The people over there had heard detected someone from outside their little group, it seemed, and the armor-clad one commanded the one to show itself. At no point did it occur to Perfect that he was the one they had discovered; he was confident that they would not be able to spot him from their individual locations at this time. Besides, none of them were as much as looking in his direction, and the commander's attention seemed to be directed at the side of the valley. There were someone else here; another stranger. It was excellent! This stranger could test whether these people were hostile and take the risk in Perfect's stead, allowing him to decide whether to reveal himself or not at significantly less personal hazard. He just had to watch, and -
He blinked and furrowed his brow, momentarily incapable of fully comprehending what had just happened. He had not sensed any movement over there aside from that of the people he had already identified, yet somehow... there was someone else among them, now. Or was it a 'someone', even? Perhaps it was rather a 'something'? It only took a couple of seconds to realize that this being that had spontaneously materialized in the others' midst was not entirely human... or human at all, necessarily. It was difficult to tell the details of its appearance from this distance, but even its shape and the way it moved suggested something unnatural. It seemed more as though it was made of stone than flesh and blood, and... no, his attention had not wandered, he was sure of it; the creature had really appeared where it was instantaneously. It had appeared without crossing the space between its position and destination, as if by magic. Somehow, even though he had already deduced that he himself was alive even though he had died, it had never occurred to Perfect that other supernatural phenomena could manifest.
The point that the mystical was made tangible in this world was further proven but a moment later, when the halberdier apparently decided to do away with the strange creature by burying his weapon in its face, if it had a face, anyways. Rather than simply slumping to the ground as a mundane being would have, this creature first began to implode, and then it erupted into a blast of force and sound, all while the valley was permeated with the creature's dying scream.
On one hand, this armor-clad man had just killed a stranger barely without pausing first, which did not bode well for any hospitality he could expect from the group. On the other hand, the stranger had been inhuman, and an existence beyond the scope of Perfect's understanding; chances were that this man knew more of it than the psychopath, and recognized it as a definite danger.
But more importantly, the thing had been magical! Such power! Imagine, to be able to move anywhere at a whim, skipping the distance and obstacles between oneself and one's destination. To wield enough unbound energy within oneself to literally explode once one's will could no longer contain it.

Then another stranger arrived, this one human and moving by setting one foot in front of the other rather than hurtling through space and time with complete disregard to the laws of reality. The armor-clad one had warned one of his companions not to strike... which meant that the companion was likely to have intended to do so? Perfect did not know whether to feel encouraged to approach them at the fact that they allowed this other stranger to approach, or discouraged by the fact that their initial mode of action was to ambush him. Then the halberdier rushed to this newcomer, seizing him and thundering nonsense into his face; something about how he had found them, whether he was followed or whether he had met an old man with a stick. The last question in particular made Perfect decide that it was too dangerous to approach these people, after all. That man is insane, he thought, and his opinion did not change even when the newcomer was released. The rest of them don't seem to think or do much about anything, and the only one that seems like he's all there is clearly mad. He'd be as likely to run me through with his halberd as to offer me a drink. And what is this nonsense he sprouts? Old men with sticks, lights turning... none of it makes sense.
Or so he thought. The odd one with the bells, at least, seemed to react to the statement of the light turning, if nothing else. Perfect slightly raised his head from the ground, frowning as he tilted his head right, watching the man confusedly. Was this also madness? One would assume that this guy was not right in the head just by his attire, but his reaction did not seem quite as though it was caused by delusions alone. And when he yelled, there was something in his voice that Perfect recognized better than most, even with his innate lack of empathy: the prey's fear of the predator. The light is turning? he thought, only then starting to notice the shadows that crept along the floor of the valley beside him, slithered over his body, crawling across the land and shrouding it in unnatural darkness.
And the gloom growled, a sound that had no place in the world he had come from, one that did not belong in the throat of any mundane creature. The blackness was alive, full of life... or imitation of life, at least. The landscape, which had been full of so much nothing since he had gotten here, was now contrastingly full of something.

Ah, he thought, breaking into a grin as he started raising himself onto his elbows, staring at the dim forms that lurked the shadows. So the Light is Turning, eh? This is what that means. The world is changing; night has come, and the monsters are coming out to hunt. The prey scurries away, fleeing for imagined safety, as the predators emerge to give chase. That is the Turning of the Light!
The armor-clad man took up position to face the fiends that prowled in obscurity, shouting more nonsense to his companions while urging them to flee. It appeared that they, after some stupid hesitation, complied.
"Tell me, creatures of the Empty Land..." he boomed, even as Perfect pushed himself back so that he rested on his knees, clutching his knife and bundle of sharpened sticks so hard that his knuckles turned white. His grin was wide an manic as he beheld the creatures that moved around him, hearing their heavy footfalls and feeling the ground tremble at their approach. The predators were around him, yes, but they were not hunting him; they were passing him by in pursuit of the others.
What are you talking about, you madman? he thought at the other gleefully. I have never seen this land more full and alive!
"Which King do you serve?"
"Me," he answered in a quiet growl, unsheathing his knife. "I serve no other king than myself, little man. I am my own king."

The halberdier fought bravely, and it even seemed that he vanquished one of the beasts, only to be maimed from behind by another. And then... he looked directly at Perfect. His face could not be distinguished behind the visor of his helmet, but he did not need to see the armor-clad man's face to know; he felt the attention that came to center on him as much as he saw it. The euphoria of the moment was lost by then, and instead of a manic grin, Perfect now donned but a small, crooked smile instead, showing just a little teeth in the right side. His eyes were sharp, narrow, intelligent; his expression betrayed a calm and confident mindset as he finally rose to his feet, standing tall over the defeated giant, staring at him from between the legs of an animate hulk of flesh.
He kills the monsters, he thought, moving forward composedly, his stride even and unhesitating. He is strong, and he is mad. He is dangerous; much too dangerous to suffer the risks he pose.
Without taking his eyes off the halberdier, Perfect walked around the creature that stood between himself and the man. He knew that this beast, whatever it was, would not harm him; it recognized a fellow predator, a fellow monster. They would know, even though they had no way to do so, that he was a beast as well. He did not need to flee, just as he felt no instinctive fear towards this situation, or this world. Why would he?
Now he knew why he had come to this world: he belonged here. This was his world, more than the old one had ever been.
Perfect.
He stood over the fallen warrior, still smiling calmly, happily. He kneeled beside him, and muttered in his ear: "We all serve perfection, warrior. That you see this land as empty proves that you are the empty one."
The blade of Perfect's knife found the gap rent in the halberdier's armor by the monster, and easily slid into the naked flesh within.
"And I am Perfect."

---

---

The Golems did not attack as they had done with Perfect's quarry. Instead they stood upright, far from the bestial and feral pose they had assumed during the fight. They were not scared, nor were they angry. They seemed to sniff Perfect, lowering their heads to his level for a moment before they shot back up to their full height. They circled him. Nothing. No more death. No more killing. They would not kill something so remorseful, so empty of compassion. Even they saw him as Empty.

"Blood!" There was a voice in the distance. "Blood!"


Cried something that looked human, but was not quite what it once was. The sound was without origin, bouncing from the valley walls, disorienting any who would listen in.



It came from the sky, the ground, the rocks, the slopes. The Golems responded not to the voice, instead evidently seeing it as a warcry, a calling card of their own. And Perfect was now one of their own; like a pup that would grow to lead the pack, a man with potential without limits. Perhaps even to the remorseless killer, it would have been a sinister and menacing situation, but in mere moments the owner of the voice came into sight, leaping with inhuman strength from the top of the valley walls. The thing soared through the air before landing between the Golems with a deafening thud. "Blood! Blood! Bloodbloodblood! He's dead he's dead he's dead," it continued to bluster, seemingly completely unaware of Perfect's presence. He scrambled on all fours - like a rancid, foul beggar - towards the body of the Turncloak King before it melted into the ground once more. Touching it here and there, all over, manhandling the corpse like a bag of loot.

...But what manner of creature was this? Small. Grey skinned. Rotted. face vacant of all features. Eyes absent from sunken sockets. Ragged patches of hair flailing with its every motion.

It continued to rummage, uncaring of the presence of the Man who killed the Turncloak. Sniffing the body, licking the body. Touching the wound. Lapping up the blood...

"Blood!"

---

Something is different. The thought was there the instant the warrior's body turned limp, striking Perfect as much more than just a suspicion; it was an instinctive certainty that had him reeling from the impact of it, and for an instant he was petrified as his mind worked to cope with what was happening to him. Fear and stress barely touched him, but this was neither. It was a cognitive process that momentarily overloaded his brain, taking up so much of its processing power that it felt as though he was incapable of thought or action beyond that single endeavor. He closed his eyes, and outside grew distant and insignificant as the inside enveloped him.
Imagines, sounds, smells, sensations, tastes... Impressions appeared in his mind, seemingly from nowhere, forming a scene wherein he was the main actor, playing his role by a manuscript beyond his choosing. Darkness... a woman... he spoke, his voice not his own. It was not right, this memory was not his, this was not him! But he remembered... He remembered a feeling in his chest, emotions he had never experienced before. What was it? Why did he feel the need to heed the words of this woman? Why had he devoted himself to her? What sorcery was this?!
"Do you renounce your kinghood for me?"
Somewhere within him, the very core of Perfect's being rose up in protest against the memory, rejecting it. He remembered doing, saying and feeling these things, but this was not him... was it? Surely, he would never have felt something like this. He would never have said the things he remembered having said.
But it was there, this memory; a great, powerful presence, soaking into his mind and trying to find its place. Much had been lost when he died, he knew this, and this alien memory was trying to fill the space left behind by those, like a piece of one jigsaw-puzzle trying to squeeze itself in place in another where it would not fit. Put the triangle through the triangular hole, not the square, he thought desperately, laughing inwardly at the improbability of it all. But that's not going to happen, is it? It's going to keep trying until it all becomes circles.
And just like that his eyes flew back open. Like a cog finally finding a way to mesh in existing machinery he felt the memory snap into place within him, adding fragile complexity to its workings and new compatibility to future additions.
"Do you renounce your kinghood for me?" the woman asked in the memory, her words bleeding from it, tainting the rest of his being, even as his own corrupting influence did its work on the memory, altering it; adapting. The voice he spoke with was no longer the voice of the one he had killed, but his own. What he felt was no longer loyalty, no longer this crazed devotion and willingness to sacrifice; it was ownership. This was his woman. His most precious woman. He enjoyed her. But would he renounce his kinghood for her?
Why would I do that? he thought, smiling once again, feeling an entirely new kind of power and confidence spread through his very being. I am the king, after all.
"Go! Find the crown, find your way home!" the man had said, and now Perfect understood.
My crown, my home, my woman. They would take it away from me, they would steal everything, leave me with nothing... empty. I will not let them. It is mine! The crown, the home, the woman, this world and everything in it; it is all MY KINGDOM!

The process, while intense, lasted only an instant, and when it was over Perfect had changed. Although some might have been tempted to call him a narcissist in the past, this had never been the case simply because narcissism suggested not only love for oneself, but also a desperate need for everyone else to love one as well. Perfect did love himself, and tended towards egotism, but he had never cared about anyone else before beyond their potential uses to him. He had been happily living in obscurity, the hunter prowling the darkness, preying upon his lesser to give himself enjoyment and satisfaction. He had not cared about the warrior beyond the fact that he was an obstacle, a hazard to his own person, and he did not care about the warrior's companions aside from them potentially having resources and information that would be valuable to him. His life had never had any deeper meaning to it; he lived primarily to survive, and secondarily for pleasure.
But why had he ever felt like that? These people did not submit to him, and therefore were insufferable. They would be his servants, give him everything he demanded, or they would die.
He was their king, after all. Their glorious perfect king.

Still smiling, Perfect ignored the blood-thirsting creature whose cries echoed through the valley and withdrew his knife from his slain opponent and placed it on the ground beside himself. The movement was gentle, cautious, as if afraid that the knife would break or vanish as soon as he was no longer holding on to it. In sharp contrast to the care with which he set aside his knife his left hand traced a violent backward arc as his fingers uncurled, sending the puny sticks he had sharpened flying into the darkness, scattering in the valley. He did not care about them; they were not worthy of him anymore.
Instead he leaned over the warrior, still ignoring the scurrying creature that had appeared and seemed to assail the corpse of his downed prey, seeming intoxicated with the blood and barely aware of Perfect. He reached out, his right hand seizing the halberd of his victim, and his left taking hold of the shield. Both items were wrestled from the nerveless fingers of their old owner, and was claimed as the first regalia of the new king.
They are heavy, he noted, struggling to stand up with both pieces of new equipment, feeling their weight in his hands. Perfect was quite strong, himself - stronger than the average man, at least - but he did not think that he could use the halberd in one hand, as the warrior had. For that man to have wielded the halberd in one hand, to have wielded the shield in the other and worn such heavy armor... he must have been incredibly strong. Perfect had been right to eliminate him before he could become a threat. Before he brandished it to fight these creatures, the warrior wore the shield on his back. I can see why; I think I will do the same, and use it only in conjunction with my knife. I will need both hands to use this halberd properly, that much is certain.
About to stand, Perfect noticed one more thing of note on the warrior: a container of some sort, the kind referred to as a skin, meant for holding liquids, though it seemed regrettably empty. He retrieved it nonetheless, fit the shield onto his back as he had seen the halberdier do in reverse, picked up his knife with his newly freed left hand, and stood. The warrior had nothing else that would be of use to him. This blood-starved creature, whatever it was, could have what was left.

Perfect went back to where he had left the sheath to his knife and, after wiping blood off the blade as best he could on the sand of the valley, fit it back onto the blade. Once that was done the knife went down his left pant-leg, in lack of a better place to store it. He gripped his new halberd with both hands and turned, calmly, to face the creatures that accompanied him in the darkness. The giant monsters seemed contrastingly docile now compared to how they had been before, but not mindless; they watched him. He smiled.
"I am thirsty," he informed those present, hoping that one of them might be able to understand his words. "Help me get something to drink."

The "sunset" was very, very sudden. The turning of the light, the night of this land. While Maldron preferred the dark, he was not sure he would be so safe under the cloak of the night. The creatures here are bound to be nocturnal, and/or possessing for more senses than just light. The Black Knight told them to run, and considering the beasts that appeared suddenly out the the darkness, that was the right call. "Well that was fast. It seems this Turn of Light also spawns nasty critters." Critters none but the knight were equipped to deal with. The assassin considered various weapons which would allow to take down such a beast, and the most realistic one was a ballista. A siege weapon. Not a thing to be found here, nor one to be built quickly, assuming someone around here was a war engineer. Maldron considered trying to coat his daggers with venom, but that would require piercing their... skin(?) or whatever they have, which would be a feat itself. That would also assume that this venom will work. Considering all the uncertainties, engaging them was out of the question.

And so, they ran. Away from the sounds of battle. Away from the monsters, and probably into more. A heroic sacrifice - a knight until the end. Knights. Maldron disdained them. With no memories to back it up, Maldron considered them no more than legal murderers. A flimsy code of honor which is nothing more than a guideline. The need to assert their so called superiority everywhere... The Black Knight was not like that. He was the very model of chivalry, and Maldron respected that. They will survive, and the warrior's sacrifice will not be in vain.

The creatures disturbed the others, but not the assassin. A land so bizarre with no such thing as a final death, teleporting stones and weird day/night cycles? Of course something like this, and maybe even worse would be there. Spending the precious time and effort and fear would only slow everyone down. Maldron might need to take some sort of leadership position, as much as he wants to avoid it. He's no leader, but he might have to be.

The knight's words made little sense. Only because they did not know what he knew. A crown. A crown means a king. Could this be it? The sort of dream, no, an idea, a story he doesn't remember hearing. About a King of Kings, a Grand Emperor who disappeared. Or was it a legend? Why is it in his head? A strange familiarity could be felt. And the pale woman in his memories, the one he adores so much for reasons unknown. These things felt connected. Somehow. No time to discuss it with the group now, as they are running for their lives.

In the distance it could be seen, the exit from the valley. A hint of dread entered Maldron's side.

He was not following. The dark knight, that is. Why!? Had he not just told them all to move? That they would have to reach the forest? Whatever those were, they definitely did not look like the sort who would grant them a warm welcome. (They are beasts, and this is the land of beasts, their land. And beast, one day, you too shall be.)
"Sir...?" she muttered, though far too quietly for anyone to hear. Not over all that growling... (Run. They have not got their eyes on you just yet. And for now, running is still possible. Soon, it will not be, and then you will have to fight.) "But ... Sir?"
The bell-man lingered by the dark knight's side, but the former assassin was moving. The newcomer did not wait, and began jogging in her general direction even as she remained standing on the spot, like a sculpture of distress. The darkness was still rapidly consuming the land as she watched. She was still ahead of the rest, as she had first gathered her things and begun to run before halting and looking back just to see whether everyone was following and ... well, not everyone was. Obviously.
The troubled expression on her face grew as her desperation increased. A part of her insisted - no, DEMANDED that she ran while she still could, but she could not leave her companions behind, now could she? Even if she had only known them for all of a couple of days, they were still people and, well, also the only ones she had, after being alone for who knows how long.
Not only was waiting for them the human thing to do, she was also lost without them. If the dark knight himself no longer had what it took to get back into his promised land, how would she have what it took? She did not understand a thing of what was going on here! She had never seen that 'key' he had been speaking of, and hence, well, hence she would not even be able to recognize it when she saw it... She needed him to be their guide in this realm.
Still, she did not move, frozen in place by indecision and fear. She could see the beasts now, monstrous and huge. Filled with intent as they approached the dark knight, who was preparing his shield and halberd. Did he really intend to fight these things? But ... even though he was a giant of a man and armed and armored, these things were twice his size and probably had inhuman strength behind their claws and in their jaws. They'll tear him to shreds!
"...SIR!" now she was actually shouting, though still not making an attempt to move either forward or backward.
"You must leave this place!"
"But..." she protested weakly, even as she felt her throat closing up.
"Do not trust the Hermit!"
But she did not even know who or what this ... 'Hermit' was! How on not-Earth was she going to avoid someone she had no idea who was or what looked like? Was this 'Hermit' one of those pillar-things, too? What was the Turn of Light? What was anything here!?
"Find what I have lost."
How can she find something she did not even know what was!?
"Go!"
"I can't... But..." She could not just ... leave him behind, could she? "You have to come with us, Sir..." She was once more speaking too quietly to be heard. (He is making himself a distraction. Sacrificing himself so you can escape. Keeping them occupied until you are out of their sights and minds. He knows just as well as you that he would not make it through.) But that was not right! (One does not have to be the fastest one to survive ... just fast enough to outrun the slowest one. And he has volunteered to be the slowest one.)
"GO!"
"But..."
"Find the Crown, find your way home!"
Jeweled metal circle thing that goes on your head? But what, where, why, how...? She hesitated, even as the bell-man seemed to be telling something to the dark knight, lingering by his side for a while longer ... before turning to run, too.
(There is no changing anything here. Just being torn apart yourself, too, if you stay. Take his advice and go.) The blond newcomer was now moving at full sprint, and stormed past her, finally urging her to take a step back and turning her back to her armored companion.

If you could no longer run, then you fought.
But it was the dark knight who had opted to fight, so she could run...
So she ran, even though a part of her did not want to.
Even as she heard the dark knight demand the beast to tell him what king they served.
Would that be the last they saw - or heard of him?

(They are not following.)
That much was a relief ... she guessed. That she did not hear the growling anymore, only the footsteps of herself and her fellow escapees. Just the four of them. The new guy before her, and the former assassin and bell-man behind her.
She did not know how long she had been running, but her chest had began to hurt and her legs tire, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on her face. She had been used with heavy duty, she supposed, but you try running with a heavy backpack while carrying a hefty axe in your arms and having two pairs of pants and a winter-coat on ... especially when the environment was once more getting warmer. And much wetter, too.
Whatever manner of world this was, it certainly was not consistent in anything but being as unpleasant to human beings as possible. One could easily wander from a freezing hell straight into a burning one ... or a very damp one, as was the case now.
The rocks beneath her feet were no longer sandstone, but rather something smooth and lifelessly bleached gray, slick with water and some manner of algae, or grass or whatever this stuff was. She did not know how, but somehow the slippery plant-substance beneath her feet managed to be blueish-yellow without being green... Some kind of strange, unnatural and above all, sickly color.
She was stumbling forward now, rather than running. (There is no point in running anymore.)
The valley walls were no longer really there, replaced by a maze or towering pillars and mere fragments of walls. A perfect place to hide ... whether you were trying to escape or preparing for an ambush. Water was trickling down the towering formations, seemingly endlessly. Was it fog condensing on the rocks, or...?

All she could hear was dripping. It was maddening.

And their breathing. And their footsteps. Every sound they made just seemed too loud.
Some of those stone pillars and walls were ... odd. She could almost discern figures in them. Naked, humanoid figures. If it were not for the massive size of those trapped stone bodies, she could have almost believed that something or other here could turn living beings into rock. But what twisted kind of sculptor would shape entire towering cliffs into trapped humanoid beings? Or perhaps it was better not to ask... Perhaps the land itself had formed its terrain to mimic trapped people, just to mock them.
There was light here, despite the now-black sun ... not like that of the bleak sun while it was still uncovered. This one was greenish-gray. A kind of cold, weak, unhealthy glow. Luminescence. More mockery.
Still slipping on the damn wet rocks and that slick whatever grass-algae that was that covered them, she made her way over one of the pillars, took off her backpack and dropped it next to herself, leaned her back against it and slowly sunk into a crouched position, resuming to clutch her axe. Hopefully her instincts were right and there was no need to run anymore, indeed. Even if the dark knight had said they need to reach the forest before the "light turns". But the light had already turned, so it did not matter anymore? Who knew...
So, what now? They - minus the dark knight - were assuredly still alive. They were in this ... place, now. Probably to find some kind of crown, which could be wherever. In a beast's stomach, at the bottom of a pool of bile or a ravine too narrow to fit a human in. How would they know? And even if they found a crown, how would they be able to tell it was the right one?
(It was much easier in solitude, when she was still just trying to find food and water, traveling in a random direction. It was when she met people that things got complicated.) And one of them was dead now, was he not? If he had not caught up by now, he most certainly was... And she still had no clue what was going on, but now her only guide was dead. Just her and a couple of other ragtags who might not even be entirely sane, now... Quite hopeless.
But he had said he had died before, several times, right? That meant he could still ... come back and find them, right?
Nevertheless, her eyes stung, and she felt a tear run over her cheek. Just like one of those bloody weeping trapped stone statues overseeing this place, with water always trickling down over their faces and bodies.
Stupid... She would probably cry even if the former assassin or the new fellow died, even if no one in this world really died, at least not before they became "empty". (The dark knight would not be empty just yet, would he? He had seemed quite sane still, in any case...)
But until then what? She did not know anymore... Find a crown. Avoid hermits. May be get to forest as quickly as possible, maybe not. Useless. Completely useless.
(Part ways. Continue on your own path. Forget about these people. Focus on food, water, and avoiding bigger beasts. Would be a simpler life...)
With a ragged sigh, she leaned her forehead on her knee, cheek against the metal head of the axe. Tears were now flowing steadily, and there was nothing she could do about that, either...

She did not even know why she was crying.
Sheer confusion and frustration?
Death of their sole guide?
Everything at once?

The clanking of metal armor.

The Prince could only hear the thud of his own footsteps and the blood rushing in his ears, and the pounding of his head.

Stone grinding on stone.

He was growing more tired with each step. But he couldn't stop- if he stopped, he would die. But that wouldn't be the first time, would it?

A bright flash. Searing pain.

The fine sand of the valley grew coarse and eventually turned to dirt. The dirt turned to rock- slick rock. The Prince's chest was visibly rising and falling with each heaving breath as he felt his legs grow weak. The ground rushed up to meet him.

Darkness.

--

For a few moments the Prince simply lay there upon the warm and wet rocks, letting the memory play over and over in his head as he struggled to ignore the physical pains in his chest and legs. The environment seemed to be a welcome change, it was at least warmer than the valley, but the Prince was drenched, and not all of it was sweat. He felt the reflection of his breath as he lay face first in the rocks. Turning his head to one side he began to examine his surroundings better. It was only then that he noticed the river; the Prince could still barely hear anything over the throbbing of his head and the rushing noise in his ears. There was also some color here, in a very faded-green variety found in some of the grasses near the river. He wished he could stand and soak in it, but his legs felt like jelly, and even if they didn't, he was unsure if he trusted it, anyway. Finding that the waters melted flesh was the least horrible thing the Prince could fathom.

The Prince flipped himself onto his back and slowly stretched his legs and arms out, letting his sheathed blade rest on his chest. He wiped the slick-with-sweat hairs out of his face and did his best to relax between heavy, panting breaths. Closing his eyes he allowed the new memory once more, examining it more closely.

The clanking of metal armor.

In the memory it was obvious where this came from- the armored man. The one that had just sacrificed himself. He couldn't see him clearly, but the Prince could hear him and something in him knew it was the same armored man.

Stone grinding on stone.

It was Tomb, appearing out of nowhere as the Prince had witnessed several times before. Had it appeared, though? Or had it always been there? Regardless, the Prince could see his surroundings more clearly here. Well-worked stone surrounded him as well as tapestries and cups of gold and silver. The Prince was certain it was a castle. But was it the one in the distance he had sought for so long? Had the Prince made it to the castle in a past life, only to be killed with no recollection of that memory to start the cycle again? Who was to say the Prince hadn't been here for hundreds of years doing the same thing over and over, only to have the cycle broken by the armored man?

A sorrowful sigh.

Wait, that wasn't the memory. The Prince broke out of his own mind and shifted his head again- one of the party; his companions, he should call them. The woman. He felt confident the other two were nearby. She was sitting on the rocks, but glancing at her face the Prince saw tears before she turned her head the other way.

This wasn't the first time he had seen a woman cry.

'Not again-'

As before the Prince felt his mind unfurling itself, though it was felt different this time. Like a half-remembered dream quickly lost on crusty awakening eyes; a realization of something that that was equally startling to find yet felt had always been there. This was not a new memory, rather, it felt like clarification of his other memories. He saw a woman- beautiful and dark-haired, tears streaming down the skirts of her nose and down her freckled cheeks. She was there beside the Prince as he knelt in front of the throne; stood next to him on the stage as the crowd shouted; ran beside him as the two fled the angry mob; held his hand as the man wrapped his bleeding arm; was knelt beside him on the chopping block. In each memory tears streamed down her face, except the one where the executioner stood over her. In that one her face was strong and stoic.

The Prince wasn't sure who the woman in his mind was, but thinking of her made his heart flutter with affection and emotions. The Prince blinked hard a few times and wiggled his toes and fingers to remind himself of where he currently was, lest he get caught in a loop of new revelations and emotions, but all at once they came flooding back and he felt overwhelmed. Tears were now leaking out of his eyes as he stared up at the green-grey sky. He muttered two words:

"I remember." The Prince whispered, thinking of the woman.

"I remember." He repeated, thinking of the armored man.

The huge monstrous beings, at least, seemed to react to his command, though the meaning of their immediate reaction was ambiguous at best; they seemed to simply perk up abruptly, as if awakened from a trance by the sound of his voice, and stared at him in silence, but with keen focus that clearly suggested that these creatures, whatever they were, were not mindless. They did not move right away, but simply stood there, watching him. Perfect was torn between feeling annoyed and impatient at their inability to follow his orders, and a feeling he rarely admitted to himself, but which had the hairs on his arms stand on end: fear. Had he misinterpreted his own position here? He was their king, certainly, but with every kingdom there were rebellions, traitors, usurpers... If these creatures turned against him, he would not have the strength to fight them. He was thirsty, hungry and tired, and although he had killed many, he had never fought. He realized the truth in this statement only when he stood before the threat of those monsters, a threat that could very well mean certain death for him, and felt it resonate within his body as his muscles told him what his mind had forgotten. He had never fought, really... he had always picked victims weaker than himself to abduct, and he had only ever targeted those stronger than himself when he could surprise them, and he could slit their throat without resistance. He was a murderer, not a fighter. Even the armored man he had not fought, but simply executed once these beasts had rendered him helpless.
So in the face of this realization, yes, Perfect was afraid. He was strong, fast and cunning, but he had never brawled with an opponent he could not pin down with the weight of his body alone and who did not tremble in horror before him. These creatures would neither; they were powerful beyond the capability of humans, and they knew no fear. Even a psychopath knew fear, even if they were not as strongly affected by it - fear was a vital part of staying alive, after all - but these things were fearless.
When the armored man seemed to crumble into nothing but the dust that seemed to be perpetually present in this world, Perfect's attention turned momentarily to that, and he watched the phenomenon with a curiosity that chased away his fear. Not only the man, but his armor as well, seemed to disintegrate and fade into nothing, and Perfect was stricken by a profound realization. I'm in the well! He sensed a powerful truth in that statement, but also that his comprehension of the fact was not yet entirely complete. Part of me is in my well, at least, but the real me - the one I am now - is here, and this world is a well in and by itself. There is no need to find a well in which to hide away unfortunate mishaps; this world hides things on its own. This is the well. My well. I am in my well.
The ones that killed me threw me in my well!

Then the moment passed, and Perfect actually started in surprise as one of the beasts let out a cry that was familiar to him - very much so - but at the same time struck him as being deeply and disturbingly wrong. It was the sound made my his parents after he had slit their throats, the sound his sister had made after he had punctured her neck; the sound of a life ending. Perfect, an emissary of death as he was, knew this sound better than most, but also knew that no living thing should ever be able to produce a noise like that without its end being imminent. What were these monsters, exactly? What was this world? Death never ends here; in the well, everyone is dead. Even I died. It is the sound of this world.
When the creature suddenly went to seize him, Perfect's fear returned with newfound intensity as he felt suddenly certain that this monster was about to attack and slay him. Startled, he tried taking a step backwards, holding up his newly acquired halberd as if hoping to ward off the grasping claw, but he knew even before he had a chance to attempt any such that resistance would be futile. He was grabbed, pulled in and held immobile against the body of the beast. Much to his surprise it did not crush him, as he estimated that it would easily be capable of, but simply held him there so that he could not move, while it and its fellow abomination went to climb out of the valley with surprising speed and agility for creatures their size. It is carrying me somewhere, he thought, not at any point considering the idea of struggling against the grip that held him in place. They want to take me with them for some reason. I suppose anywhere is better than here, where there is no food or water to be seen anywhere... they smell disgusting, though. What a stench.
I hope I won't have to endure it for long...

The trip he was going on, it turned out, was significantly longer than he would have liked it to be. The monsters were fast and covered a lot of distance very quickly, and interestingly never seemed to get exhausted even when they sustained this speed for what felt like many hours, yet they simply kept going and going, farther and farther into the distance, until the valley they came from was nothing but a memory several horizons past. Perfect saw much of the world during the journey, and what he saw only affirmed the conclusion he had reached and tried to share with the armored man in his last moments: this land was anything but empty. There were things here, beings that could have been spawned straight from some grotesque nightmare, living and thriving on their own strength and the weakness of others. Perfect admired and approved of the order of this world - it felt as though this world was much more orderly and honest than the old one, one where he could thrive as the one he was instead of being forced to pretend to be something else to survive - but despite everything he was still human enough to unnerved by how unnatural and alien it all seemed. This land was alive, yes, but the life and soul of the land had its source in death. Death was everywhere, wherever one looked, and it was enough to cause even Perfect to avert his gaze. This world was... revolting. It did not kill for pleasure, self-preservation or just satisfaction, but rather killed for the sake of killing. Perfect was a monster, but as bad as he was by human standards, this place was infinitely worse. In a place as mad as this, even he seemed normal. Another reason to like this world.
After an eternity of running, much of the latter half of which Perfect had spent with his eyes closed to try to block out the horrors of this land and preserve whatever semblance of sanity he might have left, the monsters finally stopped. Perfect opened his eyes and immediately saw the tower they had arrived beneath, which he kept staring at even as the beast placed him back onto the ground. His legs were numb from the long trip in the monster's grasp, and he stumbled, but avoided falling by trusting the butt of the halberd into the ground and using it for support. There was a jingle as he did so; only then did he realize that a small bell was tied to the weapon. Not that he cared.
The tower... the creatures wanted him to go there. They brought him all this way just for him to visit the tower. The tower. The tower. The tower.
The seat. The throne.
He headed for the tower.

The forest was rather wierd. Like it was some mockery of verdant life, complete with this faint light which illuminated the place. Spores? Bioluminescent spores? Knowing this place, they are most likely harmful to them. And if they are, it's far too late to do anything about it. And as they exited the valley, Maldron saw glimpses of giant statues. Humanoid giant statues. Which made the idea that this place is hell rather unlikely. But a land without death, a land without a proper sun - it's definitely not the world Maldron came from. Or is it? Neither Maldron, nor ANYONE he met remembers how they got here. All the grouped lacked was a wise old hermit sage who would explain them everything - just like in the fairy tales. At least the ones not meant for children. Unfortunately, that said sage would be just as clueless here as everyone else.

It was rather maddening really, not having answers, nor having the ability to gain them. The Assassin valued information and knowledge just as much as a sharp blade. In this hellish land, he only has the latter. And even then, that little dagger will not slay those monstrosities. Maldron is no hero of legend, he's no dashing prince with a time-rewinding dagger. Odd, really those fairy tales. The Assassin has no recollection of hearing them, but they are still in his head, surfacing from the depths of his mind like divers gasping for air. The heroes of those tales are always thrust into the greatest of dangers, facing untold threats, surviving and prevailing by a combination cooperation, trust, bravery, wisdom and luck. Always a happy ending. Was theirs such a tale? Whether the case, the part where they face their trials is coming up. If there is a happy ending, if there is a "happily ever after", Maldron will do anything to help his group achieve it. The assassin understood the irony of this. A killer fighting tooth and nail to help near strangers. But given the circumstances, going solo will accomplish absolutely nothing, and the Black Knight was the testament to that.

The well-dressed man, probably some sort of bratty prince was suffering from some sort of emotional breakdown. So weak were the so called nobles, in both body and mind. So used they are to being above everyone else, that the world their subjects live in crushes them. A man who does not fight by their rules, who doesn't abide by their so called Chivalry can destroy them so easily. The fact that the assassin slew a king and his royal guard was further proof of that. To be fair, this land was a bit more scary and unforgiving than some shitty village full of smelly peasants. For all the things they've witnessed, such a reaction is justified, especially on the more feeble minds.

The woman was having trouble dealing it as well. Considering she lasted THIS long it was actually rather impressive. Maldron considered women inherently weaker in some areas, and stronger in others. Men are stronger, bigger (well, except Maldron it seems), while women are more graceful, and have the uncanny ability to read people's emotions. Of course, that's human sexual dimorphism for you. The thoughts emerging from the deep dark oceans of Maldron's mind unsettled him. Human? Was there something else other than human? The strange, pale, wounded lady he reveres so? Who is she? What is she? Only corpses are that pale, nor could any human actually live with such a wound - a ripped out heart. Nor do human females have razor sharp claws and predatory fangs. And yet, she was his master. His sun, his everything. Even so far away from her, if she still exists, the very memory of her calms Maldron.

The clown was a strange one. He looked like someone straight out of an expedition where he faced eldritch horrors, and as a result, his mind was snapped. Or it was a ruse, a mental mask he wears to hide what he truly is. Either way, he looked capable enough, and proved himself both rational and reasonable - can't get anything better than that.

There was a small stream nearby, though it's stench signaled that's no water you want to drink. Maldron found a small stick on the ground and submerged into the stream. The results were quite nasty, as the acidic stream destroyed the submerged part of the stick. Disappointed, Maldron reached into his pouch and ate the remaining bitter berries. As bitter as they were, they were also quite juicy. And while it did increase the feeling of thirst, it did somewhat quench it. And the assassin was no stranger to neither hunger nor thirst.

""So, now that we have this opportunity to rest and recover, why not we take this time to, y'know, actually introduce each other? We all have names, right?"" the Jester said loudly. Throwing away the wilted little experiment stick, Maldron went to join them.

There were only two reasons why her adult self ever cried: anger born from sheer futile frustration, and losing someone important to her. As a child, she had also cried when she had been hurt, but either the latter years had hardened her until she no longer cared, or being hurt now only made her angry.
The young lad they had discovered in the valley stumbled over near to where she was and slumped weakly to the damp, slimy, rocky ground, breathing heavily from the exertion of the flight. She lifted her brow from the flat of her axe, trails of tears still staining her face, and looked at the man, trying to figure whether or not she should get up and try to help ... check whether he was fine. Not before long, though, the guy lifted his head enough to look her in her reddened eyes. That was it. He was fine. Just exhausted enough to not care where he flopped over. That matter settled, she lowered her forehead to the flat of the axe's blade once more, closing her eyes. The metal was nice and cool.
She heard someone making their way over to her, but did not bother to raise her head again. What was the point? Since she had not head the prone guy being torn to shreds, it was obviously not a fiend, and since they were still capable of walking, they probably did not need immediate help. The person evidently decided to take a seat beside her.
"Well, this is some fucked up shit we're in, huh." That was the jingling man's voice.
She opened her eyes again, but did not bother to otherwise move, not yet. Indeed. It was. She felt a hand on her shoulder, and finally raised her head again, though she looked vacantly ahead, rather than at the person next to her. The former assassin had found a stick and was poking at the stream running to the side. The young lad was still lying on the ground. There still were people who cared, though, she guessed.
"Y'know, it's not all that bad. We're still alive, and that's good. We can rest and collect our thoughts. Make plans for the road ahead of us."
"Not all of us," she dully pointed out in response to the first half of what he said. Strange words people used for comfort... Sure, it could always be worse. There could be even fewer of them left. Any or all of them could be short a few limbs. Most likely, she had already seen worse - lost someone much closer to her in her old life, killed someone in this one... (It associated with regret, and Regret she called it.) As if the potential for or existence of even greater misery made any lesser griefs utterly invalid.
"Things always move on," she noted, and then inquired, "Do you think he'd be back?" Still in the same flat voice. Tears were no more flowing, though the marks still remained. Now she looked closer to just blank. Do you think he'd still be, well, him? He had said he had died several times before, and yet had lived again. He had seemed human enough, not ... empty. Much more human than at least one of us.
Perhaps she should have stayed and fought, after all. At least tried to fight, rather than run with abandon... (You know you had no chance. You decided then and there. What use would there have been in two people dying, rather than one?)
"So, now that we have this opportunity to rest and recover, why not we take this time to, y'know, actually introduce each other? We all have names, right?"
Names. She had never had a need for one before now, as she had no one to call her by one in this life, in this world of beasts. She had just been, well, her. A perspective. An 'I'. And whatever name she had carried before was not contained in her memories. She had had one, in her old life, sure, but no recollection of what it had been. She was a human woman, right? What would a human woman be called? Eliza? Alice? Neither felt quite right, but in the lack of a better one, something along the lines must do for a time being. Until she found one that felt more befitting.
"Alice," she noted after a long moment of silence. "You can call me Alice."
The former assassin sauntered over to them, but did not immediately respond. It had been easier alone, in a sense... If you were on your own, you could not lose anyone, and but for rocks and lack there was nothing to be angry at.