She watched with questioning puzzlement as the dark knight lifted just enough of his helmet to be able to bring the berries the second man was offering him to his mouth, and back down the helmet went. That piece of metal that could be lifted and lowered like that probably had some manner of fancy name, but she did not know what it was... And she was not certain she liked when she could not see the face of the person she was talking to. It felt a bit like conversing with an inanimate object. She was not even certain he even heard her, either, despite her being loud and clear - he did not seem to visibly react to her words, anyway.
Surprisingly enough, the moment of rest and the few berries seemed to have returned enough of the armored man's strength for him to get back to his feet. Not for long, though, if her experiences were anything to go by. People needed a lot more water than could be contained in a couple of berries to survive a day. Especially if they were almost too weak to stand to begin with.
The dark knight asked something from the second man - something about thrones and him being a weapon, though it did not make much sense. Thrones did not feel like her thing; she did have a weapon, though. Several weapons, even. Her axe, her knife, the slightly damaged sword (it associated with regret, and Regret she called it)... They did not know one another, these two men, that much seemed apparent, however. Her slightly clueless eyes kept flitting between the two of them.
There was the faint jingle of bells, and her eyes shifted into yet another direction, only to yet again widen in disbelief. Three people!?

It was a strange-looking masked man, carrying a sickle, though he spread his arms wide as if to embrace them all. There were little bells attached to his hat and shoes - these were where the jinging had come from. She did not know who she was to judge, but this man did look a bit crazy...
"Well, it's a nice little gathering here, hmm? I have a lute, why not we get some song, we make it a fuckin' party, hmm?"
"Party?" she repeated in questioning disbelief, her voice doubtful. Her eyes flickered back onto the dark knight and second man, then yet again onto the crazy-looking fellow. "Don't think it would be a good idea. There are things here, I think. Beasts. They'd hear."
The newcomer had also perturbed the dark knight, as he had straightened and moved his spear-axe into a more combat-ready position. Seemed rather protective of the man who had offered him berries, too, and ordered him behind his back... He was not a bad person, she figured, just a bit confused over the intentions of the lot of them. She was wielding an axe and looked like who-knows-what, after all... She left the impression of some kind of savage, probably.
As the dark knight took a step closer to her and the madman, however, her eyes widened yet again in a near-fright as she took a step back in turn. Her hands gripped the axe more tightly, raising it a bit farther out and up into a position that could equally be used for blocking or taking a swing at someone. The action put an uncomfortable strain on the injuries on her fingers and cracked one of the scars open just enough for blood to start slowly seeping out again - though luckily not steadily dripping, as it had been before.
She was quite certain she could defeat the dark knight quite easily in his current condition - block the spear-axe and quickly grab hold of its shaft or something. She was not many things, but she had quite the sturdy build and had probably been doing quite a bit of hard work in her old life, chopping wood and the likes. And it furthermore appeared that this place had added to the muscle on her body, if anything. - Surely, if she got hold of the knight's polearm, she would win ... unless the second man joined the fray, which he was perhaps quite likely to do. But in either case, it was not what she wanted.

"I don't want to fight, kind Sir," she insisted. If the dark knight continued to move closer to her regardless, she would persist to back down accordingly, just in case. Preferably keep a clearance of about six meters or so.
"Just saw you almost collapse and wanted to see whether I could help. Don't mind the axe - there are bad things here, and I haven't seen more than one person at once here before, I don't think. Precaution, that's all." Her eyes moved to the second man and back to the dark knight. "That is indeed not healthy, pressing on like that. You need water, Sir. And rest. And soon."
The dark knight spoke again - awfully loudly, too -, though, and she stared at him in an almost childish confusion, even lowering her axe by a bit - just by a notch, a centimeter or so. Its weight still felt comforting, and it was a concrete barrier between her person and anything that might try to harm her. It gave a sense of security - having something to protect oneself with.
"Don't think there are any kingdoms here," she uttered hesitantly. "Just ... places. Haven't seen any kings, either, and barely before any other people before you, Sir. Don't think I ever came within a hundred miles from a king in my old life, either. I lived in a wooden house near evergreens, somewhere. Quite far from even the village, I think." Or at the very least it felt like she had been on the way for a while in that one memory she was returning with a package and been caught in the rain... There was also this one memory of standing on a fancy carpet during some kind of a ceremony, but that did not belong, somehow... She was also quite certain she had been a man there.
"But that was before... Guess would have to learn how to live here, now." 'Children of the Empty Land', he had addressed them. Did he come from some other place here, one with kings, then, or did he have an old life, too, just like her? And perhaps more importantly... "Do you know what manner of place is this, Sir?"
But now she was getting nosy, was she not? She had seen the dark knight almost collapse, on top of it all. There was also this madman...
"But that can wait until later, if you'd prefer... You do need to take care of yourself first, Sir."
...She was not certain what to make of the madman.

The Black Knight quickly munched on the berries, seemingly without feeling their bitter taste. In his state, maybe it's for the best. And he stood back up, just like that. From a few small, bitter berries, the knight found the strength to lift his heavy burden once again. The balance of power has once again shifted, and it seemed that the warrior in black once again had the strength to fight. Maldron desired to avoid that, but made sure to stay very close to the knight. He also knew how the warrior's helmet opens, so at least he knew a way around the armor, if worst comes to worst. The rest of his armor? No weak spot. No little crack or opening to exploit. Dyed armors would usually be used in ceremonies, and ill-suited for combat, but his was both. Some elite force? Royal guard? Where was his back-up sword? Such a high-ranking warrior would surely have a sword to use when up close. Maybe he lost it? Most puzzling of all was the knight's fortitude - nothing unlike in the land of the living. But even Maldron noticed that he could go on longer without rest. This land, as punishing as it is, was making them stronger, bit by bit. This idea was further reinforced by the capabilities of the ones lost to this land, now no more than feral beasts. Displaying impossible speeds and strength, those once human beings now roamed mindlessly around the land, looking for something to attack. And everyone here was fated to fade into such monstrosities themselves.

The knight spoke. His words put Maldron on edge. How? HOW? The assassin took a small step back. How did he know?! How did he know Maldron's memories? It didn't matter really. He wasn't going to hide his identity anyway. Not here. And such an ability could be extremely useful, provided the knight becomes an ally. During this time, more came out, no longer hiding. The source of the bells was a jester, of all things. Creepy looking clown, visibly armed. He was familiar, somehow, but Maldron just couldn't tell. Whatever memory used to invoke this familiarity is no longer there. Another, an armed woman as well. She was tense, and prepared her axe to defend, just in case. There was a flaw in her stance, and at this distance, she would be skewered by the halberd before she could move away, should the knight attack. Eventually, most of the tension was gone, as the knight said “Tell me, Children of the Empty Land, which King do you serve?”

The knight's question, as cryptic as it was, was rather expected. The warrior in black served someone as well, and it must be a habit to inquire about the allegiance of others. The woman's response seemed basic. She knew little of the world before this place. But she was right. They need to rebuild. Some sort of society needs to be there again. Assassins only have a purpose within societies. For Maldron to have a purpose once again, there needs to be a society. Hence it was in his best interest to help one rebuild. And first, they need more people who are more or less themselves.

"And finally, you show yourselves. Now, first things first - I rather not keep secrets in this place. I was an assassin before finding myself here. Just so you know. But worry not, together we can accomplish more than on our own, even an assassin knows that." Maldron looked to the mountain looming in the distance. It was simply there, never either further or closer. But it also was inviting, drawing them towards it. "I do not think we're meant to reach that place alone."

"Party? Don't think it would be a good idea. There are things here, I think. Beasts. They'd hear."


"And finally, you show yourselves. Now, first things first - I rather not keep secrets in this place. I was an assassin before finding myself here. Just so you know. But worry not, together we can accomplish more than on our own, even an assassin knows that. I do not think we're meant to reach that place alone."


_{blood soaking my boots a dirty crimson
sunlight shining through the stained glass windows painting a still scene of death
people strewn about the room like slaughtered animals
limbs
blood
the king on his throne, dead, his throat slit from ear to ear
the man in the center of the room
the praying man
bells
oh the bells
see how they run}

The Turncloak’s gaze flitted between the Axe-Wielder and the Bell-Wearer; it was fuzzed and blurry, but he could discern their shapes and their sounds with relative ease. His body, however, was weak. He let his shoulders slump, and the facade of a battle stance fell. He could only keep it up for so long. he began to rest on his old Halberd, and he rammed the stern of his tall shield into the dirt to act as additional support for his titanic frame.
These people… they spoke with some clarity, no semblance of sanity within their tones. They were not empty – they could not have been, unless this was delirium unlike any he had yet experienced. They did not seem to want conflict any more than he did, so he stepped backwards to stand by the side of the Life-Giver, the four of them forming a sparse, rudimentary circle for their conversation to flow freely.

The Bell-Wearer and the Axe-Wielder made valid points, and genuinely seemed to be concerned with his well-being, a trait that even the most intelligent Empty could not even hope to dream of. He was safe.

For now.

For a moment, his chivalrous side emerged, and he with the slightest of gestures, bowed his head to the Woman with the Axe.

“Your concern is heartening, stranger," He began. “I do not know what manner of world this is, but the mountain beckons,” he said, half pointing to the looming summit on the twilight horizon.

Next, he addressed the Bell-Wearer, the creature who he had heard following for many days on end.

“I know not what manner of man you are, but your words ring more reasonable than you would have us believe you are capable of. For now, we must avoid bloodshed. We can discuss our predicament in due time, but such a concentration of sane souls is surely like a beacon to whatever lurks above the valley walls,”

He turned on his heel, facing back toward the mountain and the star that seemed to be set solid within the starless sky He took his chance to whisper a few, quiet words to the Assassin.

”Ask yourself, are you truly a killer? Do you see a flash of gold in your mind? Inset with jewels and adorned with mithril?”

He waited not for the agreement of the group of newfound souls, beckoning them to follow his momentary lead without question. A shaded, misty forest lay somewhat in the distance, it’s presence confirmed by a ghostly smoke that seemed to rise from it’s rotted canopy without reason nor explanation. It was a dark place indeed, one full of nightmares of the worst kind, where one could find themselves at the mercy of the flora and of the fauna at times most inopportune. He had been there before, yet how many times? He did not know for sure. He knew that he reserved a certain unease of the forest, and crossing the harrowed line into its confines, but nevertheless it lay upon the path to the mountain; it was an obstacle that had to be traversed, no matter the cost. The valley walls were steep and dangerous, so much so that it would be impossible for one to scale them. Backtracking along the valley would have meant certain death for all those who had assembled here – the journey was too great and supplies were too scarce. It left naught but one choice to them: to continue onwards, into the haze.



He had trudged forward, not listening to whatever conversation had birthed between the three souls he had found in the valley. It had been a day, maybe two since then. The emergence of a great rib, tens of metres long, jutting from the valleyside walls was enough to warrant a place to stop for a time, for each to regain their strengths. The Turncloak knew the endurance of his own body, but not of theirs.

They lit no fire that night. To do so would have spelt death. They did not know each other well enough to huddle for warmth, but the humid warmth of the valley had once again subsided to make way for a bitter cold; relentless and fearsome, truly challenging the fortitude of those caught within.

There was little conversation. There was little of anything. Anxious stares pervaded the apparent night. Perhaps now he was due to explain what knowledge he had gained from his time.

He cleared his throat with a small cough. it had grown dry through the past day’s walking, but not to the extent of before where he had so nearly perished.

“I have walked the land for… A long time. I had counted six-hundred turns of the light before I stopped. That was long, long ago. I do not know where I come from, or why I am here, and I guess none of you do either.”

He stopped to look across the haggard faces who now paid him a little mind. “When I first awakened, I made it to the mountain. I do not remember what I found but there was life and luxury, but something within killed me. When I awoke again, I could not approach the mountain no matter how hard I tried. I was missing something, but I cannot remember what; something physical, maybe a memory made real? Every time I died, I drifted further and further from that place, as though it were punishing me for losing my mind.”

He turned his head to gaze upon that place that seemed so hallowed to him.

“Whatever lies beyond is where me must head. We cannot do it alone, but I fear we may be missing something important of ourselves… but what that is, I do not know,”

He let his head drift back down and he spent a moment staring at the dusty sand with crawls of putrid mould permeating the mass. Pale light glinted from his helm, which, for some reason, seemed not entirely complete.

His mind was sharper and more focused now than it had been since he had awakened in this world. He pushed the hunger and thirst he had been feeling since embarking on his long trek away from the forest down and away to focus on the hunt. And so, he sat and waited, holding himself up as much as he could in the crack with his arms so as to not crush his crossbow beneath him; it was an awkward position to aim in but he managed to maneuver the bow to aim straight down the crack and onto the stair beyond. Where it would strike his target depended entirely on the shape and size of it. If it were human in shape and around average height the bolt should strike somewhere around the legs; if not it could very well strike higher up the body the shorter it was. If his pursuer wasn’t humanoid, it was hard to tell where the bolt would strike the thing. He hoped it were at least human in shape. He did not wish to meet whatever devils lurked in the walls of the dead he found himself hiding within.

Soon he heard footsteps coming down the dark stairway and then a light brighter than the lantern he had placed on the steps came near his hiding place. He saw a shadow break the light while something pulled at his foot just as he squeezed the trigger of his bow. The string snapped forward, propelling the bolt and making the all too familiar noise that echoed off the walls and bounced around the crypt. The bolt flew as straight as possible and struck his target. The pursuer lurched forward and fell into the darkness, their lantern bobbing away after them as a tiny yellow dot in the blackness. Rook turned around to see what had pulled at him in the small tunnel only to see the skeleton he had kicked before hanging onto his boot and pulling at it, trying to drag him down the tunnel. It looked as though its lower half was hanging over an opening of some sort, but he was not concerned with what lay beyond the tunnel. He kicked at its head in panic, but it did little in the way of shoving the monster off and away from him.

Panicking, he pushed his crossbow out of the crack and pulled his hunting knife from his belt as it was the only weapon he had that could be maneuvered in the tunnel. The skeleton sank its fingers into his leg, stabbing into the skin and raking down as it gave another pull. The cuts were deep, but he ignored the pain as best he could and stabbed his knife awkwardly at the skull of the his attacker; the tip of the blade made contact, but to no avail. The skeleton continued pulling the hunter, stabbing its fingers into his skin each time he edged closer as if climbing a mountain with picks. Rook flailed his body about, trying to knock the fiend away, but its hold was too deeply rooted in his skin now. With nothing left to him, he began pulling himself back along the tunnel, still on his back with the skeleton attached to him by its fingers.

He fell out of the crack with a thud and sent his crossbow falling down the stairs and into the abyss of the crypt. In the open he was able to turn and twist until the skelton’s hold finally faltered, and it fell away, hanging out of the crack. Out in what light his lantern could shed, Rook finally saw that the skeleton was only an upper half, and where the lower half should be was what looked like a piece of darkness itself threaded up through the ribcage and arms. The skeleton he had kicked was being used as a puppet now to pull him in as a victim to whatever the puppeteer was. The skeleton flailed its arm in an attempt to grab hold of him again, but had managed to crawl out its reach. He watched, heart thumping and pulse racing, as the piece of darkness removed itself from the skeleton and slithered back into the crack, surely to await some other victim to crawl into the wall or to find some other hunting ground in the crypt. The bones now lay at the foot of the crack, a discarded fishing hook of whatever lived within the wall of the crypt.

Gingerly, the hunter got to his feet, blood dripping from the six or so puncture wounds on his legs. Fire shot through his legs from the wounds as he limped onward into the abyss of the crypt and toward his prey after snatching his lantern back. His steps were not as measured or soft, but instead sounded as though he dropped each foot as he walked. The hunger creeped back slowly, followed by the thirst he had been able to shove down until now. His crossbow had fallen down the staircase a good twenty steps with a loud clattering that still echoed and bounced down into the pit of darkness, chasing on the heels of the twang from his crossbow string. He stooped to gather his bow back up, pain shooting up his legs from the small movement, and then fitted the lever onto the body of the bow, pulled the string back into place, and then set a new bolt in the bow. He pressed on, a predator after its prey, or more accurately an escaped and injured prey after a more injured prey.

As he saw a soft light far below him, a gibbering of the most insane kind gradually grew until it sounded as if the walls themselves chattered away in the tongue of the insane. This sent shivers up his spine and caused him to come to a halt along the stairs. He listened to the mad gibberish, hearing it broken every so often by a slow tapping noise. Something had awakened in the crypt. Was it the puppeteer that had already assaulted him come to finish the job and claim its prize or something else living in these dark halls? Either way, he had to find his pursuer first and then either flee this place or hide from the roaming beast. So, with as much quickness he could coax out of his injured legs, Rook made his way down the staircase and toward the faint light from the lantern of his pursuer.

He stepped off the final step of the maddeningly long staircase of the crypt and set to scanning the area he now found himself in. It was just a dark as the staircase, but his lantern shone through as a beacon. What he could see was old stone set in the earth however far down he had walked into it and coffins lining the walls in neat rows, some of which looked as though they were opened and robbed from with their occupants hanging out here and there. There were also arched doorways leading off into the bowels of the crypt. It was near one of these doorways, Rook spotted the dark shape of his pursuer. He limped over to the shape, examining it from afar first; it looked to be a man in a dark coat with light hair. Something glinted in his lantern light near the man, a cleaver bigger than any he saw a butcher carry before. Ever the hunter, Rook took careful aim at the man as he limped coser, stopping somewhere around five feet out of the man’s reach.

“Why were yeh followin’ me?

It hurts. It hurt so much. John stared down at his left leg, now blemished by the sight of a foot long crossbow bolt, digging into his calf. Every time he moved, it jarred against the bone, sending tremors of agony throughout his being. It felt like hours even though he knew it was only a minute before he gathered his thoughts, calming down enough to look around. Through some chance of fate, John’s lantern lay upright, undamaged in any way but blown out, several feet away. His bloody weapon was farther, just out of the edge of his vision in the darkness.

He sat there silent for a few moments, simply listening in the depths. Grunts of pain and the rattling of bones were heard up the stairs, until they finally stopped and only left behind deep breaths. Then footsteps. The clinking of another lantern. John’s blood ran cold as he listened, his life force oozing even through the painful bolt.

There was then a light, bobbing up and down as it drew closer, descending towards him. His eyes had only just adjusted to the darkness, and he held a hand up to block his eyes, letting out a silent curse as the figure finally came into view.

It was another man, standing close to his own height. Past the brightness of the lantern, John couldn’t see much. He could see the deadly crossbow that had sent him tumbling down the stairs. Then, there was only a simple question asked from the man with the weapon.

“Why were yeh followin’ me?”

John opened his mouth to say something, but found his mouth dry and empty. He hadn’t even said a word in the past two weeks, so even just remembering what to say was difficult. His voice was slightly hoarse and still had the tinges of boyhood in it. “Y-you… you shot me.”

“Why were yeh followin’ me,” the man repeated, ignoring the boy’s statement of the obvious. “I…” John said in response, unsure of exactly ‘why. “I haven’t seen anyone in a while. I-I saw your bi- hawk. Red-tailed… I think. I uh… drew it, do you want to see?”

“You drew Artimus? Why did you dr- Why were yeh followin me,” he repeated again, a hint of anger in his voice now. John gulped in a breath of air, frightened now. “Because… Because!” he said, gritting his teeth as the pain in his leg flared up. “I just decided to follow you. You have a pet… so you could’ve been a nice person. That hawk of yours is one of the only beautiful things in this place that I’ve seen,” he said, holding his hands up before digging in his satchel to retrieve his journal. He held it up for the man to see, before sliding it over to him. “O-open it to page… sixteen?”

The hunter stopped the book with the toe of his boot and, still aiming his bow at the boy, scooped the book up and awkwardly flipped through it with his free hand. He stopped on the drawing of Artimus; the boy had captured her well in his book. John spoke up again, “There’s other things in there as well. Places. Things. Monsters... I don’t mind you looking through it.” The picture distracted him from the hunt briefly, but he soon snapped back when the boy spoke up, dropping the book and kicking it back to its owner. He eyed him for a moment, trying to decide if he was dangerous or not. He may not have many memories of his life before this land, but his instincts had followed him here, and he had seen animals pretend to be weak before to lure in prey. Somehow though, he did not have that feeling about the boy. He just seemed too fresh to think like a predator.

John grasped at the book tightly, wiping a smudge of dirt off the precious tome with the sleeve of his coat diligently. Suddenly he felt woozy, the image of the book flickering as the world shook. He dropped the journal, falling onto one elbow as he groaned, grasping his head with his other hand. “I… it really… hurts… a lot.”

“Damn it all,” the hunter huffed as the boy looked as though he was on the verge of going unconscious. His own head was pounding from a mixture of dehydration and the gibbering coming from the depths of the crypt. The mad gibbering had gotten closer without him noticing. Limping forward on his own injured legs, the hunter bent and shoved the boy down, saying something about helping.

Looking up with fear, John spoke out again, “D-don’t shove me so h-” then he heard it. The madness coming from deeper within’ the halls, and there they were, right at the entrance to it. Looking towards the entrance, he called to the hunter. “There’s something in there, right? Deeper in the depths?”

“Aye. Now, bite down on this,” he said as he removed one of his thick leather gloves and shoved it in the boy’s open mouth. “Whrdr yrr-” The next moment, he grabbed hold of the bolt he shot into the boy’s leg and pulled it free; the blood started flowing freely as its plug was removed. Rook worked as fast as possible, tearing off a strip from the bottom of his cloak with the aid of his hunting knife and then wrapping it around the wound with the crimson-colored side as the exterior.

Only a muffled scream was heard, silenced by the leather stuffed into his mouth. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks as the pain returned again, enhanced ten fold. He barely controlled himself as it took all of his willpower to keep from flailing his arms, doing anything to get away. His vision was red as his leg had first aid delivered. The scream dropped to a moan as John fell back, sweat dripping off his face as he panted in exhaustion, spitting the badly tasting glove out.

John’s eyes went wide suddenly as he heard something from through the entrance. “S…” he said, barely grasping the words. “Something’s coming…”

His ear twitched instinctively at the struggled noise of whatever creature, man, or beast was fumbling around in the crypt. Just what it was he did not know? but he repeatedly reminded himself that it was in his best interests not to be nosy either. Still struggling with his own identity, he did not believe it smart to expose himself to others. Especially the raving abominations that dotted the world.

But then a foreign but very fond thought spoke to him. I should help them.

With a shake of his head he rebuked the idea of being a martyr and banged a clenched fist against his iron helm, which reverberated with a echo in his ears. No. Live and walk, live and continue on. That is our goal and that is life now. I have to regain what I lost.

Even still, the voices swayed down the hollow crypt and touched his ears. A young lad spoke of books and his tone was innocent if nothing else, another sounded angered. It reminded him of that delirious shell of a man he slayed on his way there, although this one spoke with more sense. Was the kid in trouble? He felt his grip tighten on the hilt of his sword as it shivered with a slight draw. He slammed it back shut just as quickly.

No! he yelled at himself, hands trembling on the hilt. I can not die here! not after surviving for this long. I will not waste a life saved.

But in the midst of that angered retort, a calm voice spoke. If it were you...

His dark eyes shot up from their clenched form, a sorta peace in them as he realized the rest of the sentence. If it were me, I would want someone to come to my rescue.

And so, a fragile truce was born. The clown, with those goddamn annoying bells was watching Maldron, a lot. It was faint, but Maldron could notice the clown's suspicion. No, it was no suspicion. It was something more. The way he spoke around the assassin. But it didn't matter. The clown gains nothing from hostility.

They followed the Black Knight, Maldron was impressed by the man's endurance and sheer force of will. Impressed? That was not quite like him. Reflecting on all that he still remembers, Maldron realized just how much he was changing. From his memories of life, he was an ultimate weapon, unburdened by emotion. For a killer, feelings and emotions dull his edge. But this land, this hellish oblivion, and the loneliness and desolation that Maldron experienced changed him. He began to crave social interaction, he become curious of this land. He became interested in his... companions. At the very least, he was going to have a plan to kill everyone he meets, while also being polite and efficient.

"Funny, isn't it." Maldron broke the silence, following the knight. "Now that I have absolute freedom here, I am without a purpose." He shrugs. "In life, all I knew or cared about was my next target, the means to fulfill my assignment, and... And... There is something important I am forgetting!" He raised his voice a bit. Was it anger, frustration he felt? Why? Why must this land dull the blade that he is? His memories it can take away. But not his skill, his cutting edge which let's Maldron fulfill his purpose. "I was raised to feel nothing, to be the ultimate weapon." This... confession certainly made things easier for his mind. Or was it the social interaction that he craved, in any form? "And this place is hell bent on making me lose my edge." He was frustrated, but trying to hide that. He could not appear weak. Or was he already weak, needing to talk, needing a goal, needing anything? A sword should not care for anything. A sword should only carry out what the hand that wields it wishes. Anything else is a liability. "But then again, hell needs no assassins..."

---

The knight has shared some insight about the mountain. The cold tried to bite Maldron, but it's bite was too weak for Maldron to care. He felt it though, the biting cold, even through this warm leather and his cloak, which hid his projectile weapons. But he simply did not care that much. It was uncomfortable, but nothing too lethal. This new information, a new lead, it needs to be rationally analyzed, discussed. "When we die here, we lose a memory before being reborn again. That much we all know." Maldron clears his throat. "It is reasonable to assume that we all been there at the mountain, once. But most of us can't remember it. We're also all drawn towards it, like moths to a flame." The words he was to speak next made him uncomfortable. He cared little for matters of faith, but this land, and the knight's experiences made Maldron question some concepts, and entertain others. "What if the mountain is paradise, and this is hell. And we, the wicked, were kicked out - unworthy." Deep down inside him, this thought terrified him, though he knew such was his fate, if gods did exist. "I spent so much time trying to find a rational explanation for this irrational place, but it seem another approach needs to be considered. I know I killed a lot of people, and even more that I probably don't remember anymore. It makes sense I was thrown here, if it is indeed hell." He turned to the rest of the group. "What about you?"

From the deep it emerged, once veiling itself in the inky darkness drifting from the depths. It's sleep had been disturbed by the clamour of reckless wanderers above, and the sudden movement of one from below? Humans, no doubt. Numbering three, no more, no less. The lamentations had grown louder between their first incarnation and the hasty attempts of a hunter helping his prey; the two above forming a rushed alliance to escape unmolested from that tomb of ancient creatures most foul.

Whatever came forth to consume the three uncouth wanderers had been, if only for a moment, hindered by a smaller creature; somewhat akin to a vulture of the tombs, scavenging certain kills that did not belong to it. A puppeteer beast: animating the remains of some long dead cadaver to strike forth at the Hunter, to drag him to the depths before losing it's grip and slithering back into the deep darkness... and into the maw of the Lamentor. A screech of inconceivable horror echoed through the darkened halls for a singular moment as, somewhere in the blackness, the Puppeteer's body was torn asunder by a fiend more abhorrent than it. Then – silence. For a brief moment there was nothing, not even the incoherent rambling of the advancing Lamentor.

"Something's coming," whispered the wounded man, somewhat prophetically. His fear was greeted by the resumption of the maddening babbling and the clockwork tapping of some nightmarish legs. Then, in the thin light that poured from the upper entrance to the tomb, it caught the light for a repulsive moment: two heads encased in pyramidic cages of what seemed to be stone, fighting each other with silent lashes of forked tongues as though they sought control of a singular body independently. It's titanic frame seemed to have been forced and bound together from two separate pieces, lashed together with thick iron bands and rotted, ancient wrappings. It swiftly glided back into obscurity, only faint wisps of it's ragged clothing stayed stationary for a short while before they too trailed off after the beast.

"Memory memory... Sing fire... Hide secrets... Madness. Madness. Little men... Friends in the night... A third. A third approaches. How... Very... Important..." it whispered, slowly...

There were a lot of things that Perfect did still not understand about his current situation, about himself and about this strange place he found himself in now, many things that he suspected he may never learn, but at least he had gotten some answers in the short time that had passed since his awakening. For starters it had taken him less than an hour - assisted by his most recent surviving memory and the aching redness on his throat - to arrive at the conclusion that he had died, which was disturbing, but ultimately also somewhat encouraging. Though he had no memory that specifically suggested any such thing Perfect did not feel like he was religious or otherwise spiritual, and he was pretty sure that previous to his current predicament he had believed death to simply be the end, past which there was just a big empty nothing. The fact that he had died, yet still remained, meant that death was not the end after all; in fact, this implied a promise that death was never the end, though he was not very keen to test that theory. Who knew what consequences he would face if he died twice? Better not to test his luck; he had died once and 'survived', in a sense. Death had placed him in this place, certainly, and presumably stolen the memories that some part of him in the back of his head kept assuring him were missing... but he still was. Would another death remove him to elsewhere and take away more memories? Or would he just cease to be? Had he died more than once already, but forgotten?
Though each answer brought more questions, Perfect was smart and cunning, with little patience for thinking about things for which answers could not be discovered through pondering alone. He was a predator by nature, one who knew that to claim prey as one's own, one had to go where the prey was, not just sit somewhere and try to conjure it by the power of will alone. He kept thinking about himself and about the things he felt as though he was supposed to know, like who and what he was. His profession, whatever it had been, was lost to him, as were whatever skills he had used to make a livelihood before his death. It was possible that he still possessed the skills without knowing it, but there was no doubt that knowledge had been lost that would make him less effective than he had been before. What he did remember, and what his memories indicated rather clearly, was that he had some unusual hobbies. He was a murderer, a rapist, a child-molester... and he was fine with that. In fact when he tryingly handled the knife he had awoken with on him, heavy for a knife as it was, it had spurred the recollection of sensations in him - the feel of a blade scraping against bone, of warm blood on his hands, malleable flesh under his fingers growing still as life abandoned it - and he had been overcome by a sense of satisfaction.
Yes, he was a psychopath; he remembered the word with a distinct association to himself, though he suspected that it was a diagnose he had come up with himself or handed to him by a victim, since he doubted that he would have been as successful in prowling the world of the living if he was recognized as being the monster he was. Curiously, psychopathy was probably an advantage in his current situation; Perfect did not feel fear as strongly as 'sane' people did, and tolerated stress and unfamiliarity better than those, too. He quite simply lacked the psychological response to this kind of situation and could view it with much greater immediate clarity than most would. He also lacked empathy, of course, which was also convenient. Imagine having to deal with something as pesky as a conscience on everyday basis... intolerable.
Some people might claim that Perfect was immoral or amoral, but both of those accusations would be quite far from the mark. He was in fact an immensely moral man, and had very low tolerance for others violating his moral beliefs. Claiming that his actions were unethical, on the other hand, had a lot more merit. Perfect did not think what he was doing was wrong; society did. He understood this, because the best predator is the one that has no fear in the way of claiming his target, but is capable of walking in the midst of his prey without risk of spooking it, both to prevent them from escaping and to avoid being caught in the inevitable stampede as these lesser beings clamored for safety. Well, in the end he had not been able to avoid the stampede after all, it seemed... but he had done so for a very long time. How many had he killed? He could not remember the number, nor could he recount every kill... from the ones he did remember, he would say that he had claimed at least fourteen lives.

But next he turned his attention outward, and was faced with many more questions than answers. Where was this? His previous conclusions suggested that this world was some kind of afterlife, but that was an exceptionally vague idea at best. Only a few things were immediately discernible, namely that at least the land he was currently in was quite inhospitable, and that not everyone who died ended up here. If every dead person throughout history was put here, after all, this world would have to be unfathomably gargantuan for there to exist an area as large as the one Perfect wandered through now with absolutely nothing in it. One theory he had was that the world might be some manner of personal purgatory that existed only for him and in which he was alone.
A theory that was proven false when he found a canyon, at the bottom of which he spotted something, as opposed to the copious amounts of nothing that had dominated the landscape besides at this particular instance. He climbed down to investigate, and found the object he had spotted to be a plant of sorts, a sort of venomously green leafless bush adorned with large thorns. While the existence of the bush itself was enough to call into question the matter of this world being something that existed only for him - plants were alive, after all, which begged the question: did they pass into this world upon death as well? Did animals? Did everything? - the fact that it appeared to have been mauled horrendously was a much clearer indicator than anything. Thorns had broken off and lay scattered around the immediate area, several branches were broken - if not even cut off - and there were marks upon the rock that appeared to come from something sharp being pressed into it. A few feet from the bush were more thorns, though these at closer inspection were dark brown rather than green, and another several steps from there lay what appeared to be two halves of the shell of a fruit, the same color as the thorns removed slightly from the plant. The meat inside was gone, but the way the shell had been split clearly suggested the use of a sharp tool rather than claws or teeth; there were other people here, ones that knew how to survive in this world by the looks of it... presuming that the fruit had not been poisonous, that is.
He turned to inspect the bush more closely, and was rewarded with the discovery of dried blood on one of its branches, and staining the rock beneath it. There was no trail of blood to follow, however, and there were no other tracks to indicate where the person that had harvested this plant had gone, as the stone was not soft enough to leave impressions of feet and the dust, light and eternally in motion as it was, would quickly erase any footprints left in it.
He decided to go in the direction where the shell of the fruit had been left, and follow the canyon; that was what he suspected a normal person would do.

As he went, Perfect tried picking up a few stones on the way, considering using them as potential improvised projectiles or simply as blunt instruments in case this other person proved to be as hostile as the land itself, but quickly discarded that idea. All the stones in this area seemed to be sandstone, which meant that they were not only too light to be very effective as weapons, but also too brittle to try to craft into something more useful.
He steered around some pools of obviously dangerous and rather foul-smelling yellowish liquid, and encountered more of the thorny bushes, and these ones had not been smashed by some merciless forager, probably because they bore no fruits. Perfect was still interested in them, but for something other than sustenance. Carefully, so very carefully, he set about using his knife to shave off the thorns of five branches that were approximately straight, each about as thick as his thumb at their thickest and varying between sixteen and twenty inches in length. He considered leaving some of the thorns on there so that he could perhaps lash with the branches at potential enemies, but decided against it; not only did he remember the blood on the first plant, but there were also the facts that the branches were rather dry and fragile and the thorns were serrated. Not only would any injuries the thorns inflicted to an enemy be superficial, but they would get stuck and the branch would probably snap, meaning they at one or two good swipes in them at most. No, it was better to remove the thorns completely and then use his knife to sharpen their ends to use for stabbing. The sticks would probably still break the first time he used them, but that might be a good thing if he managed to insert them deep into the flesh of his intended target before them doing so. A broken-off piece of stick could make all kinds of ravage inside a person who was trying to move with it stuck in there.
A little later he spotted a bush that still had some of the brown fruits on it, which did indeed have thorns matching the ones he had seen earlier, which was too high up to be easily accessible. He considered trying to throw stones at it to knock off a fruit or two, hoping that they would roll down to him, but then remembered the first bush, how beaten-up it had looked and the cut-marks into the rock behind it. The fruits were probably not that easy to knock off, he deduced, and decided not to waste time on trying. Besides, it occurred to him as he left it behind, the idea of a fruit adorned with three-inch serrated thorns tumbling down the canyon-side, potentially directly towards him, did not seem like a very attractive prospect.

And then, in the distance: something. Not just a small bush or a toxic puddle, but something big. A forest, perhaps, though it did not seem like a typical one of the kind, and not just because of its location. It was dark and dead, and seemed to emanate mist that rose into the air. Perhaps a normal person would find the sight demoralizing, but to Perfect it was an encouragement. Mist meant water, and trees meant shade, even if they really were dead and there was nothing edible left in there.
And on top of everything else there was another something ahead of him in the canyon, between him and the forest but still far away. Movement so slight that he would not have noticed it, had it not been for the sporadic glints of twilight in metal. Someone really was ahead of him. Someone else.
He smiled, clutching his sharpened sticks in his left hand and his knife in his right. He followed.

The surrounding bog was a frightful venture, black and wicked trees sprouted above the waters surface, twisting and turning in unreal fashions. A low-lying mist coated the waters surface restricting the ordinary persons vision to about 10 meters. The water itself was lifeless, not a thing daring to disturb its surface. It was the small wooden catwalk which held the audacity to disrupt the emptiness, and even it was equally dull. Truly the whole place would immediately be recognized as unsettling, if it could even be seen, but the current and only onlooker's eyesight had been stunted by a severe lacking in light. For Riley, at the present, everything was pitch black, having trouble seeing his own hands. At that moment he was seated in what he had guessed to be the center of the walk way, leaning on a sheathed short sword gripped by both hands at the pommel. The blades masked tip pressed against the old wood. His plan was to wait out the darkness in favor of sunlight, he would wait for a few hours and once he could get his bearings, he could then proceed to march through in order to find civilization or at the least people. All in all he conceded that it was a good plan, save for the waiting part, which was proving near unbearable.

"C'mon....c'mon....", he muttered as he fidgeted with the sword. Gripping it that much tighter.

Riley considered himself a fairly patient person, but it was the absolute silence and stillness of the night putting him on edge. No wildlife to croak or chirp, no splashes or crickets. His eyes rolled about, dodging from left to right nervously, without reason. His ears were on full alert and where ready to have him jump at the slightest plop. Sweat had started to cling to his brow, either due to his own anxiety or the humidity, he pinned it to both. An idle hand was occasionally raised to deal with the offending perspiration.

In adapting to his new situation the rouge had rolled up both sleeves to his shoulders and removed the cloak, figuring it wouldn't make good water weight or help stave off the humidity. The cloak had taken on a new roll of cushioning his sore ass. Besides, the extra cover wasn't necessary being that there seemed to be no pests or bug life of any sort to keep away.

He began weakly uttering a tune to himself to calm the nerves,"And if he goes...let the dogs out back...let the widow dress in black...for she knows he's never marching home...", and it went on like that as he slowly drifted in and out of consciousness, lulling about where he was seated.



A few hours later his head lurched back up to find the place illuminated by the early morning rays. Looking over himself he found that the death grip on the hilt had held even throughout his napping, and that he had sweated a good deal. Riley turned his gaze to meet the pale light, squinting at its intensity. At his initial attempt to rise he fell back, reaching both arms behind himself to catch his body. The second time he enlisted the help of all four appendages and rose without a hitch. He bent down a snatched up his re purposed garment, folding it up and hanging it over his left forearm. As he began moving about, the wood beneath him creaked and groaned softly, as if in weak protest to the shift in weight. He stood straight up with all his belonging in hand and surveyed the environment.

Regarding the sun, which was roughly at the catwalks three o' clock to his right, he noted, "Heuh...'spose this path runs just about straight North an' South from here...", he trailed off.

To this thought his brows rose and he nodded slightly in an off hand approval of that being the case. "Guess that may make things a touch simpler..."

Though the place still made him tense, he was simply glad to have endured and left the night behind. With the advent of morning he would hopefully be able to escape this wasteland.

Rustling grass. Snapping branches. The raspy breath of an unnamable creature, muffled by an iron shell. Whatever it might be, it dashed across the colorless plains at a maddening pace – as fast as the malformed, almost human hands could carry it. Its left hind leg, the color of coal and covered in thick veins that barely contained the rippling muscles, bled profusely from a vicious gash left behind by a mortal blade. Similar wounds could be seen along its side, three punctures left in its rib cage that oozed with the unclean blood of a beast. Though quick on its hands and feet, the creature was forced into an awkward limp by the numerous injuries left on its misshapen body – its agony expressed clearly through the pained moans that escaped the tightly shut, iron hull bolted to what should be its head. Though possessed of a formidable body, there was a white hot panic in the monster as it was chased down the grassy slope by a bloodthirsty pursuer – a humanoid silhouette whose details remained vague in the twilight of darkness, but which clearly carried a spear of sorts, and which could run at a pace quick enough to keep up with the wounded creature.

Running and tumbling down the incline, the hunter and her quarry arrived in a quiet field, blanketed by a very faint, low hanging layer of mist. Ahead of them, somebody had erected a short fence a long time ago to contain what looked like an old cemetery. With little respect for ancient craftsmanship or the sanctity of the dead, the fleeing monstrosity leapt over the iron railing, its wounded leg lifelessly slamming against and putting a dent in the material before being dragged after the rest of the body. Not long after, the dark warrior in pursuit traversed the obstacle as well, and with the grace of a wolf that smelled blood, was only slightly slower than the beast. Circling in the black heavens up above, a loyal hawk awaiting the return of its master would see spectacle unfold without obstruction – even if it could never share the violent little tale of how a woman clad in dusky furs wrested the life from a beast that nobody in this world, or any other, would feel pity for. Breathing heavily, the iron-faced abomination crashed through gravestones, some already broken, others still intact, on its furious getaway. The trail of blood left behind grew thicker since before, and its pace decreased until eventually, tumbling over a particularly large slab of a headstone, it came to a halt. The entire torso, black as night and pulsing with flesh, heaved with every strained breath that sent puffs of white smoke out of tiny slits in the iron mask’s surface. Unable to move its left hind leg and out of options, it crawled on its two hands to turn around and face its pursuer head on.

For a brief moment, the two of them ceased to move and stared at one another, each of them feeling uneasy, each of them knowing that the next moments were going to be very unpleasant. The warrior caught her breath, singular eye panning over the creature’s body, already dissecting it for possible angles of attack – and sections of good meat. A frontal assault would prove difficult, given that its head, which was the most prominent frontal feature, was heavily armored and turned out to be nigh on impervious to any of her weapons. Additionally, its two unnaturally long arms were still uninjured and easily strong enough to swipe her aside or even crush her body. Its flanks, she knew from her earlier encounter with it, were vulnerable – the ribcage was long, torso slow to turn. The arms had trouble reaching this far to the side, the legs posed no threat. The rear, though undefended, would not suffice to inflict a lethal injury. One more alternative would be to get onto the creature’s fur-covered back, to penetrate its body from there or to cut into the neck. She swallowed and steeled her resolve, grimy hands clutching tightly around the thick shaft of her glaive.

Gritting her teeth, she burst into motion with a primitive growl, launching her full body weight into a deadly sprint towards the beast’s side. With a shrill scream of protest, eerily unsettling in how humane it sounded, the monstrosity swiped at her with its long arm to try and catch her with the open palm – only to find itself penetrated all the way through by her glaive as the two entities collided at full speed. Even so, the hand had enough momentum to knock the warrior down who, still holding tightly onto her favored weapon, lay on her back above a shallow grave, an enormous hand twitching unnervingly just above her and bleeding profusely upon her entire body. Grunting, she let go of her glaive and rolled out from under the hand, which now collapsed onto the ground. Being quick on her feet, she got away just in time before the other arm could reach over to try and catch her, and she now found herself next to the creature’s vulnerable rib cage, still bleeding from the three punctures she had inflicted on it in its sleep. Clearly it was not a enough of a wound to kill it, so she had to strike at a more lethal place; thus she pushed one of her leather-bound boots into one of the bleeding wounds and, using it as a macabre sort of stirrup, lifted herself onto the monstrosity’s back. With one hand grasping the long, grayish-black fur, she drew her iron sword and began crawling towards the neck.

Whatever twisted gods were trying to twist her sense of guilt, she gave the bone-chilling cries of the beast no second thoughts, even when she could have sworn to have heard an audible “No!” in between bestial whining under that iron helmet. In a last ditch effort to get her off its back, the abomination reached towards its neck with the only uninjured hand it has left, but it would turn out to be its last mistake. As it could not see what it was reaching for, the nameless vagrant avoided its crooked fingers and grabbed the arm by the wrist, pinning it behind the creature’s back. Strained moans escaping from bared teeth, she only barely managed to restrain the hideous arm, but was able to do so for long enough to ram her sword into the forearm, right in between the splitting bones, severing muscles and tendons. Then she pulled it out and stabbed it again, and again, each time faster and more violent than the last time. By the end of it, she was screaming “Die! Die!” as her blade penetrated limp and dying meat before she finally let go of it – the abomination gave up all resistance at this point, and had collapsed upon itself, its chest only heaving in what could be described as the weeping of a creature that resigned to its fate. The last thing it beheld was a view of the mausoleum entrance in the center of the cemetery that would become its burial ground before a blade of tempered iron dug into its neck, and the world became black.


Limbs restrained, vision milky. Tall, ghastly figures, impossible to be human, congregating around mineself. Terror. Panic. The searing pain of tools, conceived in fevered dreams, sinking into the flesh. And then they brought the mask – a hideous invention of cold iron, placed upon the skinless head. Screws dig into the bone. Agony. Emptiness. Hunger… and then the restraints burst apart.




A lonely tear rolled down the vagrant’s dirt smeared cheek when she came to, feeling very different to how she felt before. The bloodlust and euphoria was gone, replaced by a sense of overwhelming dread and nostalgia for something that was lost. She looked down at her hands, completely drenched in filthy, oily blood and the palms still clenched around the grip of her sword stuck in the neck of this hulk of black muscle that she sat upon. It was a rare event, but she had killed monsters before – the weaker ones, those prone to flee when ambushed or injured. But this was different from those times. They did not have memories, none that she was aware of – and yet, this one did. She saw it. Felt it. Cried for it. This creature, this monster she had slain… could it be that it was still sentient, somewhere underneath that expressionless, iron mask? That would mean that, perhaps one day, this creature would walk the land betwixt again, only lacking that one memory of how it was conceived. Perhaps it was its last remaining shred of hope in this world – she had not stolen its life, but its sanity.

She remained silent and motionless for a while as she contemplated her actions. In the end, she decided it was for the best; judging by what she had learned about this beast, it might be better off being oblivious to its own tragic fate. Besides, it had done her a great favor by not only nourishing her body, but sustaining her own sanity, endowing her with its final, parting gift of memory. With a sigh of exhaustion, she pulled out the sword from the brute’s neck, the blade making a sickening, wet sound as it was pulled free from coagulating flesh. Staring with a vacant eye, she wiped the bloodied blade against the long furs along its spine, washing off all but the most resilient of gore. She leapt off from its back, which reeked of filth, and landed on her feet with a gentle “thunk” from the damaged shield strapped to her back before returning her sword to its sheathe. On her way to retrieve her glaive, she wondered how much blood was actually staining her body – it was difficult to tell in the prevailing darkness. Probably more than she could ever wash out from them; she’d have to settle for carrying around another memento against her will, but at least it wasn’t a scar. While pulling the glaive free from the beast’s hand into which it had been lodged, her gaze was drawn to the ancient crypt entrance, illuminated as it was by a pair of sconces flanking the entry. No amount of curiosity could ever convince her to set foot in this decrepit place, but as she stared at the antediluvian construct, perhaps she would hear the faint sound of combat coming from within the bowels of the earth – or maybe she would stand ready to greet any who would escape from the clutches of the cold darkness below. Who could tell what would develop from here on? The only thing that was clear to the gods was that many threads of fate converged in this resting ground for the dead, like a nexus of destiny.

Riley had been shuffling along the walkway for a good...actually he couldn't quite recall. Had it been mere minutes or hours, his head turned towards the sun. Its position told that almost no time had gone by since he'd begun his trek. This could not be right, his legs spoke another story, they where tired and his feet where sore. The sweat he had produced had already soaked through to his...tunic...where was his tunic? Slowly he looked down and felt about his torso with his free right hand, as if it was simply now transparent.

Gradually he came to the conclusion,"Musta' never even had a tunic.", he nodded, "Would've done me no sort of good anyhow.", and continued with his linear shuffle across the decrepit boarding.

Slowly but surely he began to lose himself in thought again, he started to bob his head to the rhythm of the creaks below him, which fell in cadence with each step he took. His mind wandered about a muddled coagulation of distant memories and ideas that seemed to swirl about without order or reason. Abruptly, he was called back to reality by the sound of water bubbling to either side of him. He swiveled about in attempt to identify the source of it, when he realized the entire swamp appeared to be boiling, harsh steam rising to greet his skin. All the dead trees where alight, burning with a sort passionate rage, and the wood of the walkway followed suit, quickly engulfing his entirety in the intense heat. There was no time to scream, to panic or think, all he could do was resign himself to this fate. He let himself fall into the fiery bosom of eternity so that he may be cleansed of his wron--- *thump*-as soon as he had hit the wood, the world returned to as it was and as it had been. Nothing was on fire...nothing was boiling, it was simply the same bog he had been traversing since the morning.

He propped himself up and felt around his waist for a sword, that had never been there. "Right, aye, what would I be needing a sword for." He furrowed his brows in frustration with his own confusion. And what about his cloak? What cloak? Honestly he had not the slightest as to why he had his left arm poised like that, he chalked it up to the horrendous humidity toying with him. Upon his hands and knees still his ears picked up on a subtle noise behind him. A sort of angered shuffling, the rattling of chain-mail, the stomping of heavy boots, and something thin and metal being lugged behind.



Riley's breathing grew hoarse, his sweat stone cold. The world shifted beneath him as he responded in a tone just above a whisper, "...yo-y-y-you didn't have to go in there...we could've left...", he shut his eyes and barred his teeth as if about to receive a blow, still planked on all fours.



He panicked turning about to face the voice coming towards him. Upon his feet he stumbled backwards, the world pulled away and his vision narrowed as he stared longways down the path into the mist. Only a few feet backwards he pressed up against something solid, the scene about him changed.

Riley Dempsey stood within a courtyard connecting two wings of the St. Alexanders Cathedral, within the Southern Muerice trades town of Hobbleston. Outside it was mid-afternoon, a slight breeze brought a chill to the region, the sun was intermittently hidden by passing storm clouds. It was the last days of the winter season. Younger now he was, a man of twenty and three, a boy he was. Clad in black and brown studded-leathers, a broad sword held in his right. There was blood streaked across his trousers. At this moment Riley did not so much roam through his memory of free will, he was bound by what had already occurred, a helpless onlooker.

He made way for the small wooden door and pressed it open. Inside a voice challenged his entry. "Oi, oi whose that there?", it demanded.

"Dempsey lad." He responded as he continued into the small hallway. Closing the door behind himself.

The southerly man, a bit taller and thicker than Riley but adorned in a similar fashion, exhaled in happy relief. "Dempsey I-I uh I'm glad ya made it 'ere.", the other relaxed slightly.

Already sharing the same thought Riley spoke quickly and surely, "We're going to get out of here, this place will be crumbling down soon with the flames spreading as they are. Where are the rest?"

Instantly his comrade responded, "The four ar' already a' the southern wing. But Gerskie he...he's still causin' chaos in there. I think 'e doesn't plan...", Riley cut him off with a raised hand.

He then nodded to the double doors behind the man, "Is he through there?".

The mans right arm lifted slightly towards the entrance and he nodded only saying, "Aye.".

Riley quickly strode past the other on his way to the door, saying only, "I've got him don't worry. Just wait here for me...I'll be back soon.".
As Riley shoved open the double doors the memory grew hazy, occluded by the smoke. He only heard some of the conversation that took place.

"We've done enough, we've made our statement. We can go."

"WE AREN'T FOR ANYTHING ELSE DEMPSEY, THIS IS OUR END."

And then he found himself dropping, the grating in the back of his mind was excruciating, water washed over him and he sank into the black. If he had the mind to think about, he would've thought about how much he had been tripping backwards lately. Beneath the black water, it was empty, not murky, there simply was nothing to be observed. Luckily he did know how to swim and made for the surface. He broke the water finding himself only a stones throw from the shore of this swamp. Quickly he stroked to the bank, stomped up through the mud all whilst slipping about, and found his balance leaning up against a small tree. Riley's vision swayed left and right, his reality was waved about uncertainly as he slowly shuffled further inland occasionally sinking into mud puddles. In his disoriented state he never saw them approach, not until he lifted his head did he see the tall white figures. Four, as best as he could discern, encircled him. Tall cloaked figures, each wore the hollow head of some kind of moose like creature with large tangling antlers protruding out. All had a small piece of parchment, they where taking notes as they observed him...judged him. Riley's confusion turned to anger.

"WHO ARE YOU TO JUDGE ME!?", he lashed out, scrunching up his face in a snarl. "YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT I AM!", he lurched about throwing his arms in an aggressive manner.

The abominations scribbled furiously fueling his rage against them, "THEY ABANDONED ME!!! YOU'LL NEVER KNOW!".

And then it was done, the swamp was gone, he realized he was no longer wet, bone dry actually, and no mud was caked over his body. He turned in every direction, the mist was gone, Riley stood now in the center of a clearing, patches of dry grass clung to hard and gravelly dirt. Around the opening was a sparse forest of dried out trees. All his possessions where still gone...he made a shamble northward into the woods eventually reaching the treeline. From there a small hill led down to the northwest leading into rolling hills. His head swiveled left, to the north east a rocky plains stretched on into eternity. And far far far out north a massive and foreboding mountain stood over the lands. Without another word he began trudging into the foothills in the vague hope of finding water. He really was quite parched.

"Sarcasm, lady, ever heard of it? Besides, it's a gods damned nightmare in this place anyway. I sure as hell ain't gonna play no stinkin' music here."
Her eyes flitted back onto the seeming madman, then almost immediately onto the dark knight and the second man once more. She did not reply to his retort verbally, and her hands retained a firm grasp on her axe, but after a couple of seconds of hesitation had passed, her shoulders were momentarily raised in a slight and tense dismissive shrug.
What else could she have replied to that? 'Pardon, but you do look mentally unstable enough to be completely oblivious to this place and the creatures that lurk it, and it is the first time I see you, so I wouldn't know to think otherwise?' That would have been awfully rude, to say the least. But he jingled, for the sake of it - any sane and sound man would have long removed such decorations, would one not? Here he was only protected by whatever fallacy of nature kept drunkards alive, for all she knew...
The second man spoke in turn, and made the earlier bits about him and being a weapon click together in a rather ... or at least a bit disconcerting manner. So he was - or had been - a man who kills in secrecy? Looked like a quite ordinary man, in any case ... which, on second thought, was probably a part of the job description, all that not looking memorable and not catching unnecessary attention. He sounded quite reasonable, in any case... And surely, he would not announce his profession loud and clear to them all if he were to put his skills in use against them, would he?
The jingling madman quipped something about being a mercenary himself, yet she could not for the life of her tell whether he was being serious this time around or just taking a jab at the self-proclaimed assassin's declaration of his former profession.
She was quite certain that her 'Sir' had been - and in some ways still was - a knight of some description, even when she was not certain whether she had ever seen an actual knight in her old life, but the madman quite did not fit her mental image of a mercenary - she would have expected a serious and trained-looking man with weapons and armor that were not quite fit for a knight. The jingling man looked more like ... what's-it, a trickster of some sort? They probably came with traveling circuses... She thought so, at least. How would she know? Guess this was just another of those things she knew, but despite her best efforts could not recall how and where from.
The dark knight seemed content with their explanations and reassurances, and his battle-stance was dropped in a rather abrupt manner. It was much as she had thought - he was still almost as weak and exhausted as he had been when she had first sighted him. Desperation was truly a powerful force, it seemed ... to make one capable of putting up a front or even fight after nearly dropping to ground from exhaustion.
At last, she opted to lower her axe, opting for simply holding it in her arms rather than keeping it poised for a strike. Seemed appropriate, as no one else was still displaying readiness for a fight.
She could see the dark knight's head turning towards her - with the helmet it was probably necessary to turn one's head just to look around due to the diminished field of vision -, and then he actually slightly bowed his head to her. Round eyes questioning, she looked up to him. She was by no means a small woman, but the dark knight positively towered over her and both other men on the scene ... who, to think of it, were both actually shorter and smaller than she, the former assassin especially being only about shoulder-height to her.
We should all keep together and help one another in this place, no? she thought, but for some reason did not put into words. The dark knight continued, laconically admitting that he was but a lost soul himself and referring to a mountain in the far distance. That thing had to be immense, to serve as a landmark for long travels...
"But what do you think is there, Sir?" she uttered, eying the humongous land formation. Was there anything noteworthy at all, or was it just a stable thing in an unpredictable world? A proof that you were moving onwards rather than walking in endless circles through potentially ever-changing land? But then again, who was to say that even this seemingly stable beacon did not up and relocate itself when no one was looking - or even slowly crawl father away under plain sight? Who knew what laws this place obeyed?
“We can discuss our predicament in due time, but such a concentration of sane souls is surely like a beacon to whatever lurks above the valley walls.” This statement, however, brought her back down to Earth - or whatever world this was - and her initial wariness of the place and its openness, temporarily forgotten in the face of finally meeting people she could actually talk to in this place, came back crashing down on her. The dark knight was right. This ... out here, in the open, this was not a good place for discussing things freely.
Evidently, the dark knight decided that he had spared enough breath over the matter and opted to just march forward without any further dilly-dallying, motioning them to follow. She hesitated for a moment, but also took the chance to remove the winter-coat (wholly unnecessary and even harmful in those conditions!) and wrap it around the axe's handle once more. Done with that, she hurried after the dark knight.
Perhaps she should suggest the canyon as a brief resting-spot before they moved on? It had seemed empty...

The former assassin opted to spoke up once more, almost sending a jolt through her body. Without ... a purpose, he said he is? Surely, a person would first and foremost want to find a place where there was food and water and nothing was trying to actively eat you? That would be a start... The man rambled on, however, and the look in her eyes as she glanced sideways at him became disbelieving and almost bewildered.
Those were the words of a obsessive-compulsive maniac more than anything else... Her first assessment of the former assassin being quite reasonable was probably wrong. This guy was absolutely batshit insane, possibly even more so than the jingling madman. Of course he was forgetting something if he had ever been a functional member of society... She bit her lip, and for some reason gripped the axe-bundle more tightly.
"Being an assassin is a job ... it is not what a person is," she claimed hesitantly, but then fell silent. He was now sounding almost angry, lamenting over being 'an ultimate weapon', losing is edge in this place and 'hell' not needing assassins. Just in case this frustration would be followed by aggression, she would not be trying to argue him.
She was bigger and stronger than him, but he was probably also armed to teeth (were assassins' arsenals not largely composed of hidden weapons and perhaps poisons and such?) and she did not want to risk a toxin-covered knife in her throat should the man decide that contesting him was not permissible. And so she hurried onwards, sticking to their plate-armored circumstantial leader's side for the time being.
The dark knight did not appear to be all that talkative, and perhaps due to some kind of almost awed respect for the man, she did not want to bother him much, either. Now that his momentary weakness had passed, he seemed almost unstoppable. Trudging onwards with barely any rest and just small amounts of food or drink. It just seemed ... inhuman, what the giant of a man was doing. Maybe it was the armor. Maybe it hid the exhaustion on one's face and the empty gaze of a man who was just dragging himself along by sheer willpower alone. He had faltered once - who was to say how far he was from faltering again. One needs to be one's strongest here. If it means slowing down, then so be it.
She did try to converse her third companion a few times, but in the end she remained wholly uncertain on what to make of him. She could hardly ever tell whether it was a serious comment he made or just more swearword-riddled sarcasm. Half of the time, she got the impression that the jingling madman was just mocking her, twisting her words. What a jolly trickster indeed. In the end, she typically just shrugged and withdrew back to her own company.
The valley surrounding them was changing once more, yet again gradually becoming colder until she first donned the winter-coat, then closed its front, then pulled another pair of pants atop of the pair of pants she was already wearing. A bit strange, perhaps, but it was warmer this way. Ah yes, and as long as she was not doing anything that required a greater amounts of dexterity from her hands, the mittens stayed on.
There were no more thornball-plants in sight. She guessed those spiteful barbed bushes only grew in hot, rocky places ... possibly also only in vicinity of whatever that reeking yellow fluid was. Corrosive and tricky to obtain as the fruits were, they at least counted as both food and water. She had eaten one more since she had met her new acquaintances, as well as nearly depleted her first flask of water.
Instead of the viciously dark green bushes that were too riddled with dozen-centimeter-long mildly curving serrated thorns to leave enough space for a fingertip on the actual branch and too flexible to break upon hitting, she was now looking for small tufts of yellowing lanceolate leaves. The leaves were not edible, but the bitter roots under them were ... as long as they were dried first, else the milky white fluid left behind painful blisters that appeared but minutes after contacting skin or flesh. A bit like nettles in a sense, she supposed... Not that she knew how people figured out that nettles could be made into a soup, or why she was aware that the roots were safe when dried. Experimentation? Had she met someone who knew it, and forgotten all about the encounter?
She had dug the plants up using her hands and the blades in her disposal, ineffective as they were for the given task, crudely removed the leaves with her knife, tied the roots to her bag, and left them be for the time being.

Eventually, they came to some kind of curved formation reaching out from the valleyside. It looked a bit like bone, though it was also literally tens of meters long, which would have made the creature it had once belonged to ... more massive than she could adequately picture. Taller than a dozen houses stacked one atop another, that was for sure. Was most likely some kind of odd stone... had to be.
At long last, it seemed that the dark knight opted for resting under the cover of the great arc and one wall of the valley. It was not the most protected location, that was for certain, but at least they had fewer sides to watch, she guessed...
She huddled up in a crouching position, resting her chin on her knees, removing her mittens to inspect the gashes left by the serrated thorns. The ones on her middle finger appeared to be healing nicely, one on the index finger was not - possibly the same one that had been torn open when she was prepared to retaliate with her axe. It was red and painful, and oozed yellowish white liquid when squeezed a bit. There was little she could do about it but wince and use a rag and the last few drops from her first flask of water to try to clean it up the best she could.
She heard a cough from her armored companion as she was putting the flask away, but did not look up at him until he actually started speaking. It was time, it seemed...
He has been for a long time, but how long have I been here? She did not know ... on one hand, she should have remembered more of her time here, on the other, there was just too much she simply knew about this world and it just felt like a long time...
Why was she here? Now keeping her eyes fixed on the dark knight, she shook her head slightly. No, she did not know that, either. But he had been to the mountain? And there was life and luxury? She did not think she had ever seen true luxury, but as long as there was enough food and drink, surely she could learn to live there. It could be a home. But even that place had beasts?
"A key?" she uttered - she was not even certain whether to herself of the knight - when he mentioned missing something that did not let him to get in. And ... he only ended up farther and farther? See, the damn mountain is crawling further away? For some reason she almost felt sorry for him. To walk and walk, but not really get anywhere... And how he talked of his own death, almost as if it were not a remarkable thing anymore? (Had she died herself? Probably. Best not to ponder.)
"You seem quite sane to me, Sir. More than most people here, anyway." Including her two other companions. (She tried to tell her that she was not like the others, but it did not seem like she was being believed.) Though, why had he asked them the one question he did in the beginning? That had not made too much sense, given the context. "Why did you ask us which king we serve, Sir?"
"And surely, if you got to the mountain, once, then you know it is at least possible? You just have to recall how, and with what? It may still come to you, eventually. We will just have to try to not die again and help one another? Yes?"
The former assassin was now speaking again, and again she was shaking her head, though this time she did so because she figured the speaker was mistaken rather than confirmed a negative.
"I don't think this place has an explanation. It just is. It is not hell, it is not heaven - 'sides, you heard what he said, the mountain has beasts, too -, it is just a place where all lost things end up, perhaps, and either disappear or become something else when they forget who they were before, or manage to find themselves again against all odds. In any case, it is our home now - there is no further down, and there is no way back to our old lives." Made sense to her, at least. "I don't think we've all been to the mountain. I was not really heading towards it when I met you lot, just trying to find drinkable water. And even if we would all eventually wander towards it, then there should always be a first time for ending up here, in this world. One before deaths. I admit, there is little I know of this place, aside of things I simply know. It feels like I have been here for a long time, but I don't know how long, or even whether I have died here before."
She held up a ghastly pale hand, turning it for people to see. A pale hand with well-defined tendons, attached to a sturdy wrist and a muscled arm. A hand with unusually long fingers and strong and long fingernails. It was almost as if she were growing talons. (He was yet to see the dark knight's face - was he still human, if this place had indeed changed her?)
"I remember a different hand from memories of my old life... I don't think I was someone evil. No, I am certain I was not ... don't think I ever killed anyone. Not people, at least. Maybe here, but that was because I had no choice. In my old life, I lived in a wooden house near evergreens ... forest, even. I remember chopping wood, making food... A pretzel, if it makes a difference. Looking through things in the house, searching ... lost something important, but can't recall what. I also had at least one child ... remember holding them, but nothing else about them. Village was ways off from the house, I think. There was a large field I ran over... There was not much food during winter, one time ... I resorted to eating the evergreens. All just feelings and moving images, but a few moments long each." She shook her head. "Then there are other memories ... memories of this place, some memories which feel more like a strange nightmare, and a memory where I am quite certain I was a man. That doesn't make sense."

_{no the readers demand a story}


“I know not what manner of man you are, but your words ring more reasonable than you would have us believe you are capable of. For now, we must avoid bloodshed. We can discuss our predicament in due time, but such a concentration of sane souls is surely like a beacon to whatever lurks above the valley walls.”


"I spent so much time trying to find a rational explanation for this irrational place, but it seem another approach needs to be considered. I know I killed a lot of people, and even more that I probably don't remember anymore. It makes sense I was thrown here, if it is indeed hell. What about you?"


“I have walked the land for… A long time. I had counted six-hundred turns of the light before I stopped. That was long, long ago. I do not know where I come from, or why I am here, and I guess none of you do either. When I first awakened, I made it to the mountain. I do not remember what I found but there was life and luxury, but something within killed me. When I awoke again, I could not approach the mountain no matter how hard I tried. I was missing something, but I cannot remember what; something physical, maybe a memory made real? Every time I died, I drifted further and further from that place, as though it were punishing me for losing my mind. Whatever lies beyond is where we must head. We cannot do it alone, but I fear we may be missing something important of ourselves… but what that is, I do not know.”


"I don't think this place has an explanation. It just is. It is not hell, it is not heaven - 'sides, you heard what he said, the mountain has beasts, too -, it is just a place where all lost things end up, perhaps, and either disappear or become something else when they forget who they were before, or manage to find themselves again against all odds. In any case, it is our home now - there is no further down, and there is no way back to our old lives. I don't think we've all been to the mountain. I was not really heading towards it when I met you lot, just trying to find drinkable water. And even if we would all eventually wander towards it, then there should always be a first time for ending up here, in this world. One before deaths. I admit, there is little I know of this place, aside of things I simply know. It feels like I have been here for a long time, but I don't know how long, or even whether I have died here before."


_{just give up you won't get home not now not in a million years}

How long have I been down here? How many times? How-

Again he awoke to nothing but shadow, and that same pain persisted in his chest though now it had dulled. He always awoke face to the earth, his body cold and his things scattered out in the shadows. How many times had he gone through this? It was just rise, repeat- over and over again. He was beginning to forget what he was doing here, why would he be here? Who was he?

"Oy, Pick!"

Those words echo'd again in the back of his mind. 'Pick'. That was him name, right? Or was it 'Mate'? No- 'Pick' seemed right. But why? Why why why whywhwywhwywhwywhwywhwyyyy....

Another scream of frustration, another screech of the reaping soon to come, another splash of crimson never to see the light of day. How many times was that now? It was hard to remember how many- it was hard to remember at all.

Shivering, Pick pushed himself off the floor again, awakening the same way each time but still just as lost as he had been the first. Was there a first time? He couldn't remember- there must have been a first- cold...

A chilling quake ran down Pick's spine, and he shuddered as his eyes tried to adjust to the shadow. It had taken him only a few tries to learn that lighting his lamp always ended badly. Then it had taken a few more to learn that if his shovel scraped any stone that was it. Now he just had to get over the pain in his ribs, and stay quiet. His breathing became shallow as he tried learning to cope with the situation, little clouds of his breath dissolving into the stale air. It was coming again- it was only a mater of time before it took him again. IT was just waiting for him to do something wrong. Break one rule of it's twisted game and you had to start all over.

The board had changed this time though. With a hand pressing to the ground, Pick's scarred fingers lightly raked through what felt like soil. His pinkie caught on something, and he seized up in preparation for whatever had come to end him but nothing happened. It was only a root.

A root. Trees. The- the surface...

Shakily Pick pushed himself off the wall and onto his knees, feeling the dirt floor and finding both his shovel and helmet. They were his, weren't they? They were always there when he awoke, but still each time he clung to them till the end in fear he wouldn't see them again. Perhaps this time wasn't an end though- and with that thought, Pick stood in the tunnel and drove his shovel up. A soft crunch- soil fell downward, and in the distance something stirred. Again and again, Pick jabbed the spade over his head as more dirt fell away and roots crunched as they were snapped by the metal edge.

IT screamed, and with adrenalin pumping through his veins Pick clawed and stabbed at the earth above him. The rake of claws through soil accompanied the flood of shadow moving through the underground, and the pain in Pick's chest grew more intense with each clod of dirt that fell past him. IT was upon him, screaming in defiance of Pick's very existence and with one final cry the spade was thrust upward once more.

The tool left his hands, diving out of the tunnel and into the aperture of light it had created. The beam broke the darkness and stabbed through the shadow like the tooth of some great beast sinking into the flesh of the earth. Pick scrambled back, away from IT and shut his eyes in preparation for what came next.

There was nothing though. He didn't wake up this time- no, this time he was still awake. Slowly, Pick opened his eyes to see the beam of light shining down; dull but far brighter than anything he had seen for a long time. In the distance he could still hear the scrape of claws, though it was a slow and irregular sound now as opposed to the rapid clicks from moments ago. Knowing there would be no second chances, Pick looked toward the pinhole of light and clawed towards it, ripping apart the earth and emerging into the sunlight.

Pick pulled himself from the hole, sobbing as he hugged the brittle grass beneath him and kissed the dry soil it grew in. "YES!" He screamed towards the heavens, on his knees with fists held high in the air. He'd won the game, he'd beaten IT, he could return to what had been befo-

What was before?

As his eyes adjusted to the light, Pick took in his surroundings and felt that sense of loss return all to quickly. He was at the edge of a long dead forest, near the fringes of what he could see as rolling grass hills. A dry, "Oh," escaped Pick's cracked lips, hardly a whisper that was quickly blown away by a soundless wind. Slowly he pushed himself to stand, trembling as one hand grasped the handle of his shovel which he then used to help support his effort to get upright.

For a while, all he could do was look- examining the surrounding terrain and seeing there was far more to this land than just trees and hills. From his somewhat admirable vantage point, there was a fair amount of land to be seen but it all felt strangely empty and anything too far away was blurred, and shrouded by fog. The one thing that stood out though was the mountain- a king among the rest of the land's features which drew Pick's eye as if it were actually demanding his attention. A passing memory drifted through his skull, and with his free hand Pick dug through the pockets of his jacket until he found the tattered piece of paper he somehow knew would be there.

Sloppily, he unfolded it; the brown paper aged and filthy but still holding together well. Most of the map was unreadable, but on one of the far corners was a jagged looking triangle that could only be a mountain. It's name was faded to nothing, and whatever notes had been written near the shape were almost impossible to read.

This****************************** digg**g up ********** of va************************************ey were abando******************he people *********************************rbed sp************************ separated ************* here.

Pick squinted at the faded smudges, trying to make sense of what was still readable but failing. The one thing that he could connect though was 'separated here', and the large X drawn halfway up the mountain on what looked like a crag. "Huh," he murmured, looking at the mountain in the distance. Taking his only hint thus far, Pick folded the map up and left the forest behind with only the mountain now in his thoughts. Doesn't look that far, he thought, shovel clutched in one hand as he tried to ignore the aching in his ribs.

After tending to his former prey's wound, Rook was starting to stand on his own injured legs when the babbling had suddenly grew louder and clearer than before. He turned at the sound of a soft tapping, only to see... something dart back into the inky black shadows of the crypt with a hiss, away from the light of his lantern. His immediate reaction was to fire a bolt at the thing, but his shot just hit the head of the tunnel and clattered to the ground. Shaking his head, the hunter looked from the tunnel to the boy laying at his feet.

"Yeh saw that, right boy? The thing with two heads?"

A cold wind then came upon the two men who were so close to escape from the Broken Crypt, a frigid, bitter chill permeated the very stones that lined the shadowed walls. It was there amidst the darkness somewhere, stepping slowly and carefully, with a glint of madness in it’s very being; watching, waiting, preparing. It’s hands were slender amalgamations of bone and sinew, roughly spun into the shapes of spindly, serpentine fingers that waved independently in the vacant air of the tomb. One of its mournful heads quietly screamed devastating nothings, its amputated tongue slipping against sharpened teeth set in ancient stone. The other whispered phantasmagorical utterances that sailed through the faltering light like a knife upon the night; together their hideous verse instilled and cultivated a deep sorrow within the men it faced, as though it were speaking of a tragedy that no mere mortal could possibly understand.

”Together... Together... Separated... Until the end...”

The boy's damp face felt chilly against the wind that came. His eyes simply stared into the darkness as his face tightened into a grimace of fear. His hands moved on their own as they scrabbled for the journal, almost ripping it open as they fought to open to an empty page. The quill was pulled out of its slot and the boy's hands worked at a frenzied pace, almost slashing at the paper while he stared ahead in a trance.

The hunter pulled his cloak tighter about himself as a chill swept over him, his crossbow held loosely in his right hand still. He watched as the boy pulled out his journal and began to draw, of all things. His hand moved as if posessed across the blank page, ink flying from the tip, and his eyes were just locked onto the place where the monstrosity had appeared. The boy had clammed up, frozen with fear other than his hand that did the drawing. His left hand.Shaking his head to make sure she could still move, the hunter bent grab the lever from his pack and fit it onto his bow to reload a shot as quickly as he could. There was no telling when the thing that made this crypt its home would reappear and what it would do when it did.

Finally the boy's hand stopped, shaking as it removed itself from the tip of the paper. The boy blinked rapidly for a few moments, looking around and then back down at the paper, in shock. "I... I drew this?" he asked, eyes widening suddenly as he remembered the sight of the beast. He dropped the quill as he brought his hand back up to his forehead, grimacing again. "R-run. We need to run."

"Yer right about that, boy, but your one leg is banged up, and both of mine were clawed by a damn bone pile used as a puppet."

The boy slammed the journal shut, banishing its sight for the time being as he clenched his teeth, attempting to stand. "Skeletons moving. Two things merged together. This entire place. Madness. It's all madness. I just want to go home." The boy looked up at Rook, a look of melancholy covering him. "I couldn't control myself. I just stared while I used the wrong hand to draw it. Did you hear its lamentations? It was in my mind."

"Aye. I heard the thing's weepin'. As for going home, lad... I think we are. This land seems to be our home now, wherever we came from before or whoever we were before, we're just ants in this maze now. Better get used to it if yeh want to survive."

"John. My name is John. My surname is that weapon over there," the boy said as he stood up, eyes welling up slightly as he walked over to it, stooping down and picking up the great cleaver. "The image of cleaver. Still bloody, I never managed to clean off the blood. I... remember. I must've killed someone. God has punished us, hasn't he?"

The hunter looked at the young man as he stooped to pick up the great cleaver he ahd named himself after. It was as good of a name as any in this unknown land filled with mad men in rusted armor and now apparently two monsters stuck together and shoved in a crypt. Rook... the word came back to mind just like it did when he first laid eyes upon Artimus when he first awoke in this land of madness.

"Call me Rook. I'm not sure about that either, bo- John. Last thing I can remember is... a campsite, on fire, and something came at me through the haze. Then I woke up here. In a forest of stone."

"Like the bird?" John asked, regaining a bit of youthfullness and immaturity to his voice. "I'll have to meet your hawk out there. Make's sense you name yourself after a bird." John swung the cleaver in a large arc, clumsy and slow, showing he knew nothing about the sword. "I think I remember seeing a knight once. Had a big sword, nothing like this. It can't be much different from chopping with an axe, is it?"

"I'm not sure if I've named myself after the bird or the piece in that game the rich folk play. Chest, I think it's called? I don't know. Either way, call me Rook. Artimus is a beauty. I've had her... since I was little. I don't know about that, John. I'm not really a close up sorta fighter. I prefer to stay at a distance with my bow here," he patted the bow affectionately, as though it were a pet he held in his arms.

The cold wind began to return, filling the hall and giving both men gooseflesh over their arms. It howled through the halls with a truly eldritch cry deep into the bowels of the crypt itself. The whispers rose in their intensity once more, threatening to deafen the two of them. "S-steel yourself... I'ts coming..." John whispered, barely audible through the noise, his body shaking as he held tightly to the Cleaver, both hands wrapped around it.

Ever the hunter, Rook pulled the crossbow back up and aimed it at the tunnel entrance, ready to fire should the abomination show its heads yet again. Moments passed, almost seeming like an eternity down there in the darkness. The beast refused to reveal itself. "I... is it... taunting us?" John gritted his teeth before sucking in a gasp of air. Suddenly, he shouted, yelling loudly into the darkness, "SHOW YOURSELF, DAMN IT! DON'T LEAVE US HERE, YOU DEMON OF HELL."

Rook lowered his bow slowly and stared at his young companion as he shouted into the dark for the beast to show itself, themselves? The hunter soon saw his folly as the beast lunged forth from the shadows and lashed out, catching him in the side and sending him sailing through the air. He hit the wall of resting corpses and fell to the stone floor in a tangle of bones and cloak.

"R-Roo-" John gasped as the demon leaped from the darkness, too fast for a thing its size should have been. It stood at least double the size of John, the tips of its heads almost reaching the roof of the crypt. Its jaws snapped open and shut at a rapid pace, ready to tear flesh from bone as one of its crooked hands flew for John. He moved, yelling as he ducked beneath the demon, diving through its legs in a panic. He suddenly remembered the weapon in his hands, lashing out in a sick chopping motion towards the Lamentor as he went past.

His attack hit one of the abomination's legs, elicitating a scream of pain from it as John pulled his weapon out, dashing out of reach of another of its arms. The wound wasn't deep, but dark black blood slowly oozed out, dripping to the grimy floor. For a moment John stared, amazed he had even hit the beast. It felt pain. It could be killed. John knew that he had experienced much death in his life. If the beast was simply a beast, he could kill it. It was no swine or fowl, it was a beast that needed put down. Adrenaline flushed through his system as he grinned.

Meanwhile, Important peeked around the corner of the crypt, through the holes of his helm, he saw the vista of an abomination. The twisted form of two souls smashed into one, he thought. It held such a grotesque form that he once again considered simply returning to his place in the crypt and sleeping away until he could safely leave.

But of course, the voice that pleaded for him to save them returned. Familiar and fond, he felt compelled to listen to it.

With his blade in hand, Important stepped out from the corner and with practiced muteness, unsheathed his sword, and sprinted towards it. The moment before he would attack, he threw the sheathe in the opposite direction of his slash, and aimed to take its sight from one of its heads. He would have been a fool to stay put inside of its reach, so he continued forwards.

The hunter flailed his arms, attempting to untangle himself from the bones and folds of his cloak. When he finally managed to push the bones away and rip his cloak off of himself, the hunter stood to see an armor-clad person spriting at the beast and slashing at it with a short sword and John standing away from the beast, his cleaver covered with the inky black blood of the twin-headed behemoth. It was in his quick assessment of the crypt-turned-battlefield that he realized his crossbow was laying far from his reach; he had dropped it when the abomination flung him at the wall of corpses.

The Lamentor turned from delivering a quick death blow to the boy who had cut it so, hearing the footsteps coming towards it. The one who had first invaded its lair. The one that had evaded it for so long. "Important... Important. Grandeur. Falsity." one of the heads cackled as the sword swung close, but missed its mark as the demon reared back with inhuman speed. One of the heads suddenly stopped moving before starting to let out an ear piercing 'eeeee,' appearing excited.

It would certainly forget its lamentations, if only for a night.

It was as though the beast had resolved to steele itself for the oncoming conflict, it had known of the presence of three, but expected not cooperation, and had such expected an easy hunt - somewhat. But these insignificant souls had shown themselves to desire surival above all else, to deny the Lamentor its gratfying demonstration of dominance absolute within that broken place. It lept to the side, appearing to defy all logical rules, and once again into the velvety dark shadows where even its abhorrent visage would be nigh impossible to detect.

And then... the sound of the sharpening of a knife. The sound of tears being shed.
But it was ghostly, as if echoing from some other time and place beyond. The beast narrowly avoided the armoured newcomer's charge, its arm reaching from the darkness in a terrible arc and striking the newcomer from behind, sending him reeling into the Crypt walls with a metallic thud. It then rushed from the gloom, moving with such speed that it appeared to not even touch the ground, as though it floated through some arcane force. It was a blur, faster than the eye could follow, its spectral raiments following it slowly through the air, trailing it like a chain of smoke.

First, the Hunter. Gathered into the hands of the Lamentor and bound within its bony fingers, a grip tighter than an iron fist. He was raised into the air for a moment which seemed to slow and dilate with the fluctuating echoes of eldritch moans and the cries of struggle from mortal lips. The wound inflicted by the Cleaver-wielding man had already begun to close, the black blood that had bubbled forth from the wound had started to fizzle away in clouds of noxious gas; the scent of which appeared only to drive the Lamentor more mad than it had been previously. What had once been words had given way to senseless screaming that spoke of a most infuriating hysteria. It swung the Hunter through the halls, slamming him repeatedly against solid stone, each time the sound of bones crushing devolved more and more into the sound of pulverising thuds.

He would have screamed, should he had been given the chance.

The Lamentor dropped the Hunter, its two heads turning immediately to the Newcomer who had charged with a shortsword of mortal steel. The beast evaded a series of frenzied and skillful strikes, its arms and body twisting in ways that should not have been possible. With each attempt, it drew closer and closer, mockingly slowly, its mouths trying to form words of malice and spite. It straightened its arm towards Important, stretching its finger as if to point to the man.

"Fateful. Important. Good hearted. Innocent. Guilty. Couragous. Strong.

Its mouths stopped, both descisively snapping shut at the same moment; before - in perfect synchronisation - they spoke one more time.

"Dead."

The Lamentor pushed its skeletal finger through the chest of the assailant, coaxing a well of blood to erupt from his mouth before the life faded from his eyes entirely.

And then, only one remained. The boy, John Cleaver he had described himself as to the Hunter. It was a voice most familiar to the hunted that it spoke in one last time.
To John, the boy who wished simply to find his way home, it would have maybe even been soothing; as it silently stepped towards him, John could have sworn that the Lamentor assumed the voice of someone most dear, calling to him.

"Dearest John..."

And then - Darkness.

--------

With a panicked and simultaneous gasp, the three found themselves together, but no longer in the Crypt; eyes opening quickly. Within a circle of stones they were, each man knowing less of himself, closer to becoming Empty, a state so feared by the last sane wanderers of the land.

But John Cleaver perhaps saw something within the crypt that the others did not, and resting upon him now was a simple locket of gold, warm to the touch, as if it cast away the sorrowful land all around, conjuring forth an inner warmth that he had not felt in all his time within the Land Betwixt.

The hunter was the first to pull himself into a sitting position, looking around to see where he had awakened this time. He was surrounded by headstones, so he must still be in the cemetery. Sure enough, when he directed his gaze to the skies above he saw Artimus drifting lower and lower toward him.

"Fuck," Pick muttered, reaching the top of another steep ridge to see he'd somehow been turned around again. After leaving the forest Pick had understood the terrain ahead as a few rolling hill of grass, not these deep canyons and massive trenches that were almost like a walled maze at some points. Again he'd managed to find a slope that inclined softly enough to actually climb, and just like the last five times when he got to the top Pick found he had been going in any direction other than towards the mountain.

"Fucking, fuck- fuck -f-!" Pick stammered, positive he had tracked each and every turn he made correctly. He should have still been heading for the mountain, but instead for the past hour he'd been traveling towards what looked like more rolling hills, and after that an empty wasteland. Stress beginning to get the better of him, Pick kicked at the dead grass beneath him and pulled on the hair left unprotected by his helmet. Angrily, he drove his shovel into the ground and knelt beside it, grabbing the map from his jacket and laying it down on the ground before him. With a frustrated huff Pick then removed his helmet, running his other hand through his hair while he placed the helmet on top of the shovel's erect handle.

"Where am I?" he softly asked the map, hoping it would somehow start to make more sense. If anything it made even less sense than before, as for the first time Pick noticed the map's compass was missing. This wouldn't have been a problem if everything was drawn from the same perspective, but that wasn't the case as what looked like a village was upside down and on the opposite side of the map as the mountain. In an attempt to make sense of this oddity, Pick turned the map 180 degrees with the belief that he had somehow mistaken an upside down fissure or canyon for what he'd believed was a mountain. As his eyes looked over the rest of the tattered paper though, he saw everything was drawn with the same inconsistency. A picture of the sun lay in the center of the map, a forest of crisscrossing trees surrounding it. Around that and in various corners of the map were several poorly drawn types of terrain and oddities, with faded and almost nonexistent scribbles of writing here and there.

With a defeated sigh, Pick turned the map back the way it was before with what he trusted was a mountain near the 'top' again. He then turned his head to it's real life counterpart, only able to hope the two monuments were one and the same. Unconsciously the now truly lost man licked his dry lips, and remembered the canteen at his side. Quickly he retrieved it and unscrewed the top, drinking a few heavy mouthfuls before returning it to be hidden under his jacket.

A hunched silhouette against the seemingly eternal twilight, Pick gathered his things and began climbing back down the ridge. His mind had begun to wander, actually thinking for the first time since he'd escaped the underground- and he began asking questions, like how he was still alive...

"I spent so much time trying to find a rational explanation for this irrational place, but it seem another approach needs to be considered. I know I killed a lot of people, and even more that I probably don't remember anymore. It makes sense I was thrown here, if it is indeed hell. What about you?” The assassin asked, confidence returning to his voice after their long march through the dusty crag. The Turncloak had done all he could to explain what he knew of the Land to those he gad gathered, but even his knowledge was guesswork at best, and patchy throughout.

“I believe I was cast to this land because I renounced my King. I think…” he slowly replied, never looking up at the Life-Giver while he addressed him.

The Axe-Weilder, the sturdy woman who had reproached the assassin and the Turncloak with gusto, then took her moment to speak after a lengthy minute of silence between the four of them.
“Why did you ask us which King we serve, Sir?”

The Turncloak did not answer for a full half minute, but he did cock his head from it’s incessant gaze to the sand to look her in the face. Sad. Pale. Gaunt. Yet she was still a giant of a woman that could cleave most men in half; definitely not a force to be trifled with, not even by the Turncloak - especially as she had presented herself with humility and fair-handedness since their first meeting. He wanted to honour her with at least an answer to her questions.

“Because, milady,” he turned his body quickly so that they faced each other, “It is the only way I have found to determine who is sane… and who is empty. An empty soul will lie to you, they will tell you they serve no king, or that they serve themselves. Only a sane man or a sane woman has the capacity to admit that they, like everyone else, simply do not know.”

“And surely, if you got to the mountain, once, then you know it is at least possible? You just have to recall how, and with what? It may still come to you, eventually. We will just have to try to not die again and help one another? Yes?” she asked next, barely giving the Turncloak time to finish sharing his insight upon the Empty.

He shook his head, returning his gaze to the sand at his feet.

“I do not believe it is possible. Not now. I am missing something, and I cannot return without it. I have searched for so many long, lonely years for what I lost that day, but… nothing. I do not believe that my story has a happy ending. There is not necessarily an escape. But you - you may still have a chance at making it across. I was not meant for this world, but…” he looked out across the three haggard faces who were now paying him mind. “I believe that you may find yourselves there, and maybe together you can find the truth?”

Silence again. At least to the Turncloak. He delved back into his mind, to relive that last memory one more time in the vain hope that maybe this time he will spy a detail he had not noticed before. A highland plain. A falling cloak. A woman? A flash of gold. Nothing new. Just an empty, fading dream of a past life where he had maybe been important.

The Axe-Weilder talked, but he listened not, instead listening to the familiar voice of his memory. The Bell-Wearer seemed to respond to her, but the words were lost to him, muted by the vivid sounds of winter winds in the back of his mind. He only caught the last few words that he spoke in response to her:

“…Then all you guys showed up and here we are now, a happy little party of sorts.”

The Turncloak did not know the context of what the Bell-Wearer had said, but the thought actually forced a weak smile across his face, unbeknownst to the others. It had been so long since he had interaction like this. He missed it sorely, more than he would admit. It was then that the fool even began to sing - softly - to them. It had a cold, haunting beauty to it, his words were raw and heartfelt, even without music to harmonise with them. He spoke of a tale of birds flying onwards to horizons that he could not; perhaps a sentiment they could all learn from.

By the time he had finished his ditty, the four had once again returned to silence, to rest their weary legs by the sullen sunlight, with no fire to comfort them. There was not even wind to gently caress their tired faces. So when the Turncloak noticed a rustling in the foliage some ways up the valley walls, his head snapped to see what was happening. He was going to take no chances.

---

Odd. After all his time spent alone wandering the hellish wastes and ashen plains, one would think that the Prince would be exuberant to finally have found some other lively thing that didn't want to kill him immediately. Tomb didn't count; Prince felt no life from that automaton, or whatever it was. It was alien life at its nearest.

So why had the Prince hidden from them for nearly a day, possibly more, when before him was a growing party of sane beings that he knew, above all, were like him, lost but retaining a sense of sanity and rationale? Prince wasn't sure, himself. He was delighted when he had first seen them, but when they all started travelling together something made him hesitate. Was this some trick, some lie, from this hell itself? Was something obfuscating the Prince's very reality, causing him to see things that weren't there or were something else entirely? The thought had come to him before- he often pondered if he wasn't really here at all, but this hellscape was some odd figment of thought locked deep in his mind that he had suddenly become vividly aware of and trapped in. That haunted him the most, having lost his sense of who he was. It's not that he simply hadn't realized it, akin to adolescents reaching maturity, but rather it wasn't there at all. No matter how hard he thought of his vague memories, no matter how many questions he could ask Tomb, nothing was clear to him about who he was. The land itself had the Prince question the very meaning of "real".

But it wasn't this reason alone that he hesitated to join the group- they were all considerably more well armed and dangerous looking than he was, and it was clear that both the woman and the knight were trained in the use of their carried weapons. The same certainly couldn't be said of the Prince, who had relied more on quick wit and deception to survive. Perhaps 'Prince of Lies' was more fitting than he realized.

And thus he found himself in his current environment, hunched awkwardly in a shrub, fearing for his life and future while a party lie in front of him who afforded the comfort of safety, if only in numbers. Perhaps his reasoning for hesitation was more subconscious- perhaps the Prince secretly feared company and conversation and he was simply lying to himself. Clearly now certainly wasn't the time to reveal himself; he may startle them and get himself killed in the process. Plus, the armored one had mentioned that those who claim to serve no king were the empty souls, and if his memory proved anything at all, it's the the Prince didn't serve a king. At least, not anymore. Perhaps he was a king?

Regardless, he would have to approach the party carefully, when he finally decided to. He shifted his weight a bit in the bush to ease the strain on his ankles, but the shrub seemed to move with him and now covered his view of those in front of him. He gently used the back of his right hand to push away the the prickly-feeling leaves, but they were dry. A loud rustling emitted from the dead flora and it seemed the leaves were sticking to his hand. He quietly cussed to himself and started slowly retreating from his shrub-

-But felt a stony and cold presence behind him.

"You!" He said, startled that Tomb would choose to appear to him yet again. Twice within a week? That was rare. Perhaps Tomb had something to do with the Prince finding the party- perhaps it, in some way, led him there. Tomb certainly didn't have a knack for timing, by any means. The party nearby was certainly aware of his presence now, but there was nothing the Prince could do, at this point. Tomb had forced his hand. The Prince only hoped that the stone being chose not to speak to him as he glanced up at its mirror-like face. He thought about running but decided against it, doing such may not please the stone sentinel, and from what the Prince had gathered about the thing it would be able to chase and find him with ease.

Tomb's not-quite-mechanical voice croaked- "Prince of Lies," it certainly remembered the Prince, though he was unsure of if that was comforting or worrying, "the moon is full and the roses will bloom in 437 hours."

This was new. As far as the Prince had known, Tomb only asked odd questions, though here it seemed to be referencing their previous conversation. It stood silent, as if expecting an answer.

"What are you talking about?" The Prince queried. He wanted to be careful around Tomb but still feared the party nearby. Oh, how he wish he could run!

Tomb's silence was unbroken and it simply loomed above the Prince in the unsettling way it always did. Surely it was aware of the party nearby, perhaps Tomb was waiting for them?

---

Voices. Not one, but two. Rolling down the walls of the valley like an echo that has lost it's footing. One of a man, seemingly trying to hush his own and the voice of the second: something more... mechanical. Stony. Inhuman. The flattering of faded purple robes through the sparse shrubbery confirmed the presence of somebody new. But how long had they been following?

The Turncloak stood with alarming force, and shouted to the top of the valley, hoping that his voice would carry far enough to be decipherable by whatever manner of man and beast shrouded themselves above.

"Show yourself, stalker of the Valley!"