No one knew why Goren Joquinal has abandoned the surface elves, those he had sworn to protect and serve. He had clawed his way from the status of Low-Born, birthed in the muck and mire of the forest, amongst the dead trees and scattered bones. He had risen from his status to become a warmaster among the Elves, answering only to the Queen, herself. Some said she had taken him as a lover, frolicking like an adolescent human who was only now discovering her sexuality. She had kept him close, oh so very close to her person. Without fail, day by day, he stood to her left - an advisor, a bodyguard.

This status was unusual for one born as him, to an exiled father and a commoner mother. Neither of them, despite his rise, had been given leave of past transgressions, and were not afforded permission to hold ceremony for his birth. The Low Born were not expected to rise above their station, paltry soldiers and field workers, meant to live and die in the dregs of service.

But Goren was a dreamer, he toiled the earth as a child to provide for the Queen and those born above him, but never lost sight of what they had.

From his first skirmish, to his last day, he had seemingly served with unwavering loyalty, the same as his mother, and the same as his father. By the time the new Queen had taken control over the vast Elven people, Goren had risen as high as a Low Born could have, but yet he did not lose his hope.

Those among the Elves that could sense such things, would tell tales to future generations that his heart was as cold as the harsh winter's of the northern lands, an almost palpable aura. He displayed no otherwise affinity to manipulate the element of frost, but those around him often weaved tales that the wind seemed to possess a chill in his presence.

The old and the mystic thought that the God's were foreshadowing something with him, yet would never reveal their hand.





The Moving, a roving sector of the Resistance, formerly stationed in the middle of Allaria, had repositioned itself to the outskirts of the northern region. The winds here bit with cold, as the wind drove the freezing temperatures of the mountains down range. To make matters worse, a light rain had captured the region, and for the last two days had not left them without it's embrace. Still, morale was high - a nearly disastrous mission had turned into an unbridled success, as a group of four turned five had infiltrated a very secure prison and extracted a Warlord who had been held there for years.

Szazah, a man who manipulated string to construct runes, was a prized capture by the Apotheoses, his knowledge of the Resistance would have proven invaluable had they been able to break him. What he would never reveal, is that they have very well come close. He had seen them kill his father.

And by the terrible magic of the one named Ivan, he had seen it over and over again, as though trapped in a infernal illusion that refused to end.

The smile on his face as a fraud, his mind was wrecked from the constant torture, yet one light of hope illuminated the darkness that had become his thoughts.

The Shadowwald.

They were the subject of this meeting now, a race of Elf that had been seen so rarely since their inception that many considered the lore, and their very existence, to be fabrication at the least, and a hoax at the worst. But Szazah had held on to the stories that had been told to him between rounds of torture, as though they were the only things that kept him tethered to the chance of a better future.

Szazah, long have you been a pillar of the Moving, and moreso, the Resistance itself, started a rough looking beastkin that resembled a anthromorphic fish-man. His name was Drapood Rripp. Known throughout the lands of a zealot who feverishly believed in the Beastkin God.

Szazah shook his head, this was the third time since he had been reached that Drapood had fought to reject his idea, but it would not be the third time that it succeeded.

We have consistently been on the ropes since our campaign has started. Groups have won skirmishes, waged minor wars, and have seen successes in small doses. But our legions are spread too thin, our forces too undisciplined, even with all our warlord knowledge.

We need all the help we can muster! Friends of this deciding body, I am not asking for a large group. I am not asking that we risk more than absolutely necessary. But this is a chance we cannot pass up, and we cannot, and must not, allow the Apotheoses to gain their favor before us. Whether they do so through diplomatic means, or by force, the Apotheoses strengthened by a group that has managed to go hidden this long, is an Apotheoses we cannot combat.

A small murmur raised in the group before him. His sad eyes, haunted by his former memories of imprisonment, gazed upon each of them. Drapood began to speak, but Szazah was ready for this. The zealot could not be allowed to stop him.

Already, they are too strong for us to defeat in minor battles. No, what will be their downfall, is a war waged on the grand scale. What we do from here on out must be aimed at crippling their impressive might. A leader here, a leader there. Ivan and Falden will be the toughest; a great healer and his leader. One who can cast illusions and one whose very existence is told only in a few tales of bards.

The Shadowwald, a myth or not, must be found. Or at the very least, we must confirm they do not exist. Either is to our advantage. Already, I have secured a team, members of the Moving that have shown promise. Please, allow my team to undertake this campaign. It'll offer minimal risk to the Moving.

Behind the table, the almost sickening sound of slapping fish skin greeted him in response. Drapood had a need to heal himself due to his persistence to stay out of water.

Szazah waited not for a response, even if he needed to send them out without permission, he would. Rripp would not be the downfall of the Moving. No sooner than he was fifteen feet away from the council tent, a friendly hand placed itself on his shoulder. It was a man known only as the Old Codger. Always around with a friendly smile on and off the battlefield, that hid the almost god-like military might that danced in his mind.

You can't keep letting that fish get to you. We agreed, one short of unanimous, that you will be allowed to dispatch this team. However, we can offer little help.

Happiness threatened to pierce the darkness that only hope had done in weeks past. Szazah nodded, and headed off to his tent, where his group would be meeting within the hour.

The hustle and bustle of the Moving sang out, despite the dreary rain. Weapons were being forced under the cover of canvas, vendors were hawking their merchandise hoping to make enough gold to leave the Moving. Szazah passed them all and reached his tent, pushing back the flap, to reveal that nothing was in there except a solitary candle, a small table, and blankets off in a corner. That was the life he had become accustomed too. The hard life, perhaps soon this would break.

He reached beneath the blankets and revealed a bundle of maps and documents, as well as a bottle of cheap spirits, that promised to both burn the throat and provide a deep drunkeness by the end of the bottle.

He poured himself a cup, and winced at the harsh taste. It was now a waiting game, would they arrive? If so, could they be entrusted with this deeply important mission?

Summary: Szazah fights for permission to begin this Shadowwald Campaign. While there is some resistance, he is ultimately given leave.

I'll apologize in advance for any lack of creativity, percieved skill, or any not met expectations. This is really my first in character post of any level for about a year and a half.



Raithen sighed. Crow’s feet wrinkling, his eyes narrowed. The fingers of his bear paw sized hand constricted as if closing around some spherical object in his hand. Clearing his throat, Raithen turned his head spitting to the ground. A trickle of spittle dripping from the corner of his mouth, tinted red. Without a second thought Raithen wiped the open palm on the tarnished steel of his breastplate. This too left a crimson residue across his chest.

Raithen had never allowed his condition, Frost Lung, to prevent the furtherance of his existence. As with any number of men like him, members of the nomadic tribes of the frozen north traveling with the movement of prey. However, that was not to suggest that it did not prevent him from moving forward at all. Made worse by the colder climates and the moist air, Raithen had struggled to survive to this day. The elders of the tribes made it clear that tea brewed from the powdered horn of the dire ibex would satiate the effects of Frost Lung. But it would never be cured. Not by means available to them.

Eventually, it would become nigh impossible to catch his breath. His lungs would feel heavy, weighed down as they began to fill with the frost. He struggled to do the most simple tasks. Even crawling out of his bedroll would be difficult. Then he would fall behind. No, Raithen would be left behind as to not slow down the tribe. Without anyone that felt beholden to him through familial ties or some level of love, Raithen would be left to die as exposure to the elements erased him from existence to await remembrance as a faded memory.

“Raithen,” Szazah growled step forward from the back of his tent.

Raithen reached forward to clasp Szazah by the wrists. Imprisoned together for so long did not help build the level of trust that Szazah might have had for him. Raithen with his bear sized hand latched around his fellow prisoner of war’s wrist with a brisk squeeze as if shaking hands. It would be apparent that Raithen was check for weapons, just in case.

“I know of these elves, the Shadowwald.” Raithen spoke moving forward into the tent and away from the damp air of the ran. Szazah scoffed.

A small fire centered the tent. Torches on opposite ends poorly illuminating the surroundings shrouded in shadow. The seating arraignments were nonexistent, as the only stool present had been placed there for Szazah’s benefit. Raithen found himself pawing at a wrack of weapons that had been positioned against one of the “walls” of the tent.

“Do you think it was by coincidence that we found ourselves imprisoned together?” Raithen did not wait for an answer. “They were well aware that I was familiar with the Shadowwald. But they were not willing to accept just how limited my knowledge had been.”

Raithen moved towards the fire. The heat to warm his bones. The dry air to soothe his addled lungs. “I had been separated from the tribe for nearly a week. It had been far too long. We were on the trail of a herd of caribou when the blizzard hit. In the open snow fields it is a death sentence to remain motionless. I was on my last breath when the Shadowwald appeared. Three of them clad in nothing but fur. They moved on the snow as if they weighed nothing.”

Raithen’s tale was met with a somber laughter, a nervous chuckled that conveyed belief and disbelief.

“It was the Shadowwald. When I woke up, I had been tented, under the cover of a shallow grove. The blizzard had nearly diminished. Tea had been left for me, still warm to the touch. If not for them I’d certainly have been dead.”

“Now you live to suffer through your affliction another day.” Szazah retorted.

Their eyes met. Raithen carried with him a venomous gaze, his blood boiling at the thought of being called a liar yet again. It did not matter. His knowledge of the Shadowwald had been too much or too little - too make believe or too realistic. Whenever the elves of the frozen north were concerned it mattered little how much truth had really been in the matter.

“Now if you’d be so kind as to deliver my payment? I’m not risking my life for this walking feast without reassurance in the slightest.”



Summary: Fuck you. Pay me.

Summary: Stopped an epidemic. Comforted a child. Ate an apple. Ready to march.

Duren Ghedic

Early morning, The Moving camp

The morning sun peaked over the vast mountaintops that circled The Moving's current location. A fair spot it was, and the bitter winds reminded Duren of his home - the dwarven city of Bhornbadir, which lay only half a day's journey south of the northern mountains that many mountain dwarves call home. As a highland dwarf himself, he never particularly loved the cold, but he always said that if he had to pick one or the other, he'd much sooner freeze to death than die of a heat stroke in some seemingly endless desert.

However, the old dwarf was certain his death would come today, and at the hands of something completely unrelated to the temperature, for this morning, like many mornings, Duren was suffering the ill effects of a hangover. His brain felt as though it had grown too large for its skull-prison and had begun to beat against the walls in a desperate attempt to escape. Likewise, with every slight movement of a muscle, he felt as though the containments of his guts would rush up through his throat and out his mouth. He never liked vomit, but his love of alcohol overpowered that distaste tenfold. As a result, he found himself facedown in a barrel more often than he'd like to admit.

Years of practice seemed to only to do the highlander an ounce of good, though, as the hangovers never got any better, no matter how many pints he drank in rapid succession. The small rays of sun that beamed in through the seams of his tent felt painful rather than warm, and his normally soft bedroll felt as though it was getting tighter with each movement, like quicksand in some strange cloth-like form. Slowly, he opened his eyes, blinked, sighed, and rubbed his face in a lame attempt to wake himself up.

"Soddin' booze ain't killed me yet," Duren murmured to himself, chuckling as a faint smile formed behind his thick black beard. However, the pain involved in moving even these small muscles meant that this smile was short-lived.

No doubt, the dwarf was in a rough state this morn. Rougher, one might say, than most mornings. It did little, however, to quell Duren's optimism, and despite the surging pain, he managed to pull himself from his bedroll and do his best to clean himself up. Highland dwarves took pride in their cleanliness when compared to their mountain kin, but since leaving his home to pursue life as a traveler, he's noticed an even higher level of expectation when it came to living amongst humans. Bathing every morning seemed almost counterproductive to him, but he did not question it. After all, he was in the business of protection, not investigation.

Preparing himself for a blast of sunshine to worsen his state, Duren approached the small entrance of his tent, pulling the cloth door to one side. To his delight, heavy - almost black - rainclouds approached from the west. Rainfall always did a hungover soul well.

However, having been a part of The Moving for several months now, Duren also knew that a hangover was not an excuse for laziness, especially not in a community such as this that had so graciously taken him in. He had a duty to these people - their protection. His skills as a guard during his time in Bhornbadir served these people well, even if his days consisted mostly of fending off hungry animals as the people of The Moving moved throughout the wildlands of Allaria. It was a job, and one Duren took pride in. Seeing the world was just an added bonus.

Letting the remnants of the sun's light illuminate his tent before the clouds took over, Duren prepared himself a light morning snack - just something to keep his stomach settled - accompanied by a portable mug of tea. The recipe for the beverage was one his great-grandmother, Gorinara, taught him when he was a small lad. Of course, like any good dwarven brew, the drink was spiked with a small spoonful of whiskey. Nothing truly cures a hangover like more alcohol in the system, after all.

With his whiskey-tea in tow, Duren donned his dwarvencrafted armour once more, slung his grand-pappy's shield over his shoulder, and clipped his waraxe to his hip. An intimidating sight, to be sure, but anyone who knew the dwarf knew that his jolly personality abandoned his menacing appearance, and that anyone looking to brighten their day could rely on Duren to do just that.

"G'morning to ye', lassie!" Duren shouted, raising an arm to wave at Linda, a young human woman, aged only 23, that Duren had grown to appreciate as if she were a member of his own family. She, in turn, treated him as something of an adopted uncle, and the two could often be heard deep in conversation, and it was not rare to see Linda approach Duren during guard duties with freshly baked goods, and sometimes a little extra liquid courage, to help get him through the day. With only a few months under his belt as a member of The Moving, Duren had come to appreciate Linda's hospitality, and she in turn seemed to appreciate his friendship.

As Linda saw Duren, she returned the warm gesture, approaching him from across the community's small marketplace, nearly forgetting to pay for the light foodstuffs she'd purchased from an old vendor.

"Someone's looking a little worse for wear," the woman said, giving Duren a playful nudge on the shoulder. The dwarf stood at about half his friend's height, though the wrinkles that lined his face did little to hide the fact that he's lived twice as many years as she. Linda observed the dark circles under Duren's eyes - a clear sign of his state. She chuckled, knowing there was little she could do to help at this point. "I nearly had to drag you from the tavern-tent last night, you old boozebag. You and that Szazah were having quite the conversation, hm? Something about snow elves, or some such nonsense."

"Szazah?" Duren replied, after returning Linda's nudge and taking a sip of his tea. The morning whiskey really did hit the spot. The name Szazah, however, did little to clear the fog of his memory. "I dinnae r'member. Th' snow elves is just a legend, anyways. T'ain't no truth to it."

Linda nodded her head in agreeance with the notion, and handed Duren a plum. The purple fruit looked about as ripe as it could get in this part of Allaria, and Duren knew that such a thing would have cost the girl a pretty penny. Clearly, his look abandoned his thoughts.

"Don't worry," Linda said, with a mischievous giggle. "All it cost me was an innocent smile, and a single loosened button. Take it, it'll do your old bones some good to get something other than bear meat and ale into your system."

Duren chuckled in return, taking the plum with no more hesitation. "Yer' a sly one, girl."

"Yes, and you're going to be a late one if you don't get a move on. What would we do without mighty Duren to save us from malnourished coyotes?" Before Duren could reply to the snarky remark, however, Linda's giggles trailed behind him. He laughed as well as he watched the young woman head off to carry out the remainder of her morning routine with one hand on his pounding forehead, while the other one rolled the new addition to his meal in his callused palm.

Noon, The Moving camp entrance

As the morning passed, the rain kept falling. The drops were heavy and thick, and Duren could feel each one beat against his forehead, and the smaller drops of the splash that followed each plop. Water beaded off the ridges of his brow, falling in front of his eyes and onto his puffed cheeks. He'd be lying if he said the weather did not help soothe his hangover, but the cold was starting to get to him, and he could feel his thick fingers begin to shake underneath his steel gauntlets.

But such was the life of a guard. Some days, the sun shone brightly, while others, she hid behind the clouds. Likewise, some days the community made nothing louder than a peep, while others would be spent tracking down thieves and other ne'er-do-wells. Each day was new, and that's something Duren had learned to accept in his 47 years of life.

Despite this, the weather was the last thing on the dwarf's mind this morn. In fact, he had been wracking his brain during his entire shift, ever since Linda had mentioned it, wondering just what he could have been talking about with Szazah, and why she thought they had mentioned the Shadowwald. Surely, if a race elves who called the tundras home did exist, they would not have managed to survive for so long, completely undetected by other civilizations. Surely, Duren thought, they were nothing but a myth. Surely.

But, to his great frustration, Duren could not pull the unusual memory from his mind-bank. Had Linda even truly seen and heard what she thought she did? Perhaps she had mistaken the man's identity, and it was indeed just another commoner. Duren couldn't imagine a reason for he and the man named Szazah to converse so openly, especially about a topic as bizarre as the Shadowwald.

With his free hand, Duren stroked the braided bits of his long beard, overlooking the mountainous scenery that surrounded The Moving's newest landing. It was quite the sight, though Duren dreaded the treks across the mountains - his legs were not quite as long and travel-ready as these humans', and especially not of certain beastkin he had seen. Indeed, some of them spanned double his height, and then some. Despite having been away from dwarven lands for over two years now, he still had trouble accustoming to the significant height differences. If anything, that was what he missed from Bhornbadir - a true sense of fitting in.

Realizing how far his thoughts had wandered, Duren gave his head a slight shake. Rainwater splattered in all directions, like that of a dog fresh out of a lake, as his coarse facial hair swung from side to side.

The dwarf reached down to grab his plum, taking a hefty bite. By the time the sour juices of the fruit reached his taste buds, the water pouring down from the heavens had conglomerated between his beard hairs once more. This time, he let it remain as he chewed. What harm could rainwater do, after all?

Late afternoon, The Moving camp

As Duren's shift slowly came to a close, the rain began to ease up. Just in time for the residents to come out in the open, and, with any luck, join together at the tavern-tents for some ales and tales. The perfect way to end a day, as far as Duren was concerned.

Footsteps, about as heavy as Duren's own, but much more sparse, could be heard approaching the dwarf from behind, within the walls of the traveling community. As Duren turned to look, he saw Airic, who became more and more clear the closer he got, eventually close enough for Duren's poor eyesight to make him out completely clearly. Adorned in silver armour with a menacing blade bouncing upon his thigh with each step, Airic approached Duren looking about as clean-cut as the dwarf had earlier in the morning.

"Don't laugh, you're the one who did this to me," Duren's guardmate said, pointing and trying his best to hide his laughter behind a poorly disguised smirk.

"Aye? An' I must'ave knocked ye' out an' dragged ye' down to the aletents, then, did I?" Duren replied, followed by a bout of laughter. There was a certain level of amusement the dwarf found in the longer-lasting effects alcohol had on humans as compared to dwarves. Both creatures certainly experienced hangovers, but the poor humans were known to suffer for entire days at a time, while the stouter dwarves were ready and willing to go for round two after only a few hours. In the past two years, Duren's learned to appreciate this fact more and more.

"Stuff it, dwarf," Airic replied again, laughing alongside his companion. "Any sign of trouble this morn?"

"Nay, not a sign o' bandit nor bear. Not ev'n a bird in th' sky, today."

"That bodes well for me, I suppose. I'd rather be bored than sinking my blade in some poor sap's gut. Blood is a real pain in the arse to wash."

"Aye," Duren replied behind a chuckle. Airic had a dark sense of humour, undoubtedly, but humour is humour, and dark is quite a common choice among guardsmen.

"So, have you heard the news?" Airic questioned his short friend, as he readied his own gear in preparation of taking over the guard's duties once Duren's shift ended. "Your bar-buddy got the go-ahead for his little expedition. I suppose we'll have to find someone else to cover guard duties until you come back, hm?"

Airic's words did little other than confuse the old dwarf. He had claimed it were news, but all it did was create more questions to bounce about in Duren's mind.

"You been drinkin' that goblin juice again, lad? Whate'er ye' be talkin' about?" At this point, Duren's head had turned to face his fellow guard once more, watching him sharpen a couple arrows that sat in his quiver. Airic returned the stare, and before long, a wide smile creeped across his face. Yellowed teeth revealed themselves to the lighter drops of rain, and Airic went on to laugh through his thin nose, the air pushing away the sparse hair that grew in small patches on his upper lip.

"You don't remember, do you?" Airic asked, answering Duren's question with a question of his own. The highland dwarf shook his head, one eyebrow raised to mould a suspicious expression.

"You and that old Szazah - the man that's had the whole Moving going on about the Shadowwald? He wants to go on some insane journey to find the 'snow elves?' Any of this ring a bell for you? No?" Airic chukled again, shook his head, and took a seat on the opposite side of the gate. Duren stood up from his own seat, his belongings slung hastily over his shoulder. Again, he shook his head, and again, he could not help but feel as though both Airic and Linda had made some strange mistake.

However, Airic's words soon put an end to Duren's confusion.

"You damned fool. Szazah had you all up in arms all night, going on about his plans to discover the Shadowwald. Had you convinced they were real, and everything."

Airic's story, slowly but surely, began to form pictures in Duren's hazy memory. It was as though the syllables were gusts of wind in his mind, blowing away a dense fog that hid the memories from Duren's mind's eye.

"Before any of us knew it, you'd pledged allegiance - some sort of dwarven honour, you were going on about - to Szazah's grand delusion. Said you'd be honoured to act as a guard for him on his journey. I bet he's waiting for you right now. I saw two other folk enter his tent on my way here."

As Airic finished speaking, Duren's eyes grew wide. His mind had suddenly cleared, and any trace of the fog that once guarded his memories had all but faded. Now, he could remember very clearly how he had promised Szazah to aid him on his quest to discover the Shadowwald. He had sworn it, in fact. Sworn on his grand-pappy's beard that he'd help Szazah find some kind of answers to his questions, for the betterment of The Resistance.

With a sloppy smack, Duren's hand came up hard against his forehead. The dwarf facepalmed, shaking his head in his soaked palm as the memories finally dawned on him.

He wasn't disappointed to hear the "news," however. In fact, behind the rough hand, a smirk began to form.

"Aye, ye're right. I remember now," Duren said to Airic. He approached the man and lay a hand on his shoulder, the clink of wet steel on wet steel overpowering the lightened rain. "I s'pose tha' means I'm off, then. 'Ave fun wit' th' malnourished wolves, eh lad?"

With a wink, followed by a nudge, Duren took off back into the community, one arm swinging back and forth while the other kept a firm grip on the bottom of his shield to prevent it from bouncing too much on his back. A dwarf's honour was on the line here - namely, his own honour - and what's a dwarf without honour? A criminal, usually, and Duren had spent 30 years as a guard fighting against the actions of those who would go against the law.

Before long, Duren was at the entrance to Szazah's tent, huffing and puffing as he swerved in between the townsfolk. His hair was matted to his scalp as the rainwater kept it moist, and the bottoms of his steel greaves were coated in mud from the splashing of the mucky earth beneath his hurried footsteps.

Without hesitation, Duren swung open the tent doors, nearly collapsing through the entrance. Inside, he was met with the sight of Szazah himself, alongside two fellow members of The Moving - a human man, and a beastkin man, though Duren was unfamiliar with what animal he was, exactly. Some kind of rodent, no doubt.

"Ye' best not be leavin' on an adventure without a dwarf in yer' midst, eh?" Duren shouted, likely interrupting any conversation within the room. "Not to worry, laddies! Duren is 'ere, and t'ain't no gettin' rid o' me once ye' got me," he said, chuckling. With each laugh, the dwarf's black beard bounced in unison with his stomach. The dwarf swung his knapsack from his shoulder and down onto the floor of Szazah's tent, pulling a couple bottles of brownish liquid from the bag's various compartments.

"Now, who wants ale, hm?"



Summary: Drunk dwarf makes wonderful first impression.

Hraakir

The hare skittered this way and that, desperate to escape, its nose twitching as it let out little whimpering sounds of fear. Yet all that struggle came to naught, ending with a vicious sound of tearing flesh and a dull thunk. An axe embedded in the artic hare’s flank stood in horrible contrast as blood pooled over the snow, staining it a dull red, and the small creature breathed its last, its ears twitching toward the sound of footfalls crunching toward it, the approach of its killer.

A powerfully built reptilian creature claimed its prize, lifting the hare by the axe embedded in it, relishing in the blood that dripped over its claws. It carried the creature a mile, hungrily, and promptly dumped it into a receding campfire on the edge of the Moving camp, scattering burning cinders and ashes over the two men sitting nearby, who looked up in shock.

“Wha? The ‘ell you doin-” the affronted guard’s sudden change in demeanour was almost comical to the reptilian, as realisation suddenly dawned on him who, or what, he was talking to so roughly. A Dragonoid, redscaled, standing almost a foot taller than him, garbed in tribal furs and carrying nasty curved axes, one stained with the blood of its kill. It was the type of savage that ordinary men do not fuck with. “Oh, one of you, eh, Redscale lot? Like your… food burned then?” The man tried to make awkward small talk to cover over his earlier rudeness, but it was a little difficult as his nose was turning up from the smell of burning hair. The reptile grinned, showing far too many teeth, and simply dumped a few choice organs from the disembowelled creature into the fire alongside it.

Hraakir, Dragonoid of the Redscale tribe, left the organs of his kill in offering to his great god and ripped the burned fur from the hare so as to sink his fangs into the scorched flesh beneath. Ripping and tearing, fat and grease leaked down his scales and claws, and the men around him promptly left. Probably queasy. Pathetic little manlings. Eventually far preferable company replaced them, another of his tribe who had found his way to this place.

“Hraakir.” The Dragonoid greeted him simply, dumping his own hare in the fire.

“Sakaar.” Hraakir replied, around mouthfuls of food. After a while of comfortable silence, Hraakir posed a question. “Will you go find the Elflings then?”

“No, I go south, kill god-haters myself if I have to.”

“Good hunting, cousin.”

“You?”

“I go find Elflings, they say here if they find Elflings they have a big battle, kill the god-haters.”

“Good hunting, cousin.”

Summary: Hraakir the savage Dragonoid seems to be planning to find the Elves, if only to have a big battle and kill people.

The Moving
Early Morning | "Balls and Oats" Tent

The clatter of several tin spoons hammering against thin tin plates filled the tent in a chaotic percussion as hot globs of boiled oats with milk and honey were ravenously scraped into several mouths. The porridge oozed across the plate in a sweet creamy mush that was scooped with either spoon or dense bread roll. Numerous warriors were seated in groups on small kegs tearing away at stiff bread in a breakfast colloquially called Balls and Oats. The bread balls were tough enough to rip out a man’s teeth if he wasn’t careful. The more intelligent folk placed the ball in the oat pudding and allowed it to absorb the warm liquid and soften. It sweetened the bread and was much more pleasant on the jaw.

A young wench stood behind the large pot with a ladle in her hand, scooping up a full cup of the beige mash to dump onto the plate of a waiting and eager warrior. She then reached down to grasp a ball of bread from a barrel at her side and placed it on the customer’s dish. Her eyelids were half-lidded, her amber eyes gazing back deeply into her thoughts. In a camp filled with mostly men in the form of beasts, dwarves, elves, and man, she was a beauty desired by many. Her chocolate hair hung in short blades from her scalp, laying in slender strands over her forehead where dark brows and lashes framed her eyes, causing the honeyed hue of her irises to gleam. They said, Dinah The Oat Woman had long hair once. To some, her new look maid her resemble a boy, and to others, it made her even more desirable.

Her somber pink lips were straight and stoic. Her movements had become methodical—pour the oats; place the bread; next. She no longer had to think. Above her lips, across the bridge of her nose in a red smattering of marred and torn flesh was a wound that had scaled over with black scabs. It stung whenever she wrinkled her nose, the mild itching it excited often having her accidentally claw it back open.

Who did that to your face?

Dinah’s eyelids lifted as her eyes grew with alert. She blinked and swept her immediate vicinity until her eyes landed on the back of a man who sat on a barrel a few feet from the serving table. She scrutinized him in her uncertainty. His dust-white tunic laid over his muscled back and shoulders like a sheet and his black hair laid behind his neck, the lengthy bangs drawn back into a loose tail that descended the back of his head. A bandage was knotted around his skull, making her curious. The stranger scraped and scarfed down the porridge just as voraciously as the others in the tent.

She swallowed the words that threatened to leave her lips and returned to gazing aimlessly over the hunched and feasting forms. The man rose then, his raven hair spilling from his shoulders to hang between them. He turned to face her, and she noted the black bandage that covered his right eye. Coarse dark hair covered his jaw and a thin stash passed over his upper lip. His gray eyes never settled on her. Instead, they glared fiercely upon the plate that he placed on the table before her. The man said nothing as he turned and left the tent. Dinah gazed upon the plate he left behind, the plate which still had much porridge and half a bread boule on it. She didn’t suspect that the oatmeal had been awful. Had he lost his appetite?



There’s me girl.

A few hours and a hundred mouths fed later, the bottom of the pot had but a burnt pool of sludge that no one had been desperate enough to eat. The voice that had greeted her made her skin grow colder than the mountain air that teased it to goosebumps. Dinah’s jaw tensed when a bald man stepped before her, the table and pot being the only barrier between her and him. She remained behind it as the man rested his hands upon the table and leaned over the oat pot, grinning at her. His face was marked in scars and tattoos of strange symbols. Bear fur lined his collar as hard-boiled leathers and iron plates were buckled over it. A beard as long as his neck hung in a brown curtain from his chin. Blue eyes peered down it into the dark pot and his nostrils flared to breathe in the smell of burnt oats. A smiled stretched on his face as his eyes rose to gaze upon Dinah’s turned cheek.

“Aw, y’didn’t save me none?” he said in playful disappointment. He reached out to grasp her chin in an attempt to turn her head toward him, but Dinah snapped her chin away. Grasping her face, his hard rough fingers clenched the sides of her jaw and bit harshly into her cheeks, causing her lips to pucker in an expression that he thought was comical. The skinhead chuckled. “Dun be rude girl. I’m mad y’didn’t save me a plate after all I done fo’ ya. No one’s touched ya. Y’d tell me if someone tried to touch ya, wouldn’t ya?”

He released her face and Dinah frowned at the ground, her eyes shrinking with her silent anger and growing glossy with hopelessness. Her response was quiet and reluctant, “…aye.”

“You’re me girl. No one’s gonna touch ya. They know me mark. Leouric of the Sons of Blood.”

Leouric jabbed her nose with his finger, causing Dinah to cry out in pain as she recoiled away from the laughing man holding her burning nose. The pain was so horrible it made tears bubble in her eyes. She kept her back to Leouric to dissuade the skinhead from sticking around. He helped himself to a bread ball, tossing the boule into the air before happily snatching it out of the air.

“I’m gonna come see ya tonight. Dun hide from me this time,” Leouric told her as he continued to giggle through a wide grin.

As the skinhead stepped from the tent and pressed the hard boule to his teeth to begin the arduous gnawing, sitting to his right was a man with a bandage over his eye. A hot tin mug of tea was clutched in his hands, warming them as the clouds that crept overhead startled to drizzle. He sipped the bitter liquid, his rabbit skin-covered feet stretched out comfortably before him in a wide-legged lounge. When Leouric was two tents away, the man took one more sip of his tea and rose from the crate he had been sitting on to leisurely follow after the man.

Dinah turned around to see that Leouric had left and she saw the man with the bandage pass before the tent. Why was he still hanging around? Her brows shot upwards. He couldn’t possibly be planning to fight Leouric. She grasped the faded-brown skirts of her gown and lifted them as she ran to the door. Poking her head out, she watched as the man with the bandage calmly followed after Leouric.

As the man walked, he took bigger gulps of his beverage, his head tipping back as his neck muscles pumped the warming liquid into his stomach. A stone in the dirt path twisted beneath him, causing the man to stumble. Lowering the mug, he threw out his arms to catch himself and gazed down at the brick-sized stone that had been dislodged from its earthy bed. Finishing off the tea, the man reached down and picked up the stone. Weighing it up and down in his hand, he mentally estimated it to be about as heavy as a full sack of rice, but unfortunately not as soft. He set the empty mug on a table where a merchant was selling gemstone necklaces. His tongue dragged across his lips, collecting the herby residue, before the side of his hand followed to wipe them dry. His pace quickened.

Leouric was trying to tear a chunk of boule away from his teeth when the stranger came up behind him and cracked the stone against the back of his bare skull. With a pained grunt, Leouric staggered forward. The bread ball fell from his mouth as his eyes bulged in shock. Waving his arm, he caught his balance and turned to face his assailant only to catch a rock against his left cheekbone. The skinhead’s head snapped to the left and then right when the rock was brought back around. The second consecutive blow shattered a few molars in his mouth and they left like sugar cubes on a red syrupy ribbon of blood and saliva. Leouric was dazed, his vision swirling and legs crossing. A hand latched onto the collar of his armor and roughly he was brought before the face of his assailant. The man with the bandage pressed the rock that was nearly bigger than Leouric’s skull against the side of the skinhead’s dome.

“See? I’ve left my mark on you too,” the man scoffed, his grey eyes livid. Leouric’s fingers clawed at the man’s chest, raking down his tunic as he choked and coughed out a drape of crimson that tumbled down his beard. “You go near that girl again, I pray that Michael grant you more mercy than me.”

The man shoved Leouric back, the warrior stumbling in his disorientation until he fell to his knees. Bent over and posted on his hands, Leouric spat blood on the ground and a few teeth. He panted heavily on angered growls like a wild dog.

“You’re…You’re dead!” he bellowed.

The man glanced at the rock still in his hand, and then glanced to Leouric. Leouric’s face paled and in fright he scrambled backwards before he managed to stagger to his feet and push through the crowd of onlookers who had gathered around to watch the show. The man only stared off in the direction Leouric had fled for a few seconds longer before he dropped the rock and dismissively spat at the ground where the man had been. As he turned back down the direction he had come from, he saw Dinah ducking behind a small gaggle of people before they scattered out of boredom. Once she was revealed, she figured she had no reason to keep silent any further. She followed after the man.

“Are ye daft? Do ye know what ye done?” she asked.

“I’ve done a horrible thing,” the man honestly returned.

“Aye, ye did. He and the other sons will come after ye! They’ll try an’ kill ya!”

“I’m already dead,” the man replied. “Besides, there’s more than enough rocks on the ground.”

Dinah stopped following him, stunned and bewildered by how calm and unconcerned he was. She frowned and yelled after him, “Ye didn’t hafta’ do that ye know. I can ‘andle me’self!”

“’Course, I did.”

Dinah continued to nervously grip her skirts as she watched the man vanish into the crowd. She feared what sort of war he had started and feared getting caught up in it.



The Moving
Afternoon | Horsekeeper

Aah, the Reed Human returns.

He was greeted by a tiger with white striped fur and wise gentle eyes. A smile curled the corners of his maw as he pressed his paws together and delightedly bowed twice to the human.

“Your horse was good. Real good. He mated with all my mares,” Branson reported with a pleasant growl.

The man with the bandage known as Reed smiled as his cheeks flushed with slight embarrassment. He laughed, “I’m sure he did. Our journey has been long.”

“Come, you see him now.”

The tiger walked with Reed over to an enclosure where the large black horse was proudly trotting alongside its perimeter. The great beast stopped once he saw his master and thrust out his head, his lips flapping as he greeted Reed with the most enthusiastic whinny he had ever heard. Reed laughed as he walked over to rest his hand against Kheluz’s snout. The stallion intimately nibbled at his fingers as his tail swished behind him.

“I’ve created a monster,” Reed muttered. “Is he going to be like this for long?”

Branson threw back his head in laughter as his arms curled behind his back. “He will calm down soon. You want to discuss payment, yes? He mated with five of my mares. I give you 250 gold.”

“I accept your offer. Could you keep him for a while longer? I have something to attend to.”

The tiger smiled and bowed. “Yes, Sirrah.”

Reed rubbed Kheluz’s nose and told the horse, “Behave yourself.”

The Diremane jerked his head away from his master and started galloping along the fence line again. Just watching the horse was making Reed feel tired. He offered his hand to Branson as the two merrily shook hand and paw.

“Thank you for taking care of him. I will try to return before he jumps the fence.”

“No worries Sirrah. He is safe.”

Reed nodded and as he left the horsekeeper he wondered, But are your mares safe?

The Moving
Afternoon | Szazah's Tent

The rain was coming down by the time he reached Szazah’s tent, and as Reed stood outside the tent flap, the strong funk of alcohol was the first thing to greet him. His eyes closed with displeasure as his nose wrinkled in disgust. He should have known that the meeting would have spirits to draw those who had no sense of justice of their own. Alcohol was a poison that lured many a colorful character like flies to shit. Reed hesitated to enter, contemplating going back on his decision. He was honestly afraid to see what kind of characters were already within. A brief image of a bald man with tattoos all over his face flashed in his mind and naturally, Reed’s eyes went to the ground.

Maybe I should take a rock with me… he mused. Michael would not punish me so.

A mercenary group full of skinheads would have been too cruel a fate. Reed exhaled a deep breath through his nostrils and pushed aside the drape. The first being he noticed was the giant beastkin who he was surprised could even fit inside the tent. His eyes then darted over to two other men: one was the man called Szazah who he watched pour himself the affronting liquid and drink, and the second, a stranger. Finally, there was the dwarf who had been the most potent source of the alcoholic stench. Reed exhaled another purging breath through his nostrils to rid them of the dwarf’s smell as he found a spot in the corner furthest from the small table and booze, which wasn’t that far seeing as the tent was rather small.

“And we know that for those who love Michael all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose,” Reed recited the verse as his greeting to the group. He sat cross-legged on the ground, soggy and dripping like all if not most of them. Internally, he was praising Michael for having packed a dry pair of clothes.

---

Summary: A skinhead gets beaten with a rock, a happy horse, and finally an unpleasant meeting in a booze-filled tent.

Gartoj

Not enough!

With as much ferocity as one could possibly put into an item of such vanishingly small mass, the goosequill was pushed through the small opening. It was plunged into a black sea below of it, but as much momentum as there had been initially as quickly it was killed before an inevitable impact would have destroyed the carefully cut tip. With small, violently separated droplets adding themselves to the mess already created around the little jar, the tool was rapidly guided back to Gartoj's journal.

Or was it a journal ? A bookmaker possibly would claim it to be far too riddled with non-alphabetic elements, while a magician -- or a mathematician, as far as one could say that such a person existed -- would scold its author for being far too... chaotic. A stream of thoughts jumping from sheet to sheet to even mere fractions of a sheet in an not always sequential manner. Only few had ever looked into the drow's tent since his arrival at this camp, but those few had already made sure to let him know that he was wasting his resources on nonsense. Almost needless to say that Gartoj's view of the matter was a very different one. Right now he was merely trying to calculate how much bread, water, wine and other supplies he would need for the upcoming journey on the basis of an estimated duration. He was quite sure that Szazah would ultimately have his will come true, even if there were people seen around him to whom the attribute 'unusual' could be assigned in the best case.

However Gartoj possibly wouldn't be Gartoj if his most immediate surroundings wouldn't at least partially mirror the things he was thinking others to be. That pathetic assembly of wooden pieces beneath his butt was hardly a match for his size, but building an own one would most likely do nothing but openly present his lack of artisanal talent to the entire Moving. Maybe one day he'd just happily sumble upon a leftover piece of a trunk that he could simply roll in and use as a replacement ? That hammock next to him had been a different issue... He had been forced to reinforce both it and the poles it was hooked up to right after the first time gravity had blasted him through it. Otherwise ? Well he had not yet tried out what the stablemaster would do upon seeing him approaching. Those beastkin definitely had some advantages sometimes. Or those of his own kind who were blessed with actually being more normal.

Yet most calculations came to an end and so did this morning's one. Moaning a little under his self-inflicted backpain, the drow stretched himself and got moving. The sound of rain coming down made him feel just a tad more miserable rightaway. Just... why ? Snow would have been a much more appreciable thing, but it appeared they were right at the borderline where it no longer was too dry, but still too warm for such things to happen with comparable intensity. The nights in the tent weren't long enough to let his clothes dry completely, so by now they were pretty damp on the outer layers and providing their environment with quite a bit of an distinct odour. Gartoj could keep himself as clean and tidy as he wanted, but he simply couldn't solve that problem with the means available. Once there'd be more wind it wouldn't matter anyway.

The drow got himself moving, pushing his enormity forward towards the tent he had been told about. In this completely soaked ground he couldn't help but find that to be quite a tedious effort: His weight was pushing his boots far deeper into it, increasing the work to get out. Tracing him along this camp wouldn't be too hard. He hadn't slept all too well, so hopefully this would be over soon. Hardly anything was more annoying then people dragging themselves and other along in a discussion that could have been shortened dramatically if individual preparation had been better. With mixed feelings and slight rings around his eyes, Gartoj entered the location and inspected the others. Something - or someone - was smelling like fire. The idea of aggressively sniffing around in order to identify the culprit was tempting, but ultimately saved as a means of retaliation in case anybody would complain about him. He wiped his white hairs out of his face which had immediately decided to cling to his skin the moment they had made contact with water.

---

Summary: Under-amused and tired drow expecting orders that hopefully will get him out of the miserable location.

Even by the early morning, The Moving Camp was a hub of activity. Undisturbed by the rains, or perhaps in spite of the rain, life continued on. The clang of hammers against steel, and merchants harking their wares rang out along with the sharp barks of sergeants and the wet slapping of boots in mud marching in lockstep. Eyes were drawn to the bright colored sashes that adorned the otherwise drab canvas tents of merchants and vendors, small packs of children scampered inbetween the legs of adults, soldiers passed by- some marched, others jogged, and several were facedown in the mud doing pushups. The air smelled of market and steel, accented by the musk of the wet air. The men and women of the Moving were busy at work.

Aside from Galahad of course. The young swordsman swaggered his way through the streets formed by the corridors of tents, a bright smile on his face, seemingly oblivious to the hard work going on around him. Not that anyone really expected much else out of him. Galahad claimed to be many things, and a hard worker he was not. First and foremost he was a lover, a fighter second, and a laborer a far, distant, almost nonexistant third. While the laborers of the Moving went about their business, Galahad wandered his way through the tent city, drinking, wooing women, and occasionally getting into arguments.

Currently on his mind was the attention of a pretty young thing named Aliyah. Wooable women were a bit of a rarity here in the Moving- many warriors would take their families with them in the Moving, a relative few women joined the Moving of their own accord and those that did were powerful women in their own right. Such as the Aliyah Galahad currently had his attentions set on. A former seamstress turned surgeon after the destruction of her much of her hometown by the Apotheoses, she joined the Moving with her younger sister and was one of the youngest- and prettiest- surgeons in the Moving.

"Sir Galahad! Sir Galahad!" Galahad found himself interrupted from his thoughts by a small gaggle of children. Children were uncommon in the Moving, but they weren't unheard of: many warriors brought their families with them, and many of the older children would either undergo training with the Resistance or help with other tasks such as message or arrow deliveries during battle. This group of children Galahad recognized- three boys, two brown haired and the other redheaded, and a girl with white blonde hair. The boys carried sticks as though they were swords, and one had his stick stuck between his belt so he wouldn't have to carry it with his hands. All four of them had mud spattered on their pants and a faces.

"Ah! Hallo little ones, what can Sir Galahad do for you?" Galahad said in a light tone as he grinned at the four kids. He stood well over the young children, a hand casually resting on his hip- next to his sword, the other holding a trio of lilies. His armor was clean and well maintained, even fashionable, and his cloak was open, resting just above his ankles. Though not an actual knight or of noble birth, he certainly looked the part, and the stories he told the children had led them into believing he was indeed a noble knight.

"Warmaster Szazah told us to remind you that you're supposed to meet with him at his tent this afternoon." the blonde girl said bashfully, swaying left and right with her hands behind her back.

"Hoi! shush up Amelia! Oi wanted to tell him!" whined the redhead stomping his foot in the mud. The other two jeered in agreement and one gave the girl a push.

"Ya! What e' said, this is a job for us boys, not some silly girl!" said one of the brown haired boys, kicking a bit of mud at her feet and sticking his tongue out. The girl Amelia seemed hurt- her lower lip began to tremble and her big eyes glistened a bit. "Why you always tag along wit us anyhow? We don want you around 'ere! Go on! Shoo!"

"That's quite enough of that." Galahad chided, throwing a bit of the authoritative tone sergeants loved to use in his voice- though not enough to intimidate the children, just enough to get their attention. "I've seen the four of you together ever since I came here. Why are you shooing her away now?" Galahad asked as the blonde went up to him and clung to the hem of his gambeson.

"B-b... Because... she's a girl!" explained Franz, the redhead, admittedly unconvinced of his own words, but gestured as though that was reason enough. Galahad cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at the boys, also unconvinced. "and.. and.. because Paul were makin' fun o us for hanging out with a girl." Franz finally admitted, staring at his feet and kicking at a rock.

Galahad squatted down to be eye level with the kids- though was careful not to dip his knee into the mud. "And what happens if you send Amelia off on her own and something happens to her? What if she gets hurt?"

The three boys looked at eachother then looked down, all three of their heads now firmly focused on a rock or other at their feet. Franz the redhead glanced upwards after a bit of silence to see if Galahad was still staring at them. He was.

"I'd feel real bad..." Franz finally admitted, his voice barely audible. The other two boys nodded in agreement.

"Amelia's sister patched up my da after the last battle. Us lettin' Amelia get hurt wudn be a good way of repaying her." another boy admitted. The three boys eventually nodded in agreement again, and with some hesitation walked over to the little blonde and the four of them hugged as a big group. Galahad's leg was somehow caught in the middle.

"Now, no more of letting this Paul dictate who you play with." Galahad said, as he extracted himself from their little group hug.

"Uhm. Sir Galahad, the little blonde asked, "Are those for my sister?"

Galahad grinned as he bent back down and offered the little blonde one of the lilies. "Ever the bright one, aren't you Amelia?" Galahad said as he tucked the flower behind the girl's ear. She beamed.

"If only all my conversations could go that well." Galahad commented wistfully as he watched the four kids run off- a hard day of playing obviously in the schedule.

---

"Ah, Galahad, you're back. Again. Aliyah said, somewhat tiredly as Galahad entered the medical tent. One of the largest tents in The Moving, the medical tent was the Moving Camp's field hospital, essentially a big tent with small dividers here and there to cordon off beds for patients. Aliyah stood by a sleeping patient in a bed- still radiant despite her plain work robes.

Only a bit over twenty, the young surgeon had fair skin, and white blonde hair like her younger sister. Her hair was tied in a ponytail behind her head, but a few disobeying strands of hair fell forward and framed her round face. Brilliant green eyes and long lashes with a small nose and plump lips- it wasn't a surprise that more than one soldier had intentionally injured himself in hopes of ending up in her care.

"So brave Galahad, what ails you this time? Aliyah asked sarcastically, punctuating with an exaggerated sigh.

"An ailment that no needle can fix!" Galahad declared melodramatically, "It is an ailment of the heart, my dear doctor." he accompanied with grandiose gestures.

"I have done surgery on a heart before, remember?" Aliyah replied smartly, successfully removing Galahad's steam.

"Oh. Right. You've told me. That." Galahad recalled sheepishly, "I also got you flowers." he added, offering her the two lilies.

"Oh how pretty!" Aliyah commented happily, Galahad's spirits immediately raising tenfold. "They look just like the one my sister gave me earlier today, they'll lighten up our tent wonderfully, thank you." Galahad's spirits fell again, this time with a heavy sigh.

---

Despite the rain, Galahad's spirits seemed to be positive enough as he walked his way towards Szazah's tent. Aside from the mud that weighed down his boots, most of Galahad seemed clean enough- thanks to the cloak that he now wrapped around his body to keep the moisture off of his clothing. He ducked a bit as he lifted the flap of the tent and stepped in. The mid sized tent was already starting to feel small with all the bodies that appeared to be joining them- but the first one Galahad noticed was the short, stocky frame of a dwarf.

"Duren! You drunk old scamp! I'd lost track of ya last night." Galahad grinned, "You're not starting again without me are you?" he added- gesturing to the bottle in the dwarf's hands.

He then took a look at the rest of the individuals in the room- he recognized a few of them, through reputation if not actually knowing them. The large hulking beastkin Phinuphus was known to him- Aliyah commented highly on his abilities as a healer. Reed, in his armor was hard to recognize for anyone else- a bit of a stick in the mud if Galahad recalled correctly, but someone who would have your back in a fight. There was a northman that Galahad didn't recognize- though there was rumor that he had come with Szazah, and the largest drow Galahad had ever seen rounded out their complement.

---

Summary: Galahad is a lazy bastard, but does well with kids. Doesn't do quite as well with the target of his affections.

The gentle sound of the early morning rain bounced among the stone lips of a cave mouth. The natural groves guided and eased the sounds into a roaring echo that lead deeper down the tunnel and into a small cavern. An underground river broke through the cave wall, and flowed with eagerness into a channel that guided the water downhill and out into the rain. Droplets crawled down stalactites and fell to the hard ground with soft plats.

A lone female raksha was asleep on the ground. She lied on her back wrapped in her linen cloak and head on her bag. Her rags of clothes had been washed in the nearby stream and hung on the rock shelves to dry. She stirred silently. Her nostrils flared. Her lips flattened and pursed, and she shifted once more. A single eye opened, but saw nothing - no crack of light, no dancing shadows. Her jaws parted with her tongue slipping free, and nostrils flared once more. She inhaled deeply.

The musty scent of earth was quick to greet her. It carried the scent of healthy plants, rotting wood, and of course… mud. The tang of salt and calcium from the cave walls near her accented the mellow scents, and gave the air a bit of zing in taste. But… she smelled something else. The musty scent of another creature.

She shifted once more, and she felt it. A long body slithering across her bare stomach and up to her chest. Her arms twitched, and she felt another. The body wrapped around her arm. Her tail twitched and she felt something dart past her leg. Her ear twitched when she picked up a soft flicker over all the sounds of the rain and the flowing water.

Ruax, as her name is, sighed and slowly but carefully sat up. Being careful to not agitate her uninvited guests, she reached into her cloak and grasped one of the bodys. She felt cool scales and the body squished. Upon feeling her grasp she felt it try to slither faster through the hook of her thumb. She allowed it do as it pleased, but she still wrapped her fingers gently around it and pulled it out.

Once it was out, she heard the sounds more clearly. A loud hiss filled the air. A snake. The creature stared at her with beady eyes. The creature bore a simple pattern. Earthy brown spots covered the body, and were outlined with a few black scales. Outsides of the scales, it had a light tan back, and an enamel colored belly.

The monk did not look at the creature. It would do her no good. But she did gently run a finger along it’s body, starting from the back where her hand held it, and running down the spine to the head. She felt the snake real away… but found no signs of aggression.

“Looking for a warm place to sleep, hm?” The monks soft voice rang out in the cave. She smiled as she held her palm out, and allowed the snake to crawl over her hand. She used it to guide it back to the ground. She pulled out the next snake, and allowed it to slither away. “Sadly it is time for you and your friends to go. The birds are chirping, so the morning is here. It is time for me to get on with my day,” she rasped as the last snake soon slithered away when she shook her leg.

The cougar-like beastkin rose from the ground, clambered to her feet, then slipped out of her cloak. She then ran through her morning routine. She stretched, letting the muscles in her body grow limber once more after lying on the cold stones for so long. They were simple stretches at first. Then feats of flexibility. Touching toes, bending over backwards, splits, and twisting the spine, and pulling each leg up behind herself and over her head.

Then came the bath. Hygine was important to the monks she grew up with. And the lessons they taught helped her understand why. Her body was her true temple. Failure to take care of it, will mean that it will fail on you when you need it the most. Even the simplest thing such as an unkempt tuft of fur could lead to severe consequences. She scrubbed diligently. Her mostly clean and nearly water resistant fur becoming even cleaner… if it was possible. Her many ropes of hair would be agitated and dunked in the water to pull away any dirt or leaves that may have clung to her in the travels. Even her claws were carefully cleaned and sharpened to her satisfaction. This last bit… was more for safety than hygiene. Like a knife, a safe claw… is a sharp claw.

Finally… came redressing. The blind monk always thought of this as an odd part of life. She could never see the reason behind clothing. She had been told all of her life that it was to hide their shame. And that it improper to be naked in public. And that many were offended or embarrassed by the sight of another’s body. Well… none of it mattered to her. She was blind. She can smell most of what people wish to cover and it just became a part of daily life for her, as unpleasant or pleasant as that may sound. She wore clothes mostly for other’s benefits. Sadly… her clothings were not as hardy as their owner. Over the journey they have been reduced to tatters from many acts of self defence, or from trees and rocks tearing at them. Now… she wears them in ribbons and wrappings. At least it came close to satisfying both perspectives. Her’s and the world’s.

She had her breakfast. A hard tack, which she softened by dipping into the rivers water, and a pickle. A hard tack… is like a biscuit in the most unappetizing way. Instead of being soft, fluffy, and buttery, it was hard, shaped like a throwing disk, and tasted plain. The components that made an appetizing bisquit possible was removed for the sake of creating a bread that was able to last for a year without molding or growing stale. A favored meal of no one, but one of the easiest things to carry, make, or buy. The culinary disaster or genious… the hard tack. And she ate it without much thought. Even she, with her tastebuds more sensitive than most, could not pick up anything that was enlightening from such a bland treat.



The scent of blood. The gentle breeze had done it’s best to push the smell away… but Raux had discovered it nonetheless. She had left the cave not long after she finished her meal. With her quarter staff in hand, she had trecked for a handful of hours through the peaceful drizzle. Once again, her cloak covered her body and did well at keeping the rain and mud off of her body. She was enjoying the day… till she came across this dreaded scent.

Oh yes… of all of the more exciting smells she wish to find… blood ranked the lowest next to a pile of fresh dung. The scent was fresh too… and too much must have been spilt if the rain was not able to mask it. A frown scoured it’s way onto the Raksha’s muzzle when something inside of her told her to follow. Her claws clenched tightly on her quater staff when set off to follow the scent.

Minutes later, and the scent growing stronger, she found herself near a thicket where a mix mash of scents had assaulted her at once. Her jaws parted, and she inhaled deeply. Her tongue flicked with each breath to taste the air.

Blood was definitely spilt here. The bitter taste of iron, and the sweet tingle of vitality danced in the air. Sweat and fury took on the sensation of a bitter aftertaste. And lastly… the smell of scavengers surrounding the area. All of these scents were fresh… they happened not long ago. But they were localized. She thoughtfully swept her staff in a circle near her feet. And sure enough, she felt the soft bump of a body.

A few bodies were strewn about on the ground. Some clung to their weapons. Others held fistfulls of mud… presumably when they tried to crawl away for their lives. Raux lowered herself down one, and sniffed near a cadaver’s neck. Her snout wrinkled as she pulled away. The man smelled as if he had died long ago. But the warmth from his body told the story that it was recent. A man with poor hygine. She could even hear the lice in the man’s beard scurry about. She felt the body… and felt the soggy touch of leathers. They were flexible, soaked, and about ready to fall apart. Oiled armor that may have been made by a great leatherworker… had fallen to nothing but trash. A touch on the blade showed many great nicks, deep gouges, damaged flats, botched sharpening, and bent edges from misaligned swings.

This man was no trained soldier. None of the dead ones were. They were likely bandits looking for an easy score. But from whom?

A ragged cough took her by surprise.

The monk, now alarmed, raised her head thoughtfully, and turned her ears towards the source. She heard the cough again.

“Aaargh..derm bastards phhhhuggered me good…… that soddin lot did…” The gruff voice said, his voice garbled. His breathing was broken up with pained wheezes

The monk, remaining in a crouch, edged her way closer. Her hand felt along the ground to warn her paws of oncoming tripping hazards. She stopped once she felt her hand brush against the other’s. Her ear flicked, she could hear his heartbeat. It was alive… but it was not well. It missed beats occasionally… and she heard swirling… signs of a severe bleedout.

“Hold still…” she said sharply. She had nothing she could staunch the bleeding with. She’d have to make do with what she had available. Her hand slid down to grab a ball of mud. Though when she touched the ground… she did not feel cool water. But warm water. She drew her fingers back, and gave the tip. She tasted the sweetness of warm blood. She dipped her hand back into the pool and followed the stream… it felt like it ran on forever… she wouldn’t be able to save this man.

She frowned… and grabbed the mud anyways. She packed it into the open wound to stop the bleeding for as long as she could. It’d risk infection, but it’d buy him what few precious seconds of life he had left. And if there was a chance in hell to save his life... the infection is a lot easier to solve than a man who ran out of blood. The human man squirmed in protest at the searing pain.

“SOD ME WITH THE MOON!” he roared as he kicked his legs. Blood sputtered from his mouth when he finally settled down and entered a coughing fit.

“My apologies…” The monk said as she leaned in close to sniff the man’s neck. She detected a number of scents. Many which hold a much stronger presence than the battle that had taken place. Smells of others… one with the strength of passion… a wife. Two… with the strength of youth of energy… children. One ridden with alcohol and good times… a human… friend? She lifted her nose and sniffed the air once more. The man’s trail was still strong… if she’s lucky she could save him… but she was doubtful. Maybe if she could run at full speed… but with his weight and the muck...she would not be able to maintain a safe balance. She’d have to walk.

“What happened…” the monk asked as she began to wrap the man in his cloak. She salvaged some rope from the dead bodies and tied it around him to hold the cloak in place and to give her a harness to help her carry him. “... you have the voice of a man with experience and you…”

“... got my ass kicked by a lot of up-and-commin jackwagons?” the man weezed as he was hefted onto her back.

The monk paused… “I was going to say wounded… I hardly call this a defeat.”

The man laughed… it was a horrible laugh. One that was broken up with a fit of hacking, with the sound of churning in his lungs, but he still laughed. “Lady, I don’t know what the hell counts as a victory in your book, but when you get stabbed multiple times when you’re trying to write your name in a bush with your piss… that ain’t no win. Damn well near loss my life!”

The monk smiled softly, but said nothing on the matter. She only continued to walk. “To be fair… I am blind. I only smell the blood on you. And whos blood is who’s I do not know. You could have done yourself a favor, and told me a grand epic.”

“No shit…” The man wheezed. When the monk said nothing to confirm it was a joke or not. He weakly craned his neck to peer over her shoulder and under her hood. When she lifted her nose to take another sniff of the air, is when he saw the bandages. “Awww.. hell now ain’t that somethin.” the man made that horrible laugh again.

He was about to make another comment… but something seemed off. He felt like he was losing energy… all too quick. The world was swirling around him. And he could barely keep his thoughts straight. “Lass… where are we going…” he grumbled.

“To a churigen…”
“You… blind…. A blind lassy take me to a churigen?”
“I have your scent. I can simply follow the trail and take you… home.”
“Bullshit…”

Raux said nothing. She waited… and listened. The scent in the air had not changed at all. She smelled no panic, heard no panic in his heart. Only that the beat was steadily fading away. And the man’s weazing grew worse.

“It…. is the truth. However….” She said with a sigh. Her soft voice took a tone of pitty… “I am afraid it won’t be to save you… but for your funeral preperations…”

“Aww… well aren’t you a kind girl…” The man chuckled softly. He coughed and a hand moved to clench at the mud packed wound in his chest.

“You are…. Taking this well?”

“Well sure… sure… I mean… it’s not the way I would have wanted to die… at least I killed them after I finished up.”

The monk gave a solemn nod. The death was… unbecoming of a warrior. Her voice rang into the air once more, her ears fidgeted as it bounced off a tree, allowing her to make a small adjustment to her course to avoid it. “How one dies… tells of how they lived. How would you rather die, sir?”

“Well… for starters… piss drunk and my head between a lass’s legs.”

That… actually caused the female raksha to pause mid step. Her jaw fell open for a moment. And then a giggle filled the air. A moment later, she was roaring in laughter. “You’re rediculous!”

“Aw hush, every man dreams of that…” The weazing man laughed. His head began to hang in place, as he was no longer strong enough to hold it up right. That did not seem to stop his sense of humor. “What say you do a dying man a last wish? A little hairier than my type… buuut beggers can’t be choosers.”

The monk’s laughter grew louder now. “Oh is that so? Face down or face up?”

“Heh… would face down… be pants down or up?”

“Not wearing any…” The monk chirped, her laughter dying to a chuckle. But she paused when she noticed something different in the air. The lack of an extra heart beat. Her head turned slowly to look to the man on her back. He was no longer breathing. She shook her head softly. Her smile stayed, but it turned grim.

Her hand slowly reached behind herself to pull the dead man’s hood further down his head. She adjusted him, and continued on the trail. She began humming… then broke out into a song. It was a sad song. A song sang by soldiers as they marched off to war. A song for those whom will soon die, and those who will soon lose a friend.



A few hours later, and Raux found herself overwhelmed with scents and sounds. She smelled fabric… everywhere. It was like one great big sea. She heard many of the tents with open flaps wave in the wind. She smelt the left overs of the morning’s breakfast from a tent somewhere in the distance. Oats? And bread? She could hear children gleefully play in the mud, sticks colliding against each other, and the boastful shouts of fictional knighthood.

The clattering of metal and leathers around her suggested that soldiers were moving about the camp. She could smell the tinge of salt from the sweat that dripped from their brows. But they paid no mind to her. Perhaps it was just her appearance… tattered clothing and a cloak suggested that she was probably some poor traveler that had wandered into… town. If this city of ‘sails’ could be called such.

Her nose raised up to the air, mouth parted open once more. She inhaled deeply. Many scents mingled in the air… many of which were simply strangers to her. But she did identify a familiar one that was nearby. The scent of booze… and a human. The drinking buddy she had smelled on the man from earlier. Her claws clutched her staff, and used the butt to give the ground a light tap on the ground. She listened carefully. Her ears swiveled and carefully honed in on the subtle echo that returned.

She followed the scent, moving gracefully to avoid the on coming traffic, and the occasional sapping or barrel that laid in her path. But eventually, she found a tent where the scent was at it’s strongest. There were more inside. All strangers. But she had a duty to attend to.

Her fingers ran along the tents curtain, and clutched an end where she felt a break. She swung it open and stepped inside. And just as her nose pushed past the entrance, and took a breath… the feline bawked in both surprise and disgust when she was met with a horribly strong stench of alcohol. Her head swam dizzily as she stumbled forward. She quickly jammed her quarterstaff into the ground, used it to hold herself steady.

“Oh… dear. That smell is albit overbearing…” she huffed. Her nose lifted, raising the hood along with it in the process. Her head turned slowly over the guess, her nostrils flaring till she found the Human.

“Ah… you! Erm… sorry for the intrusion, but I am Raux, a monk of Michael…” Raux spoke in her soft voice. She rose her icon from the necklace on her neck, and allowed it to fall once more. “In my travels I have came across someone whom you may know.”

With that the woman swung the wrapped body from her back and gently laid him out on the floor, she slowly pulled the hood back to reveal a human man. He held a stupid grin on his face, as if laughing from a joke.

“I know not the full details of what had happened… but from his few words… he was….. Taking a piss and was attacked by a couple of bandits. They had ran him through… but he managed to slay them all before leaving this world.”

TLDR: Woke up, did morning routine. Found dying guy. Took dying and now dead guy to one of the familiar scents that was found on his body.

The tales tell that the Queen of Elves, Nei Bivalur, stood upon the balcony and watched as her Warlord, and her lover, walked away. An attendant would later note, at an extremely private ceremony that she watched as the tears flowed like a brook in the forest.

As Goren marched, his lonely walk, his snow white armor, scaled like the body of a reptile, glistened in the sun. Light that hit was redirected, dancing among the trees like spirits. Word travelled fast, the Warmaster was abandoning post, the Warmaster was leaving the kingdom!

He had spoke to no one, intent on traveling this new road alone. But the deeper into the city he got, the further away from his former lover's embrace, the more men, women, and children joined his March. History would call this March the March of the Shadowwald. A name chosen, in part, because of it's meaning. Shadowwald, in Allarian lore, referenced a Nexus of dark magic - said to vanish any thing in contact with it, and Goren's cadre had done just that. Vanished without a trace.

Before the end of the city, he had amassed what could be called an army. The Queen had sent word ahead, using Messenger Magic, to open the gates. Goren stepped through them first, and for the last time. As his newfound army passed, still not quite a quarter of the elven city, and made mostly of those of lower caste, he turned back to the city.

He could hear the murmuring arising in the world he was leaving behind, the questions of why and how.

Goren approached the gates, steps as steady and assured as they had ever been. A child accompanied him now, and was given a item wrapped in silk bedsheets. With no more than ten feet between Goren and the elvish city, he could hear the murmured questions wondering why he was doing this now.

His resolve would not be broken, shook, or otherwise offended. With practiced ease, he removed the scabbard from his waist and lay it upon the ground. From it, Goren removed a blade that was said to be a gift.from Queen Nei, and that had helped him navigate the fields of battle and dinners of politics. Soldiers who had told their wives tales of the weapon said that in his hands, it moved like a dancer's scarf.

People would forget the words that came from Goren's mouth, noting only that the blade of green shimmered in the sunlight.

He pressed it into the ground, tip to hilt, and as he released it, watched it turn from an object of war to a monument of life. It became a tree, one that would eventually grow large like the others, but possess leaves that stood out in color.

The child returned to him the item wrapped in silk, before scampering back to his family. Within moments, the silk lay on the ground and in his hand was held a new.weapon, a longsword whose steel was as white as his armor. Close friends would note that in the past year, Goren's father worked tirelessly at the blacksmith's, forging something that was so secret that word passed that Goren had purchased the entire blacksmith's shop got a year.

This sword was a sign of his and now their, Independence. He turned without another word.





The rainfall provided a nice background noise for the occurrences in the Moving camp, though residents of the camp did noticable move with a little more haste to their step than what was normal. Intermingled with the rain was the steady clang of the blacksmith's hammer, crafting yet another sword for the cause. He, and others like him we're what kept the Moving on it's path. They did not exercise politics on a grand scale, swinging the tide of war with the strokes of a pen. They were the laborers and sometimes warriors of the Moving.

Drapood Rripp hated these people, and while he was loyal to the Resistance, and moreso to Andomandris, his placement with this arm had been nothing but one irritant after another. There was little water, as they were mainland stationed, and few healers that could keep a constant measure of healing up to facilitate him being here. Fortunately, he was versed in healing and thus could heal himself by slapping the magic into his own body.

He couldn't believe that the third time that Szazah had requested permission to send a party outward to find a group of people that only existed in old song and tale. The fish beastkin shook with a terrible anger, he couldn't forbid the trip anymore, but had a plan. Szazah would not be accompanying his little party. Instead, Drapood has arranged for Szazah to have to stay with the Camp.

Aside from the patter of rain and the clanging of metal, the camp was positively enamored with the possibility of elves from the Northern region. They were fools. The war against the Apotheoses was one that needed more than legends and stories to shift the tide of battle. What they needed was strategy, but a fools errand had won out.

Rripp found himself walking towards the drinking tents, entering an ordering a whole pitcher of the dwarven ale, the strong stuff, he called it. Despite his pious nature, he was not above the occasional drink, and this time called for one.

The ale tents were good for their propensity in gossip, a place where politicians were well to do to listen in, should they fancy covering themselves and huddling in a dark corner - weak spirits to wet their whistle, lest drunkness loosen their cover.



The group he had gathered had made their way in at a steady pace, one having already being there and the rest coming in as expected. Drunk, wanting a drink, or against it. He paid them little attention at first, they were a group that was not his first or even second choices. Unconventional to say the least, they were all he had.

Presumably, he started, before the smell of alcohol triggered his senses and he needed a drink. Taking his carafe, he drunk freely from the bottle - his imprisonment had seen him gain an addiction to ale, as a way to loosen his tongue. We have all made it. If none other is to enter, we shall begin.. For a moment, he turned his attention to the dead that lay on his floor. Aye, I knew him well. Was with me before I was captured, perhaps unluckily he escaped. He would deal with the dead later.

He leaned over the table, hand still gripping the neck of the carafe, other on the table after beckoning the group closer.

We are going to look for the Shadowwald, a race of Elf that some believe exists in story and not in fact. Truthfully, I was skeptical as well, but a friend, anyone nearby could hear the looseness in which be used that word, informed me that he has had at least one interaction with the elusive race. He took another drink to slack his coming thirst. Szazah turned slightly towards Jaeger, the friend he met during imprisonment.

The plan, he explained,was simple enough. They would trek northward into the little explored frozen lands, and attempt to locate the Shadowwald. One can only surmise that the Apotheoses will be doing the same at some point in the future. One must admire their diligence in learning what they can instead of going in blind.

He went over the maps and pointed out potential points of interest, using Jaeger's tale as the main point of reference.

I have used a primitive form of Messenger Magic to contact a guide in the North, he seemed agreeable. Szazah went on to explain that the guide would meet them somewhere just past the border.

Another swig. He could feel it now, and knew a visit to the alehouse would be in order.

Once you locate them, you're then going to attempt to get them to join us. I suggest diplomacy, because if they exist - then they are like spirits in the snow. He would let the implication of his words sink in.

Shortly after, Szazah packed up the sheets of map and stowed them away near his bedroll. A slight stumble here, a slurred word to himself there. A sad state for a Warlord of his standing.

The Moving Council does not have faith in any of you, or of this very idea. The Shadowwald are naught more'n a myth to them, one they can't afford to go after full force. Truth be told, I don't think they would if they had all the manpower in the world. Szazah shook his head. You all must prove them wrong and maybe swing the tide of war in our favor. Now, we must part. Meet within three hours at the exit of the Moving, I will be there as well with further instruction. He smiled gently as he indicated the exit, carafe of nearly depleted course barely staying in his hand. He would exit as well, but to find a place to rest his buttocks and fill his belly with burning liquids.

As the last one left, his spirit animal made an appearance, carrying the last of correspondence between he, and the guide. Bloody expensive. Szazah groaned, before stepping into the world and letting the rain patter upon his head and shoulders.

Hamelyn contemplated in silence. The alcohol his acquaintance had been consuming was an all too common occurrence. The nightmares encountered locked within the dungeons. The torture endured, focusing every ounce of energy into maintaining composure. Sleep was hard to come by in the cells and even still despite the freedom, what little sleep had been obtained was restless. Haunted by the terrifying memories of those years in captivity. The screams of people stretched or the wrack. The wimping cries of exhausted prisoners struggling with the heretics fork. Brutality was an understatement. The Apotheoses was consumed by an unending desire to reveal these secrets and refused to be swayed by the truth of ignorance. As if to think that a person might magically produce information they could not possibly know simply because they were abused and neglected within an inch of their very lives. It would have been almost comical if he had not been living it himself.

Pushing through the flaps on Szazah’s leather, command tent Hamelyn found himself in the sullen camp once again. The entire encampment writhed with the feeling of uneasy anticipation. A thickness had taken over the atmosphere. Tension was on the rise. The march was to begin soon. Of course, Hamelyn and the party would find themselves scouting ahead to eventually branch off in search of the snow elves. But Hamelyn knew that few if any had ever believed they had existed. It had been many centuries since the last time snow elves had partaken in any civilized gathering with humans or any other race. As the historians told it, it was believed to be for good reason.

Many centuries ago, the humans had sought out aid from the snow elves to locate a mysterious artefact from the frozen north. It was an artefact that would turn the tides of another struggle they faced that they were on the cusp of succumbing to. This artefact, allegedly a great fiery daemon that fell from the night sky on a night thought to be far darker than even the deepest cave was only a mere legend. However, humans having a such a predisposition for wanderlust and being prone to clinging to the last shred of hope despite all odds refused to be defeated.

The humans reached out to the snow elves not only as a aid to find this great calamity that fell from the sky but also as a means to help aid in the defense of Astoric where the humans were struggling to maintain a defense. The snow elves had willingly journeyed further north to aid the humans in their expedition. However, they would not venture south. They would not willingly walk into the jaws of death and destruction with nothing to gain from the experience. They had not be revealed up until that point and they had little fear of exposure beyond that point.

Hamelyn slowly meandered through the encampment. Spirits were downtrodden to say the least. When swordsmiths worked their metal, hammers were swung they merely dropped with a depressing exhaustion. Sacks of feed weren’t stacked neatly they were plopped into a pile. Even beyond the ale tents, soldiers who weren’t charged with patrolling the camp had taken to carrying flagons to maintain a regular state of inebriation. Those that had not were visibly chill with apprehension.

The falling rain that battered the landscape was a perfect backdrop for this particular campaign that seemed so destined to fail. The thunder chased lightning off in the distance had been the perfect foreshadowing of the impending doom looming in the distance. A cold wind swept down from the northern plains, a breathe so chill that it threatened to freeze the water gathering around the bases of their tents.

Hamelyn wandered around the camp for what seemed to be hours searching for nothing in particular. Perhaps unlike the other warriors involved, Hamelyn had not been looking forward to this expedition. There was still a matter of payment that Szazah had ignored which irked Hamelyn. But it would not matter. Hamelyn would either find his payment in gold coins or in blood; and more importantly the belongings of those that will parish along the way.

He was not afraid. He was not apprehensive. It was not that he was looking forward to the journey north but returning home was not as frightening for him as it may have been for others who were not as experienced with the northern expanse as he was. He was made in the north. He was made to trudge through the snow. He would lead them through this madness wherever they wanted to go. He would take them on this little adventure and return to the spot in which he passed out, buried by the blizzard and further, he would take them to where the snow elves had left him to recover. And when they did not find what they were looking for there, he would take them in whatever direction they wanted to go. But this war with the apotheosis, it was not his war. It was not the war of his tribesmen. This was the war of the civilized, sedentary creatures of the city.

SYNOPSIS: Filler post, wasting time waiting for something to actually happen.

Some tales are better left untold.

The popular ones—tales of mighty heroes, tragedy of lovers, treasure discovered—are somewhat entertaining. Most of the good tales end with a moral, a lesson that the reader should then take on and live by. A tale of a captured drow who freezes to death aboard a ship as it's near reaching her destination? Well, there's no entertainment in that, and the moral is obvious enough to not having warrant the telling of this story in the first place. That's what the young drow thought, anyway, as she sat crouched on the starboard in fetal position with her thin cloak clutched around her shivering body as if the cloth would ward off the goddess Lloth from snatching her soul.

Her silvery strands of hair lashed about her face with every gust of wind, and Evi further contemplated her predicament. She was so close to freedom, wasn't she? What a waste it would be to die here. The goddess was likely near, observing the drow's final moments, smiling and nodding. Evi could not blame her, she knew she'd committed many crimes, and taking the life of another was capital. She deserved a death that was harsh, cruel, and as bitter as these frosty winds.

Just not yet.

The budding assassin pulled herself together, letting her protective position come undone and standing up straight. She ignored the shaking of her knees--was it because of the cold, or because she hadn't eaten anything since their latest stop? Either way, there was not much she could do about it. Land was approaching. No, freedom was approaching. That was far more important.

She left to seek Ymeera, who sat on her hands and knees scrubbing the main deck, as suspected. The human girl’s chestnut hair fell about her shoulders in soft, flowery waves, but her usually pleasant and soft-featured face twisted sourly. When she discovered Evi approaching, she smiled, but the concentrated wrinkles of her brow remained. “Should you not be with Poembi?” she asked the drow, wiping sweat from her forehead. “I believe she's requested you in the hull.” Her brown eyes, unsure, glanced off at the land drawing nearer and nearer. Her face seemed pale. Ymeera wasn't fit for conditions such as this. It was obvious.

“Poembi can lick my filthiest leather boot,” Evi stated, crossing her arms as her eye twinkled mischievously. “And you can tell her I said that.”

Ymeera laughed for the first time in awhile. Her joyful face seemed to be coming back. She still has some life in her, Evi thought. Great. We just may be able to make it out of here alive.



By the time Evi, Ymeera, and the band had reached camp, chilled rain was falling swiftly. Evi didn't mind the rain. It had been a long while since her last bathing, and the water was refreshing. If only it were not so cold.

She huddled closely to her human friend, each footstep met with the wet sloshing of mud, as the rest of the bandits followed behind, hands inconspicuously situated onto their weapons. An order from Poembi, of course, to keep a close eye on the females. She knew just how slippery the drow in particular could be, and was not willing to lose such an important tool, especially one who often overheard what could be dangerous information. While the entire camp bustled about in spite of the rain, large tents set up here and there, merchants negotiating the prices of their wears, the warmth and smell of food wafting in the air, Evi couldn't let her gaurd down. If her and Ymeera were to escape, they had better do so fast. But how? Sorna and his men wouldn't just allow them to leave, surely.

"We must stop here," the male drow began, halting in place. The rest of the band stopped immediately, as well as Evi. Sorna's head was pointed towards a sharp sound of metal meeting metal, coming from a tent. Blacksmith. "The rest of you men go on ahead to where we agreed," he ordered the brutes, then turning to Evi, "You follow me."

The two entered the dark tent while Ymeera waited outside. The smell of metal and flame awakened a sleeping being inside her, one that had rested their entire journey. She felt alive. Ready.

The blacksmith appeared to be a beastkin. Large and covered in brown fur, his gigantic, sharply clawed paws gripped a hammer in one and a delicate blade adorned with obsidian crystals in the other. The beastkin's lower half seemed to be bursting out of his leather pants, but his boots appeared in as good as a condition as new. Sorna smirked slyly, in a way that most would not have noticed.

"What brings you two here?" The blacksmith asked with a raise of a furry brow, not looking up from his work.

The male drow quickly turned to his female counterpart. "Give me that." Without waiting, he grabbed Evi's sword from her sheath and set it upon the table, before taking a seat himself. He didn't offer Evi the seat beside him, and she didn't take it. "Do some work on this, will you? I want it to be as daunting as Lloth's impenetrable gaze by the time you're finished." He winked at the grizzly bear-like creature, but the beastkin was not amused.

"How much do you have to offer me?"

"Enough."

"How much is enough?" The creature was frightening.

"How's this?" The male drow sat a pouch onto the table between them, and dancing, shiny coins could be heard from within it. "All silver."

"This must be very important to you," the blacksmith observed, eyeing the blade Evi had carried on her person for months now. Even Evi did not understand it. If it were so important to him, why had he left it in her care?

Sorna ignored the comment. "So, what is all the excitement, my furry friend? The inhabitants of this camp seem to be running about as if they've lost their heads." He wore a disinterested look on his face, but Evi noticed the intense glint in his eye. There was a target here, and one she would likely have to kill. Maybe someone special enough that Sorna wanted her to use that sword.

"You're very right about that, sir drow," the bear creature answered as he began his work on Evi's sword. "There are many unfamiliar faces. I go where I need to, and as natural, my work comes with me. This area of Allaria is not unfamiliar to me, but many of the campers here seem to be."

"Perhaps there is a person important residing here," Sorna continued with a sigh and a roll of the eye, as if he'd rather be talking anything else. Evi thought then, he could have been an actor if he was not such a fool. "Maybe," the male drow leaned forward then, "someone looking for trouble?"

The beastkin chuckled. It was a low, rumbling chuckle, as if it were a formidable thunder coming from the gray clouds up above, rather than the beast's own broad chest. Frightening, but also pleasant. "Have you ever heard of the Shadowwald, sir drow?"

"Sorna, please," Sorna insisted. "And no, I have not." Yet another lie. "Do tell."



The two drow left the blacksmith's tent with Evi's freshly reinforced sword safely in it's cloth sheath. The rain had not ceased. The human girl was still waiting, and had not tried to escape. Good.

Evi, feeling confident, put her hands on her hips and turned, right in the way of Sorna's path. "What was that matter? A new kill?" Perhaps her face was too smug, but that was something Evi had little concern about.

Ymeera glanced nervously between the two, as the taller drow frowned in disapproval, his violet eyes a fiery warning. "Do not be so brazen, Evi," he responded in a low voice. "We've indeed come to the right place. Szazah is here."

"But the Shadowwald?" Ymeera piped. So she had been listening.

"Only a myth." Sorna waved a hand at her. "Thanks to our furry friend, we now know which tent The Moving is taking place. You, little bird, will go end him for me, won't you?"

Evi smirked. She was no little bird. Perhaps more of a... snake? "Indeed, sir drow," she mocked. "I have no protest—"

"Good. Now hurry along before I become angry."

"—Except one." Evi smiled to her friend. "I'm bringing Ymeera along." She grabbed the human's arm, but he grabbed the human's other.

The male drow spoke slowly and deliberately, "You shall not take the human along. You shall go to the tent, and bring our lady that foolish traitor's head! Be aware, little bird, that if you shall not get his, I will have yours. And hers." Ymeera stared horrified as he grinned. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sorna." Evi smiled, but her insides were aflame. If she thought she would be able to successfully win a battle with Sorna, no being in all of Allaria would be able to stop her at that moment. But she knew such a fantasy could not be brought to life. Sorna was much too experienced, much too talented, with a blade in particular. Ymeera would also be put in danger if she was to be so reckless. It wasn't worth it.

Another time.



"If none other is to enter, we shall begin."

Evi made it just in time to hear this piece of dialogue. Having snuck by a fish beastkin earlier, she silently crouched at the mouth of the tent, the right flap partially concealing her small form, and peered in. Creatures of all kinds existed inside, and the look of it caused Evi's chest to swell with admiration and intrigue. So many were brave enough to rise against the Apotheosis, but did they have any idea of what they were in for? A female beastkin monk, an astonishingly handsome half-breed, a shockingly tall male of her own kind, a pleasantly faced dwarf (whom may have indulged a bit much), human male and fearsome dragonoid, and even what looked to be a Capybkin, but Evi had only read of such a thing once, back when she could still be considered fresh out of her mother's womb, still residing at Port Jinn with Ymeera.

"We are going to look for the Shadowwald."

Evi followed the sound of the voice to a man she correctly assumed was this Szazah, perhaps a leader of some sort. What she knew for sure was that despite his strange conviction in these imaginative snow elves, he did not look to be an easy target, much less an easy kill. Even less of an easy kill as every other creature in the tent seemed to be an ally to him. It would be foolish of her to try something right then and there. But foolishness had never stopped her in the past. The real obstacle existed as: did she even want to?

She listened forward. This 'the Moving' could be her one-way ticket out of the evil witch's hands, from under Sorna's eye, and back to her own will. It also—she was forced to take note of—could be a jump from the kettle and into the flame. There was a chance, a small sliver, that she would be able to leave with this camp while also rescuing Ymeera. Or, it may be better to leave Ymeera behind. If the witch thought Evi left on her own accord, she could not justifiably punish Ymeera, right?

Evi knew it was all a ruse to fool herself. She wanted her sweet freedom, and she wanted it now. Nothing, not even her lifelong human companion, was as dear to her.

Three hours.

Summary: Phinuphus tells a story. Aliyah insists on a goodbye.

The Moving
Afternoon | Szazah’s Tent and then, The Camp

The paladin had thought the irritants ended with the dwarf when along came a blind Beastkin, claiming to be a servant of Michael. It was unusual to hear such a claim from a Beastkin. There weren’t too many of them that strayed from Anomandaris, and he wondered how the Beast god felt about those who strayed from the faith. For a blind cat, she got around well, which led Reed to have to check himself. If she was a monk and could move about without guide, then she wasn’t a being to underestimate or overestimate for that matter. For the remainder of the brief, Reed kept his tolerance walls erected.

Szazah was drunk. Reed closed his eye as their leader laid out the objectives of the mission. Shadowwald… he mused. Hearing the mission from a drunk man made the elves sound as though they were as elusive as the unicorn. If the white stag hadn’t directed him to this location, then he would have thought the warlord was delusional from his lengthy rot in prison. His left eye opened. The man wasn’t lying—more like—Szazah believed that the Shadowwald existed, but there was no telling if he was right or wrong. They were to meet a guide. It sounded so reassuring. Szazah had saved the best news for last, informing them that the Moving Council had little faith in them.

Reed guffawed behind a smile, “Hmph!”

So they had to find the unicorn? So be it. The only other human man besides himself was first to leave. The large Capybkin followed after, surprising Reed with how he seemed to be the height of an average-sized horse even when quadrupedal. He uncrossed his legs and rose to his feet, ambling out into the pale light to watch as a young boy suddenly tackled the large Beastkin and scaled him like a tree. Reed smiled up at the creature and the boy. It was adorable seeing the two together and a breath of fresh air from the dark dank that lingered about the camp like a fog.

Out of the corner of his lone eye, Reed’s expression slowly faded behind a straight-lipped mask as he observed a man who had been watching him. The man was massive, donning iron armor and with two great battleaxes situated in rings at his hips. A thick blonde and silver beard extended from his chin in a spade. The right side of his face had a blue rune painted over it. His skull was bald but for a tuft of hair that stood straight on top of his head like the stalk of a spring onion. His hands were resting on his hips, thumbs looped about the handles of his axes and a hard scowl on his face as though he hoped Reed would notice him. However, Reed wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

The paladin turned left and passed the barbarian as though he didn’t exist. The barbarian waited for Reed to be two tents away before he leisurely followed him, looking left and right, and casually stroking the ends of his beard. Reed returned to the horsekeeper, and the barbarian was met by another character.

Similarly, the second man was bald. His beard was brown and woven into three thick braids at his chin. There were thorns or some sort of dermal protrusions beneath his skin lining his forehead and skull in rows. His armor was a hard-boiled leather and two twin swords were at his hip. His hand slapped the solid chest wall of the Blonde Beard. The axeman grinned in greeting at him and pointed at Reed’s back as the paladin spoke with Horsekeeper Branson.

“I need you to do me a favor,” Reed told the tiger.

Branson smiled a toothy smile and crossed his arms before his chest, content to listen, “Yes, Sirrah?”

“Keep 50 of the payment. In an hour, could you go to the blacksmith and pick up a hammer for me. It’s not just any hammer. It is the largest hammer there. Once you have it, could you bring my hammer and my horse to the main exit? I will meet you there,” he instructed.

The tiger growled with intrigue and his thin pupils widened as he gazed passed Reed’s head to the two bald barbarians. The blonde one had his fists raised as though he were holding an object at each of its ends. He then bent the imaginary object, snapping it like a twig before the two threw back their heads in laughter. Branson’s attention returned to Reed and the tiger nodded and bowed.

“I will do this for you, Sirrah,” he agreed. The human had gone and got himself into trouble. If he didn’t survive, then his horse, his hammer, as well as his gold may all wind up in his possession. The tiger didn’t comment on it. Instead, they mutually understood each other.

“You are a good Beast. May Michael shine his light on you.”

“And Anomandaris on you, Sirrah.”

Reed turned and began his stroll through the camp. He stopped by the tailor and the grocer, a priest selling icons of Michael, and even stopped to drop a coin into a poor man’s dish. He had walked the roads and the little path between the tents in a loop and a staggering pattern, and as he walked he counted—counted the men who ignorantly followed. There were six and they followed him to a tent that he stopped before. The paladin looked left and then right before he pushed aside the door flap and disappeared within.

The skinhead from before, Leouric, was with the group. A bandage was tied under his jaw and knotted on top of his head, and his cheekbone had swelled into a purple and black blister. He held up two fingers before directing them to the tent. Two of the Sons nodded and stepping out from their hidden position between two tents across the road, they briskly crossed the road on long strides and vanished inside the tent. The remaining four Sons watched as the door flap ceased swaying. They listened and heard nothing. A moment later, the two Sons exited the tent and walked back across the road to join the circle of warriors.

“He’s not there,” they informed.

“What?! We saw’im go’in, yeah!?”

“Aye, we did. But he’s not in there. We looked.”

“He tricked us!”

“Search the camp. Search every tent you can. He can’t hide long!”

The Sons scattered.

The Moving
Afternoon | Camp Exit



The gaggle of skinheads were following the horsekeeper as he led a black diremane horse equipped with a saddle and reins, and a great hammer along its right flank. They bickered among themselves:

“I swear. I tell ya that’s his horse.”

“How do you know?”

“I seen’im around it earlier.”

The group stopped and watched as the men came before what appeared to be a knight clothed in black. A sack of gold was exchanged, and hand shook paw before the horsekeeper took his leave, but he didn’t go too far. He wanted to see what sort of misfortune would befall his customer.

“Is…is that him?” one of the Sons questioned in uncertainty.

“I don’t know…I think it might be.”

Reed had two sacks with him that he tied along the left flank of Kheluz to balance the weight of Glosgnir. The paladin had not stayed like the others within the camp. He was a wild man, and the wild was where he had resided for good reason—the reason before him being a perfect one. Once the bags were tied, he brushed the horse’s nose and placed a boot within a stirrup before he jumped up to grasp the saddlehorn and saddle and swung his legs up until he was in a seated position. The Sons were stunned for a moment. Had he not been wearing a heavy armor of some sort? His horse shouldn’t have been so easy to mount. Kheluz happily trotted in a circle, venting his lingering excited energy.

“Settle down,” Reed told the stallion. He brought the randy beast under control with a pull of the reins.

You!

It was Leouric and he looked pretty banged up as though someone had abused his face with a…“You’re the goat-lickin’ one-eyed bastard who hit me wit’ a rock!”

Reed kept a tight grip on Kheluz’s reins as the horse anxiously stepped about. “You remember the rock? Hm…perhaps I didn’t hit you hard enough.”

The Son’s face flushed red and immediately his hand went to a long sword at his side that he furiously yanked from its sheath. Spittle frothed at the corners of his mouth as he viciously spat, “I’m gonna kill you!” He then grinned. His eyes wide and white with craze. “I brought me brothas’. You mess wit’ one o’us. You mess wit’ us all.”

The Sons drew their weapons and raised them in the air upon bellows of cheer and bloodlust.

“Get off your damned horse!”

Reed calmly swept his eye over the group of uglies and…he wasn’t sure what exactly the fat one was. He took hold of the saddlehorn, swung his leg around, and lowered himself down from Kheluz’s towering form. With a hand resting against his horse’s shoulder, Reed walked around the beast’s front to his other side and rested two hands upon the bandaged arm of his hammer. Lifting it from its mount, he lowered the weapon to his right side, his right hand gripping it closest to the deadly end as he strode toward Leouric. He stopped ten feet from the man. His boot twisted a little into the soil, feeling it give like mush beneath it. The rain had set a treacherous trap. Too sudden a movement would put him at risk for sliding.

Leouric was eying the large hammer a little nervously. It was all show…had to be. Even if it wasn’t, it would hamper his speed. The Son’s face hardened with determination. He would be faster.

“I’m gonna cut out your otha’ eye!” Leouric threatened.

“You’re going to wish you had just taken the rock. Now you must suffer my hammer.”

---

Summary: The Sons of Blood are stalking Reed. Reed manages to shake them at first but is forced to confront them two hours before the group is scheduled to leave.

Hraakir

The snow elves were cowards. This single statement ran through the Dragonoid’s head and danced on the tip of his tongue throughout the ‘briefing’ he was forced to endure. They always ran and hid, never surfaced, never spoke, his tribe knew of them only as the shirking ones. In their periphery when traversing the northern snowfields, lithe figures agile enough to dance on the surface of the lightest drifts, but they never made contact. They feared the Redscales, it had seemed, and Hraakir knew in his heart that the snow elves were not warriors, so how then would they help the Resistance in its fight? A different man may have voiced this concern, but Hraakir knew better. Let these manlings have their false hope, let it drive them to the field where steel and blood would decide their fate. Getting to that legendary day was all that drove Hraakir. The battle in which he would gain glory in the eyes of his god, perhaps be elevated to that of a true dragon, he’d do what he must to see it come to pass.

Fortunately, none of the ignorant cow-people saw fit to join the group heading North. There weren’t many in the camp to begin with, so it was not all that surprising. Minotaur favoured the apotheosis, it seemed. Unsurprising that they would throw their lot in with godless manlings, the fat cows were cowards beneath all the fat and fur, they wouldn’t choose a losing side. Good, good, Hraakir would have hated to have to kill another of the party so soon, he might need some of the others to look upon him if not favourably, then at least not with outright hostility. The North was dangerous for one alone, even if they knew the wilds well, and it was in Hraakir’s blood to co-operate in a tight-knit group. They were bound to be poor replacements for his tribe, but he would make do with what his god had given him.

The Gate

Unbound by any ties to the camp, the Dragonoid slowly meandered towards the Northern gate of the impromptu fortifications, ignoring the light rain that drizzled down his furs. All he owned he carried with him, and he had been prepared for travelling through wilderness all his life so last-minute purchases were unnecessary. He made just a short stop to climb a nearby tree in which he had placed his halberd, a steel-bladed weapon that was very unlike the bone-axes at his side, a weapon that had already taken a life. Eventually, fully equipped and breathing heady reptilian fog from his nostrils, he arrived at the gate and awaited the arrival of the manling chief.

However, arriving early had put him close to a brewing conflict. A scant ten minutes after he arrived, the sounds of argument reached his ears from close by. Sitting atop a large horse was what seemed to be a manling in armour, and in front of him other bald manlings swaggered and cursed. A fight, then? Amazingly, the manling abandoned his mount in favour of fighting on foot with a huge hammer, an act of courage that caused a swell of admiration to rise in the Dragonoid’s breast. He could have fled his foes on the horse, or fought from on high, but he chose to die with his feet on the ground and a weapon in hand. So impressed was Hraakir with this foolishly brave act that he pushed himself from his position beside the gate and sidled over, clawed feet making sure purchase on the wet ground, reaching the ensuing battle before it had chance to begin. He plunged the haft of his halberd into the slushy mud beside the armoured man and barked a declaration, for good or ill.

“I fight with this one.”

---

Summary: Hraakir accepts the quest on the odd chance that upon succeeding he'll get his big battle, he then promptly wanders into the ensuing skirmish at the gate and after being satisfactorily impressed by Reed's bravery, decides to randomly join him should it come to bloodshed, despite not even recognising him as one of his own party.

The blind monk was unsure of what to make of what was going on inside this tent. The hard voice of the man who spoke, and his dismissal of the body that she had brought told the story of a man who had seen many battles, and had lead many more to their deaths.There wasn’t much more she could lable it as other than the traits of a military leader. With a tent of a man who had been through rough times. Raux’s chin dipped downwards to look to the body on the ground. It was interesting to see such a man as this lost soul around someone like that. Perhaps something changed this leader? Which ever it was, it was unlikly she were to find out. For now, she decided to stay in case this man wished to question her about what had happened.

And so she listened. Her ears picked up the heart beats of others. She had a hard time identifying them with her nose with the scent of alcohol so strong and trapped inside this tent… but she was eventually able to make them out. The first one, and the one that stood out the most was a Capbykin. There was a strong scent of kindle and ash that lured her senses to her. If her memory served correctly she had past a tent that was burned till it was no more. There were no questions or sense of alarm among the pedestrians… so it must have been a controlled burn. He was no mere arson… the smell of blood and urbs clung to him. A doctor? Then there was likely an infection that needed to be culled.

The next… this one smelled of strong alcohol, as if the water of his sweat had been replaced by it. There was a unique scent she had trouble with identifying. Not from unfamiliarity, but from rarity. A drunken beard with legs, a companion had once told her. Colloquially known as dwarf. She wasn’t able to pick up anything that would suggest a function, but stories suggest that there is never a dwarf who couldn’t beat someone to death with a door they ripped from the hinges.

There was a human, he did not smell of alcohol. His breath smelled of herbs, and there was a rough tint to his scent. He sat away from the others. Did he mean to isolate himself? There was the scent of a horse on him. A knight? Cavalier?

An elf. His scent was unusually pleasant. He smelt clean, saved for the few dollops of sweat that would come from moving around. He was odd… Raux had all the reason to believe he was not the sort to take to hard work… but he smelt leather and iron on him. Armor and blade.

A musky dragonoid with a large hint of soot and char in the mix. It was hard to not pick this scent up. It was strong. That was not to say foul, just very noticeable. A tribal most likely. The scent spoke of a proud warrior, she could imagine him easily towering over herself. Her head tilted slowly, would he be considered average or exceptional in his tribe? His precense was definitely putting up one hell of a fight against the bitter sting of the alcohol that drifted in the air.

Another human… there wasn’t much that she could identify on him of anything significance. Perhaps he was the most normal one here. Maybe she is wrong.

Regardless… she continued to listen intently. The man spoke of a people, whom sounded familiar. Similar to the story that the bard she had traveled with had once told. Though his stories were more detailed and elaborate than just mere snow people. Bards had a way of making even the dullest things fascinating. But here it was rather… odd for her to hear such a plain tale.

In fact… she found herself recalling the story that had captivated her. The vivid imagery. The sounds so well described by weaving words intricately to forming an atomsphere. It was like she was there herself. It was a beautiful tale. And one… that now had brought her some intrigue. The bard has said that there are truth in stories and legends. Perhaps this is such a case?

But… something had caused her thoughts to come to an end. Her ears swiveled as she picked up a very light thumping. A thumping of a heartbeat somewhere behind her. She tilted her head inquisitively and turned to look to the exit, though seeing nothing. Her nostrils flared, but she couldn’t find any new scents. Well… it is possible it was a child.

And it wasn’t much longer till the speech was over. The warlord… had walked past her without a word. She supposed… she didn’t have to stay. But hearing this conversation had intrigued her. In a way… she wanted to witness this wonder for herself. She had no obligation to follow, and she was not expected to. But from what she could understand… these people who were in the tent were expendable enough that no one would care, and chasing legends no one knew was true or not.

She spun on her heals, following after the human with the eyepatch. Her ears flicked when she heard the familiar hiss of the afternoon rain hit her hood. The cool water even ran down the sides of her snout. Her nostrils flared for a moment. She picked up many different scents. But most importantly, those of the group who left. Each one had ran off in their own directions… one apparently joined by another.

She slowly sturned about and walked aimlessly through the camp. She had no plans on stopping anywhere. She simply wanted to be left to her own thoughts. She continued to poke about, her staff occasionally knocking against a stationary object to warn her of it’s presence before she tripped over it, or bumped into it. But… eventually she found herself in an area of the camp. The ground felt as if very few people often come here. Her head slowly swiveled. Her ears rotating to find any signs of distractions. And all she could hear were the sounds of children playing. Satisfied, she lifted a foot and spun on the other.

She spun in place, her staff swinging off with her momentum and sliding in her hands. Her grip tightened as she felt a notch signaling she was near the end of the length and prevented it from going any further. Her spin came to an end with the lifted leg tucking it’s foot behind the other’s knee. The staff continued with the momentum spinning around and clapping gently against the back of her kneck. Her other hand reached up to grab the free end and hold it in place.

With one deep breath, her standing leg lowered her body to the ground in a sitting position. Another deep breath, and one hand fell from the end of her staff and into her lap. The other guided the butt between her legs, and allowed the length to rest on her shoulders. The fur of her cheek lightly brushed and kissed the smooth wood. She breathed deeply once more, and soon her sightless eyes were closed behind their coverings. She drew her next breath. The world began to feel as if it was speeding up around her as she exhaled. One final breath… and it felt as if the world around her didn’t exist.

Soon, she heard her own voice in her thoughts, singing. There were no words, but a beautiful harmony echoing in the abyss. A gentle creature brushed past her hands. A light bleat drifted into her ears. She felt it stroll around from her back and into her lap. Soon she was gently petting a creature she could not see, but very clearly describe. A lamb.



The lamb stirred in her lap and lifted it’s head. It quickly hopped out of Raux’s lap and landed on nothing. And as strange as this was… she heard the sounds of hooves in the abyss when the creature trotted away. The monk sighed, her breath made no sound here. Suppose it was time to return to reality.

The world soon returned with a distinct sensation. She felt and heard everything in a matter of seconds. Footsteps rapidly slapping the ground and veering off in many directions. The few curious footsteps that drew close but not near enough to wake her, before wandering off. The rain drilling into her for mere moments before finally letting up into nothing.

Her breathing returned to it’s normal rate, just as the world began to slow down. Her eyes opened. And soon she rose to a stand. She took a deep breath and gave her legs a light shake. She pushed one out to the side, and crouched down to stretch the muscles, and did the same for the other. Once done, she turned and began to retrace her steps. It wasn’t long till she was back at the area in front of the tent. The rain had stopped and her hood had been let down.

She took a sniff. The scents of those that were going on this journey were still there. But they had veered off in many directions. Following one may leave her to be tardy as she’d only be retracing their steps. She could not explain it… but instincts and simple knowledge allowed her to find her way, somewhat, in the wild. She felt a ‘tug’ that usually leads her to her next destination. The occasional whisper, or conversation guided the course of this tug to her next desired location. But in cities? It disappears. It still was not a problem as the layouts were often predictable. But here… She frowned when she found that left only one option that wasn’t foolish. An option she hated… relying on someone else.

The edge of her lips diped downwards as she turned herself to the sound of a footstep. It felt as if her pride had already slipped the noose around its own neck. She held out her hand and a hard shell meet her palm. Metal.

The soldier looked down to Raux with a raised brow. He was about to respond with a generic response and well practiced response till he realized what had stopped him. His eyes lit up, and he nearly choked on his own breath. “O-oh! A Raksha! I don’t believe I have seen many of your kind,” The man’s voice ringed out. Outside of the excitement in his tone, his voice was young with rough edges. A middle aged man with enough experience in his belt to potentially become a mercenary later for a free company when this war was over. Should he survive.

“I do not believe I have seen much of my own kin either,” Raux spoke in her soft voice. She smiled at her own small joke. “Now I do not mean to be a burdon, but is it possible that you can take me to the exit? This place…” She looked around blindly. “The layout is a bit alien to me.”

The soldier’s brow quirked confusedly till they found the wrappings covering her eyes. He made a soft sound and a nod. “Of course! But… ma’am… where do you plan to go?” Before she could answer, she felt his hand take hers. A tug and the splatter of mud told her they were moving. She felt her cheeks burn furiously, and her tail waved to display her annoyance when she stumbled along.

If he had noticed, he didn’t show it.

“An adventure,” She chirped when she managed to bring her feet back under herself, and matched the pace of the other.

The man bawked in surprise, like she had said something ridiculous. “An… an adventure?”

“Yes,” And that was all Raux said. She could feel the discomfort in the notion through the man’s hand. She could even hear him nervously scratching under his helmet.

“Uhm… miss… are you… really…” He looked behind himself down to the wrappings that covered her eyes.

The monk smiled, and moved a thumb under the wraps. She pushed the cloth away to reveal the worthless organs, and allowed her hand to fall back to her side. Now uncovered, they shifted a bit and slowly rolled to blindly follow the sound of the man’s breathing. When they stopped, he could see them clearly. Silver had completely overtaken the eyris and had completely covered the pupils. If she was born without her birth defect, she’d have greenish-blue eyes as evidence by a barely visible ring where the iris should be.

She felt the man’s hand tighten around hers.

“That…” there was a hint of pitty in his voice. Her tail flicked and her smile soon warped to a frown. The man’s voice caught in his throat when. He understood very quickly that she was one of the sorts who valued independence.

He inhaled through his teeth and spoke again. “Ma’am are you serious? It’s not safe out there!”

“I am aware.” Her expression went flat, and her gaze turned towards the direction they were heading. Her grip tightened on her staff.

“Ma’am… I can’t in good conscience let you go alone.”

The beastkin tilted her head thoughtfully. That was a curious statement. Her tongue flicked out, and slid along her hips before she spoke.

“And why not?”

“Because it is not right… you’re blind! There’s wild creatures, cliffs, rivers, and bandits! Ma’am you should know that there are some men out there so fowl they will have no mercy to give you! They will do more than take your belongings, they may try for your body or your life!”

Her ear flicked.
"But what would damage your conscience more… letting a blind woman have her freedom and live a short life and die by her own means - and be happy till the end. Or to be miserable, and taken care of. To feel as if you are a burden by forcing others to take time out of their lives?”

The man clamped his teeth together, creating an audible clack. This question just felt like a mine field. One answer would be going against his internal morals, and she’d win the argument. The other would align with his views… but give her ammo to play the guilt card on him. “Now that is not fair!”

The woman grinned, and began to giggle. “Yes… that question was designed to put you at a disadvantage.” Her head tilted to one side. “I do realize the-”

She cut herself off when her nose picked up some horrible stench. She gagged, and made a horrible noise when her hands quickly moved to clutch her nose. That horrible and overbearing musk had practically set her nerve endings on fire, and sent a swirl of nausia into her mind. She nearly collapsed to her knees from the sudden blast if the man hadn’t caught him.

“Ma’am!? Something wrong?! Ma’am!?” the soldier called out in alarm.

She raised a hand to silence him. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. She was able to identify it very easily. It was the scent of a stallion in rutt. It was a very sharp stench with a bitter afterbite that mingled with a smell so unique… it could only be described as ‘horse’. Pheromones teased her nose like no tomorrow, they had no effect on her, but they smelled horrible. What’s worse is they were hard to ignore each one was unique, as each one had came from a singular mare. How many mares has this damned horse been with?!

She tasted bile on her tongue when it swirled in her mouth. She swallowed, then open her jaws to take a breath. Oh what a mistake that was. She could taste it. She could taste it all. She wretched, more bile rolled on her tongue and she was quick to swallow.
“Ma’am? Are you ill?”

The Cougar like beastkin slowly shook her head. She was about to respond… but she heard a strange commotion. Someone being ordered off of their horse. There were voices going back and forth. One angered, one calm. And one… that seemed interested in a fight.

She mentally cried when she dared to smell the air once more. She inhaled deeply with her jaws open to taste the air. The musky and horny horse rolled across her tongue and nearly caused her to vomit once more. She fought it back with teary eyes. But… there were two scents she was familiar with. The human who sat alone, and the dragonoid.

Her head lifted up queasily, and she tugged the man’s hand. “What is happening ahead of us?”

“Uhh… looks like a fight’s about to start. A little one sided though... “ he trailed off when he felt the woman’s hand leave his. He looked down to his side, and managed to just catch her making her way to the group. He reached out to try and stop her… but he paused for a moment. He thought about what she said, and gritted his teeth. One foot was already raised to chase after her… but it lowered… she wasn’t going to do anything stupid… right?

Raux, made her way blindly. Her ears swiveling and her staff lightly teasing the ground in front of her. She worked her way around the skin heads, and soon stopped next to the Dragonoid, and the Human. The scent of the horse… thankfully was downwind of her. She could still smell it… but at least it wasn’t as bad.

“If you do not mind, I have decided to come with you on your quest…” She said softly with a polite bow. Her snout soon slowly turned to face the six men. Her ears swiveled to each one. Six heart beats.. Many were elevated. They were planning on a fight… there would be no way to disarm this situation peacefully.

“... and it appears this adventure has already been waylaid. Why are these men eager to make a stand against you two…. Erm…… uhm…..” She paused for a moment, and tilted her head. She didn’t even know their names. But they knew hers. “I am afraid I know not your names. Would you mind sharing them now, or later?”

---
Summary: She's gotten accustomed to the scents of those in the tent. She waited for nearly an hour. Had a soldier lead her to the bout. Asked for names. For continuity purposes, her eyes are currently expose.

As the hawk-eyed matriarch gazed upon the rumbling sea being pelted with soft rain, it dawned on her that she and her favorite henchman happened to be quarreling more than ever as of late. Unruly strands of dark silk curls escaped from the single plait that fell to her slim waist, and danced as gentle feathers about her sun kissed, spell-enhanced, illusorily beautiful face, one in which dark brows seemed to anchor piercing amber eyes and full lips. A woman of more tropical lands, the north was not a kin to her. Freshly 'borrowed' thick winter robes of maroon and emerald tinsels clung to her tall, stern body. She felt old, but how old was she? She'd stopped counting years ago.

When they'd been introduced, Sorna had not yet voice dropped. With arms akin to twigs, a dirty face, and violet eyes as large and round as Poembi's precious casting marbles, the drow was just an idiotic boy wearing rags for clothing without a place to call home, as most of the bandits she lead were, and as a woman with a mission, she took the place of both leader and mother in their lives. Of course, majority of it were merely an act. The bandits were disposables in her eyes, soldiers for her cause and her cause alone, but Sorna was different. Sorna was something more. As he grew older he became handsome, smart, charming, wicked, and cruel. A sheepish bandit with no name turned to a devilish drow worthy of having by her side. He made the old witch proud.

Then the other drow appeared, and even worse, a female. Poembi held such convictions that women were much harder to lead, especially when they are young. Females tend to be brash and quick of the tongue, amiable but without sense, always yearning for something, always looking toward objects they not only could not obtain, but also did not deserve, and if they were not brash and quick of the tongue, they were scheming manipulators, quiet and smiling into your face one moment then plunging a dagger into your back the next. A female in the group would distract the bandits from their duties. How troublesome it would be, Poembi knew, but Sorna insisted on keeping Evi, making the argument that she could be put to good use, and the matriarch did not have the heart to deny him.

For Sorna only, she did everything she could to keep Evi with them. She seduced her immature, idealistic dreams with promises of seeing the world and all it's riches, she threatened her safety, privacy, and wellbeing with warnings that she was always watching over her, and she even allowed Evi back onto the ship after the drow had escaped and returned yet even bolder with the human female in tow. She initially plotted that assigning Evi the role of the assassin would put an end to all her troubles, but luck remained on the perfidious female drow's side. Oh, how devastated Sorna would be without that pesky toy.

This unprecedented occurrence only served to make operations difficult for Poembi. When she wished to punish Evi, Sorna wouldn't allow it. When she wished to kill her, Sorna wouldn't even hear of such a thing. He promised the witch he'd punish her himself well enough, and that there was no need for she to be involved. Poembi knew he would never punish Evi to the extent she deserved.

Something must change.

As a boisterous, lone merchant called to her from behind, "Ah, beautiful mistress of the south, I inform you, you must add such a rare crystal to your collection!" she grit her teeth and placed a hand on the casting marbles, strung together with an emblem of an osprey by a Porcukin's quill, laying innocently around her neck. The wind began to pick up, but not to a noticeable extent, as Poembi had long ago learned to control her magic. Her plait, now heavy with rain, danced in the breeze in tune to the rolling waves of the sea, but the rest of her rigid form remained unmoving aside from the subtle glowing of her amber eyes. She could feel the energy sprouting from within her chest, like a row of warm lights slowly illuminating a dark chamber. No longer would she be at the will of the female drow. Szazah would soon be discarded, but Evi shall perish first. It was a promise the witch intended to keep, and Sorna would simply have to make due counting his blessings.

She left into the direction of the camp at a leisurely pace. The lone merchant now lay onto his back, red-faced, his body convulsing against the beach, his eyes bulging out of his skull and his mouth agape, straining for air like a fish out of water. Poembi thought the look suitable.



Once Szazah's speech had been completed and the recruitments emptied out of the the tent, Evi turned on the heel of her dusty leather boot, and took a cross-legged seat, the hood of her cloak both concealing her eyes and catching raindrops, examining her options. If she were to escape alongside the Moving, she would likely be running from the Protectors for the rest of her life. If she were to stay, she would ultimately attempt an assassination on their leader, causing the rest to become her foes. While she did not yet favor any particular person in the tent, there was no doubt that their company would be tenfold more pleasing than the company she'd spent months engaging with on a ship more like a prison, in the midst of an expanse of endless blue. No, there had to be a way. Something else.

Think, Evi shouted within her mind. The rehearsed words of Ymeera followed, as if it had been a matter of minutes since she'd last heard them. It was a passage from a storybook Ymeera would read:



Never before had Evi clearly interpreted this passage, but it was clear then. Her thoughts went back to the feline beastkin. That monk could potentially be of great assistance to her.

She left to find Sorna.



The male drow's violet eyes grew larger and larger with every step the drow he'd sent off earlier scurried toward him, hands empty of a detached head, cloak clear of blood splatter, no signs of a successful assassination. "What in the blazen sorry toadshit do you think you are doing!?" He cursed her, fists clenched with rage. Ymeera cowered behind him. "Why are you returning to me without their leader's head? You must kill him! You must! Quickly!"

Evi's chilling smile lingered, unforgiving of his cries. She stopped as she reached him. There were no signs of labor even after her run, and the female drow's faced glowed not with perspire, but with new motivation. Her hood had fallen in her sprint, but she did not feel a need to put it back on. The rain was easing up anyhow. "I need your assistance, Sorna," she informed him, taking his hand into hers and tugging. "The Moving will be meeting at the exit in a matter of hours. We do not have much time."

"This is ridiculous." Sorna stopped and removed his hand, shaking his head and laughing to himself. The females watched on in confusion. Had he gone mad? "Listen to me, little bird. I will tell you but once more..." Anger graced his face like silk over a woman's bosom, strangely soft, without much use, but unreasonably appealing. "If you do not kill him, you will die."

"Were there any times I was not to die?" Evi jabbed with a smirk, giving a wink to her human friend. "In fact, I was likely to die not even a month ago, when the contamination of the gas of Letru's hind conquered the entire ship, after you all dared him to eat that curdled—"

"I will kill you myself," Sorna growled. Evi though then that there was something in his eye she'd never witnessed before.

"No, I will kill him," she assured him as she nodded, her hands up in submission. "I will kill him soon, do not fret, but you must assist me first."

"Assist you with what, exactly?"

"I will show you once we arrive there."

The drow's eyes were full of uneasiness then, and his brows drew together in suspicion. Evi watched as his face shifted through thousands of emotions and senses at once, fear, anger, regret, bewilderment, trust, suspicion, reluctance, hatred, and one she did not see: a painfully deep worry. Perhaps if Evi had not been thinking at that time how great her plan would be, and only that, would she have noticed that single emotion. Finally, the drow closed his eyes and sighed. He reached behind his head and grabbed hold of the large blade he wore on his back, a blade suitable for a knight but one that had somehow wandered into a bandit's hands. His voice was quiet then, "Where must we go?"

"To the exit. That is where Szazah and the other traitors will be meeting to embark on the journey north," Evi answered with glee as the final drop of rain found itself a cozy seat within her silver locks.

Summary: Evil witch on her way to the camp. Ready-to-wreak-havoc drow on her way to the exit.

The dramatically oversized drow had silently hoped for a quick and efficient discussion instead of being forced to drag himself through a fruitless debate of bullshit. Yet what he had been confronted with had definitely surpassed his hopes in terms of being brief. Good on one side, but on the other there had been severe... deficiencies. They had been of a kind Gartoj would never have explicitly thought of, let alone mentioned them in the public. The first and foremost of them simply was that the leader of a party he himself had put up should not get himself drunk... He had not counted how many times Shazah's lips had made contact with the rim of his tankard, but the ubiquitous smell of booze in that tent had been disappointing enough. The drow felt less easy as he left the tent, not taking notice of the fact that one of his own kind had been in very close proximity all the time.

What to do now ? Try and follow some of the other people who had been in there with him ? It would have been worth a try if there had been less -- and maybe less diverse. With so many different races it was difficult to predict the social dynamics in there, wasn't it with what little information he had ? However that Draconoid could reasonably be considered an unstable element out of sheer experience.

So instead of caring about others, Gartoj opted for caring about himself. There still was a decent and especially large breakfast to be fed into his stomach. And then there was the question of equipment... He'd have to separate those items of foreseeable value on that kind of journey from those that would merely be ballast. At this point Gartoj was already wondering about when the first one of his future party would find out about the irony behind the fact that he, a mage focused on ice, would have deliberately stranded himself in an entire desert made out of the frozen element. He even was looking forward to that possible moment as it would allow himself to designate someone being a fool. What could be better for a mage than being surrounded by what knew and could manipulate best ? An ubiquity of fire didn't make an additional flame in it less dangerous as well.



Sluggishly, the drow pushed himself forward through the busy area back towards his tent. The reflections caused by polished steel attracted his view immediately, but... could he really afford to take both of his swords with him ? Gartoj was enough of a realist to know that his efficiency with these weapons was unsatisfying at best at the moment, so better not be weighed down by two of those things. One would have to suffice. That set of lockpicks however... He'd never leave without that! Of couse it was an item bound to invoke grins and chuckles in the face of everyone who didn't truly believe in snow elves which could posess anything that required to be unlocked -- a mindset Gartoj assumed pretty much everyone in the party would share, except for himself.

For him, snow elves were an intriguing theory. He too had heard about tales of the past of something fiery having happened in the high north. A vague, crude allotment of statements about something humans had sought for, hoping that it would win some kind of conflict for them. Another riddle waiting for either resolution or utter elimination, both things Gartoj could appreciate from a strictly analytical point of view. He loved unconventional approaches and, quite frankly speaking, so far he had not gotten the impression that the resistance would hold up against the apotheoses without some kind of miracle. So there wasn't really much to lose anyway, except for a few months or years of one's life which would have possibly remained intact otherwise, of course. Science was a risky business, he knew that. It was not the only risky business he was attending to.

Ah! The rope! Now that had to go with him for sure. Even without any tall buildings there'd probably be plenty of cliffs and other obstacles waiting for that kind of tool. It was a solidly made bundle of fibers, strong enough to hold up against the enormity of its owner and outfitted with a hook at its other end. Not exactly an ordinary hook, but the devil's in the detail, especially those which can't be seen. The piece deviated from the color of steel, betraying the fact that it had been made out of a different, darker material. Wrapped into a modest layer of cloth Gartoj could rest assured that it wouldn't damage anything else in his large backpack.

Still there were hours left. Time Gartoj spent on what he could do best: Find good things to eat. He bought as large quantities of salt meat, breat, water and wine as he could reasonably carry and find in the camp. By the time he was finished and approaching the rendezvous point, the little dispute between Reed and a couple of men Gartoj failed to identify had already started to unfold. However he arrived late enough to remain oblivious to the fact that other individuals had already opted to take sides. Should he intervene ?

Better not. If there wouldn't be a fight maybe that would help teach those men that there were better options to flat-out brutatily (and that hammer did look brutal!) and if there would be a fight it would help to find out who was capable of what even before their journey had started. And maybe it would drive away the boredom the weather seemed to inflict not only him with. Was there a subtle smirk on Gartoj's face ? The drow put himself down onto a small trunk that happened to be nearby, ready to spectate what would happen now from a hopefully save distance.

---

Summary: Lazy drow getting himself ready for the begin of the upcoming endeavour, then finding out that there are people who obviously want to bash their heads on a mutual basis and watching silently. At least as long as he isn't dragged into the conflict deliberately or by accident.

Duren Ghedic

Late afternoon, Szazah's tent

Duren sat amongst Szazah and the two fellows that had already taken refuge from the rain in the old warlord's temporary abode. Having shared in drink and tale with him in the past, he knew Szazah was a good man, and could only imagine that those he chose to accompany himself with would be of the same sort. Though Duren himself scarcely believed the stories of the shadowwald, his own pride and wanderlust had led him here, where a seemingly new chapter to his relatively lengthy life was about to unfold. Was he nervous? Perhaps, though any signs of such emotions were long drowned in the copious amount of alcohol intake throughout the day.

Though tipsy, the dwarf was able to make out the other folk as they all passed through the tent flaps, one-by-one, as if one cue. His vision slightly damning him in the dimly lit room, he made mental notes of each, keeping track of those that he would likely be trekking through the frozen north with in due time.

Though he had already shared greetings and strong drink with the capybkin - Phinuphus, he was called - and the northerner named Hamelyn, these new faces seemed just as interesting. The first to walk through the flaps was a reptilian sort. A lizardman, perhaps? Duren had seen very few sentient reptiles in his time, and was unfamiliar with the distinctions between species. For now, in Duren's mind at least, the scaled warrior was a lizardman.

Second, came a another human. A patch covered one of his eyes, and his demeanour suggested that he and Duren were about as alike as a glass of cow's milk and a mug of dwarven ale. He seemingly avoided eye contact, and sat well away from the rest of the group, as if his presence was forced rather than voluntary.

Following this man came a hulking figure, whose stature made it so that he hardly fit in the confines of Szazah's average-sized tent, packed as it was becoming as more bodies entered. The man's skin was black as a night's sky, with snow-white hair contrasting against the soot-black surface of his scalp. A drow, no doubt, though the size of this one was almost unnerving, to the point where Duren began to question whether he truly was a drow, or some other such creature that the dwarf had never seen before.

Before he had the chance to question his new companion's heritage, however, a friendly face entered the tent. Galahad's smile was a familiar one to Duren, and his drunken ramblings nearly matched those of the dwarf. A smile formed behind Duren's beard, wide enough to match Galahad's own. It was a good thing to know that Duren would not be among complete strangers on this journey. Nay, in fact, the quest had just become much more intriguing.

"Starting again, lad?" Duren replied to the man of mixed ancestry. "I dinnae know what ye're on about. I'd hafta stop in order t'start again, would I not?" Duren raised his tankard to show that he had, true to his word, not stopped drinking since the duelist last laid eyes on him. Moving over on the makeshift bench which he had seated himself upon, the dwarf patted the wood, motioning for Galahad to join him.

As if the party could not get any more strange, in came a sight to quell any hopes of normality in the group. As Szazah had begun his spiel about the snow elves, a beastkin woman - feline, Duren was sure - strolled into the tent. Over her shoulder was a corpse, and over her eyes were cloth wrappings. The catlike woman slumped the body upon the floor, seemingly under the impression that Szazah would play some sort of role in the future of the carcass. However, to both the surprise of the dwarf and the cougar, the warlord seemed none too interested in the dead man's story. Though the blind woman was apparently not a part of Szazah's plans, she stuck around nonetheless. Had the stories of the journey piqued her interest, or had her lack of sight imprisoned her in Szazah's tent until she was escorted out? Duren was familiar with vision problems, though outright blindness was certainly not something he was envious of.

Nevertheless, Szazah's tent was full, and then some, with bodies of all species and sizes. Duren, in fact, felt rather minuscule amongst folk such as Phinuphus and the drow, who both reached somewhere in the nine-foot range - doubling Duren's four-and-a-half. However, their goal was at least somewhat common, and if they had all, in some way, shape, or form, gained Szazah's trust, then Duren could find no faults in placing his own trust in them as well.

As Szazah spoke of the shadowwald and his goal of finding them, Duren's previous night at the ale tents slowly crept out from the shadows of his memory. Szazah, drunk as he was, regaled Duren's equally drunken ears with stories of an ambitious journey: He hoped to track down the elusive - and possibly non-existant - snow elves. With their knowledge, he hoped to push back the forces of The Apotheosis, and ultimately aid the good folk of Allaria. Having downed more booze that night than he was willing to admit, Duren had drunkenly, and perhaps against his better judgement, offered himself up as a travel companion to Szazah's band. A last minute addition to the motley crew, Duren knew his defensive skills would come in handy against the dangers of the north, though the ultimate goal of the mission left the dwarf rather uneasy, now that he was in a significantly more sober state of mind. He did not believe the tales. If elves did in fact live in the northern reaches, how had they possibly evaded detection for so long? Certainly someone would have come across them at some point, Duren thought.

Alas, he as here. Duren had made a promise to Szazah, and any dwarf worthy of the title always kept his promises, stupid as they may sound to sober ears.

In the same breath, Duren had come to appreciate life as a traveler. Too long had he spent standing at the gates of Bhornbadir, turning away shady dwarves from entering the city. Now, in the later years of his life, he was experiencing more than he had in the entire 45 he spent in his home. Three months he had spent as a member of The Moving after just under two years as a nomad. Now, it seemed, he would be leaving behind the life of a guardsman for a traveling community, to take on the life as a hunter of snow-covered secrets.

It would be a good tale to tell in the taverns, of that he was certain.

Late afternoon, The Moving camp

The rest of his future traveling companions had gone their separate ways after leaving Szazah's tent, likely looking to say their final goodbyes, and prepare for the journey ahead. Surely, a proper traveling pack would be needed, but Duren knew he had a slightly more important task to take care of before leaving. Linda, a young human woman, had shown him nothing short of familial love since his joining of The Moving. She supplied him with drink when his cups were empty, and sweets to get him through the long shifts at The Moving's gates. Some nights, she would sing songs while they drank around the campfire, leaving Duren speechless for the first time in his life. She had, somehow, embedded herself deep within the confines of his old heart in a matter of months. Duren knew this journey would not be the end of him - Abbathor had larger plans for him, yet - but a proper goodbye was in order, at the very least.

Now, the dwarf found himself standing outside her tent. Likely, she was inside, hiding from both the rain and the men who hunted her affection like hungry wolves hunted a lone elk.

Pat. Pat. Pat. Duren's beefy hands beat against the damp flaps of Linda's tent, and rainwater that had built up in the leathery fabric bounced out around it. Rustling from within he tent gave away her position, and, out of curiosity, Duren remained silent.

"Kristoff, I've told you plenty of times, I'm not interested in joining you in your own tent, and I'm certainly not interested in taming the damned snake you claim lives underneath your trousers!" Linda's voice came, muffled by the rain and leather walls of her tent home.

"I told you, Linda, dear," Duren replied, masking his laughter behind a poor mockery of Kristoff's higher-pitched voice. "It's no snake, love, but more of a worm!"

Evidently, Duren's impersonation of Kristoff, a fruit trader that's taken refuge in The Moving, failed to pass any sort of realism test, as Linda's soft hand could be seen pulling away the top corner of the entrance to her tent. Fitting in the triangular opening, her face revealed the source of the laughter Duren heard from behind the walls of the home. Grinning from ear to ear, the young woman opened wide the tent flaps that acted as both an entrance and exit to her abode.

"Get in here, you mad cow," she said between giggles, giving the dwarf a playful nudge as he walked past her and into her single room tent.

The tent smelled both of tobacco and boiled vegetables, and the smoky hue of the room made no effort to mask Linda's bad habits, though Duren was in no position to speak on the subject, with both hefty drinking and smoking habits of his own. The retired guardsman sat on a small stool - perfect for a creature of his stature - and ran his thick fingers through the braids of his obsidian beard.

"Y'know, lass, I'd bet me last gold coin that yer' fumblin' with young Kristoff's emotions plays a part in his poor attempts at beddin' ya," Duren said, chuckling as he replayed the thought of the fruit salesman boasting about his trouser-snake.

"It's hardly my fault that he is so easily swayed into giving away his goods," Linda replied, a sly grin creeping across her face as she took a seat on her makeshift bed, directly across from her dwarven friend. "And before you say a word, I speak strictly about the fruit when I say 'goods.' I'll have nothing to do with anything else he might try to give me."

"Whate'er ye' say, lass," Duren replied, sharing a chuckle or two with Linda, who, much like Duren himself, joined The Moving to pursue dreams of traveling Allaria.

"So what brings you here, hm? I would have thought you would be down to the ale tents, deep in your cups by now," Linda spoke once more, eyeing Duren up and down, and taking particular note of the armour he still wore, despite his shift at the gates ending nearly an hour ago by now.

With the topic at hand coming so abruptly, Duren's grin quickly faded behind his thick facial hair. Though he had known Linda for only a short while when compared to the amount of time he had spent living, he had grown fond of the woman, and she of him. He did not particularly anticipate saying goodbye, though he hoped it would not be a final one.

"Aye, the ale tents sound much more appealing, t'be quite honest with ye'," Duren replied, switching his focus from Linda's youthful face to the floor of her tent. "I went t'visit old Szazah at 'is tent jus' now. Th' ramblin's you talked about earlier, 'bout the snow elves an' all tha', seem to have piqued ol' drunk Duren's interest." A smile formed on Duren's face once more, though this time, it came as a mood enhancer rather than a direct result of laughter.

"I'll be headin' out wit' ol' Szazah. Th' fool seems t'think them elves is real, an' even got a odd few folk convinced th' same. I figure there be more t'the world that I needa see a'fore I take me seat in Abbathor's hall, an' I dinnae want ta' see Szazah an' 'is gang o' misfits gettin' mauled by an angry polar bear," Duren continued, clearly trying his best to keep spirits as high as possible. "I'm goin' wit' 'em. We be leavin' soon enough. 'E wants us t'meet 'im in tree hours."

For several moments, Duren's words were met with silence. He could not muster the strength to meet Linda's gaze, which he felt burning into the top of his half-shaven scalp. Instead, he drank, slowly, from the flask he had attached to the loop of his belt, as he continued to watch the floor, like he were anticipating it to move.

Then, above the patters of rain on the roof of Linda's tent, the dwarf heard a loud sigh.

"You old fool," came Linda's voice, low and difficult to make out. Duren could hear the disappointment prevalent in her tone, and it hit him harder than any steel weapon could ever have.

"Both of you. Szazah and yourself, two old fools chasing tales of elves that don't even exist! And for what? Pride? The north is dangerous, Duren, more dangerous than any meadow you skipped through on your way here," Linda continued. Her voice seemed to grow more and more audible with every word, and her disappointment changed quickly to anger, and then worry. "You're going to get yourself killed, you boneheaded bufffoon. What's the matter with The Moving? It's safe, at the very least. Much safer than whatever band of drunks Szazah has convinced to follow him."

Duren, finally, managed to pull his head up once more. His eyes met the gaze of Linda's, tear-filled as they were. She sat, leaning forward, fumbling with another plum that she tossed back and forth between her fair hands. Behind them, her long, auburn hair served as a backdrop to the fruit as it hung loosely from her head, and bounced ever so lightly with the movement of her forearms.

Duren opened his mouth, but could not speak, as Linda's own words had won the race to fill the silence.

"I thought dwarves were loyal to their home? Happy to remain in one place? Whatever became of you, that you take on adventures to faraway lands, chasing creatures that exist only in the night-time stories of parents laying their children to bed?"

"Aye, loyal we be," Duren said, interjecting Linda's sad rambling with the sound of his own voice. "I made a promise, ye' see. I promised th' man I'd be th' one t'guard 'is party. Drunk or no, a proper dwarf keeps 'is promises. Always. Me own loyalty can only remain in one place at a time, an' fer' now, that place be within that promise. I dinnae espect ye' t'unnerstand, 'tis a dwarf thing, but I would nay leave Th' Movin' without a proper goodbye. Yer' a smart lass, I know ye'll be fine without ol' Duren."

Duren's voice, calm as it was, did well to mask his own disappointment with his decision to leave The Moving. He had grown fond of the small community over the months, but he knew himself better than anyone, and he knew that, had he abandoned his promise and stayed with The Moving, he would never experience a restful sleep again.

His words were met with silence once more. The dwarf wished more than anything that Linda would speak, and cut him off, as she was known to do. The silence felt as though it were a knife, slicing into his plump ears with every second that passed. The two were close, and Duren's vision was well enough that he could see the distraught that had overtaken Linda's gaze. The tears welled up, and had begun to slide down her cheek, falling from her chin, and landing on the floor. Had the rain not been making such a racket on the tent's roof, Duren was sure the hefty teardrop would have been audible through the silence in the room.

"If you dwarves are so keen on your promises, then promise me this, Duren," Linda said, finally breaking the painful second silence with her trembling voice. "When your party finally realizes they've been chasing children's tales, you will come back. Escort the fools to wherever they must go, but promise me that this will not be the last time we share words."

To this, Duren simply nodded. His beard bounced, and the some rainwater that had collected in his hair dripped from his forehead with the movement of his skull.

"Aye, lass," he said, smiling again in an attempt to keep his own tears in his eye sockets. "I promise. Ye'll see me ugly mug a'fore long."

With that, Linda stood. Duren knew she was angry, and Duren knew she all but agreed with his decision. Linda, however, knew that the dwarven way still held strong with the old dwarf. As little as she understood his loyalty to promises, she was well aware that any attempts to keep him here would be futile. Dwarves were odd creatures, and their loyalty to anycause, big or small, was as important as their own livelihoods. This, she knew. No matter how painful the knowledge was.

The two embraced in a hug. Though Linda stood a good foot and then some above Duren, the locking of two bodies felt as natural as if she were embracing a member of her own blood. Such physical shows of affection were a rarity in dwarven culture - even dwarves in wedlock would rarely embrace one another in such a way. Save, of course, for the drunken sex that dwarves had somehow become worldly renowned for.

However, Duren returned the hug, squeezing his friend tightly for several minutes. He felt her plant a light kiss on his forehead, and with that, knew the anger she felt had subsided.

"Jus' remember, lass," Duren said, speaking only loud enough for the human to hear above the patters of rain. "A dwarf never falls back on 'is promise."

Late afternoon, Duren's tent

Having traversed the lands of Allaria for just under two years prior to joining The Moving, Duren had become accustomed to the life of a nomad. He knew the importance of pockets, and had purchased a bag specifically designed for such a lifestyle during a stop in a small village just south of Bhornbadir, inhabited solely by beastkin that looked to have beaver ancestors. The bag was built for someone of his own stature, with pockets in every nook and cranny of the leathery kit, and then pockets sewn atop those pockets again.

The rucksack had served him well. It fit snugly over or under his armour, depending on the environment, and had never once leaked when he had failed to properly cork a bottle of booze. Evidently, the beaverkin were masters of the craft.

Inside his bag, he had placed what he considered the essentials for such a journey. The main pouch held blankets, a pillow, and a relatively small sheet of leather and fur, which could easily serve as a makeshift tent for a creature of his size. His larger companions, namely Phinuphus and the large drow, would likely require about four sheets of the same size, he thought to himself, chuckling at the thought of the capybkin attempting to shield himself from the snow underneath the dwarf's small portable tent. In the same pouch, Duren had managed to stuff in some light clothing, for days when his armour would serve no proper purpose.

The smaller pockets, which adorned the front and sides of the beavercrafted bag, were filled with bottles and foodstuffs, enough for him to survive a significantly lengthy journey, though he knew he would not be the only one eating the non-perishable food. The bottles, however, he was happy to keep to himself. Homebrew filled almost every one, save for a couple that had been topped with water. He was still a living creature, after all, and contrary to popular belief, dwarves were incapable of surviving solely on alcohol.

With some boxes of matches, bags of tobacco and a pipe, as well as a small survival kit - complete with bandages, a knife, and some other things Duren was unfamiliar with, the bag had been filled. Duren felt confident with his pack, and a proud smile formed on his face as he looked down at the brown leather bag.

This was a perfect time to get drunk.

Late afternoon, The Moving camp north gate

With his armour strapped tightly to his body, his rucksack and shield slung over his back, and his grand-pappy's waraxe hooked to his hip, Duren confidently strode through the small traveling community. His familiar grin warmed the faces of those he passed, despite the otherwise menacing garb he was sporting. A lighthearted wave and a warm hello is all it took to remind the folk of The Moving that the dwarf was far from dangerous.

Danger, however, was something the friendly people were still all too familiar with, and today was no exception. Off in the distance, Duren could hear shouting, seemingly coming from one of the main entrances to the town. His eyesight abandoned him, however, and the blurred shapes off in the distance seemed about as familiar to him as any of the other folk he encountered on his daily strides through town.

The clanging of metal boots against the rocky pathways of The Moving, however, was a sound Duren could not misplace.

The sound of guard's boots came up behind him, assuring the dwarf that the shouting he heard was not just a light argument, but was in fact a threat to the safety of The Moving.

"Duren, just in time," came a voice from above the sound of steel greaves clinking against one another. The familiar voice was Airic's - the guard that had taken over his shift at the entrance. Behind him were two other guardsmen, likely from stationary shifts from within the marketplace.

"We've reports of a possibly nasty encounter up at the north gate. Someone has a bone to pick with those bald fellows, by the sounds of it. Knocked one of the Sons of Blood with a rock, apparently," Airic said to Duren, who listened to the story intently. The two shared a short bout of laughter at the thought of the egotistical gang leader being beaten across his shiny skullcap with a stone. "If there's any truth to the reports, I'd say that's our rock-slinging 'hero' down there on his horse. We're going to go quell the situation, if you're up for a shouting match."

Duren took very few things in life too seriously. However, his duties as a guard and protector, were one of those few. Although he was leaving behind the life of a guard once more, he still felt a responsibility for the protection of The Moving. If this gang was causing trouble, or if this rock-slinger was making a fuss, whatever the story may be, he wanted to put an end to it. It was his job.

Was.

Nevertheless, the dwarf followed closely behind the three guardsmen. Their tall, human legs meant that keeping up their pace was a little more difficult than they may have thought, but at this point, Duren was used to it.

Before long, the three guards, alongside ex-guard Duren, arrived at the scene. Close enough for Duren's sight to prove useful once more, he was taken aback by the sight before him. Standing on one side, was a group of six. Each bore no hair on their head, and their expressions suggested they weren't in the brightest of moods. The other side of the show, however, is what Duren found most intriguing. Standing alongside a horse was one of the fellows from Szazah's tent - the one who had isolated himself from the rest. Standing alongside him, then, was the lizardman and the cougarwoman, both of which had also taken refuge inside Szazah's tent. Duren knew that at least two of these three would be accompanying him on the quest to find the shadowwald, if, of course, this debacle did not send the works of them to the jailhouse.

Surprised by the display, Duren stood next to his fellow guardsmen - Airic, and the other two that had not provided their names. Now, the scene had gone from a two-way argument, to a standoff between three significantly different groups.

"Alright, everyone, calm down," said Airic, clearly unamused by the scene. He had yet to draw his sword, and Duren hoped it would not come to that. "Go your own ways, now. Ain't no need for this to turn into a shitshow."

Despite a seemingly common goal, Duren had no proper allegiance to the eye-patched fellow, nor his reptilian and feline friends. Neither did he feel a need to side with the bald fellows, ugly as they were. Instead, he stood firmly among his own peers.

"Y'ain't gonna be travelin' anywhere wit' ol' Szazah if ye' get yerselves locked up," Duren shouted, following Airic's demands for the two groups. "Put yer' weapons down, all o' ye', an' none of ye' will 'ave t'spend th'week caged up like a circus animal." The dwarf's eyes darted between the two groups. He hoped his easygoing demeanour in Szazah's tent had not given the fellow adventurers the impression that he was one to ignore the law.

If it had, they will soon find out just how serious Duren took his loyalty to his home. Bhornbadir, The Moving, or the road. All were his home, now.



Summary: Drunken dwarf prepares for a new journey, says goodbye to a pal, and gets caught up in one last guard-related duty.