"Ah, Duren I always do wonder how you manage to function so well for the amounts that you drink." Galahad commented offhandedly as he plopped down familiarly next to the ever-drinking dwarf. Galahad could hold his own when it came to drinks, but he'd never once proclaim himself anywhere near capable of drinking like Duren. The two of them had a fun relationship- consisting mostly of jabs and quips at one another before drinking themselves into an unconscious stupor- or rather drinking Galahad into an unconscious stupor. He had been laying off the heavy drinking for the past month- as Aliyah, had offhandedly commented that she hated dealing with drunks, but the two still regularly drank together. Well, at least he knew he'd find some source of company in whatever they were being sent off to do.

Of the others that were in the tent with them, Phinuphus was the only one he'd ever spoken to, and not about anything of enough importance to spring to mind in recent memory. The rest of the bunch were relatively run of the mill- at least to The Moving's standards. Being in the moving had introduced Galahad to more individuals of different races than he'd ever dream of meeting- back in Feyerlun, most people were human- with a few elves and dwarves to add some spice to the city. But Galahad had only met one drow back home, and had never seen beastkin until he visited the mainland.

Finally they were all there, and Szazah opened his mouth to speak. He spoke of snow elves- or the Shadowwald, mythical creatures that were supposedly real, and that they were to venture off into the wilderness, find them, and recruit them to their cause before the Apotheosis did. Galahad shot Duren a look before glancing at the faces of the others- almost sure that he was the poor victim of an extremely elaborate practical joke. It was a good thing he didn't open his mouth to make a snide remark, because it appeared that Szazah was rather serious, and also rather drunk.

Looking around- Galahad didn't really see anyone that looked anything like a diplomat, ambassador or a negotiator- someone of status qualified to forge alliances- aside from Szazah himself, though he wondered how well any court would take the drunk old warlord if he retained his current drunkenness. Galahad took Duren's tankard and helped himself to a stiff bit of drink.



Galahad returned to his tent shortly after the meeting with Szazah- to pack his few meager belongings and prepare for his journey before he said his goodbyes. Not that he had that many people to say goodbye to. His tent was sparsely decorated- having to move regularly as part of the moving meant that putting too much time into making his tent 'his own' was a wasted effort, as it would have to be torn down and reset every little while, and moving decorations was even more work that he didn't want to be bothered with.

Galahad had a small rucksack for himself- more of a satchel than anything. It was a relatively nicely made leather pack, and was light- containing only necessities for travel- a bit of clean cloth, dried travel rations, whetstones and small waterskin. Most of Galahad's belongings would be placed into the much larger, much heftier saddlebags of his horse, Galahad was never fond of carrying too much weight on his own shoulders.

His saddlebags carried much bulkier bits of travel necessity, or stuff that he wouldn't regularly need. An extra pair of waterskins, cooking implements, armor care materials, some spirits for cleaning wounds and some wine for his own personal use along with a spare set of clothes, lantern and spare clothes. He'd have to stop by one of the quartermasters tents to stock up on more foodstuffs and supplies for his journey though. With some disdain, he hefted the heavy saddlebags and proceeded outside to where his horse waited for him, before laying the burden on his horse. As he secured the straps on his horse, Galahad heard footsteps stomping through the mud, and the light, high pitched voice of a young girl.

"Sir Galahad! Sir Galahad!" Looking up, Galahad saw Amelia, the young child from earlier that day trotting up happily, her older sister Aliyah in tow. Quickly straightening himself and dusting himself off, he threw on his most charming smile and waved.

"Ah! Amelia, Aliyah- out of her medical tent, what a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe this journey from the sick tents?" he said with a slight flourish. The younger sister giggled, while the older one rolled her eyes.

"Amelia told me you were heading off north with Szazah." Aliyah said plainly, surprising him.

"Well yes, I am accompanying him north. But how did-"

"Phinuphus told me." Aliyah snapped, answering for him. "I can't believe you're going along with them. I know you're not the brightest apple, but even you can see Szazah isn't well." Her voice was scolding, though try as she might to hide it, Galahad could still sense concern in her tone.

Galahad offered her a half-hearted shrug in return. "Aye, perhaps not everything is right with the man- he's been through a lot if the rumors are to be believed. Truth be told, I don't even think Szazah wanted us- its more of what scant few soldiers the warleaders decided to give the man to appease him. Call it a stroke of bad luck, but I am a soldier of The Moving- this is what we do, don't really have a choice in the matter, do I?

Aliyah's pretty face scrunched in a rueful grimace. "You make a pretty poor excuse for a soldier." she commented softly. She paused for a moment, debating whether or not to say more. Finally, somewhat awkwardly, she pulled off the small kerchief that she used to keep her hair out of her face and offered it to him- it was a light green cloth, slightly faded from being washed multiple times, with small blotches of sweat and blood from working in the medical tents faded but never truly washing off.

"You're a bit of a dolt, and your head would be up your own arse if wasn't attached to your neck.. But I wouldn't want you or Phinuphus to die on this pointless errand... and wipe that stupid look off your face." she said, half-shoving half-throwing the cloth at him. Galahad was grinning the broadest, most beaming grin he'd ever smiled.

"Worry not dear doctor, a dolt I may be, but as long as I have this," he said, taking the kerchief in his hands, before tying it around the scabbard of his sword. "and my Evreluce," he added, placing a confident hand on the pommel of his sword. "I'll find my way."

With that, he deftly stepped onto one stirrup of his horse before throwing his other leg and the rest of his weight over and onto the saddle. Riding off to towards the Quartermaster's tent Galahad tried his best not to look back, but he snuck a glance as he looked over to greet a passing soldier. The two sisters still stood outside his tent, Amelia jumping and waving excitedly, Aliyah just standing, watching.



Saddlebags fully stocked and provisioned, Galahad walked towards the gate they were to meet at, one hand casually resting on the pommel of his sword, the other guiding his horse by the reins. There was already a group gathering by the gates- three groups to be precise. One were a bunch of bald headed Sons of Blood, a group of soldiers within The Moving- soldiers just like the rest of them, but not the nicest of folks. They were fine fighters sure, but like Galahad they weren't particularly taken with the ideals of The Moving- mercenaries essentially, fighting for the sake of fighting. The second was Reed- along with some of the beastkin from Szazah's tent. Somehow, Galahad wasn't surprised Reed was getting himself into a spat with the Sons of Blood.

The last group was a group of Guards- Duren noticeable among them due to his shorter stature. The guards and Duren called for the fighting to cease- though from Galahad's eyes, a fight looked inevitable. He walked next to Duren and stopped there, upon which he assumed a casual, lazy stance, releasing his horse's reins. With a shrug of his shoulders, Galahad planted both of his hands on the pommel of his sword, putting his weight to that one leg. He leaned down to Duren's level. He spoke in a low voice, not a whisper, but low enough that only Duren would clearly hear, others if they strained their ears.

"Some things never change do they old friend? I don't suppose you'll need a hand if and when things start to fall apart."

---

Summary: Galahad doesn't like to carry heavy things by himself so he has a horse. Aliyah gives him a handkerchief, increasing their social link by one level. Notices that in the 3 way argument that appears to be happening, the guards seem to be short a man or two compared to the others.

The March Goren took his newfound troop one was not one that was destined to be an easy trek. Though their home was the forest, word of what would become known as the Shadowwald Exile traveled like a wildfire through brush. Creatures of all sorts heckled and attacked them, though their means of such was largely non-lethal. It was mostly comprised of piss and dung, sticks and stones, and words of malice. The Elf Queen had ruled the forest through a united kindness that had enamored her to those who resided within and around the lush forest. Even those who followed other Gods were compelled to come to her defense, loudly asking why the Warmaster had abandoned their protector.

Still, Goren had chosen to remain silent, unmoving in the face of unknown adversity. Seldom did he draw his blade, doing so only to convey that he intended to continue his march, to a place he had never been, but felt like home. The same could not be said for his followers, whom had designs on protecting their leader, even if it meant coming to blows with those they once considered under their protection. Their chants did nothing to sway Goren, but his resolve did temper them. Some would say that this discipline would prepare them for the March ahead. What roads lay before them would serve to challenge them to their very core, yet they had no way of knowing that.

What led his flock to instill in themselves such unwavering faith within the future King of the Shadowwald, none would ever tell, but whispered among them, when night fell and the world around them only came to life with the sounds of nocturnal creatures, that there was something otherworldly about him. At times, tales would be told that he seemed to walk with a purpose that seemed Godly, like a God strode alongside him. Each race would attribute it to their own God, but none could confirm it.





As the group departed, Szazah similarly quit his tent; he had yet to forget about the dead body left inside, which would provide a heinous smell but one he had become uncomfortably accustomed to in these times. His drinking was evident, his gait had become something of a barely controlled stumble, the gazes of those who called the Moving home were accompanied by hushed murmurs of his depressing state. He paid them little attention, he knew what he had become and this mission he was about to embark on would be the catalyst to bring him back to glory. Though he was still respected, largely, he could barely say the same for how he felt about himself. His esteem was in the bottom of a bottle, or held up in the alehouses of the Moving.

On his trip to the alehouse, he stopped two of the guard, and informed them of the deceased in the tent. His words slurred, but they were used to that out of the inhabitants. They affirmed their new task and stepped aside to allow him out pass, the strong smell of booze wafting along behind him in the rain.

It was not long before he reached the alehouses, and shortly thereafter he heard a familiar voice beckoning him over. Drapood Rripp was seated on a bench, and waving him over, stopping only to slap himself to restore his health. Chatter continued as drunken members continued to merrily chat, ignoring the entrance of the Warlord Szazah. He preferred it that way, this was not a place where decorum was shared or expected. The tents were for relaxation after a hard Day's work, though some seemed to frequent them with alarming regularity.

Szazah accepted the invitation, in part because of the large jug of ale that was off center in the table, just to the left of the priest. He knew Drapood was a drinker, though not of the heavy kind.

Szazah, my friend. Glad to see you here, have you met with the group yet? The beady eyes of the fish watched Szazah as he talked, saying nothing of the man and his generous helping to his alcohol. It mattered little to him, the drink would take the edge off what was to come.

Aye, I have. We head out in just a couple turns of the glass, to the Frozen North to a glory that would benefit Allaria. Through his drunkeness his excitement shined, brighter than his eyes had been in a long time. He took a sip from his mug, before placing it down. I want to talk about earlier, Drapood. About what happened in the council meeting. But first, I want to congratulate you on your rise. He lifted his mug again and it was met with a raised tap. Both men took a drink and set them down with a smile.

Earlier, yes.., the fish beastkin stopped, and looked at his human companion. Inwardly, he was excited to reveal the forthcoming news. A change was coming and Szazah's expedition would be the perfect setting for his own plans. I do apologize for my stalwart defense against your mission. I was coming from a place of protection, of the Camp, we are an important part of the Rebellion and at the current, I cannot fathom risking the camp. In the end, however, the Old Codger managed to convince us. Drapood was positive that the Warlord would understand, though it matter relatively little if he did.

Szazah nodded his understanding, as he harbored no ill will towards the Priest of Andomanderis. The Moving was a vital component in many of the small achievements that the Resistance had, so much so that there had been preliminary discussion on instating another one on the other side of the continent. Szazah, himself, had been a name that was pitched to be on the Council for it, but his abysmal state now might have changed that.

For a long moment, the two old friends sat and enjoyed a drink together, an enjoyable silence that both seemed unwilling to drink. Before long, the rain outside had come to an end, and the still drunk Szazah moved to remove himself from the bench.

Before you go, old friend, there is some unfortunate news that I have been tasked to relay to you. Szazah, standing, looked down towards Drapood with an inquisitive look, ignoring a gesture for him to regain his seat.

There is no easy way to say this, but your excursion will have to go without your presence to guide them. Drapood noted the sullen look that fell upon the face of the Warlord, a look he would commit to memory to view over and over again in coming times. The reason being is that your current state would only serve to hinder an already dangerous undertaking, and further still, another Warlord is on the way. Warlord Zennok, the Tengu, he said with a manner of disgust on his tongue. Tales of both the Warlord Tengu and his Warlord human companion, Kieran, were legendary. They were a formidable pair on the battlefield, combining Zennok's mastery of transfiguration and Keiran's unnatural charisma, their campaigns were often tales of when success would happen, not if. However, there was another side to them. They were notorious jokesters, from their early days of living in the hidden temples of the Tengu, to their time as mercenaries, to even now. Keiran and Zennok seemed to hold little respect for the traditions of various tribes, races, religions, and anything of the sort. Many questioned whether or not they even believed in the God's, and if so, which one. This was the reason for Drapood's disgust - he felt the Tengu was an affront to the God of the Beastkin - Andomanderis. Still, this was something he played close to heart and would never let be uttered in present company.

Drapood, you cannot do this...., Szazah managed to eek out after several long moments of wrenching silence. Had any looked around the anguish on his face would have been apparent.

Believe me, Warlord, I wish nothing more than for you to be successful and that is why this chance meeting plagues me. A well concealed lie. In truth, I would have wished for another to tell you, but as it were I happened upon you first. Do not fear, I trust that you assembled a most capable team of warriors and the like to undertake this quest. For instance that guard that once plied his craft in the great kingdom of Bhornbadim, or Tarnbadir, or whatever fangled name the dwarves scrounged up. He is a steadfast ally, one you should be proud to have. And that Reed fellow, strong, yes? He could barely contain his excitement. Szazah was far to drunk to notice.

Before more words were uttered, Szazah clumsily drug himself to his feet and gave a small wave to Drapood, indicating his exit. Unlike when he entered, he left with his hands empty, but his mind heavy. The world continued around him as he slowly placed one foot in front of the other, and began his trek to the North Gate.

As he approached, he saw some of those he gathered for his excursion, yet they were confronted by the Son's of Blood, a dangerous outfit of robbers and killers, perhaps even mercenaries plying their trade with the Moving. Was there to be conflict, Szazah hazily wondered, stopping many a yard away and watching what unfolded.



No one quite knew why the Hellequin, Falden, was smiling while the rest of them held sour looks of fear and disappointment. He was locked in the prisons by the Minotaur, Bathamir, with the rest of the rabble that had escaped. The prisoners, those who had chosen to find freedom on their own instead of in the hands of the Moving, had took to hiding in a cave - robbing those who passed by for weapons​, food, and coin. Curiously, the Hellequin had chosen a rapier for his protection and worried more about the procurement of a deck of playing cards. It was almost time to move, when. The increasingly annoying sound of shuffled cards broke the uneasy silence between the group of ten.

Not today, Jester. We aim to move and none of us have issue with leaving you to your own devices. They had written him off as a useless fool, and considered his obsession with cards to be both a coping mechanism and byproduct of his trade.

The Hellequin simply smiled, a toothy grin that betrayed no solace or happiness, but dark thoughts. The cards danced in his hands, practiced for decades prior. Though it was a new deck to him, they seemed familiar in his hands with the way he controlled and manipulated them. Finally, the rest had enough. In the dimming candlelight, he could see the group rise to their feet and move to encircle him. The dancing flame betrayed murderous scowls.

He had been ostracized by the group and they had discussed removing him just days ago, once they had gathered enough supplies. The time to put into action their brutal plan was now, right before they were set to continue south west. One raised a mighty blade and swung it down with intense power, aiming to cleave the jester in two. Yet, there was no resulting fountain of blood or the satisfying crunch of bone on steel, instead there was a weak gargle of defeat. The large weapon hung in the air for a moment before clattering to the rocky floor, followed by the once owner.

In the dark no one would be for sure what happened, but the flickering flame revealed a thin, sharp blade dancing through the air, entering and exiting bodies, cutting across throats and slicing wrists, with almost absurd speed. It was no longer than half a minute, before nine bodies lay on the floor - writhing in pitiful agony.

Willing participants should be more respectful of the ringmaster, for he holds the key to a successful performance. His words fell on the ears of the dying and dead, as his foot steps led him towards the exit. Outside, he was greeted by a familiar pair of faces.

One was that was an aged man, who long gray hair and steel eyes held nothing but intelligence. His name was Ivan, a top member of the Apotheoses, second only to the one known as Alchiviem Falden. The other was a whimpering man, whose body was human and whose skin was a a combination of dragon and flesh. Jean, the member of the leadership in the Apothesos, had infiltrated a group going to find the Emperor Dragon and took it as his own. His skin was such because he had taken a bite out of the dragon, itself as he subjugated it for the Apotheoses. He and Ivan, along with Bathamir, Illyria, and Eclava, were members of the army of the Apotheoses, ranked just below their leader. In fact, they too were considered to be the Powers of the Apotheoses.

The Moving camp is deploying a party to seek out and request the aide of the elusive Shaddowald Elves. Jean, you are tasked with ensuring this does not happen. We've no need for them, so feel free to take an army and dispose of them. The Hellequin ordered, before heading past the pair.

What many would not know is that the Hellequin was purposely placed in the prison, using the knowledge that many did not know the true face of Falden, and those that did had not lived to reveal it - unless they were in his circle.

A pair of footsteps found their way to his side and words found his ears. Clever, Falden. Was all that was said. Ivan, the Black Healer, second in command of the Apotheoses walked with his leader back towards the east. The pair were as close of friends either of them would ever have, but Falden knew that he was not needed.

Falden, days after his escape, had received word from the Gods, Lloth and Ouroboros, that the portal to the Realm of Heaven was nearing completion, now that Mobius has been found. The Earthbound God, chained for eternity, was marked with runes that could open the Allaria side of the portal but it would take some time. They also told him that Michael had not stirred from his depressed stupor and that his plan was going to be a success. Foolish God's, his plan did not need them past the opening, and like the Resistance of Allaria, they would all fall before he took his place as the only God of Allaria.

Summary: More on the history of the Shadowwald. Drapood reveals that Szazah will not be accompanying his party. Falden murders escaped prisoners and sends Jean to kill the Shadowwald.

The Moving
Two Hours Before Departure | Afternoon



There was the quick slap of mud and then a weapon was plunged into the ground before an inhuman voice followed:

I fight with this one.

Leouric stared at the beast, his brown bushy brows crashing together in confusion. Was it a lizard? An overgrown lizard was the only logical explanation for it. A beastkin freak! Out of the corners of his eyes, Reed awkwardly glanced over to the creature next to him. The beast resembled a dragon of some sort. What was a cold-blooded creature doing so far north? He finally turned his head toward Hraakir—curiosity winning out—it was the reptile from the tent. One of his traveling companions. Pride and a desire to handle the situation on his own formed an irritable and stubborn lump in his chest that raised overconfident walls.

“This doesn’t concern you,” Reed told Hraakir.

“What the shite is that thing?” Leouric questioned.

Onion Head laughed, a large grin on his face. He glanced over at Horn Head, “It looks like ye’girl.”

Horn Head’s eyes widened with sparks of petulant rage as he looked over at Onion Head. The man snarled like an animal, spittle firing off his lips in an attempt at intimidation. The Son’s response had been enough to silence the Onion Head’s laughter as he suppressed his mirth behind a turned cheek and smirk.

A feline walking along like an old woman and searching the ground with her cane was next to join the already weird party that was forming before the Sons. The blind cat was poking her nose where it didn’t belong.

“More an’ more keep on showin’ up…” Old Blood grumbled.

“You must be lost kitty-cat. You don’t wanna be wanderin’ inta’ this!” Leouric warned.

There was an irritated scowl on Reed’s face. First the dragon man and then the blind, dead-carrying beastkin from the tent had wandered over to join them. He regretted being early, but he hadn’t had much of a choice. The Sons would have tracked him down eventually or harmed another to lure him out. His grey eyes were tense. He sternly responded to Raux, “Not. Now.”

Reed’s eyes motioned away from Leouric to three guards who were approaching the face-off from the side. Leouric saw the paladin’s attention shift and he followed his eyes, turning toward the multiple boots that were squelching through the mud toward them.

Alright, everyone, calm down…

Reed saw that the smelly dwarf was with them. He was a guard? Really? He couldn’t believe it. Leouric slapped his hand against his chest and growled, “He beat me witha’ rock! Where were ya when that happened, huh? You should lock’im up!”

“Yeah!”

“AYE!”

As the dwarf demanded that they all put their weapons down, the Sons barked their protests. Reed momentarily made no motion and then lowered his hammer. Leouric’s face turned red as he angrily demanded, “What the sheep-fuck are you doin’?”

Reed glanced from Leouric to Duren with a nonchalant expression and then took a few steps back. If the guards were taking the situation over, then he wasn’t going to get involved. It spared him from having to suffer having the dragon and the cat get involved—who knew what that was going to look like.

“This is not over!” Leouric bellowed. “Coward! Yo’r afraid ova’ few guards!...And a dwarf!”

Leouric rolled an eye as he raised his hammer to set it on Kheluz’s flank mount. If the skinhead hadn’t lost his hair due to brain-loss, then he would have known that the dwarf was always the one to worry about. It had happened unexpectedly. A steel axe went flipping through the air over Leouric’s shoulder and toward the paladin. Reed had been turning to face the group when his heart skipped in his chest upon seeing the projectile. He dipped his shoulder back, his hood tumbling as his black hair swung out. The axe cleaved a few ends off. His single eye was wide, pupil shrunk in shock. It had been the axe that started the conflict for charging him, Hraakir, and Raux were the Sons looking for blood. Leouric was the first to out-run the group, eager in his bloodlust for revenge.

The skinhead had approached too quickly for Reed to reclaim Glosgnir. With two hands gripping his long sword, Leouric wildly swung the blade: downward swipe, upward swipe, across. Reed led the red-faced barbarian in an evasive dance of leaning, turns, and stepping back around the backside of his horse. He slapped Kheluz on the rear cheek, and with a whinny, the diremane shifted his weight onto his fore-hooves and raised his massive back-hooves off the ground. Clumps of mud fell from the great horse’s shoes, exposing the metal grafts that made Leouric’s eyes near bulge from his sockets before they kicked out to slam into the man’s chest and send him skyward, 12-feet into the air and flying a few yards across the mud. His long sword splashed onto the muddy ground and Reed made a motion to grab it before he paused. His hand hovered over the blade for a second before he decided against it.

---

Summary: The fight begins.

Hraakir

He snorted, steam pooling from his reptillian nostrils. Concern him?

“Never said it did.” Hraakir retorted. If he wanted to fight, he would. He didn’t ask for permission, though if Reed had made his real feelings clear, that he wanted the glory of defeating his enemies alone, then Hraakir would have understood the sentiment completely and left him alone, to die heroically.

Yet the great dragon god thirsted for blood, even with its maw clamped around its own tail it still slathered for the occasional morsel delivered to it by its devout followers. That was how Hraakir saw fate, and the inevitability of coming conflict. His yellow eyes narrowed down to slits, not even blinking, barely aware that he was joined by one of the furred ones or that a short one spoke pitiful words of peace. When the bloodthirst settled over him like this, his perceptions narrowed down to that of a fiery pinprick, and woe betide the centre of his horrid draconic focus. He was snarling now, but the sound did not reach his own ears. The snarl deepened, emenating from somewhere in his chest as fire gurgled deep within him, the heat coming off his scaley hide so palpable that the snow melted at his feet and water vapor smoked off his damp furs.

The Sons charged, and Hraakir let loose a bellowing roar unlike anything any human vocal cord could produce. It was a throwback to his draconic ancestry, a sound that frightened manling children in their beds at night and raised the hairs on the nape of their hairy necks. A sound that reminded them they were fleshy, soft little creatures in a world of real predators that need not clothe themselves in steel or carry their claws in fragile little paws. They could fight their instincts all they wished, they would know they were prey before he fell upon them.

He ran forward towards the stupid humans who forgot their most important little tools. They had not brought their shields, and would die for it. All of them were outranged by his vicious halberd, their armour was weak, it would take no particular skill to teach them to fear the spear. Ancient weapon of the first peoples, first and best, Onion Head’s bulk was such that upon realising all too late that the Dragonoid was charging straight at him, he left himself no room to stop and approach more cautiously. He swung an axe, desperately trying to offset the point of the halberd, but parrying the sharp point at the end of a halberd was no mean feat at the best of times, and these were not the best of times. Hraakir’s bellow had been on the cusp of tailing off, until his heavy thrust shot eight inches of steel into the manling’s breast and through his right lung. Once more he roared as he drove the dying man before him and into his fellow, a fat man(?!) carrying a club. Blood pooled onto the snow and the screaming started, delighting his ears, feeding a hunger in the dragonoid that could not be satiated with burned meat alone.

Not now? What did this older gentleman mean not now? It was very important for her to know someone’s name. She could not describe someone to another by their scent. What was she to say exactly? Tell him that she was looking for a rough sounding man that smells like iron and bitterness? She wouldn’t be able to see the person’s expression.. But she had an idea. And by an idea… she really wasn’t sure anymore. But it must be very unkind. “Yes. Now. A name is your face, and body to a blind woman.”

She politely refrained from responding to Leouric, and only spared him a look before turning her head onto the sound of numerous feet pounding the muck. Among the barking and cawing of voices, the woman smelled a familiar scent. A drunken beard with legs, one of the companions to come. From the sound of it, he was of this shanty town’s guard. Though one question did arise. “What do I drop? I am unarmed.”
She remained still… waiting for the situation to disarm its self. But making no assumptions. While her sense of smell was partially blocked by a horse in rut, her ears could hear it all. The fast beating of hearts. The tightening of fingers that turned their knuckles white. The splintering of wood. And then finally, the sound of an object whirling in the air. “DOWN!” she barked, though she did not move. The sound of the weapon was slowly growing softer, not louder. It was not heading towards her.

It happened quickly. The metalic scent of blood. The sound of a compressing rib cage. Raux huffed a breath of air as she pulled a hand up to her own muzzle. The thumb snaked its way under the wrappings of her blindfold and pulled it back down over her useless eyes. Nothing approached her, and that was fine. But the confusion of sounds and the smell of the horse made things particularly… blurry for the monk.

But. There was something she was able to pick up on. Sounds of soft footsteps with a heart beat that did not match. A sneaky someone? Yes indeed. It seems that the one known as sneak blood was casually making his way around in the confusion. Then he drew in closer with his eyes settled on Reed. And closer… and closer.

The blind monk was not having it. Her staff was now taken in both hands and raised up from the ground, the bunt now hovering just closer as she quickly closed the distance. Before the man can get in striking range, she released the quarterstaff with one hand, and gave the bottom of the shaft a kick.

The weapon spun in her hand and planted an end firmly into the male’s collar bone. Feeling the resistance, she gave a hard shove to force him back and stepped forward. Her ears flicked when she heard an arm raised and metal ringing as it was flipped caught by the blade. She stepped to the side quickly and flicked her woolen cloak upwards.

A dagger met the heavy cloth pommel first with an audible puft, and bounced harmlessly towards the ground.
The cloak was now slown over her shoulder allowed to wrap around her neck to raise it out of the way of most of her body. And consequently showing off the scratched up and used metal plates that lined the side of her arm. And of course the worn but hard fighting gloves that covered her fist. Some areas of it stained black with old blood that periodic washing could not remove.

She spun her quarterstaff before herself, and allowed a slight embalance of weight to carry the long rod down it’s own length over her hand. When she felt the first signs of her hand nearing the end, she grabbed hold and allowed the momentum to carry it through the air and finally clapping down across her own shoulders.

“Quiet steps for a human who walks with brutes,” her voice rang softly, though now there was a rough edge to her tone. The male was in no mood for talking. His eyes glanced to his own weapon, then the bandage across the womans eyes.

Chancing his luck he charged. The weapon spun delicately in his fingers and he made a slash. The monk responded with stepping asside, her foot planting on his second dagger to hold it to the ground. Now closer, she could hear the weapon spin again and rise up. She tilted her head thoughtfully, finding it odd that the weapon was posed so high… when he was so far away.

Her toe wiggled feeling the edge of the dagger under her sole. It was sharp, had a few nicks in the metal that showed off use. The man was no fool it seemed. He wants his knife back, she concluded.

She allowed him to come, and when she heard a knee hit the mud she lifted her foot, and gave a pre-emptive swing. The loud crack of bone meeting bone filled the air as the thief’s arm bent unnaturally around her leg like a wrapping. The man growled out in distress.

The kick continued through, and the limb now acting as a rope drug the man along for the ride a short ways till it managed to get it’s self free. The leg raised up in the air as the monk spun her staff once more. This time it flipped through the air and tucked underneath the handling arm. The other one reached out towards the ground as her body tipped over in an overbalance.

She caught herself and allowed the momentum of the kick to swing her body about. She popped off her hand, landed on the other and continued the spin half way till the back of her leg met the back of the other’s neck. The limb quickly clamped down, the other locking her paw behind its knee - creating a vice.

The male gasped as her weight now bore down on him. His neck would have been broken if she didn’t plant a hand to catch herself. But the way she was squeezing, it was likely she had some intent to kill him. His legs kicked at the dirt, and his one good hand scratched and pulled at her fur.

“It is a shame,” She mused, her head tilting thoughtfully. Her tone was a cocktale of grim humor and a small pinch of sorrow for a man she barely knew. Her ears were flicking, searching for anyone who may draw near. “There was a good man that wished to die with his head between a woman’s thighs, I was unable to provide that wish in time. I am sure this is not what he meant, but what about you?” As if to drive the point further, she rolled to her side, her substantially larger weight easily flipping the man to his side. Now his legs kicked at the air as she squeezed as to drive a point. His face turning red and his eyes bulging. Though she had no intentions of killing him. She was just keeping him busy for now, playing with her pray. Like a house cat may toy with a captured mouse.

”What are we doing here?” Hamelyn contemplated in a somber silence, the dancing flames of the stone built forge reflected in his eye. ”This apotheosis… this great evil… evil only to those who do not understand? A greater good, perhaps? Why? Death begets death. Death is brought unto us by our stubborn hand.” The hyland stalker’s eyes quivered in their sockets, seemingly unable to focus on one particular point before him yet most definitely trying to focus on some particular event in front of him shrouded by the murky depths of the river of time. ”We fight to survive… We fight against a force to survive against a nightmare that exists only as a fiction of our own design. For what is evil but manifestation of what mortals -believe- to be against their best interest. Hamelyn’s eyes widened, his brow furrowed. Still deep in thought his chest heaved in a sigh of relief. ”Even the concept of good, is a mortal fiction.”

”Sir,” stammered the nervous voice of a young apprentice, ”Sir, are you okay?” Brelin Dougal stammered with an outstretched hand as if afraid to make physical contact with the warrior. ”Sir…?

”Huh... wh-what?” Furiously the warrior’s eyes fluttered as his mind was brought back to the present. ”What is it Brelin?

With two hands the young man held out an axe. Unconventional from the typical material used on the hilts of weapons. Where on other weapons there may be leather, the handle here was ribbed and wrapped in abrasive black wire. The wooden shaft was made smooth and tempered by magical flame to promote durability and prevent fracture even under great pressure. The blade itself was designed as if the cresting wave of an ocean. Said to have been honed by the very hand of Michael, the cutting edge lined with runes of rumored to be of an unknown origin. Sharpened and honed over many years, decades beyond decades and yet the blade itself never having been replaced.

”Your axe sir. Master Nevon has completed the task in which you have charged him with. Such a simple task the master would bother you for but a few coppers?”

Hamelyn reached out with his behemoth sized hand, some might compare it to a frying pan. Grabbing the weapon by the wooden haft he examine the blade. It gleamed in the light of the nearby forge. The light shone along the freshly sharpened blade like a single drop of dew caressing the slender edge of a blade of grass on an early spring morning. Perfectly weighed, it balanced from knob to eye the man’s wrist never faltered as he twisted the axe around to bring to the freshly honed blade to his eye for a better examination. There was not a crack, not a chip - not even a single dent or divot. While the blade had never truly lost the appearance of perfection, it had certainly regained something Hamelyn believed it had lost.

”For your master.” Hamelyn dropped a single silver piece into the apprentices hand. “Even dedication and loyalty should be repaid.”

As Brelin, the blacksmith’s apprentice and Hamelyn, the northern native parted ways both were pleased with their transaction. But for very different reasons. Brelin had been with -the Moving- since its inception. He had been with his master since its inception. He had spent every waking hour working on weapons and armor for those soldiers who were in desperate need of perfection. While his work had been rewarding and compensation was delivered daily in the form of room and board. But to be given even two copper coins as a reward for his dedication and service was typically unspoken of.

For Hamelyn is was much more simplistic. He had his favored weapon back in one piece. But more importantly, he found a smith that could be trusted to handle the items that he had placed trust in for so many years.



With the back of his hand, Hamelyn pushed aside the leather flap that signified the opening in the tents construction. As the leather was pushed aside the warrior was overcome by the scent of patchouli and sandalwood. A scent so staggering that the man turned away covered his nose and mouth, his lungs tightening with convulsion as a wracking cough overtook his strong composure.

“The arcane arts are not by your design.” A strange voice cooed in a tone both high pitched and most certainly through the nose. ”Yet, you still breach my seals. You must be sure of what you are looking for? Only those who know of what they seek find my wares with ease.”

Pulling his hand away, Hamelyn eyes were drawn immediately to the dark red spatter pattern on his leather gloves. How much longer would it be? The temperature was still above freezing. The light rain had not yet turned to sleet. The water gathering at his feet not yet turned to ice. Yet, his affliction - this frost lung had always been worse as the years went on. But these last few years beyond his third decade of life, the condition had truly taken its toll.

“Hello…” Hamelyn called out confused. “I thought this might be the place to find exactly what I’m looking for.”

He scanned from the tent from one side to the other. From left to right there were many shelves. Each stack holding a plethora of objects some identifiable to his mind ignorant of the components many magic users require but most were not. He was unable to draw out exactly where he should have been looking for the items in which he seeked. He took a few steps forward, enough to allow the flap of the tent to fall shut, swaying in the wind but keeping the cold breeze at bay as the heat from the interior torchlight began to build once again. He walked along the exterior of the aisles peering down each one only to find no one.

”Are you looking for me?” The strange congested squeak inquired followed by a swift swoosh and a loud ting of something smacking the hulking hyland stalker in the shin. “If I were a lesser man I might be offended.” The small man chuckled before his body slowly levitated from the floor, a burst of wind exploding from beneath his boots. “Then again...I’m no man either. A gnome no less. Not too many of my kind in these parts. Or out in the open as of recent months. Little purpose could we serve against the Apotheoses now.”

The gnome rambled on. Confessing about troubles against the growing evil barreling down on them like a clumsy charging bull. Hamelyn was more confused now than he had been before he entered the strange tent.

”I need powdered horn of the Ibex, Mister…” The hulking warrior blurted out saving himself from the ramblings of the obviously crazy being.

”Nobblenot…” the gnome’s nasal consumed voice interjected, “Just Nobblenot, no mister.”

The strange gnome moved swiftly, the wind exploding beneath his feet. A cloud of dust swirled up from the dirt floor. The jars rattling on their shelves. The shelves themselves swayed in the breeze as the abrupt wind escaped beneath the thick flaps of the tent. The little being had disappeared.

”Nobblenot knows exactly what you’re looking for.”

”I can only offer but a few pieces.”

With an outstretched hand Nobblenot came forward holding a jar. It was a glass flask perhaps only a few inches high and a conical shape that was sealed off with a cork stopper. The contents of the flask, which were clearly visible through the glass were an off-white almost grey color. The powder was quite fine, not a single chunk or large splinter would be found. These were quite typical attributes of any alleged arcane component.

In the other hand the gnome held seven silver pieces, ”You’ll find your satchel considerably lighter.”

Fondling his coin purse Hamelyn found himself bewildered at how accurate the gnome had been. ”Wh-how-when did you?”

The warrior’s confusion was met with a fading chuckle as the gnome disappeared from sight. But it was not as though he disappeared around the corner of a shelving unit although it would be totally expected as the gnomes are a very busy and strange races. Instead, in Hamelyn’s confusion he may have only taken his eyes off of the gnome for but a second and he was just gone. Nobblenot had disappeared from sight and there had not been any sign of his whereabouts.

When it came to the archaic arcane arts Hamelyn was something more than a blundering idiot. Little did he understand the workings of sorcerers and wizards, or even the tribal mystics that were revered as priceless. But standing there rather dazed and confused with a flask in hand and a strangely light pouch on his waist he couldn’t help but contemplate. If someone of such tiny stature was capable of tricks and feats so spectacular how could they not so simply contain the Apotheoses? What made it so difficult? Hamelyn knew of their power. He knew of their methods. He knew of their threat. But the physically mundane and predictable could not be a threat to this amazing feat of magical prowess.

”What am I missing…” Hamelyn wondered.



The front gate was less of a gate and more of just an opening in the haphazardly strewn together fence line constructed of wood log barriers and trenches easily six feet deep and just about as far across. While guards were regularly posted at this opening, as well as along the fence line the main forces were deep within the confines of the camp huddled amongst the mass of tents and open workshops. It happened to be the typical war time moving huddled together in the colder temperatures before moving further north.

As Hamelyn approached the wide opening he heard the sounds of combat. The screams of battle. The clash of iron as blades were turned away and armor took blows that had broken through defenses, failed to be pushed back. Although the iron still clamoured in the open air, the metallic scent came from the blood spilt.

A band of rapscallions attempting to invade the camp. A small collection of warriors who were recently introduced by Szazah. Blades were swept horizontally, while warriors shimmied, ducked, and dodged to maneuver themselves around the debilitating blows. The warriors weapons clashed, their shields clamoured and the armor they wore took the brunt of the damage as was not only expected but most certainly preferred.

Hamelyn would not participate. Not in this battle. He couldn’t. While his hand trembled, tightening around the haft of his freshly sharpened battle axe - it was not fear that prevented him from joining the fray but apprehension.

What others present were not privy to had been what exactly had happened during the time Szazah and Hamlyn had spent in the prison under the control of the Apotheoses being tortured for information and brainwashed to prevent retribution, revenge, or revolt. Perhaps they were correct? Maybe it was not the great evils that had been released but the greater good that had been imprisoned under the guise of being evil? The Apotheoses had always proclaimed they were paving the way for sanctuary, for a utopian dream to be realized. That while this road may have to be paved in destruction as others argue to the contrary, what the Apotheoses represents is the true and righteous path.

Maybe, they were right?

Ymeera could feel the dark, rolling clouds come in, even as the clouds of their observable world parted. With the rain ceased, a more formidable storm was approaching, one that smothered the northern cold with it's billowing heat and smelled strongly of a bitter wickedness. Her grandmother had taught her all she needed to know about the prediction of the weather of these lands and the many next, and the look in Evi Olaurae's eyes was enough indication that cataclysm was as fast approaching as the trio on their way to the North Gate.

"That is she."

The trio halted. Sorna stood nearly a foot taller than the female drow, his silver hair neatly tied back into a long tail. The bit of sunlight glinted off of his single piece of armor, a heavy breastplate that shown signs of worn, perhaps too majestic for a bandit to own. The warm browns and oranges of his colorful robes complemented the dark coolness of his skin, and his left hand closed tightly around the handle of his longsword as his violet eyes peered at Evi with lowered brows, then pinpointed the monk the drow had been gazing. "She?"

Before Ymeera could have voiced her apprehensions, they were at the North Gate. There were already several others gathered, and Evi noticed some familiar faces from Szazah's tent, as well as some unfamiliar faces, ones attached to bald heads in particular. While curious, she was more concerned in her own plans. With a gleeful eye, she nodded and continued, "If we are to kill Szazah, we must kill this one first."

Sorna did not fully understand—how could he possibly have known?—but he'd decided that Evi had no reason to lie to him. If she did, well, it would surely be her downfall.

He made a show of checking the weight of his blade; it had been awhile since he'd last needed to use it, and examined the scene before them. The target was a beastkin, a feline, perhaps. She wasn't alone, and it would not be his first time performing an execution midday and in the midst of many bystanders, but he knew the difficulties of doing such without any external complications. They were on a time limit though. If this creature must die to get to Szazah, it must be taken care of soon. With a flick of the wrist he tossed the sword up into the air and allowed it to come back down into the grasp of his dominant left hand. Without allowing his eyes to stray from the scene before them, he mentally scanned the area beyond, making a note of the men in the nearest tent to their right. Men that went undetected by Evi's radar, yet never let her off of theirs. His men.

He'd ordered them to remain in this tent in the case that Evi did not follow through with her orders. While Poembi had promised Sorna she wouldn't kill the female drow, he knew the witch long enough to note when her patience had run out. Still, he wouldn't allow Evi to perish by her hands. No, that duty was all his own. As well as this new duty it seemed.

Sorna watched carefully as the monk battled it out with the unknown opponent. Her moves were fast and well calculated, a sign she had experience in battle. This would not be an easy kill, but perhaps a quick one. "Evi," he addressed his female counterpart, his eyes unmoving from the blind woman and her opponent. "If anything is to go wrong, you must come act as my right hand."

The smaller drow cocked her head to the left, face blank. "And if I don't?" Discreetly, she glanced at the sword in his grasp, then at Raux, then back to the sword.

"If you don't, you'll have to deal with her," Sorna answered as he nodded at a space by the gate, but there was 'no one' there. Evi knew whom he was referring; it wasn't rare for the witch Poembi to use a cloaking spell, erasing the visuals of her presence, but the feel and strong vibes of her magic were still very real. Evi hadn't considered the witch would come back to them so early, nor act as a witness to her plot.

Sorna noticed the slight shift in Evi's countenance after he stated such, and with a smirk toward the invisible matriarch, and the other bandits accompanied in the back of his mind, he became sure things would go smoothly. Now for the feline. "Remain here," he ordered the human Ymeera, then "Come if I call for you," to Evi, who watched expectantly, still unaware of the other bandits who watched her expectantly.

The steps Sorna took toward the monk were even; he wasn't in any rush. With each step, the details of his target became clearer, the staff, the cloak that graced her shoulders, the softness of her fur, the man between her legs. Within five feet of the target he came to a stop and rose his left arm, the tip of the blade leveled with her head as he stared down upon her. "Hello, beast," he greeted with a curious frown and the raise of a brow. "Lovely show you've put on, and I'd hate to interrupt, but I'm here for that beautiful head of yours. Be a dear, and hand it over."

The beast in question raised her ears momentarily at the sound of the voice. The man between her legs' strangulation paused for a moment giving him a brief moment of respite, though he remained firmly locked in place. "A gentleman," The monk asked, her head turning to point her nose towards the individual who spoke towards her. She took a few measured sniffs, to identify him while she could. The raksha made a mental note about how oddly the man approached her. Even steps, calm heart, and a casual touch to his tone. A cocky and sure male - is what she decided. But something did not sit right. The man smelled of the sea. She slowly lowered her hands to the ground to twist her body and sit up. "I do appreciate you announcing your intentions. But under who's name do you wish to take my head? Or perhaps it is for an art collection? I can not see my own face, but I am sure it would be a fine addition to a homestead when mounted above a fire place."

Sorna paused at her response, confused for a moment, then smirked. She was a clever woman, and blind (he now noticed), but mainly clever. That made her dangerous. "Mounted above a fire place you shall be," he spoke as he clasped the sword with both hands and rose it above his head, "It is not my concern to offer my victims my name, but a flower such as you may call me Sorna, leader of the Port Jinn Protectors." His smirk broke into a grin revealing a mouth full of large teeth, and his voice rose as he brought down the sword swiftly, with all of his might, as if to split the beastkin cleanly down the middle.

The beastkin's ears flicked when the clasp of skin to wood and steel had reached them. The sound of cloth hugging the arms and flapping in the air signaled the blade beginning it's motion. This little sound drove her to action. Thinking quickly the monk lifted the leg that was strangling the ruined rogue and kicked it to spin her body in the muck, letting the momentum carry herself over his body with her back to the air. The quarter staff that had been tucked under her arm was whipped behind her with the motion and slapped the blade to the side with a sharp clack. And as if sensing the impeding danger of being hacked off, her tail quickly retreated out of reach of the blade and allowed it to strike the muck. Now to her feet, the beastkin was standing over the gasping male. She was crouched with her quarterstaff raised. A hand on the butt, one hand on the mid section, and the longer portion reached out in front of her while pointing downwards.

"Victim," Raux asked in her soft voice with a small smile. She inhaled deeply with her jaws parted, and her tongue slipped free from her lips for a moment. The scents all rolled over it, letting her taste the air and better identify her surroundings. She stepped closer, or rather ahead of the wounded thief, and gave him a nudge with her foot. The man, thankfully, took the message and began to move out of the way. "If you do see yourself as my predator, then I prefer the term cornered prey."

Evi watched with anticipation rising almost as much as the rising presence of the witch Poembi, who remained in hiding. She kept a close eye on Sorna, waiting and searching for any signal of distress, but his body language showed he was quite amused. The male drow cocked his head to the left and then to the right, loosening the taut muscles in his neck with his gaze on Raux's weapon and prepared stance, ignoring the unknown man who had fled as if he were not even there in the first place. "Cornered would be the better term," Sorna conceded with an agreeing nod, as if the monk could see him with her eyes, "In fact, I think it suits you very well to be my prey." In one fluid motion he folded himself, sliding closer to her as he kneeled into a low crouch, still holding the blade with both hands, one leg pointed outwards towards the raksha and the other under him, then came up, his blade clashing against her staff. "And I always get what's mine." The excitement of battling again warmed him, and the muscles in his arms tightened as he pushed upward, intending to use enough force to knock the staff out of her hands.

And in turn, the Raksha listened closely, for her ears were her eyes. She listened to the stance falling low, the the sound of the air slicing in two coming from a much lower position. A mental picture formed in the Raksha's head, and she stepped forward. Her weapon moved to match the motion in the opposite direction, but raised to avoid being struck asside. Once the blade passed harmlessly under the staff, the point dipped downwards towards the earth, and braced it's self on the earth. With the monk's forward motion, the staff was now standing straight up and braced against the earth with the length near the guard. The staff was positioned to deny, or at least delay the weapon from moving back into a position to fend her off while she closed the distance.

Once the cougaress believed she was close enough, she lashed out with an open fist -providing little in the way of a tell- in a fast and powerful downwards swipe aiming for the head with the sound of breathing acting as it's guide. Once it made contact, the claws would extend and grab hold of what ever it could; hair, skin or cloth it did not matter. It would be all the same as the iron grip would hold the man in place for a hard knee to the side.

Sorna buckled as the knee came into contact with the organs of the right half of him. Seeing the attack coming but not moving nearly as quickly enough, he had initially attempted an orchestrated duck and roll out of the monk's range, but neglected the fact his hair had grown long enough to take hold of. He let out a sharp breath between clenched teeth, in pain but mostly from shock. He had known the beastkin were generally very powerful beings when battled, yet that didn't dawn on him until he felt the knee drive in like a hammer.

Unable to do much else, he fell to his knees, his head hanging. Evi and Ymeera watched in shock, but still, he did not signal for help. They couldn't quite see his face, but he held up his right hand to wave off their worries. If there was one thing the male drow may have had in advantage, it was stamina. Of course with such powerful attacks he wouldn't be able to hold on as long as he was accustomed to, but he often enjoyed a challenge. Knowing he was in a vulnerable position then, he now attempted the roll, and as he came up onto his feet he—without an ounce of reserve—lurched forward to the monk with his blade pointed straight outwards to be settled deep within her stomach.

The monk felt the strains of hair in her hands go slack as the male escaped, her smile turned to a grin as she stepped forward to pursue the male as he tried to gain distance. She clearly was not going to give up her advantage so easily. And when she heard the cloth scrape against his body, she quickly spun off to the side. The blade tore through her clothing and nicked her body, but it wouldn't compare to the tradeoff the beastkin was about to make.

The unholy and unnerving shriek of a cougar quickly ripped through the air as her body spun, one leg brought up high mid spin, and being brought down in the path of a cresent to slam the heel into the male's jaw or collar bone.

The drow heard the sound before he registered the attack. The unforgiving shriek stabbed deeply into his eardrums, making his entire head reverberate. He looked upwards, brows lowered in partial confusion, partial fear. The high-pitched sound made the sun seem brighter than ever, and when he witnessed the monk's spin, her being appeared to be shrouded in a ghostly shadow, one dark enough to resemble an angry Lloth. In that single moment Sorna's judgement failed. His violet eyes glanced sorrowfully at Evi, who seemed even farther away though she hadn't moved an inch, as the kick landed hard against his collarbone. The drow collapsed onto his back, dust from the impact billowing up and around, coating his colorful robes and lacing itself in his silver locks.

There seemed to be a long silence after. Ymeera looked on with both her hands covering her mouth in shock. If Sorna had been human, perhaps his cheeks would then be flushed red. His expression grew angry. He didn't like to be shown up, even less by a female. Once again he got to his feet, wobbling slightly. Ymeera reached out a hand, fingers spread as if to use her magic, but Evi grabbed the hand and shook her head no. The human was not to interfere. To the bandits still hidden in the tent, this move of the female drow was greatly suspicious.

Sorna stabbed his sword into the dirt to help himself straighten up, catching the breath that had been kicked out of him by his opponent. The sorrow he felt had dispersed. All he could feel now was a boiling rage. Blind with fury, he began lashing out with the blade. From the upper left down, from under then straight up, from the upper right then down left, he attacked over and over, the energy absorbed from within the ground rising up within himself and out his fingertips, his hair dancing with each lurch, his breath coming in angry gasps, his hurt pride leaving him wide open to a vicious counter attack.

Raux was already in motion to continue the attack. However she hesitated when she heard the drow's body hit the ground. Her ear flicked, and her raised quarterstaff was lowered. She spun about face on a single foot and strutted away from the man a few paces. She turned again, and waited patiently for the man to rise back to his feet. She could hear the breathing, and she offered a smile. Then his attack came.

She worked efficiently to slap each attack away with a bat of her quarter staff. Her paws worked themselves with a dancer's grace to move her body about the field. But her play came when her foe had made one final slip. Through his furious swinging, his arm had overstreatched for a mere moment. The beastkin had sensed this and immediately stepped inside the other's stance. His arm struck against her side, the blade would not be able to harm her.

One hand removed it's self from her quarterstaff to lash out and grab hold of the male by the collar of his shirt. She gave him a hard push and a tug to throw his stance off, and then allowed her skull to meet his at force with a loud clack. Before he could fall away, that same hand released the collar, and grabbed hold of his neck instead."You should always fear those who are considered weak in a world where the healthy dies young," her voice rang out softly. It held the tone of a teacher sternly scolding his student.

She hoisted the male up with surprising strength, and twisted her body. Her efforts quickly brought the man crashing to the ground, with her own body straddling his. Now with both hands empty, her fist balled together and unleashed an unrelenting storm of heavy blows with all of her mass behind it.

This was more than enough to alert the rest of the bandits. Upon seeing their leading being pummeled into the ground, they launched out of the tent, all five of the large brutes in a single file with their weapons drawn. Without so much as a word they came up behind Ymeera and Evi, and took the drow and human into their clutches as they'd been instructed. Ymeera kicked and clawed at the man holding her, but he simply squeezed her even tighter under his arm and lifted her up. Her legs flailed in the air.

Evi did not waste her energy by fighting back. She realized then that Sorna had masterminded all of this. Perhaps he predicted her betrayal. She watched as the beastkin monk's fist bloodied Sorna's once handsome face, and could not keep a small smile from creeping upon her face. He must have also predicted his own demise.

"Evi Olaurae and Ymeera the human girl," the brute clutching Ymeera started. Evi then noticed there was a dagger at her throat, cold and deathly sharp. "The Port Jinn Protectors will hereby execute you by order of Sorna, our matriarch's great henchmen, on account of your treasonous actions." The words came out loud and in a rush, as if the dim-witted brute found the speech itself frustrating and unnecessary. Ymeera kicked even harder, grunting and on the verge of tears, but his hold did not loosen an inch. Frantically, she glanced at Evi, her brown doe eyes begging her friend to do something. Anything.

The perfidious drow only watched Sorna. The beastkin's fists were unrelenting, and the pummeling lasted an eternity. For some reason, the male drow did not fight back. Blood covered his face to the point where the origins could not be traced. His right eye had already swollen closed, bleeding, as well as his mouth and nose. Was what Evi felt at this moment remorse? She'd never felt like that before.

In a last burst of energy, Sorna moved. He did not lift an arm to defend himself from his opponent, but to ward off his men. His eyes were devoid of light, but the signal was understandable enough. He didn't want them to kill. He was taking back his orders. Perhaps, in that moment, he was suddenly thinking of all the mistakes he'd made, all the people he'd taken from, and there might have—Evi considered—been remorse, the same she'd felt for that earlier instant, that was now replaced with a gleeful relief. Sorna had protected her again. She'd gotten away with it.

As the brute released her from his grip and removed his dagger from her throat, she glanced once more at the gate. Poembi's presence had vanished. She was no longer there. And Sorna had fallen unconscious. Whether he had died or merely fainted, Evi didn't know, nor did she think about it. She'd been freed, and that's all that mattered. She dusted off her cloak in the areas where the dirty bandit had snagged her, and held back a grin.

She owed this fair monk a great deal. Perhaps she'd made a new friend.

"...ish nothing more than for you to be successful and that is why this chance meeting plagues me." Phinuphus froze in his tracks, watching Rripp loom over Szazah as he sat stinking with drink and a sudden despair. A couple of men bumped into him, but then wisely made their way past him like rounding a tree trunk that had simply appeared. Phinuphus just watched, listening, his gaze inscrutable. Cheed was waiting for him outside. It seemed he'd be waiting longer.

"In truth, I would have wished for another to tell you, but as it were I happened upon you first. Do not fear, I trust that you assembled a most capable team of warriors and the like to undertake this quest. For instance that guard that once plied his craft in the great kingdom of Bhornbadim, or Tarnbadir, or whatever fangled name the dwarves scrounged up. He is a steadfast ally, one you should be proud to have. And that Reed fellow, strong, yes?"

Blow after blow, each of them low and well placed, and easy to land on a man in his cups. Old stories, told again and again. Phinuphus huffed with a cold fury. Szazah stood, too heavy to sit with shame or too sullen to lcare to counter. Too much drink. Aliyah was right about one thing.

Phinuphus' manner was written plainly enough that his stare had drawn the attention of q number of onlookers. Ot fostered a silence that slowly spread around the tent as everyone watched Szazah make his way out. The man was oblivious, as was Rripp, rather well into his own spirits. Everyone turned their heads to look at Phinuphus, who silently began to step as if on queue to take the seat Szazah had, moving the chair aside and plenting his haunches firmly on the ground.

Rripp looked up slowly, his disdain as apparently as a fish could make it for a mammal. No niceties for the river rat.

"Healer Tahnqin!" A wet slap of fish against the man's side as he moistened himself. A loathsome necessity. "You are not yet with your companions at the gate. A pity. Szazah has exciting news for all of you."

"Yes," Phinuphus spoke coldly. His voice projected throghout the Alehouse, drawing Rripp's attention to the silence around them, the eyes of every off-duty man and woman in the place, all of them watching their small table. "You did not speak quietly. I believe I have done the sums." Loud, but Phinuphus at least seemed in good humor. Someone near the bar tittered. One of Rripp's eyeballs jiggled slightly as it searched for whomever laughed.

"It is a shame, really. But the man really must stay on with the small council until he has... recovered. You understand, I trust?" RRipp's voice had quieted to something more fitting for two persons in a crowded room full of drink, but it didn't serve to really invite anyone else to speak. Least of all Phinuphus, who bit noisily into a raw onion and chewed each bite deliberately, watching the fish. It was not like Rripp to not take command of the situation. The man was more drunk than Phinuphus had guessed.

"You think so?" The capybkin asked through a mouthful of onion flesh.

"Certainly. You have seen it yourself." Rripp leaned in, lower ing his voice further but managing more a stage whisper than anything else. "He's far too drunk for such a journey. What is broken can be mended, but it needs time." Rripp still seemed oblivious to his indescretion. It was not as though he needed much. Their party would be gone in a couple of hours regardless of where Szazah was.

"I am reminded of one of our stories, Lord Dripood," Phinuphus began, taking the tone of oratory. It was not terribly uncommon for the hulking man to do, as often pulling scripture from the bottom of a cup as from the evening stars in the sky. But some onlookers noticed a queer glint in the Capybkin's eye. It was the sort of look he got when dealing with a patient that thought they knew better about how to heal themselves.

It was a tired look.

"Have you heard the story of great Nalfgyr?"

"I confess that I--," Rripp seemed to want to rise and leave, but he could not speak another word before Phinuphus almost shouted over him.

"--No, I thought you night not have. It is a queer tale told mostly by my kin. But we heard it first from a Deeptonne many generations ago that came far inland to spread the glory of Our Shark, Anomandaris." Rripp's scowl deepened as a couple of Minotaur sitting at a table nearby smiled, one of them stifling a giggle. It was often Phinuphus' way to speak to other beastkin about their god by referring to him as "Our Bull," or "Our Cobra." It was the first time anyone had heard Phinuphus refer to Anomandaris when speaking to Rripp as anything other than "Our Lionfish."

It was an angry look.

"Deeptonne, like the sharks they were born from, are a vicious lot. They fight as hard as any Dragonoid, and are as peerless hunters in the sea as a Raksha in the forest or a Gatorman in a marsh. But they do not share the vices of soft-skins as you and I do." Phinuphus paused to gulp a mouthful of ale, and took a small bite of onion before he continued. "They do not fuck for the fun of it. They do not dice or smoke. And they do not drink. But they do walk. And their legs lead just as often to misfortune as our own."

"When our kind were young, we saw the world youngly," Phinuphus stood as he began telling the story. He was prone to gesticulation and pacing as he spoke, theatrics learned from his own childhood. It always served to entertain while he taught with what words he knew, speaking to many places far less civilized than this. "Mountains had stood under countless moons and been seen to fall by countless manlings before we saw the first ones that stand today. Oceans stirred and slept and stormed with depth, were rode upon by untold numbers of ships of all sizes before the first Carpie stood upon sand and declared that things were far too dry outside of them." A few laughs. "And Rivers ran for my ancestors to mate in and for fish to swim down and snakes to lurk beneath and for man to plow his fields beside long before the first of my people took to the plow beside them."

"So it was that the first Deeptonne pack found a bay, tasted fresh water, and found it far too comfortable. For a shark lives a life of pain, yours or theirs, and sees little of worth in between. But all things wander, and many things change. So it was that a small pack of Deeptonne found a sweetness in freshwater that the sea lacked. For manlings have always faught. Elf, man, dwarf, all soft-skins fight, and many of them fight over rivers. And a river can run red, a taste packed with blood that the sea can thin far too quickly to entice--salt far too thoroughly for it to please."

"This small pack came to land, with His seed giving them air to breath, treading riverbanks with fervor and finding soft-skins to hunt and kill no less deadly than their prey in the waters they called home. And, too, they found like-minded men and women and spoke and talked and founded a village and made families. But always they hunted, for they lived lives of pain, yours or theirs, and saw little of worth in between."

"And so it was that they were feared, for their skin that could sting and their fury that could roil across the land and their noses that could follow from one beach to the other were pointed and mean. Deeptonne raided and walked, as they still do in the sea today. But, on land, they found our vices. They found dice and gambling and play, and they moved to other villages and made other families. But they always hunted, for like sharks they live lives of pain, yours or theirs, and see little of worth in between."

"Their games were cruel, their hunts were long, and they were hated as no other of our kind has been, so out of place. Anomandaris lifted not a paw or fin or claw, for he knew in The Fullness what fear could breed. Deeptonne were hunted in turn as their nature stood true no matter how soft they grew. And they persevered because their lives, like sharks, were lives of pain, yours or theirs, and little of worth was in between."

"So in time they scattered as once they'd spawned, their numbers thinning as their time grew long. Their hearts were sick, their minds frail, poisoned by the follies of games and ale. Their blood was thin, and the sweetness turned bitter, the sweet that had brought them here. And the sea called."

While Phinuphus told his tale, he had paced and gestured with his massive arms and roused every heart in the room. Cheed had stepped isnide and was leaning against a wall. No one had had a drink in the minutes he'd told the tale. Phinuphus now stopped to take a quaff. No one else lifted a finger, moved a muscle. Phinuphus sat, affecting the exhaustion if a people he had never met. Heads peering through windows seemed to sag with that same weariness.

"The sea called in the quiet, when the full moon shone, twinkling in wide rivers and hinting where to go. The fish called, trout and bass and minnow," he made the term sound loathsome as slugs, "running up and down every year with news of the sea's majesty. And so it was that packs of Deeptonne began to take to rivers, as all find their way to the sea eventually. But the Deeptonne, returning, found their skills wanting. They no longer had the strength to swim in the sea's swift currents, or the noses to find game, or the minds to trick orca, dolphin, or merrow. So soft, so limp with the joys of a life on land... that not even their Deeptonne brothers and sisters of the sea recognized them."

"And so it was that they were hunted and killed, their weaknesses not even fit to fill the bellies of their family. For a shark's life must be one of pain... ours or theirs..." and Phinuphus gazed steadily at Rripp, who sat motionless and far more sober than he'd been when the tale began, "... and for them there is little of worth in between."

There was no applause. Phinuphus let the moments after his story bloom with a pregnant, odious disdain for nothing in particular. He stood from his seat on the ground and walked steadily for the door, pausing for a brief moment to help Cheed up onto his shoulders. The capybkin did not look back, slamming the door behind him with a loud bang, and making steadily for the north gate. Inside the Alehouse men and women looked between one another and Rripp, struggling to parse the story that had just been left there, ending like a body tossed into stream.

Cheed was silent for a while as they continued through the camp.

"Life is a river." The boy said.

"It is, young man. Let us find our shark before he grows too soft."

Summary: Phinuphus overhears Rripp's command that Szazah is not to go meet The Shadowwold. He clearly has other ideas.

The March of the Shadowwald was not, always, a pleasant one. Goren, resolute in his purpose, took them through many hardships - splitting his growing army between wondering if this was a test from the God, with the rest questioning their decision to follow a mad man who spoke no words. When creatures attacked, Goren confidently walked forward, letting his immaculate blade weave through foe after foe. Still, he gave no orders, he spoke no words of inspiration. Others did that for him. Many different groups formed within the army, some praising him as a religious figure, others hailing him as a budding strategist, and others still formed their own opinion.

One such group characterized themselves the Shield of Goren Joquinal, and it was made up of some of the most devote believers in his cause. Each wielded their weapons with levels denoting masters of their craft. Roving bands of rogues, orcs, and other unsavory creatures had difficult times getting past this united front. They worked together with tactical precision, spreading out in a half moon formation to protect his front and the sides. At night, they would huddle closer to him, warming their bodies in the heat of the flames he roused from the tinder brought for him. Nary a word was spoken from him to them.

One such creature would become known as the Sword of Goren, for battle brought forth something of a vicious nature to the follower of Andomanderis. He did not wield a sword or axe, nor mace or bow, but a thick coil of chain often wrapped around either hand to strengthen what blows he delivered. Few knew his real name after a while, referring to him solely as the Sword of Goren, or as whispered when he was not in earshot, the Vessel of Andomanderis.





The ever expansive walls of Heaven had never seemed so closed off, for many moons had passed since the God's were able to interact with the world below, though they could see what all transpired below. They were very much real, and yet bound by Faith. While many who prayed to them did not take them for actual figures, but manifestations of desire and will, that could not have been further from the truth. Each God existed as the humans did, except on a higher plane and infinitely more powerful. Yet, they were bound to their followers faith, causing their power to swell the more they were believed in. Currently, they were at their weakest, faith had been stamped out by the Apotheoses in quick order. It was something that could have been prevented, but with their lofty status, came arrogance. They had failed.

While there were still a surplus of believers, they had lost their will to pray, for they did not understand that God's worked off the power of Prayer, of Faith, and well, the words of the Apotheoses played off this lack of knowledge. If they are truly real, then why did they let you suffer so. When you are ill, you do not pray to the God's, you find a healer; when your crops grow bountiful, it is not the hands of the Gods that ache and blister, but your own.

Many took these words to heart and began to question the existence of the Gods, and so, as more and more began to follow, the God's became ever locked in heaven, forced to pool what faith was still active for short bursts into the Allarian World, and only to whomever they were answering.

Recently, this had the worst effect on the God of the Humans, Michael, who was looked at as something of their leader; his martial.prowess was said to be unparalleled, even in face of the supremely powerful, Andomanderis. He had fallen into something of a sulking mess, unmoving, unspeaking. The God's busied themselves around him, occasionally attempting to rouse him to no avail. He had been stricken with self pity and doubt, and this was what the Apotheoses had counted on.

Lloth and Ouroboros, the Goddess and God of the Drow and Dragoniod respectively had sequestered themselves away from the rest, using what magical ability they had to conjure up a means to locate the Chained God, Mobius. He was a God that no longer has a race, for they had been all but wiped out or converted to followers of Andomanderis, referring to him as 'Alpha Wolven'.

Before his stupor, Michael had seen to it that the Chained God was bound, by enlisting Abbathor, God of Dwarves, to craft him chains of unusual make. With these, Michael fought Mobius and eventually managed to trap him deep within a forgotten forest, where magic from ancient sources, when the God's were but infants, would hide him for eternity. It was not known what sort of magic Lloth and Ouroboros had access to that allowed them to find Mobius, but they had. In exchange for his help, they promised him a release, for which be vowed to exterminate as many humans as possible.

Seated now at the table, Reincarnation looked upon Michael, his baleful eyes full of sadness and regret, contemplated attempting to speak to the towering God, but thought better against it. For while the race of Goblins was relatively new, Reincarnation was newer still to the pantheon of God's.

Luckily, Abbathor entered the room, followed his his gruff voice aimed at Michael. Ye, humans, 'ack the skin of steel ye should 'old. Yer feelin's are far too unprotected, and this be the result. How many moons have passed since ye rose to yer feet and let words Cascade from yonder maw?' Michael did not budge.

Abbathor took a seat next to the man, gigantic tool slung across his neck. It was a hammer on one end, connected by a massive treated leather strap, to a flat bottomed metal triangle, used to slam into material, and then beat on the back to force a split.

Elsewhere, Andomanderis, whose names were plenty sat in quiet contemplation. He was many creatures to the beast kin, a bull, a cobra, a lion fish, a pup, a kitten, and even a variety of insects. While Michael had taken their forced exile the hardest, Andomanderis used every chance to contact the world below, primarily focused on the growing sects who had differing opinions on his words.

Some believed that only the most dedicated to the base nature of his being would come to be blessed by him, while others believed that, in his path, they must assimilate some culture from the other races to better themselves. Those that lived as close to their animal kin as possible, he saw as naive, yet the most pure of them all. Those that believed that the Beastkin to be the true inheritors of the world were the ones he kept the closest eye on, for nature always prevails.

He knew what ached the heart of Michael, such emotional disarray was the way of the humans, it was a weakness he could not afford, especially if he planned to enact his own usurpation of Heaven.

His path was that of pet, believed to be lesser than the rest of the God's until the Rise of the Beastkin. From the murky depths of old magic, far older than the eldest of the God's, from lands they dared not flare their power, the Beastkin came. The first was he, Andomanderis, his form so long forgotten that not even those who followed his faith knew what came first. Then the rest came, from the land and the sea, taking to the wilds of the continent, the forest and mountains. They built their homes of natural elements, before being seduced by the throes of mankind. Still, their primal urge boiled beneath their surface, and in times of war, they showed their strength and ferocity.

Soon, the Great Beast murmured - his bellowing whisper echoing off the walls of seclusion. He had been entering the world, when prayers allowed, implanting portions of his scheme. The Beasts would rise again, razing the land of all manner of creature until only the Beastkin stood supreme.



Szazah swayed slightly, his drunkeness had reached new heights, later he would come to wonder how he made it this far without tripping and falling into an alcohol induced coma.

Before him, his charges had lain waste to those who sought to engage in combat, almost as effortlessly as one would draw a breath. It was a mess he would have to cover for them, though he minded little. They mission was more important, in his mind, than ruffians who would want to settle scores old and new. Still, their ferocity was one to behold, and their ability to come together fascinated him. He hated that this mission would be one he could not lead.

As the last of them fell, Szazah noticed that the Capykin had finally arrived, perhaps the most verbally eloquent of the bunch. With a shrug, he approached the group with no wounds to lick, and looked upon each of them.

It is with a heavy heart, and scarred soul, that I must inform you all that I will no longer be able to attend you. The Tengu, I am told, will be arriving shortly and I cannot risk you all having not left with haste. He turned his attention to the sky, if but for a moment. There was a soft pulse on his left arm, bringing him from his trance and back to the task at hand.

It seemed time was shorter than he imagined, his runes announced to him that he had received a message, no doubt that the Tengu was approaching at great haste. Still, it would be a little while still before the Warlord arrived. If there is nothing else, then you all have your quest. Worry not of these bodies, or, he gestured softly back into the camp, the dead in my quarters, I shall take responsibility for these. Perhaps one remains breathing, and can be questioned later of their attempt on your lives.

It should take them just over a fortnight to reach the lands of snow and ice, the Frozen North that the Shadowwald had called home, according to Raithen. Close enough to reach with little issue, but far enough away that remain isolated was an easy task.

Szazah still did not move from his place, unlike before he would wait for any rebuttal to his position, though they could do little to change his mind. Perhaps he would be allowed later to venture out and join them, lest they be left to convince the notorious isolationists on their own. His hands shook, his mouth seemed slack with thirst - he wanted another mouthful of ale, though water would probably suit him better.

He knew not if the rain would come again, or if the skies would be kind for the next while - but he did know that should they return, it was little chance that they would be here. No, he would have to inform them later of the new point of contact. The winds, they blew ominous, as though the worst kind of news rode them like man and horse.

He feared the skies, land, and sea, the dragon, Chimera, and Levithan, Allarian Beasts of Old, once thought to be Gods now terrorized them. Would the cold North hold such a beast, or perhaps something more frightening - it was ill explored, what it held was scarcely known.

Perhaps he would say a prayer.

As Phinuphus stepped into the yard joining the northern gate, the large capybkin gave pause, surveying the scene with a steady gaze, wiggling his nose in thought. Phinuphus' nose waggled with a confusion of scents, and before him was a bed of chaos, broken men and women all bested by his new companions. Things appeared to have gone quick, but there were clearly more than two sides to the melee. Raux looked to have beaten something or one bloody, still heaving with the effort. And his gaze finally settled on a young drow that seemed oddly familiar, somewhat roughed, but seeming to only have eyes for the raksha at that moment. It was a strange scene, but with the blood in his nostrils and his leader in his cups, Phin had other things to worry about.

Szazah, still drunk, seemed to be making his way by instinct to the center of everyone, his gate tired. He radiated sullenness. Cheed wordlessly slid off of Phinuphus' back as he walked forward and then stood on his hinde legs, easily taller than any of them. The capybkin seemed to sway very gently in the evening air, perhaps with a gentle breeze... perhaps with the dance of a cup or too.

"It is with a heavy heart, and scarred soul, that I must inform you all that..." Szazah continued almost as if by wrote, but Phinuphus found himself barely listening. The wreckage of flesh scattered about the yard was an ill omen for a mission of peace. Certainly one needed protection in the wilds, but just what would it mean to the people they saught, that each of them was so battle ready? It was good that Phinuphus had loosed his fury elsewhere this day.

Presently, Szazah stopped speaking, apparently waiting for protest. Well, Phinuphus certainly had his to say.

"It is not right, Szazah." Phinuphus folded his arms, looking down at him with a cold defiance. "It is by the meddling of a meek and mean man that you do this. You will do what when The Tengu arrives; coach him from a stinking barstool so that when Dripood and he come to blows, each swing will come all the heavier for your keeping their pots to a simmer? And you, clinging to every cup as though it is your last friend, listless as a dandelion in my fur and for what?"

Phinuphus turned on a heel, gesturing to the surrounding camp as he ranted on and began pacing around his companions and their leader. "Taken with the wrong turns this Moving is a contemptible cancer in a man's mind. When are you expected to truly rest? You are poisoned by luxuries and loftiness. What man or woman can tell you who you are when they are too busy asking or telling you what to do? Hard journey is a better respite. You truly think your best place is here, growing more impotent by the day?" The beastkin finally turned to look at Szazah again, barking capybara irritation, "HNNNOHHH lion lying in wait should indulge in the torpor of their pack. What good does this do you or the rest of us?"

The Moving
The Departure

Reed straightened from his hunched over state, having nearly picked up Leouric’s broadsword. The blind Raksha intercepted the light-footed Blood Son who had attempted to stab him while he had been momentarily distracted. For being blind, she demonstrated in fluid movements and with powerful strikes that she was hardly handicapped. As Reed walked around the front of Kheluz, he gazed upon the dragonoid that had plunged eagerly into combat and into the chest cavity of the Son who had thrown his axe at him. His strength had forced Onion Head and the Fat One both to the ground. The Fat One whimpered as her hands pawed at the mud that gushed between her fingers. She scrambled out from under Onion Head and rose to her feet as sheets of mud tumbled from her quivering breasts and belly. Reed once again rested his hand on the arm of Glosgnir and stared down the remaining Sons who were starting to back off. They realized that they were outnumbered, and it seemed that the old man, Old Blood, had taken over the clan in Leuoric’s place. With not only the paladin’s comrades against them, but The Moving authorities, Old Blood knew the battle was lost regardless if they could win.

Old Blood said nothing. His jaw tensed behind the curtain of white hair that hung from his lips and chin. He silently gave Reed a fierce stare that had said enough. They would meet again. Old Blood turned with his fellow Sons and they fled the camp with the guards chasing them. The following hour on Reed’s end was spent watching the guards detain those Sons who had survived. Leouric had miraculously survived but not without several cracked ribs. His breathing would never be the same.

By the time Reed mounted his diremane without a thank you to those who had involved themselves—he hadn’t asked for their aid—there was another conflict. It was between Dark Elves and the Raksha. At this point, he wasn’t surprised. Ever since she had brought a dead man to a meeting, the blind feline wasn’t as innocent or feeble as she appeared. She was more of a magnet for trouble than he was. The Capybkin and his liability boy joined the group, along with the only human besides himself. The party was assembled and it was Szazah who would send them away with not well wishes but more of his drunken dribble. Every time the man spoke, Reed had to ask himself why he had even gotten involved. The warlord was not going with them. As he spoke of a Tengu, Reed wondered if Szazah had drunk himself into a stupor because he knew the threat that was approaching like an ominous storm was one he might not survive (it was an attempt to make him seem less like an outright drunk and more noble at least).

There was nothing to talk about. Even as the Capybkin spoke his protest, Reed felt that the beast’s words were a waste. The man had made up his mind, and the paladin believed that Szazah’s decision would have still been the same even if he were sober. Reed chirped a sound that commanded Kheluz to move. The black horse started away from the group. His heavy hooves thudding upon the muddy earth.

Summary: Reed is on the move.

“Wonderful…just wonderful” Hamelyn scoffed providing an ample slow clap to emphasize the lack of enthusiasm he had for the messy show. An event that they would not have the time to stick around to clean up. “If you’re done entertaining yourselves with this wasteful conflict, perhaps we can move along to rediscover something more useful?’”

Hamelyn found his head shaking. With a deep breath the warrior slowly moved towards the fallen enemies. He examined the bodies. Nothing particularly had stood out. Before him were a number of fallen enemies. None of which had he slain. None of which would he lose sleep over nor have regrets. Perhaps those that did would have no regrets either. Those people would be fools. The apotheoses does not reward foolishness. Nor will they provide quarter for the wasted energy or time. The forces of “evil” were still barreling down upon the encampment.

”You damned fools…” Hamelyn cursed looking towards the Capybara beastman, “You haven’t the faintest clue of the weight that Szazah carries on his shoulders.” The hulking warrior slowly meandered through the the fallen bodies, carefully placing his feet upon the bloodsoaked ground purposefully avoiding the bodies. ”If Szazah were to come with us he would be nothing more than a liability. At least here with the moving, his expertise can be exploited before his inevitable demise.”

Hamelyn took one final look over at all of the individuals that were supposed to be involved with this mission. Those who had taken it upon themselves to end the lives of those who could have potentially add bodies to the frontlines. A sorry bunch, or so he thought. It would be a long and arduous journey. A journey that this ragtag group of individuals may not be capable of completing.

The warrior watched as another sauntered by him, exiting the camp without a second glance. Hamelyn would follow suit uttering but a few words.

“Ti shio nomenes svaust jika re woari.”

The words of Raux’s master echoed through her head. She took the lesson to heart in the past, and is now relaying such valuable wisdom onto an unwilling student. The lesson? Pain is an excellent teacher. Though subtle, she gave the poor fool a fair warning. Her choice of wording, describing herself as a cornered animal, or prey, was meant as a soft hint to not be taken so lightly. And it seems that the age of a dark elf, not that she’d know he’s a dark elf, did not grant such wisdom.

One by one her fist struck home with a sickening crack. She smelt blood in the air. She felt droplets that had been sprayed from lacerations she created. After one final strike, she planted her arm into the grass and flipped her body through the air to reposition herself. She was no longer straddling the man,but instead was positioned hovering over his head with a fist raised high for one final and fatal blow. The muscles in her arm quivered with energy as she drew on her full strength.

But the fist did not fall. The sound of quick feet and shuffling instilled a moment of hesitation. The sounds of pitiful struggling was quick to completely capture the beastkin’s attention. Her fist lowered and her head lifted. Her ears frantically swiveling to pick up the disturbance's direction. That was when she heard a voice. Talk of someone’s execution. Raux had quickly clutched the drow, who kindly introduced himself as Sorna by the throat and prepped to raise him for ransome for the captive’s lives. But… that seemed unnecessary. She felt him struggle, and heard a hand raise into the air.

This… was a moment in her life if any where she hated her blindness. He could not see what he was doing, and instinct forced her to raise a hand and quickly clutch the arm. Normally… she’d waste no time in breaking it. But the feeling of the muscles felt completely off. Was he not reaching for a knife? Her jaws parted in a look of bewilderment, and frustration. Her body quivered with adrenaline and the anticipation of an assault… but nothing came. Instead she only heard a sigh of relief. Did the men back off? She smelt no fresh blood being drawn, the air did not taste anymore of iron, and there were no sounds of choking gasps of air.

Raux, unable to completely discern the situation, set her jaws and released the defeated drow. A sign of mercy, choosing not to destroy a possible threat for what might be a display of kindess. She rose to her feet, and gave the bloodied gentleman a bow. A sign of respect. Despite the pummeling, a fight was still a fight, and he had displayed honor by openly challenging him. Even if she had killed him, he would not forget him, and she’d bury him herself.

She lifted herself and her staff from the ground, and turned her nose towards the grew of thugs and the two girls. She gave a sniff. They all smelled strongly of salt, water, and baked skin. All of them were men of the sea. She couldn’t identify any of them apart, as not a one had spoken a word. She sighed, and shook her head. Two individuals in this mass were nearly in danger, this wasn’t something she would be allowed to ignore.

She craned her head and spoke out. Her voice was soft, and spoke of a gentleheart somewhere despite the brutal display. But it carried through the air very clearly, and with the charisma of a priest’s apprentice. “To those whom’s executions were waylaid, you are welcome to come with me at the price of simply stating your name. You may find me odd, but at least a small step up from your current company. Anyone who wishes to stop them from chosing their own fate, I will personally relieve of and strangle you with your intestines. That is no threat, it is a promise.”

With that she spun on her heels and felt her way back to the group, with both scent and touch. And when she retuned, she had found that there were new additions. The capybkin who was trying to convince the warlord to come. And a man who’s behavior was nostalgic and inspired homesickness. He reminded her heavily of one of her caretaker’s and master’s back in the monestary. A shrewd and blunt man who disliked screwing around. The Raksha couldn’t help but feel embarassed. Her ears spun and laid flat on her skull as she looked away.

It wasn’t their fault that some lot decided to attack a group she decided to follow without permission. Soon she looked up when she heard two leave. She took a sniff in the air… the man who had scolded them, and the one dressed in a full harness on horse back. She turned back to the capybkin, and slowly tilted her head.

“My sincerest apologies for stepping out of line, and speaking over matters I have no knowledge of. But I am afraid that persuasion only works on those who wishes to be persuaded. I can not see his face… but his scent… his scent and heartbeat is that of a man who’s been defeated in a war not possible in the physical realm. I do not believe mere words will persuade him. This is a wound he'll need to heal himself.”

Phinuphus looked between Raux, Szazah, and his parting companions. There was no swaying the man. The ranger could talk all he liked of what Phinuphus did not know of the warlord's condition and load; what the two of them might've been able to put together of Szazah wasn't half of the drink-soaked stone that made up the his face. Raux's counsel, too, rang true. There was nothing for it. Phinuphus huffed and leaned down to pull Szazah into a hug, firm and all-encompassing like a parent holding a child, each trying to remind the other that they were not alone. Szazah grunted, though it wasn't clear whether he was discomforted or affronted. As best he could he half-heartedly tried to return the embrace, his arms brely able to circle the capybkin's torso.

"Do not let Dripood tie your heart under his fin. Meekminnow knows no god's grace." Phinuphus whispered, giving Szazah a final squeeze before he let the man go. Phinuphus backed away, falling to all fours and not looking away from the Szazah as he stood there, slack from drink and gloom. It was like watching the last scraps of a hot meal sink into a mire. It was the first time Phinuphus' iron had wavered about the nature of their journey.

It is not enough to stay by motherwater.

Phinuphus chittered, kneeling forward briefly for Cheed to climb onto his back. The boy looked solemn, as uneasy as his big bear of a master. With his child atop him, Phin strode forward, finding his roadstep and trotting by Szazah as he made for the north gate.

Raux said nothing more, only listened. She disliked reminding people that there were certain things that they had no power over. And though she could not actually see it, she knew what particular actions were by sounds. They always varied from person to person, but the basis was always the same. She heard what sounded like a hug, an intimate moment between sorrow filled friends that did not last long enough. The corner of her mouth dipped down when she began to think about the journey she decided to join. When the last formalities were exchanged, Raux gave Szazah a bow, and slowly spun on her heels. She waited for the sounds of heavy footsteps to just barely pass her before following along, the end of her staff feeling the ground for anything that might cause her to trip.

Phinuphus's breath did not quicken at all with the pace he set, barely faster than the horse's trot that had lead. They would meet their companions in a few minutes, but it gave Phinuphus time to cool. And talk.

"Michael teaches us to look inward. So too does Anomandaris. There, Michael says, we find strength. Anomandaris, too, holds that within we find purpose. Sister sermons and proverbs abound. But we are of a different blood from soft-skins." Each sentence was thrust quietly into evening chill, gusts of heat churning in the twilight.

Raux's ears perked, though she smiled softly, and listened. She was no fool, she knew what she was to the eyes of her kin. But it was welcome to find a voice that held some understanding despite the reservations.

"And together, they formed bonds," Raux hummed softly, remembering a detail that was often left out. "A companionship that is interpreted differently from mind to mind. Master and slave. Owner and pet. Or friend and friend."

Behind her blindfold her eyes went half-lidded while her head canted to the side. Her tone was soft, but she held that smile. "Though blind I am, I know what we are now. I asked questions about my own existence to my masters who graciously took me in. What am I. What color am I. I was a creature mysterious to myself~."

"And you are not mysterious now?" Phinuphus quipped.

The raksha stuck out her tongue. It was a playful gesture as evidence by the humor in her tone, "I am blind yet I've traveled further alone than most with functional eyes. And I still do not know if I am concidered beautiful or ugly."

Cheed giggled, flopping his legs forward and back with enthusiasm. Phinuphus was not as easy a mark though.

"A Michaelite for certain, cat. But I was not leading you to litany. Friend and friend for certain, cat... but the world around them shaped how they saw one another. Beauty in the eye cheapens beauty in the nostrils... the sweetness of hindequarters and the sour of the gland. The texture of strange fur against one's own, and all the songs of life. Michael trusts his fellow man... and too, trusts his dog. But Anomandaris knows Michael by scent and sound and keener senses still. You think it knowledge you lack? You think you blind?"

Raux's head turned slowly towards Cheed when she heard a giggle. A small curisoity that she had seemingly missed. But her gaze lowered to Phinuphus with a hint of curisoity on her muzzle. But she turned her head back to the path once more. Her mood still not dampened. She gave the ground a hard tap with her staff. Her ears flicking as it picked up the many vibrations in the air. Finally, she raised her staff up and rested it on her shoulders.

"Perhaps not as blind as I often portray, as I still sense the world. Only differently," her head rolled back to look to the sky for some reason, though she couldn't see a thing. Then back to the ground. "But I do not deny that I lack knowledge." She looks to back to the Capybkin with a thoughtful grin. "Perhaps I could tell you that I am young, barely a few years older than the age of consent. And I have not see what the world could offer, nor the wisdom experience brings. But... you are no fool. No one could openly claim such a thing directly themselves."

"The truth is... I feel that I lack... wisdom. I do not know how or why."

"Tankin says wisdom is the valley between all mountains." Cheed interjected, mirth still in his voice. He took another bite of hardmeal, talking through his food. "Climf wif foolf, painff with filofoferf, or -gulp- walk with friends."

Phinuphus let the boy's words hang there, but he could not hide the prideful stiffness that weighted his next several steps. He sniffed loudly, very pleased.

Raux shifted her quartstaff from her shoulders, to under her arm. Her freehand moved to rub her chin as she not only contemplates the words. But also contemplates the child. "Mmm.... it seems that you've adopted a young one," The Raksha lifted her nose and gave the air a small sniff. "Human, as well. You've taught him well."

"Yes... this confounding rascal of an orphan is called Cheed." Phinuphus spat, affecting his usual irritation for the boy, who chortled into his hand. "I have given up foiling his tendency to snoop and spy, and so he has stolen the point of my rambling. We try lead our friends from mountain peaks even when they are fully kitted for the journey--even when they have climbed the same peak before. And Szazah is not well."

Phinuphus stopped then, turning to look at Raux for the first time, and sniffing the air as his long face seesawed up and down to take in the shape of her.

"Michael does teach that a man can heal himself in time. But no man does so during a mountain climb. No breastkin either. Anomandaris gave us the sense to trust motherwater or fieldwarmth or whatever cradles each of our senses best. What senses gave Michael his children?"

Raux seemingly remained quiet for some time as she contemplated the answer. Her tail twitched softly with each step she made, she was likely to let seconds go into minutes if she remained in such a state. But a tiny voice in her head whispered softly to her, to which she shook her head. Her smile had faded into a contemplative purse of the lips. "Michael does not provide such senses. But gives men ideals..." she hummed softly. "I do not doubt that I am a child of Anomandaris upon my birth. But my orphan background had brought me to the hands of Michael. These ideals brought me some amount of curiosity. The monks taught that these ideals are not defined by the mouth of Micheal himself, but by the man that seeks some value in his life. Values created by fears, longings, morality, and emotions."

Values created by man, elf, dwarf and dragon.

Phinuphus turned to walk again, silent as he lead them on, a bit faster to make up for the distance opened between their two groups. Presently, he spoke, no longer the master to a prospective apprentice, but for the first time the old and weary hill. "Ideals are the peaks, girl. Men strand themselves all the time upon them, lonely heights where every friendly face is hidden by clouds and all the world lies below for creatures born to two-leggedness, with flesh desperate for second skins against the cold and sheer winds. If Szazah makes his way down from that peak, with bastards like Rripp to hound him... bah... it is not right, this thing."

The feline's smile returned. Her tail waving back and forth in a metronome fashion. "But that... is what makes me curious. I... do not fully understand it... but I desire to. The ideals that Michael allows men to create... is quite a curious thing. Those whom are weak, could not defend themselves from the natural laws - which states that if you are strong enough to take something, it is yours. Yet... they saw strength in numbers. They formed societies based on ideals to protect their own lives and their pocessions. But... with time these ideals grew more complicated. The ideals of beauty lead artist to capture it with paint. The ideals of honor created knights. The ideals of power... created kings, conflicts, and murders."

Lest we forget ants and bees, says Nalfgyr.

She glances to Phinuphus, "The ideals are just that. Ideals. Perfection. Something we are not meant to strive for, yet men do it anyways to a feverish degree."

Phinuphus wiggled his nose in thought as they kept on, letting the silence between them thicken, taking time to taste the air and the wind. "Am I the first of our blood you will have ever traveled with?"

Raux gave a brief nod. "You are correct. I've only had two companions prior. A bard who's race I couldn't identify, but was not covered in fur. And a dying human."

"Then we shall take our time in the valley, friend and friend." Phinuphus said, and broke into a fast trot, leading them steadily to rejoin their companions.

Summary: Phinuphus and Raux take their leave of The Moving

Believe not the tales of Gundwain Sahfal, noted writer or the March of the Shadowwald , popular Fiction, concerning the fabled Shadowwald. While this text is a best seller, heralded as collector items, for their secretive excerpts for a select few, regaling buyers in stories of extra adventures that had befallen those marching few, it must be said they are patently false. A writer, if we must call him up from his status, sometimes has to embellish a tale to earn a bit of gold, if his other works are not providing.

March of the Shadowwald is one such work, written by a writer who has turned to sensationalism - to hyperbole - to resurrect a career that was deemed snake bitten from the start. The stoic lead, Goren Joquinal, is attractive to readers, as it plays on many other prominent character traits found in even more popular texts; the quiet, attractive rebel who gained fame in a shocking manner. The amassed army of loyal, disgruntled followers that united behind a common banner, and finding a home for themselves. It hits on all emotional levels, but the fact is, Goren's tale was not one of truth, and if it was, then the entire elven kingdom has been forbidden from talking about it.

The truth of The March is this, if Goren was a factual member of the kingdom, then he became a traitor and should not be celebrated, his name, as it seems to have rightful been, should be exiled from all tongues, and forgotten. For Sahfal, who was birthed to charlatons in their own right, to portray him as some folk hero, who lay with the Queen, is tantamount to him promoting treasonous action against ones own.

As curator of Elven history, my station allows me access to the most hidden secrets of the Kingdom, and as Elven Born, these tales were told to deter children from disobeying, for it ended all the same. Not with a home found, but a marker - unblessed by El'I, and ungraced by the Queen, as would have befitted his station.





Unbeknownst to the Moving, travelling northward would likely place any well meaning adventures, or cast off exiles, in the path to the Lawless Ones. Unofficially, they were no known group, their chain of command virtually unknown to any who hadn't visited the village before. They were all troublemakers, those who could make no home for themselves anywhere else. There were tales, rumors really, of odd ongoings, a sound that really never stopped. Commotion.

What the town was, was a converted abandoned village. Windows were boarded up, shops formerly closed now opened with lazily, mistrustful owners. Constant struggle for rights to squat in a town whose owner no longer walked the path of Allaria, but lay slumbering beneath a makeshift grave if insufficient depth and regard. Occupied by the most unsavory of the criminal element, they dealt in the likes of work that was sanctioned by the Council, and many of the towns around Allaria, as illegal. They made their living on murder for hire, theft, blackmail, kidnapping. Their walks of life were vastly different, and yet, not at all. Some were groomed for the life, taken in by one cult or another, by a ruffian with a penchant for turning small children into hoodlums.

As it were, Gretchen Vandum, headed up the town now. A menacing pirate, who was headed towards a famed career before being forced inland in this cold excuse for a living. There were things out in that sea now, gigantic things, and things she did not want to have to deal with. She'd seen it with her own eyes, my turned living in all it's undead glory.

She had become used to the rabble that had begun calling this place home. It was an easy task becoming something like a mayor, especially when order was something loose and ill fitting in its previous form. Her time as a captain lent to her credibility, and within a fortnight, she had taken over.

There were varying scouts roaming the cold out perimeter, watching for approaching parties. Their goal was simple, to rob or kill trespassers. Who would look for them in the cold, scarcely explored north, where the snow blinded even the most skilled of would be mountaineers?

Their new leader was intelligent, she grouped them by fives and sent out at least three scouting parties. They married well, each skill suited to benefit the other to maximize their effectiveness. Whomever happened upon them scarcely returned with a happy tale, should they have returned at all. Snow white furs of creatures protected them from both the cold and easy detection, making their orders easier to carry out.

One such group now stalked the land in front of explorers from The Moving , though this was not known to them. Would they processed diplomatic or aggressive, these lawless few has mere hours to decide.

It had been only some small amount of time since Raux and the other beastkin monk had ended their conversation. Curiously, she found herself wondering on her own existance once more. Not over an existential questions like she had in the past, about what she was… or what she looked like. But more over what the monk had meant when he asked her if she thought she was blind. It was a strange question to ask. If she were to remove the wraps from her eyes, and open them. She’d see nothing.

Well… that was not entirely true. There were some things she -could- see. And not by senses, but with her eyes. She could not see the trees, people, animals, or any other objects. But she could see… something when she looked up towards the sky. In an endless void were an array of speckles that breaks up the dominating dark mass. She’d call them stars… if only by the description of what she was told about them. Vibrant, beautiful, and always fixed in place. Yet these specs cared not for the time of day.

She’d always find new ones hovering over places she’d deem important. Or something that she’d like to visit again in the future. And that often meant that a city had a small cluster of ‘stars’ over them that can be seen in the horizon.

Her whiskers twitched as her thoughts finally ran away from her… bringing her back to reality. It was nice to have companions again in traveling. But.. unlike the delightful company of the bard she had been with previously. This lot seemed short spoken, grim faced, and not likely to speak unless spoken too. So… she quickly hurried up to the large creature and asked for a lift.

When it was granted, she had an akward climb up. One reason...was that she had never climbed on something’s back. Two… she had completely mispredicted how large the capybikin was, and managed to slam her own muzzle into his side. But eventually, she had clambered up after feeling his body for a moment to guage his height… and to appreciate the solid mass along with fluff.

A moment later, and she had the lute out that her old companion had given her. She strummed through several notes at once… and allowed them to drift through the air. Her ears flickered as she listened to each of the notes, ready to tune what ever did not sound correct. However… she paused when a note returned to her a bit distorted. She remained silent… and soon she heard additional footsteps. She pursed her lips… but played a song anyways.

The air was alive with an energetic song that sought only to break the silence… if only for a few minutes. And when the song was finally over… she listened once more. There were those footsteps again… but… it sounded like thre was another pair. Wandering away?

“Be advised, my companions,” she hummed softly as she continued to play her song. “I hear footsteps that do not belong to any of us. We’re not alone.”