticed Annabelle's distancing figure in front of him. He further added up in pace, his one hand automatically seeking out the sword's handle as he got close; the other was layd on the woman's shoulder, (that connecting to her fine arm, not that of the arm Zacharias had immobilized earlier) forcing her to turn around and face him as he caught up. Now he was very notably avoiding meeting her eyes with his. For a second he simply stood looking at her, breathing heavily after having chased her down and having caught up with the paladin before she managed to complete her flight. She was holding spare clothes, as if she truly only had wanted to take a bath.
Looking at the face he had found being rather beautiful before her traits and deeds had banished the whatever more shallow qualities he had, filling him at first with the lack of passion and caring, then ever so briefly lightening up with the understanding that perhaps he had made a mistake silently holding long negatively-undertoned tirades in his head, but then that had quickly disappeared with her insulting and trying to kill Zacharias, trying to kill him and now this...
Now he, however, wasn't simply looking stern and agitated; he was looking almost bewildered, horrified before he could get his expression under control again, his eyes which so determinedly stayed away from her silver ones opened wider than usual, even the hand the fingers of which were locker over her shoulder trembling a little, whilst the other was almost painfully clenched over the handle of the sword, the hard metal being of no comfort; he was breathing through his mouth.
-For so long had he feared madness, insanity, his perception of reality faltering, his senses giving off or him trading those away in a moment of unusual weakness, for so long he had had an almost irrational albeit controlled fear of mind-control in any form for that reason... And now he was facing- almost set against- a human, being, whatever, who was more powerful in that area than the far most of whom he had seen. She wasn't positively minded against him, even trying to kill him- and for the tricking of senses she hadn't even been using magic in the way he knew it to usually work and look like.
After a few moments he managed to gather himself enough to force a certain calmness and resolution upon himself... Menepth had said he had unusually resilient mind, he had admitted a normal human mind was not supposed to endure several deaths, had he not? Comes what comes, if she wanted, she probably could have done it earlier- instead of trying to simply strangle him, for example. Maybe, just maybe he can hope to resist, if he knows what to expect...
"What did you do to him?" his voice had practically turned out as hoarse whisper; the next it had shifted to an unusually deep, monotonous one, "I've never seen something like you do... Aided... From what I could see he was incapable of even standing up before he simply collapsed where he was and muttered something about you being able to kill him if you wanted before he passed out. You are either giving me a good explanation of what exactly you just did or you're coming with me and reversing it right now, assuming that the whatever you did hasn't killed him by then."

[xbriannova]

The foreigner, Aemoten, caught up with Annabelle, and in one swift motion, rushed up to her and manhandled the lady, forcing another confrontation. She was less than impressed with his daring stunt, her patience tested- The lady actually had every intention of taking a long, hot bath, away from the physical and political mess that was going on within and without the group. The prejudice displayed towards her did not help matters.

The way he conducted himself however, was intimidating to say the least. His words were assaults, threats to her well-being and Annabelle, having fought one too many battles, could not contend with him, not anymore- She was just so tired, desperate for a release one way or another. The Paladin had doubts however, that her life was being threatened. Should she be touched one way or another, retribution would hunt her assailant without rest, be it in the form of her soldiers of light, or Jaelnec, or even her fellow Pelgaidians, be they other Paladins of Liya or Reina, or simply citizens devoted to her memory. Moreover, by now, the alien before her must be suspecting her of being a deadly creature of some sort by now.

"What did you do to him? I've never seen something like you do... Aided... From what I could see he was incapable of even standing up before he simply collapsed where he was and muttered something about you being able to kill him if you wanted before he passed out. You are either giving me a good explanation of what exactly you just did or you're coming with me and reversing it right now, assuming that the whatever you did hasn't killed him by then." Aemoten had said. There was no chance she was doing either, yet there was no strength left in her... Working on just willpower alone, Annabelle, however, chose not to give in but to rebel instead, not that Aemoten was an authority of any kind. He had no right nor the power to bend her to his will anyway- Especially when he had no evidence to prove what she did to be wrong.

Putting on a rather pompous and unafraid, confident front, in contrast to the pain, desperation and exhaustion she was feeling inside, there was so many opportunities for her to put up ruses and acts that she was getting better at it, though far from the standards of the past, "And what will you do should I choose neither? Hit me?" Annabelle made sure her own words were backed by weapons concealed behind her own teeth, showing absolute signs of what she would do to make a stand, while playing at Aemoten's likely reluctance to do beyond throwing words at her. At first, she was more calm and confident than anything, but by the middle, she was leaning towards being cunning and understanded as the darkness within her was trickling through her battered resistance again- Which was aided by her recent bout of using that power and acting less than honorably. A seducing smile filled with daggers escaped her everchanging mask of a face as she went on in this direction without knowing it, "Go ahead, please do. Try me, try striking a lady, if that be your pleasure."

Yet again, she was becoming consumed by her inner enemy, what she refer to as the darkness. Thankfully, by now, she was able to control it somewhat, having become accustomed to how it strikes her without warning. The darkness had been increasing in intensity as of late, ever since that time a few months ago, when she had that argument with her husband, one of many that was about her going off without thinking whenever she was called in as a Paladin, despite having retired numerous years ago. That was the first time she had experienced anything like this, beyond the usual easy-to-defeat dark temptations. The next time it happened was two months ago, when her child had stolen her sword to play with- Annabelle went berserk on her daughter, going so far as to slap her, but apologised as soon as she recovered from the phenomenon. It went on in increasing frequently, happening a month ago, 3 weeks ago, then once every four days, three days, two days...

There has to be a way to delay or even stop outright the inevitable, Annabelle thought, but in the meantime, she had to deal with Aemoten first.

[Shienvien]

For the message Aemoten's words carried, the woman seemed strangely little bothered: it felt as if he had just told her that walking off on all the others in such an abrupt manner was impolite, rather than announcing that an another member of their group, furthermore the only one- aside of the Demonspawn Thelos and the paladin's two followers or slaves-automatons- towards whom she had shown any kind of (misplaced or at least mis-manifesting) seemingly-honest kindness and care had just collapsed without a further notice, as a result of something Aemoten could only perceive to be the direct consequence of Annabelle using her indeterminable power. -Or at least he still couldn't give any plausible explanation to what he had seen this far.
-He had expected her to be at least shocked if she had tried to truly aid the Nightwalker and overdone whatever she had attempted- meaning that her reaction only served to nail his suspicions down further. She wasn't even surprised. Had she expected the very effect, hence?

The paladin looked like he had confronted her about something, the subject deeply harming her pride and requiring her to stand up for herself. True to say, he had confronted her, but only because he sincerely thought that the lives of his companions were realistically at stake, rather than over a question of honor and customs. The amount of stoic, self-justifying audacity this woman had was simply astounding.
"And what will you do should I choose neither? Hit me?" She was confident in herself and made it well clear that she very much intended to retaliate if he didn't cooperate- once more playing on her own terms.
Aemoten didn't remove his hand from the sword's handle, but his other hand reluctantly loosened its hold on the woman's shoulder, the fingers finally losing their hold entirely and the arm falling limply back to his side due to its weight. If she did intend to draw her weapons on him, the arm would have been in his way rather than restraining her. His sword needed more space to be used effectively. -Luckily, it seemed that she didn't intend to actually assault him on her own accord. His eyes didn't move from her face, still avoiding her eyes.
He didn't know what to think or feel anymore- this woman was clearly either mad, insane or toying with them- if she truly was one of the Illusionists, then from a safe distance, too, her/his/its/their actual body being located elsewhere. Of course, there was no limit to the amount of absurd theories his mind could come up with until he knows for certain. He had tried too hard to find a plausible explanation, too hard to at least justify the woman's actions with at least mental instability rather than setting this down as her true personality. How could she have gained ground as a respectable paladin, even a hero with what she represented now? She couldn't have, unless the people in Rodoria were indeed that much different from the Sekalyn and even the Egemites... Regardless of how many enemies a person had slain- which could make one respect-worthy but never honorable or admirable, even less beloved- one couldn't cont on one's sword to gather reputation. A killer was a killer, a warrior a warrior and an icon an icon. To be widely known, one had to be the last- and being the last required one to actually get along with people at least on the level of putting up a facade. No-one looked up to a person who killed on both sides, furthermore according to one's own current mood. Whatever the cause, there had to have been a very drastic change in her very core personality, and just recently, after her retirement and before she joined the group.
Physically, Aemoten was becoming weary and would rather have headed off to the couch he had declared his makeshift bed for the night; mentally annoyance and confusion mingled with weakly-expressed borderline fear and a specific kind of urgency, accompanied by a kind of stern confidence. Far too many feelings to be handled at once after this day, which had followed seven years of relatively peaceful life- he had stayed fit and was physically in a much better condition still than he had ever been during a period of semi-constant fighting, but he was out of practice. In addition to that, he usually not only had his brother by his side, but also knew to pick his company better- never before had it even occurred to him that he'd keep tolerating a potential murderer by his side. How many times she'd have been expelled based on her offenses from an army of his own people? Thrice? Four times? Did it even matter after she had attempted to kill one of them just once?

For a few moments he had stayed silent and during that time he witnessed an even more queer change and a possible turn of events. Suddenly, she was smiling. It was not a kind smile like those she had displayed earlier, rather a daring, cunning one. Some part of him even suggested seducing, but... He suddenly felt like backing down by a step, for whatever reason.
"Go ahead, please do. Try me, try striking a lady, if that be your pleasure." For a moment the man's free hand twitched nervously and he unintentionally wondered what would the woman react like if he truly did what her mocking request suggested.
She had a negative impact on people... Perhaps he was already subjected to mind-control, too, who knew? How could he be sure? How could he even be sure that she truly was standing in front of a woman not someone's conjured-up shadow-frame? She will end him up mad and paranoid even if she doesn't kill anyone of them.
"To me you're inevitably still are a comrade, and I don't hit my comrades, be they women or men. I treat every sword-carrier my equal as long as they don't give me a reason to do otherwise and I sure do hope I can abstain from physical violence against them the same I would never raise a hand against my own self. A warrior is a warrior and I treat them all the same, be they fifteen years younger than I or of the opposite gender, assuming that they've acquired their weapons knowing what they are doing." this wasn't by far the most important matter for the time being, but he couldn't deny even to himself that he was agitated- though his voice had barely changed, "What I however won't ever tolerate in silence is my own comrades turning against each-other and even trying to kill each-other down, either openly or secretly," he lifted up his hand, briefly touching the side of his neck, "furthermore if I know something of Liya, then she doesn't favor murderers."
He probably shouldn't allow himself to say whatever he came up with, no matter how much he wanted. No matter how much she probably deserved it. He swallowed and closed his eyes for a second, for the third time since they met turning to his god simply to calm his own self and to cast aside his burning emotions. When he opened his eyes up again he simply looked tired and grim.
"I was brought up in a society free of assassins, since every of them could be uncovered with a single question directed at the high priest- a Karakon- of our common god, Koraakan, the god of truth and balance and of many names. Another question would then reveal where exactly they hid. The same every sentence said could be confirmed to being either true or false if one took up the path and no bloody secret could remain uncovered for too long. My brother is high priest of such kind and on earlier days, he traveled alongside me. Now he was called away, I don't know when he'll return and I am left alone to unknown date.
What would you think, if you saw yourself from the side, everything you have done since I first saw you and nothing more? I see only two options and that of your mind having been shattered in a recent event is the better of the two... Have I left a single question unanswered? I can either ask you or my god directly if I want to know something and I can only hope that I won't have to use the latter option- and that I can still trust you to not to lie after all that. I will never truly turn against you unless your actions truly kill one of us, but it is only this long I can refrain from seeking answers on my own, intruding where I never should.
What did you do? To Jaelnec...? What was that? What are you? What happened to you? What..." he fell silent, simply shrugging and spreading his hands, finally abandoning his sword's hilt.

[xbriannova]

"I am a Paladin of Liya, and Jaelnec will live." Annabelle replied curtly when Aemoten confronted her with his slew of questions, after he launched into one of his long-drawn speeches again. The Paladin was just about sick of hearing his voice, perhaps not because it irritates her so this time, but because her patience had experienced a drought after the many injuries and bouts of exhaustion she suffered. Neither was she fond of arguing or even so much as debating with this outlander. Cutting this short was a wise decision to her, "That is all you need to know for now." Turning tails again, Annabelle began walking away. She could never bring herself to trust Aemoten- With this having little relation to him avoiding her soup, but instead, mainly because they were always at odds with each other ever since the birth of this group. Yet, Annabelle could sense that there could have been friendship between them had things turned out differently. With that, she continued on her way to the bath, which should not be too far away, based on her followers' off-hand descriptions. Then, remembering something, she said these last words before moving out of hearing range, "You might want to put a sling on the boy."

There was much self-control in Annabelle's apparent last confrontation of the day with Aemoten- For one, she had successfully fought off what would have been the darkness taking control once again, and doing horrible things soon after. Taking another turn and then opening a rather heavy oak door, having difficulty with just one hand, Annabelle heaved it shut behind her as she entered the magical place of hygiene- Like what Brian had said, it was filled with golden water, and the Paladin could already feel the freshness emanating from the swirling molten gold. The pool was large- Standing near the waters, she realised that it was not too deep, perhaps at chest height. There were seats within the pool. Where she was was the main chamber, probably for the men, so Annabelle circumvented the pool to where she spotted a smaller, less massive door, but upon trying it, the lady realised it to be locked- Perhaps there had been no women all the while?

Having little choice, and hoping that the rest were probably unhygienic brutes or too tired to wash themselves of the grit and blood of combat, Annabelle decided that the main chamber would have to do. Setting her spare clothes aside, near the pool, she started removing her gears on, at first having difficulty with the numbness of her arm and the pain still making its rounds around her body. Slowly but successfully, she managed to unbuckle the belts holding her weapons, most of the sheathes empty, and letting them fall to the ground, uncaring of the noise they made- She was way past being graceful, in the face of sheer exhaustion with rest in sight. The plates fell afterwards, taking with them the leather underneath, and after that, she began stripping the blood-caked garments underneath, the colors of Liya vandalised, before removing the undergarments, which consists of just a strip of cloth around her breasts and shorts. Without thinking, she dipped herself in the golden water, and sat there, her eyes facing the great oak doors and her arms laid out at the edge of the pool- It felt like taking a step closer to heaven, it felt like heaven, as if all tiredness beneath the skin were all but gone, and the pain all but mysteriously vanished.

Unable to bring herself to feel safe however, Annabelle reached for one of her daggers, before pulling it to her and hiding it beneath the water, at the deepest part of the seat she was using, where none of her skin were at.

[MeinKampfyChair]

One minute it looked like William was in a trance, the next his hand was on her should, followed by him hurriedly returning to the manor. He wanted Meila to come, too. With a hint of dread Meila swallowed hard and reluctantly followed the deigan man back to the manor. However she suddenly remembered her horse! She brought her right index and middle fingers to her mouth and whistled loudly; soon enough the rhythm of hooves pattering became louder and louder until her trusty steed returned to her side. With that she proceeded with following William back to the manor. She remembered there already being horses there, so one more shouldn't hurt... Right?

Well whatever the case.. William had out walked her. Meila merely shrugged her shoulders though and quickened her own pace to the manor. As soon as she arrived she told Mr. MooMoo to stay put with the other horses... And play nice. The stallion merely snorted in reply as Meila patted him on the neck before embarking on finding William in the manor.

Now where could he have gone?... Back to the room we were in before?... the deigan girl pondered as she walked through the seemingly endless hallways. She didn't pay much mind to the decor, since she didn't want to be distracted by something else at the moment... Wait. A delicious scent wavered in the air and Meila felt her stomach rumble. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until now... Infact, what she last ate was her breakfast. Her thoughts were now occupied by food, and so she followed the scent where ever it may take her. Surprisingly she came to a room where it turns out William ended up being in anyways, leaning against the wall next to the door with a bowl of stew... The nightwalker from earlier with the classy hat was on the ground... Asleep? Well he looked comfortable on the floor so she figured it wasn't much of a problem. She lightly tapped William on the shoulder, as if to inform him of her presence, then looked to the bowl of stew in his hands.

That smells so good... she thought to herself. However she quickly looked away and wondered if it'd be alright if she could help herself to some of the stew as well. Her parents always did tell her it was proper to ask, though she felt she was imposing.. What with randomly walking into said manor to see if anyone needed help, only to wind up in talks over the Withering.

[Dark Jack]

Sitting back in his comfortable armchair in the upstairs laboratory, Gerald drew his black hood up to frame his face again, and once more shroud his countenance in deep shadow that would only be broken by the surreal reflection of his those unusual eyes he had inherited from his father - his real father, not that fat nobleman that had abducted his mother after his real father's death. Sure, Dennis Remdal had been clever enough and had not made it look like an abduction. He had hired his mother as a maid, supposedly fallen for her despite the vast difference in their place in society, and had taken the poor woman and her fatherless son in to live with him. Even Gerald had been tricked for years - had been moving about, calling Remdal 'Father' and tried desperately to impress him by surpassing all others of his age in the art of magic. He had studied hard to achieve this... and then he surpassed those a year older than himself. And those two years older - he became a celebrity in Zerul City: genius magus and son of the duke's personal advisor. Yet Dennis smile and praise had always been empty, something conjured up for the sake of appearances and little else. Gerald knew that Dennis liked his own son, Gerald's half-brother, that untalented Thomas, better. And the sad part? Gerald had never blamed Thomas. They were brothers, though as different as land and sea.
Oh, but Gerald had seen through his stepfather's rouse in the very end. When the Withering had taken his precious wife, doubtlessly the only woman who could ever love someone like him, he had been depressed to such an extent that everything lost meaning... except power, naturally. But even then, he had not suspected Dennis' deception. When agents from the Black Tribunal began to visit to bring Gerald books for study, he had been on the verge of madness, but still Dennis had remained the caring stepfather. But when Thomas had followed Gerald on a nightly excursion and witnessed Gerald meet with the black-clad necromancers, and afterward told Dennis about this... then the mask had slipped, and Gerald had seen Dennis for what he truly was: a traitor. A manipulator. Dennis had barged into Gerald's room, enraged, and had uncovered the area where Gerald conducted his research into necromancy, where he kept all of his forbidden textures and corpses. Dennis had been furious, and had wanted to set the place aflame to cleanse it of this 'evil', but had mispronounced a syllable of his spell that caused an explosion that reduced most of Gerald's home to rubble, and sent the traitor himself to a bed in the infirmary.
Dennis had personally spoken against his stepson before the duke, had volunteered as witness, and had demanded Gerald's execution. The Blue Duke had been merciful when he chose exile... or perhaps death would have been the merciful solution? Others might have thought that, but not Gerald. Survival came first. As long as he was alive - no matter the condition he found himself in during that life - there was a chance that he could succeed in making everything better.

Suppressing a yawn that would have hurt his sore throat and lungs immensely, the black-robed lord of Shrubnest gazed around his laboratory, where blood still stained the floor after the wounded that had been so rudely dragged there, ruining the sterile environment Gerald practically lived in. The mutilated corpses of the crusader priestess and Templar still rested by the single door, as mute testimony to just how great and gruesome a change that had overcome Shrubnest. The knight-paladin of Ismyel and the Melenian with the unusually strong magical energy had gone downstairs, probably to eat, and the savage demonspawn had gone to sleep right in Gerald's laboratory after its feast of raw meat. These unwanted visitors seemed to have settled down for the moment. But he figured that he would be considered an impolite host - and Rilon forbid that happened, because obviously Gerald was eternally concerned with what everyone else thought of him - if he just rearmed the magical traps without making sure that everyone were indoors, to prevent any... unnecessary deaths.
Calming himself, steadying his breathing and heartbeat and relaxing his body and mind, Gerald reach into himself and felt his own internal flux of magical energy, flowing through his soul as the blood ran in his veins. He felt that his energy was stable, though it was chaotic around his lower left arm as always. Nothing he was not used to, no change in his condition. Good. He reached down further, into his very being, into an area of his soul that rested somewhere just below his navel, and as if grabbing it with an unseen hand of magic, he seized this nucleus of magical energy, only to fully comprehend to what extent he had allowed himself to be exhausted. Being a necromancer, he could accurately say that using any even intermediately draining spell would likely send him into a coma. Drawing upon his own strength was out of the question.
He withdrew his mind from his own soul, as an ethereal and invisible serpent slithering from a cave, and turned his attention to the arcane glyphs that surrounded him to all sides. He felt his own magical energy stored in every single one of those, each containing enough power to fuel a quite potent spell. Because these glyphs were charged with Gerald's magical energy, they responded only to his command... and because he was a necromancer, he could manipulate them in ways that would be impossible for the short-sighted, law-abiding magi of Zerul. Reaching out like a tentacle of his mind, Gerald gripped a nearby glyph with unseen fingers, and as the magical energy stored within it returned to him, the rune went dark and lifeless. It was half a day's work making such a glyph, and took days' to recuperate from, but it was merely one out of dozens.

Recharged, feeling new strength surge through him, Gerald seized this new strength and purged his mind of all thoughts but those of the spell - he could not allow anything, be they mundane thoughts or puny emotions, to distract him, or he might mispronounce a syllable or trace the arcane symbol incorrectly. He wielded the power of magic skillfully - unusually so - but even he was not immune to the great danger and probability that spells might fail and backfire. And so it was only once he felt that he was prepared that he poured his energy into the spell, began weaving the intricate patterns in the air in front of him with his bony fingers, and his pale lips formed the exotic words of magic.
The effect, once the incantation had been completed, was instant. Suddenly Gerald's mind was supplied with the vision of two sets of eyes, the sounds of two sets of ears, the smells of two noses - one in his laboratory, the other outside his lair, in the battlefield. The experience of existing in two different places at the same time was extremely draining, and was one of the reasons that Shadow Image was considered a highly advanced spell. Lesser minds could be driven mad by it, but Gerald found it to be exhilarating. He was doing something only a handful other mages in Rodoria could, and though the fools in Zerul had denied him, he was still there and still superior to them and their weakness.
There were difficulties, though. He could not move either his body or his shadowy projection, or it would be very likely that the magical energy in the Shadow Image was disturbed and the spell would dissipate. He could only turn the Shadow Image in a manner that seemed most unnatural, and even this destabilized its form significantly. It was a difficult and draining spell, but it was useful all the same.

Using his Shadow Image to look around outside, Gerald canceled the projection, drained another glyph, and created another Shadow Image on the opposite side of the manor, but on neither side did he find anything alive. By the time he was confident that he had searched the entire perimeter of his manor and undid the second Shadow Image, Gerald slumped back in his chair, panting heavily, exhausted in both body and mind. This was his power - this was his skill. He was Gerald Glass, son of Henry Glass the late highwayman with the amber eyes. He was Gerald Glass, the exiled necromancer of Zerul. Gerald Glass, the man who was going to murder Dennis Remdal.
The man who would find and seize immortality. Power. And vengeance.
Scattering his mind, the necromancer sensed and located all of the magical traps that were located around the manor, and he focused his will on those placed on or near the entrances. With a simple mental command, he rearmed the glyphs so that they would unleash themselves when they sensed another being come near them. There, he was safe - if anyone else tried to invade his home, they would be killed, or at the very least the manor would warn Gerald.
Though there was still the matter of those inside...
He shook his head tiredly. No, those imbeciles would not dare to attack him, nor try to assassinate him in his sleep. They owed him a debt of gratitude for the information he had given them freely... and for the information he had withheld, that did not concern them - and if they did attack him, their first strike had better be fatal, or he would bring the entire manor down on their heads. He had tolerated their presence thus far, and saw no reason to change that.
Yes, that was sufficient of assurance for now. Enough thinking, enough precautions. He had already drained himself beyond his limit. Now he just needed... to rest.

[Dreadlord]

Immanuel stood to the side of the door, watching the comings and goings of the strange group of people, chewing on a dried strip of deer meat. He hadn't remembered until he had arrived in the room that he had left his donkey outside on its own, but he figured the creature wouldn't go very far. He grunted, his mind traveling back - back, to that ambush that had led him here. It had been a foggy night - Immanuel had been in the third row, the third of seven, with six men across in each row. They were marching in formation towards the Western Outpost because there had been a report of increased bandit activites along the roads, and they were on their way to stamp it out, or at least try to. If only they had known...

Immanuel was listening to the hoarse voice of the poor man in the last row on the farthest right side, whom had been screaming "left, right, left, right," for the past two days. The formation was slowly making its way to the Western Outpost, moving along the sloping, twisting road like a massive beast... more like a snail, to be honest. The majority of the men here were recruits, such as Immanuel, and were still learning to march in formation. Either way, Immanuel did not have high hopes for the near future. The most likely course of action was that they would get to the outpost, the bandits would fade away, and then they would march all the way back, and the process would repeat until their feet fell off. Immanuel grinned inside of his dull gray helmet; Nilmic would be complaining about his blisters as soon as they stopped for the night, which should be soon.

"Left, right, left, right, left, right..." the call continued, on and on and on, for what seemed like hours - torches had been lit, and it would seem the commander would march them through the night. Accordingly, everyone's eyes grew unadjusted to the dark, and so no one saw the figures in the trees around them, no one saw the bows being drawn - the call silenced suddenly and a shout rang out - someone had seen metal reflecting torchlight. A thump was accompanied by a shout, and then the formation broke apart as people fell down on all sides, arrows jutting from armor. At least half of them had been dropped in the volley, and before the ambushers could set off another volley, men with swords and clubs were among the shocked and startled soldiers, and then the tumult turned into chaos.

Immanuel, not knowing what to do, pulled out his standard issue sword and brought his shield around, head spinning back and forth, trying to figure out what to do. He saw four men and a woman fighting back a mob of the bandits, and the bandits, busy with the five, had their backs to Immanuel, who was in the middle of... everything. His sight of the five, four now, disappeared as soldiers from behind him swarmed upwards, weapons drawn, and his vision narrowed to the weapon in his hand and whoever was in front of him. Arrows rained down from the side, even as the relief group arrived at the three still standing. Immanuel stabbed forward, the only thing he could do in the tight quarters. His eyes were huge, and he spun around as the crowd of soldiers turned to the left, where the majority of bandits were pouring down from - they were still arriving? How many of them are there? Immanuel wondered, but that thought fell away as the left flank of the soldiers collapsed under a human wave of clubs and swords, and the night was filled with screams of pain, for mothers, forgiveness, mercy. The smell of burning reached Immanuel's nose, and that was when he realized, even as he found himself standing alone, that the torches must have fallen among the bodies.

Immanuel, wide eyed with terror, alone, threw down his sword and shield, turned, and ran with his tail between his legs. The armor was weighing him down, so he peeled off his helmet, even as an arrow slammed into the ground behind his foot, causing him to scurry even faster. He jumped whenever an owl flew across his face, barely a foot away - he tripped over a root, slammed his face into the ground, and his vision went black.

Immanuel found himself slumped on the floor, his head hurting as if that concussion that had been set off earlier had just occured again. His ears, he could faintly feel, were slowly oozing blood, but he barely noticed as his vision slowly faded to black... he hadn't slept in so long, that seemed to be all he wanted to do now.