The sea breathed and sighed, twinkling in the light of the first-quarter moon. Little waves splashed and foamed, racing up the perfect beach in fans of glittering saltwater, leaping and hissing over the still forms of those who were left of the Legend's Forgery.

The ocean stretched on forever, to the perfect line of the horizon where it greeted the starry sky. There was no sign of ship nor flare.

The beach was long, white and barren -- miles of gentle, breathing waves and undisturbed sand, glinting in the moonlight.

In the far distance to the southwest, at what appeared to be the end of the shoreline, faraway firelight burned high in the dark sky, reminiscent of a lighthouse.

To the northeast, the end of the shoreline was far closer. Something yellow and shimmering glowed there, like an illuminated gemstone in the sky, but nothing more could be made out -- at least, not from the beach.

The sand became dunes on higher ground, then ended abruptly at a gradual rocky incline. There was no vegetation among the rocks save a few patches of rugged moss, and no indication that anything living had come by here in quite a long while -- except the distinct bleating noise of goats, just beyond the crest of rocks.

The low clatter of an approaching tin bell heralded the arrival of a small white goat over the top of the rocky incline. Its hooves clattered on the stones, and it paused a moment to raise its bearded head to scan the shore through long eyelashes, its little tail swinging. It shoved its chin forward, the tin bell at its throat jangling, and bleated again.

From atop the spiraled staircase, the foyer below brimmed with life. The circular stained glass window shattering sunlight and throwing manic specks of color across those in attendance. The stone walls warm to the touch and inlaid with shelf upon shelf of tomes, maps, curios and keepsakes. The well worn floorboards shined to a mirror despite the treads of all walks of life carved into their fibers. Visionaries, diplomats, mauraders, preists, all men were equal in Fort Draleth. A man cannot control the content of his character but rather the merit of his action. Man is strong when he chooses to be. Man is weak when he allows himself to be. These were the guiding tenants of High Lord Varric Draleth II, son of High Lord Commander Varric Draleth the Greater and father of the foppish dandy atop the stairs.

"Gentlemen, I do hope you'll excuse me for just one moment." Kind grey eyes cooled to steel as they climbed the spiraled steps to his son's. "Varric, if you are intent to pry into family affairs then I will be more than happy to put you to work. If you would kindly, come entertain our guests while I see to theae documents."

Red face and shaling hands trotted down flights, smirking faces illuminating his path as men clad in ornate robes awaited the fruits of this intrusion smugly. "Varric the Lesser, I presume." The boy did not answer, did not look, did not dare breathe until he had reached the raised platform near the back of the foyer.

Eyes fixed on the harp before him, the boy choked out his rehearsed introduction. "If it should please those gathered, House Draleth welcomes all in attendance with a melody carried in the hearts of all who share our blood, a song that has been passed down since the Crusades of High Lord Commander Varric the Greater, Patriarch of our House and Loyal Hand of the King." Before his esteemed guests could interject, the boy began to play.

Shoulders eased against the strings. Fingers collapsed through notes of time. Steady. Ease trickled from his brow as the men disappeared. The foyer fell away until only the large window remained. The filtered light danced merry and gay through the brimming stained glass. Shards colored and shards spectacular, cut in such exquisite majesty. The image of his grandfather carved into glistening sun. Brave. Noble. His warm armor beaming unto the boy. From amidst the shelves, a voice spoke.

"You've been practicing."

The boy continued, a slight smile creeping through his polished veneer. It was subtle but he knew Father was proud. The man approached, his smile widening. The men in turn began to smile. As the music softened to silence, their death mask grins remained. Varric stood in stunned silence as their faces contorted. Their mouths opened wide, wider than any mortal could achieve. The screams were deafening as the sick crunch of bone gave wave to the rush of water. Frothing and tinged red from the blood, water burst forth from the three men's mouths, their eyes, their ears, all senses taken by the rushing water. The men as fountains, filling the foyer almost immediately, maps ruined in the the tide, books floating aloft desperately trying to save stories yet untold.

Panic gripped him as Varric tried desperately to stay above the coming flood. Pushing hard against the swirling current, his vision of his father obscured by the welling water, he kicked hard against the churning sea. Violent waves pushed him this way and that as he found himself surrounded on all sides by water, ever rising. Where was the fort? Where was his father? His body lamented as ragged breath and sea water clashed in his lungs, his strength waning swiftly as the sea continued to rise. As he tried desperately to scream out, to call for someone, anyone, to save him only the sea responded-its deafening waves crashing down his throat and sending him to the dark below.

* * *

With a gasp, the ornate wooden man creaked back to life, water and bile retching from his lungs to the sandy shore he lay sprawled upon. His vision was blurry and his breathing was ached with constant choking and cursing. Utterly undignified. As the assault subsided, Lord Varric remained prone in the sand as his vision cleared. All around him were strewn bodies and scraps of hull. The ship was gone. The fort was gone. Varric felt a weight in his chest as he turned from the scene before him.

"And so I die."

His fists clenched. His legs stood. It was unspeakable.

A man of his stature, a master of man and beast, to die atop some pockmarked shoreline in the eye of the abyss. What cruel fate was this? What manner of foul luck? To be destroyed so completely by a foe one could not confront. It was unspeakable! His wobbling knees steeled themselves, his breath once a pale green now shone red in the moonlit night.

Storming across the beach he cursed and berated the bodies cast haphazardly about the waves. You imbeciles! You guttural disappointments! You've run ashore and all died and left ME to pick up your scraps!

With a grunt, Varric lifted his ruined robe and ushered a swift kick into one of the corpses, a crooked specimen with unnatural proportions to its limbs and a primate's brow. Fumes of hopelessness and petulance steamed from Varric as he paced between the dead until a loud bleating tore him from his own concerns.

"Well."

He sighed and stared defeated at his new guest.

"At least there's food."

Last night was little more than a blur. As Liliana came to, a series of unconnected images flooded her mind. None of them really gave a clue as to the given situation however. Shifting a bit in what she soon discovered to be sand, the young woman thought for a moment. What happened? From what she could recollect, she had gotten piss - drunk in the lower holds of the ship with some of the crewmen and played her mandola until she blacked out. So why was she on a... beach? None of it had made sense to her.

Liliana pushed herself up, groaning as she fought to leverage herself on the moist ground below. She gave a preliminary look around her immediate surroundings, gasping as she soon saw that her instrument was missing. Suddenly, the girl's blurred vision straightened out and there was only one thing on her mind. She began shuffling forward, looking amongst wreckage for her prized possession. Having some trouble in the dark, she had to get close to each and every object.

Luckily, she did not have to search long before coming across the wooden instrument, which conveniently lay next to her pack and other belongings. It seems that these things did not trail too far away from her. A smirk curled upon Liliana's lips as she thought about an old saying involving small miracles. She grabbed at her pack, hefting the straps onto her shoulders, and grabbed at the wood instrument, giving the strings a few experimental strums in order to test if the device had been damaged.

Suddenly, the musician became more aware of her surroundings. She realized that the objects and wreckage she searched through had once belonged to the ship and... human like figures dotted the beach as well. The girl pursed her lips and stood silently, thinking about her next move. If the ship had sunk, then where was she? Was there anyone left alive on this beachhead? She prayed that civilization hang in the distance.

Upon further inspection of the horizon line, this proved to be true, as lights were on either side of the beach's end. She didn't pay much attention to these, however, as her attention was suddenly drawn to the bleat of a goat nearby. She grinned at this, imagining how her rescuer happened to be her first meal as well. Taking a deep breath, the girl collected herself and began moving toward the source of the noise, instrument in hand.

The traveler strummed at the mandola, creating a soft tune that echoed out among the beach. She played a repetition of a short note pattern, keeping the tune simple at best. The girl hummed as she walked and did this, staring off into the distance as she slowly approached the calling animal.

Just before she had reached the goat's location, Liliana spotted another figure standing and immediately called out to them. Should the stranger have seen her on the ship previously, they would probably notice that Liliana is actually cleaner after being exposed to the water.

"Heya, you made it off the boat too, ya? How's 'bout a drink about it, yeah? Figure out what we're doin'!", the young woman loudly spoke as she approached the stranger. He was a man standing nearly six feet tall, wearing delicate but soaked robes. She smiled brightly, ending the song that she had played with a violent strum of the strings before flipping the instrument over her shoulder by the strap. She immediately grabbed at her waist, pulling her flask off the band and opening it up for a swig.

"Here, take a drink. Looks like we uh-... were in some trouble, yeah? Dunno' how it went down but it ain't good, huh. Lookin' 'fer society ain't a bad idea here soon either", the girl uttered before taking another drink and then offering it to the man in front of her. She kept flashing her teeth in that warm smile the entire time.

"Ah- oh! I forgot to introduce m'self. They call me the Lazy! At 'yer service."

Lazy. How...bucolic.

Varric was in hell. He had died upon the ship and this was hell. Gangly beasts underfoot, scraggly and misshapen succubi sent to mock his suffering, this was hell.

A drink. A drink! Swallowed by the ocean, churned up and spat out by the gaping maw of salinity, swirled head over hind in the rip tide and the she-devil offers him a drink. No irony is as sharp or as tasteless as that of Fate herself. Varric was moments from hurling himself once more into the brine when the light of recognition blazed in his eyes. No, no, this girl had been on the ship. She was slovenly and dirty and ne'er worth his glance but he distinctly remembered her there. Something about her seemed...different. Had the refuse of the burning, bleeding Folly actually made her...cleaner?

But if she yet lived...yes, yes, then perhaps the more valuable members of the crew had survived as well. Yes, she would do for now, keep this one on the leash until a sharper pair of teeth came along. As father said, better to stand with a fair-weather friend than wade in the dark alone. Peering around, Varric reasoned he was up to his knees in it.

Lithe fingers stretched cloyingly as he took the flask from the young women. It would do nicely. I believe I do remember you. You must forgive me, amidst the dirt and the smell I mistook you for a rather emaciated sow but I see now I was mistaken. Varric smiled knowingly, a look that could equally have been sincerity or chiding jest. With resolution, he took a sip from the maligned metal in his fingers, much to his chagrin. The woman's small size belied her fortitude as the liquor conjured another coughing fit, threatening to impede on the nobleman's spiel.

Small fortune, should we happen upon a lighthouse we'll have plenty of kerosene on hand! He blinked away welling tears as he continued, offering the flask back to its owner. Unless... he said sharply, turning to pace once more, snatching the flask with him and no doubt catching her eye. That's right, listen close little bird.

Unless you intend to drown any chance we have of leaving this island in that acrid concoction. You see, I am a man of great wealth and power. My name is feared and respected far and wide. I am High Lord Varric III, will of House Draleth...and...presumably the last living heir... Varric's bravado slipped for just a moment as the realization clawed into his mind. Could he really be the last?

Ah, erm, as I was saying, I am very influential and treat my friends very well. It would seem that we are bound together whether we link it or not. So, if you believe you could be of some use to me... Varric loomed as he spoke, his lilt veiled in condescension, no matter how insignificant, -his emphatic posture returned as did his amiable tone- I see no reason we could not enter into a mutually beneficial arrangement. Varric paced nearer to the young woman, each step measured, each breath deliberate.

If you help me leave this thrice-damned isle, when I return to my family's Fortress I shall set you on official retinue and Patron your arts myself. With a flourish he stopped just before Lazy, her flask still clutched in his long pale fingers. Just think my dear, all the vile brew your distended belly can hold and all the silken strings your filthy nails could snap. We're stuck in this together anyway, you might as well get something out of it, correct?

Varric smiled warmly as he offered the flask to the woman in earnest. So then. Have we an accord?

"Shut up before I drown you," came a groan from the sand.

Everything hurt. Temp's lungs burned like fire, scrubbed raw from coughing up seawater. The young woman swiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. She spit in the sand.

Forcing herself up, Temp stood. Green clumps of seaweed hung from her body and she yanked them off with a sneer. So much for her clothes. It'd been the last set her grampa'd made for her before kicking the bucket, too. A pinprick of sadness poked at her, threatening to pierce the wall she'd built inside herself. Temp grit her teeth. She wiped her mop of hair out of her face and looked over her shoulder at the two people standing there.

They both looked familiar. The guy looked different without his polished shine and immaculate presentation, but there was no denying that stick-up-your-ass posture and the patronizing sneer. Temp tried not to be disappointed that he hadn't drowned. The girl though was easier to place. Actually, she almost looked better than when Temp had last seen her.

Flashes of last night passed through her mind. Temp had been getting drunk with the crew and some of the rowdier (funner) passengers. It'd been too long since she'd gotten drunk. Really drunk. Too many nights of playing babysitter to smashed bar rats and kicking out assholes who didn't understand 'no.' So she'd cut loose a little.

That girl… Laughy? Lucy? Temp was pretty sure the last time she'd seen her, she was doing shots off that lute thing. Then again, Temp was also fairly certain she'd gotten into a brawl with a one-armed ape, so who was she to judge?

Everyone she loved was dead, sue her.

Panic struck her then.

Evelyn

"Shit." Temp's eyes darted around the sand. There were bodies scattered around the beach. "Evelyn?" she called. "Hey, Ev!" Her voice echoed down the beach as Temp moved, trying to find the girl or her siblings. Temp kneeled down to the first body she came to. She flipped it over. Whoever it was, it wasn't Evelyn, but –

A groan. They were alive. Temp started patting at their cheek (it was really closer to slapping).

"Hey, c'mon. Storm's over. Time to wake up."

"Bliss" was the word that came to mind under this occasion - that of subtle grains pressed endearingly against his cheek, and the playful humor of the tides as they licked his toes. Somehow the world felt safer at this level, with the weight of father cosmos spread across your back and the alluring embrace of mother nature under your belly; like it was meant to be - like the heights at which men stood were too high even for themselves...like "up there", they'd lost sight of reality, of the universe itself. It was almost a pity that more people didn't embrace the security of proper altitude...

...But then again, he distinctly recalled a dislike for having to share - was that him, or some foreign soul uncaring...?

...Waves rose and sank to the guttural time of the Great Mother's wrath - lightning sneered and growled...the air reeked of a mad, churning desperation. Isaac, who stood the nest and was thus hurled into the sea? Or Etenbryte, who bolted up and down and up again with his bucket as he found himself ever closer to the realities of the Old Lord's touch? No...greed didn't suit the pale-faced boy or the wheezing veteran, as it wouldn't suit one-armed Jackson, beer-bellied Tully, wide-eyed Mereyn, two-tongued Icroft or even that wise old "Taffer". Perhaps it was that swaggering scum 'Sir' Weslyn, then? "Hmmm..."

...No, on second thought, he wasn't "greedy" - just an unscrupulous old bastard with a penchant for the debasing and cruel. And the rest would have to wait, because some foul leather had just scoffed Ifor's chin, readily disrupting his mellow grin. His eye opened, but adapted rather slowly to the environment within - probably a result of the sand it happened to be buried in.

Could you even survive such chop with a wrenched arm? Perhaps, perhaps - even if he had, well, you can only count on eluding the Black for so long: If they did find him, alive, somehow, he'd make sure to send him a second invitation to hell.

Speaking of which..."Who dud that..."

The weary roundabout grunted, leaving the soft sanctuary of the beach as he rose - bones aching, the crunch of sugar-like grains gritted between his teeth. His height stood at its usual deformity, yet his limp posture remained untouched - it had only been a little storm, after all...nothing like getting sucked into a maelstrom. A tinge of poetry caught his eye as he spied the sea-blue sands under their patron's glistening face, the flask offered by the lichen to its rightful place, the ragged vixen at her desperate pace - the glistening night yet-uneffaced, the expectation of dawn lacking its trace...the vast and unfathomable scope of the horizon's endless, enviable embrace. There were others around them, of course, but they seemed quite comfortable where they were sleeping - no use weeping, or peeping, or yet rummaging through the valuables of those outspoken dead. Not now, not yet; First must come justice, so before ALL else could even BEGIN to be said:

"...Who dud it; Who scuffed muh head?"

How she had survived she did not know but in retrospect, she mused it must have been part and parcel of her being all to fond of the drink. For the drink seemed to reciprocate her loyalty; Izzy found herself, still quite alive, atop a wine barrel knocking gently against the natural break wall of jagged rocks.

Knowing this cask could be integral to her survival, she checked herself for injury before dropping into the water to push this life-saving thing to shore. Although a bit battered and banged up, the redhead was not so much worse for wear and so she found she was strong enough to swim whilst shoving the cask with her. Mind you, the sheer thought of gouging this thing open to have a celebratory moment of indulging neath the light of the moon did invigorate and motivate her very much so.

Oh, but curse her luck once she did make it to shore. After planting a giant smooch upon the sand, she coughed out the grains from her mouth and drew one of the two remaining shiv daggers strapped to her generous and muscular thigh. The loverly cask’s top was torn open only for her to find that seawater had seeped in and spoiled her spoils. She spit out the taste of flavour worse than vinegar. In a bout of petulant rage, she stabbed futilely at the gorgeous, velvet yet completely ruined liquid until she felt better.

Upon ceasing her rage, she took several calming breaths and took stock of her next course of action. She removed all clothing, save her skivvies, and wrung them out. Setting them to dry upon one end of a large, smooth length of drift wood, she then planted her rear on the opposite end, and scanned the outlying area. Glow in the distance. Fire even further. Bell and bleating of potential food. Those things would have to wait for later to be investigated. For right now, she needed to gather things now and especially off the washed ashore bodies before they were lost in the changing tides.

Along the shore she walked, gathering what she could. Oh yes, she had noticed the others rousing and collecting together in the distance but she continued on undaunted. A huge pile of goods she had gathered, quite possibly enough to set up a proper shelter and quite possibly enough metal to fashion a machete of some kind and enough useable rigging for general purposed rope, but sadly, gunpowder and firearms were sorely lacking. And much to her surprise there were no dead bodies washed up here. That did not set her mind at ease. In fact, a little voice in her head, the childish yet cold and chilling one, whispered warnings to her.

But she kicked the little voice aside because she had found treasure. Three pieces, technically four, of them in fact. She uncorked one, clinked it to the other and took a huge swill of life-loving velvety red liquid. A most satisfactory ‘aaaaahhhhhhh…!’ she let out before clinking her bottled treasure to her other pieces of treasure; boots that actually fit her feet! Loverly ones, adorned and finely stitched at that! A lone and suspicious hand subconsciously slid down her hip until it reached the hilt of one of her shivs; no one was going to take these boots from her.

Being who she was and what she used to be, the redhead could not help but take stock of the distant figures, conversing and mingling over there in the distance. From her estimation, Izzy figured herself to be somewhere near the top tier in terms of survival if size alone was in question. The woman was tall, near six foot and full figured. Quite well muscled and fit, albeit a touch malnourished-- but what good for anything pirate was truly in fine dietary condition? A small scoff she let out when her mind caressed the word ‘pirate.’ But at any rate, she did not intend to go into physical combat with any of these. In fact, her mind began to twist into how to turn this situation to her advantage.

But the nagging voice in her mind, not the creepy, yet childish one, no, the other one; the one made of Doubt and Despair gave her good food for thought; why live when living was so devoid of life? Steely-blue eyes lowered upon that impregnation of thoughts.

“Yo ho. A pirate’s life for me…” sung out her melodic voice, in part mockery, in part consolation of her decision to sit here until either she was out of wine or until the others approached her.

And in response the universe tossed her a bone. A tricorn hat washed up ashore, just a bit beyond her reach. _{“Fine…!”}

With an exagerrated sound of disgust, Izzy strut over to the hat, wrung it out very, very aggressively, as if choking the life out of it, then when satisfied it was still dead, the redhead snugged it upon her head; of course it was a just right fit.

Long pale, yet muscular legs marched her on over to where the others had gathered. Wearing nothing but her boots, hat, underwear, matching knives and flowing red hair she stood in their midst, disregarding how close or in-your-face she was to the next person. She tossed a corked bottle upon the ground. From the uncorked one she took a swill.

“Drink. For it mayhaps be your last, mates. Oh, and for those who cannot or will not, then piss or seawater for you? Or both if it pleases you...” a hint of a smile she gave them, steely-blues glinting with unnerving confidence. Another swill she took. “oh but quite a collection gathered, have I. We should talk there if we are to talk. We may be able to defend ourselves better with the gathered loverly things, I say. And aye, ‘defend ourselves’ truly was the words out this mouth.”

A pale hand swept out at the sandy expanse before them. An effective use of the pause, then, her melodic voice broke the silence, “There are no bodies here other than the ones we ourselves possess… curious, no? But even more curious, mates…? Fire in the distance. Glows in the darks. And a four legged creature who I am quite certain was not birthed with that bell round its neck. Aye.

"Call me Izzy, if it pleases you. And if it don’t, then mate, find you in hell then…”

Another swill she took. A smile, wink and nod, she cast them. After an elegant spinning around on her boot heel, she sauntered away from them, heading back to her collection, ample hips swaying in rhythm to the beat of her own drum.

~~~

Before Legend's Forgery the biggest "ship" that Elliot had been in was a row boat for a fishing trip his Uncle had prepared for when he had just turned ten. He was completely unprepared for the scale of such a vessel as the Legend's Forgery. Compared to everything he had seen before, the landlocked young man was amazed by the ship. Unfortunately, Elliot could not afford to appreciate the Forgery fully due to the circumstances of the current pandemic.

The entire storm he clutched onto the journal he had recorded all observations he made about the plague. The ship groaned and grumbled in the storm and Elliot's heart could barely take it. The whole time he told himself that he would never ever board another ship like this in his life as soon as his feet touched soil. This would certainly be his last cruise. When he felt the ship sinking he simply closed his eyes and held onto the journal as hard as he could. Were the fates to decide this was his time to die, so be it.

---

Elliot felt cold water lapping up his feet and part of his calves. His whole entire body ached from the stress of tumbling through turbulent waters and being tossed ashore. He groaned in pain and discomfort, but kept his eyes closed. He could hear chatter around him, but he paid no mind to it while he took the time to recover his wits. Well, that would have been ideal if moments after his groan someone had not roughly smacked his cheek to wake him up.

Elliot slowly opened his eyes to woman of a rather messy appearance. He vaguely remembered her being called Temp. Elliot sat up slowly as the stinging feeling lingering on his cheek helped distract him away from the pain the rest of his body felt. He rubbed his cheek in an attempt to soften the feeling and looked at Temp.

"Thanks."

He scanned the area quickly and noticed one important thing was missing: his journal. His eyes shot wide open fully alert. "Uh, have you seen my journal?"

He imagined that no one would think of a journal as important for their survival, but those recordings of the plague could be saved for the future in order to save lives. Mentioning it now seemed like a waste of time.

He shook his head. "Sorry, bad question."

Elliot got to his feet and looked around one more time. The journal was nowhere to be seen. There were several other survivors, however the beach was entirely barren besides them. Several points of light caught his eyes and he stared at each of them for a few moments each. Firelight meant there likely was going to be people. Possibly other survivors. Possibly natives. The yellow light he saw to the north felt unnatural, however documenting and learning about such a phenomena could prove worthwhile. If he walked along the shore he could possibly find the journal washed up somewhere, but he knew the odds of recovering it were small.

He then turned his attention to the others. There appeared to be a discussion as to what to do next. For now he had nothing to add to the conversation, and he simply waited and watched. Two questions echoed in the back of his mind: where were they? What did they need to know to survive here?

The first thing Thomas heard was the sound of waves, gently lapping on the shore. He smiled, although his head was pounding and his face was half-buried in the sand. All the pain seemed very far away, and he was alone in the darkness with that lovely sound. When he was a child, the sound of waves had always helped him sleep. Then he remembered where he was.

Commander Thomas Drennerson rose from the sand like a man possessed, splashing in the shallow water and staggering to his feet in the span of a few seconds. He fumbled at his hip and felt to his relief that his sword was still there - it was exquisitely made, a parting gift from Captain Archibald and probably worth more than he was. His musket, of course, was nowhere to be found, though admittedly the powder would have been soaked even if he'd managed to keep his grip on it in the mess. Still, he shouldn't have lost it. Stupid.

The details of the wreck came flooding back to him. He'd been on deck with the other 'official' personnel, clinging to the railing by the helm and trying his level best not to get in anyone's way. The sea had churned and tossed, threatening to spill the ship and all the souls in Thomas' charge into the depths below. In a long life of impotence and irrelevance, Thomas had never known more clearly what it was to be useless.

At the very least, he wasn't alone. There were other survivors on the beach not far from him - he could hear them talking just over the sound of the waves. Even still, his first instinct was to slink away from them, or to rush over and hope that one of them would tell him what to do, but neither was an option. As the last proud soldier of Gleifast, it was still his duty to protect these people - as best he could.

He staggered over to them, trying to keep a proud bearing despite his waterlogged uniform. He recognized a few from the ship; there was the scholar with the birthmark, the freckled girl in the tie, the lord that always seemed to be scowling at him... and a nearly naked redhead swigging from a bottle. Oh, god, he was staring. They had all almost died and he was staring. He shook his head and cleared his throat, and spoke in what was supposed to be a voice of calm authority but which came out as more of a robotic whine,

"The Gleifast Army Disaster Response Checklist: Step One, Secure Perimeter. Step Two, Establish Chain of Command. Step Three, Establish Contact with Friendly Forces. Step Four, Regroup with Friendlies. Step Five, Repeat." He coughed, still spitting up seawater, and scrunched his brow when he remembered that he was supposed to identify himself first in these situations. "Private Thomas Drennerson, acting Commander of the Gleifast Army, Military Attache to the Legend's Forgery." He trailed off again. "Um... don't worry. Everything's... going to be... fine."

Why was she naked? And why was she standing so close to where Temp was crouched?! Temp looked up at her but – nope nope nope, mistake. Looking up at the naked person was a mistake.

Temp's face was on fire. She blinked, very pointedly looking at the ground. The guy she'd slapped awake asked her something. Temp tried to fight her embarrassment – no, Temp was not embarrassed, she didn't get embarrassed, she –

Ah, fuckin hell.

"Sorry, bad question."

"Yeah, no shit," she muttered to him. She didn't know what the question was, but yeah. Whatever he'd said, it was probably wrong. There was no right thing to say when they'd been dumped on some beach after running from a plague, everyone they knew dead or dying. Evelyn's siblings flitted through her mind. Shit, she'd said she'd look out for them. Pain shot through her gut.

The naked person had walked away. Temp shoved herself to her feet when some half-drowned soldier type came scrambling up. Temp raised an eyebrow at his declaration.

"Yeah? What, you gonna solve everything for us, Military Atache? Fix up the ship and tuck us in at night? Kiss our boo-boos?" Temp snorted. Bending, she swiped up the bottle of what looked like piss-bad swill that'd been dropped beside her. Flicking off the cork, she took a swig. God, it was shit. But, booze was booze.

"Have fun talking in circles."

She turned and started marching after the naked girl – no not after the naked girl. She was going… towards the lights. Yeah. Obviously. Lights meant people. People meant not dying.

Liliana looked over Varric with scrutinizing eyes, as if to get a second impression of the man after he had spoke. She only brought herself to chuff at the man and swiped her flask back from his hands. The musician took another long swill of the alcoholic beverage before closing the leatherskin and returning it to her side. Where there was once a smile was now a frown.

"I 'unno who ya' think ya' talkin' to, 'yer lordship, but my folk don't subscribe to 'yer ideas of caste...", the girl said mockingly. She said this with venom, blowing hot alcoholic breath at the man, clearly hotheaded about Varric's choice of words. Yet, as she trailed off, her voice became softer and she seemed to lighten up. In fact, a sharp grin had started to form upon her lips.

"Bet I could slit ya' neck if I wanted, y'know that? Maybe just take what gold ya' got on ya' right now", she said before erupting into a fit of laughter.

"I'm kiddin'! If'n 'yer true to 'yer word, I wouldn't mind takin' a job. Say, how ya' figure 'yer gonna' be able to do that if back home is ridden with plague feistier than pig guts?", Liliana pondered momentarily, "Hells, for all we know, this here island ain't too bad."

Suddenly, her attention was cut from the lord and turned to the other survivors who had began meandering along the beach. She moved her body to face the others, and gave them a warm greeting with a hasty wave of her hands. She might have appeared frantic and in need of help if it weren't for the huge smile on her face.

"Oi oi! Looks like we got ourselves a crew! The lackadaisical Lazy is at 'yer service, friends!", Liliana let out as she flipped her mandola to the front of her body and into her hands. She began strumming and hefted her pack a bit with some shoulder moving. Spotting the two making way to investigate the nearby light, the traveler decided that they were taking the best course of action. She would have to properly introduce herself to the others later. Liliana soon found herself stomping toward the women, singing as she played the wooden instrument in hand.

"From the maelstrom of knowledge, into the labyrinth of doubt! The ocean has called, so salty and stout~"

Golde coughed and jerked awake. She could feel the waves splashing against her legs, the sand beneath her, and the seaweeds stuck in her hair. Her whole body was shivering and in pain. Even so, Golde fought through the pain and crawled inland until the waves couldn't reach her while trying not to scream in pain.

After a few moments of catching her breath, Golde pushed herself to sit straight and leaned her back at a large rock for support. It was only at this moment that she studied her surroundings. It seemed that she ended up being in a deserted island. She didn't even need to stand to see an endless ocean before her with no signs of other islands in sight.

Then she turned her attention at the beach. A few woods and splinters, maybe the remnants of the ship, along with a few clothes and other unrecognizable objects, possibly belongings of the other passengers that didn't survive. Golde looked at her left and let out a cry of relief when she saw her cloth bag beside her. She reached for it, wincing at the pain from moving suddenly, and opened it to see her belongings complete and wet. Her bag of herbs and berries were also there, also a bit wet but still in perfect state.

Golde suddenly remembered the strangers among the ship, then the storm came bellowing like a gigantic monster. Everyone was shouting, panicking, crying for their dear lives as mountain-like waves continue to crash unto the ship. Golde remembered being submerged under water, her body tossed back and forth by the ocean. Thinking it was her last moment on earth, her thoughts automatically went to her family.

She snapped back into reality when she heard other voices nearby. Golde turned and almost cried in joy to see there are others who survived the storm as she did. She tried to raise her hand but her body was still sore yet she managed a weak wave. "H-hey, over here!", Golde shouted.

Varric, after kicking Ifor in the head, made a business proposition to Liliana, hopeful for escape from the island.

Izzy left a corked bottle in the sand, and with another in-hand she sauntered in the general direction of the yellow light.

Ifor, after waking rudely, silently appeared quite murderous in his thoughts.

Thomas stood tall and recited emergency protocols as he had learned them.

Temp called out for Evelyn; upon no response, she smacked Elliot, berated Thomas, took up the corked bottle and followed Izzy.

Elliot scanned the beach, hopeful, searching for his lost journal.

Liliana tentatively accepted Varric's offer, took up her mandola and sang her way after Temp and Izzy.

Golde, exhausted and in pain, called out to the approaching troupe of women.

The goat stared with dim eyes, watching Izzy then Temp pass by its rocky perch. It opened its mouth and bleated, flicking its little tail.

Behind the goat, a spot of light approached, swinging in the dark.

"Sssssshhhh!"

A small boy, no older than eight or ten, stepped up alongside the goat and propped a heavy boot up on the rocks. His leg appeared to be made of intricate brass and copper, weathered and dirty as his peasant's clothes, and creaked quietly when he moved. The rest of the child, of course, was very much normal: pale skin, pale hair, a pale hand clasped around his goatherd staff from which a little burning lamp dangled, illuminating his finger at his mouth. Clutched between his elbow and his ribs was a scruffy old journal that might look familiar to Elliot.

The boy scanned the beach, watched the women marching eastward, the men dallying by the rocks, and he gesticulated widely to them all. "Keep it down!" he called out in a whispering voice.

The goat bleated as if in agreement -- then raised its head in sudden alarm before it turned and fled immediately, the tin bell clonking.

.....Evelyn......

A scathing, scratching voice hissed, quiet but strangely audible against the roaring waves; Elliot would hear it the best, for he was closest to the pair of bright shining eyes that appeared out of the craggy rocks.

....you imbeciles....who dud it, yo ho.....ocean called so salty....

It badly imitated their voices one by one as it emerged, thin and gray, long-limbed and long-toothed, its grin wide. It looked as if it might have been human once -- but something horrid, something unspeakable had been done to it.

It shuffled directly at Elliot, eyes locked on him, grinning. The way it stood suggested it was capable of moving much faster.

The little boy's eyes went wide; he sucked in a breath and blew out his little lamp, effectively making himself all but disappear from view. He bolted away, back across the moss and mushrooms to a quiet chorus of tin bells and scared bleating, leaving the beachgoers behind.

.....over here.....everything's....fine......Evelyn.....

"...If Ih hahd words...to make uh day for you; Ih'd sihng you uh morn'ng, golden ahn' true..."

A dozen rays bespeckled the forest floor through its leafy thatch, lighting up the woods in a dazzling display of light and shadow seen only rarely outside of the realms of fairytails; and as the morning softly tarried on, all around could be heard the sounds of the green: of clever fox skulking quietly from shallows to shade, of the multifarious insectoid choir in their joyous accompaniment to the robin's sweet serenades or, oppositely, of the snake's subtle whispers rustling underfoot. In the warmth of every stone and branch and contented ripple of the brook could be felt the presence of the Great Mother, and softly did she speak. She spoke of the mouse abound 'neath thicket's edge, of the minute ant scaling the hedge...the fair wildcat peering its head out from atop the grassy ledge. With his six eyes, Ifor took it all in - two forward and two down, with two adjacent either side of his curly-haired crown; the unparalleled beauty of the grove lost nothing upon him - and as he took a final bite from the cob's stalk, the hunchbacked boy felt the miracle of song flow through him once more...

"...Ih wuld make, thihs day lahst, for all time...by fihll'ng the nihhhgt, deep ihmmm...moo-oommshymme."

With a bounce and several further pratfalls the cob rolled to a halt, just short of its haplessly piled brethren in their equally ravaged states. Ifor picked the final traces of his vandalism clean of his digits - he could already hear the distant calls of Father across the way, and it wasn't wise to leave traces of the evidence; Speaking of which...

He quickly turned, squatting down into the leafshed and hastily chucking the vegetable carcasses into the stream. A gleeful smile crept up between his cheeks as they fell in one by one: "....Plop...Plunk...Ca-Ploop..."

"...Ooh-un iht.........WHO DUD IHT - WHO STOLE 'UHM?! IFOR, LAD, IFHOR ONE MORE TIME IH FIND OUT 'TWUHS YOU 'GAHN...!&%*"

...Hmm...time to go.

.........

"...who dud it..."

The words rang like a mockingbird in the man's ears, causing him to turn in bewilderment upon that odd figure looming beneath the lustrous cobalt light. Its skin was pallid and thin - more like a sheet of parchment than any substance of flesh; and those...eyes - a fair few times had he seen that look; the look of a beast, of a sentient and hollow cruelty keen to sick its misfortune upon whatever happened to be unfortunate enough to pass astride of it. No sense of emotion or empathy would ever escape those forsaken orbs...no, only hunger sat on its brow, in the twitch of its flared nostrils and the starkly gaunt grin it kept plastered between its ears. Such a repulsive Thing was unworthy of the Great Mother's gifts, or of even the Old Lord's sand-dial; such a Thing could not be respected, could not be reasoned with...such a Burden upon the grieving air would not be Well Missed.

With a sudden lurch, Ifor's short legs ploughed him head-first into the mockery of flesh and bone - colliding with a hefty "WHUMP!" as skull met ribcage in a muted, turbulent clash of mettle.

A sick, retching noise was thrust from the monster's throat as its brittle bones snapped audibly. With the impact it was flung to the sand in a crumpled heap --

-- but with a cracking and a slither it rose again, glowing eyes widened with rage. In retaliation it launched at Ifor, long sharp claws ready to gouge him, jaws wide for the bite.

Music from a lively strummed stringed instrument reverberated into the moonlit air from behind her. The sound of another bottle opening. Ramblings and hollow promises of the clueless and lost. A pretty girl calling out her fabulous presence. And Izzy herself strutting around in nothing but hat, boots and skivvies. A smirk could not help but pull up at the corner of the redhead’s mouth. Any other night and this would sound like the recipe for a perfect beginning at the pub during shore leave.

But alas this was not a pub during shore leave. It was merely a shore. The redhead paused as she stared at her clothes sprawled out before her upon the log. These were the same clothes she wore when they of the Forgery had dragged her half-dead carcass from the seas.

_{“Izzy, the lost at sea…”} she whispered as she stared at the near half empty wine bottle and contemplated taking another swill, _{“…is still lost…"}

A sigh and a toast to an invisible companion, "...and is still not yet nearly drunk enough…”

Another swill, then the bleating of the potential meal sounded out again and reminded her to get into action and ready for the ensuing parley. The tall redhead started rummaging through her collection piled near her clothes. Several lengths of narrow pointy wooden poles would do. Oh! And aye, but there was a long strip of metal that could serve well. And look! Some rope and belaying pins. And perhaps if she—

The voice of a child popped Izzy’s busy little yard sale bubble. Slowly her head swivelled about and glared at the light source. Red-brown eyebrows popped up in surprise; it truly was some rogue island urchin. Apparently they had discovered perhaps he who had tied the bell round their potential meal’s neck. But instead of wonder or timidness, the boy’s face held an expression of worry, even outright alarm. And his leg was made of a mad clock maker’s machinations—how was he even strong enough to move around with all that metal strapped to his leg?!

“Oi there, Bruiser…!” she called out to the gent with the bruises all over his face, at least that’s what it looked like to Izzy under this light, “…looks like we found the little pickpocket who palmed your precious tome then."

A sweeping gesture she gave the urchin, "Now listen hearie, me dearie... Lad, 'twould be best-”

The urchin interrrupted her and had the audacity to scold Izzy and the others for being too loud. This did not sit well with Izzy, but not because the little guy chided them, no. The cold and chilling voice inside her head piped up and internal warning bells sounded out also. They had to be quiet because bad things happened to bad children; especially naughty redheaded ones. Know why there were no corpses strewn along the length of the shoreline? It just so happened that only live ones washed up here. Too close together. Too unawares. And too vulnerable. Just like lambs to the slaughter. And suddenly they heard the voice of the butcher.

And so there it stood, imitating their voices with snippets of their conversations. Monsters were real now. Very, very real.

At first shock and terror ate at her belly and in response she dropped the gathered items and drew both her daggers in defense. Then her natural thought process kicked in, in reaction to her child-like, fear induced initial reaction. There were more of them here to gang up on this single monstrosity! Even the child and its goat— oh, nevermind them, they had just fled. But regardless, they had been warned of being too noisy and so they would have to suppress this threat and then flee; who knew how many more monstrosities had heard them and would be arriving after this one? The child and his goat knew. That’s where they had to go. Steely-blue eyes flashed in recognition of how to accomplish said withdrawal into the cover of the woods. The field of view before her broke down into small parcels of actions and co-ordinations. The lass with the wine bottle and cravate, the bumbling soldier, and Izzy should be—

_{“Nay and forever more, nay… not the commander here, is this lass…”} she whispered aloud the words of the other voice inside her head, the one made of Doubt and Despair. The daggers returned to their scabbards at her thigh, _{“…nor does she care a single lifted finger for the lot o’ them…”}

She scooped up her clothes then proceeded to gather a gaffing pole, a belaying pin, a length of metal from the collection of washed ashore goods... and her wine bottle too, of course. Red, hair whipped away as Izzy stared over her shoulder in time to see the short-legged, brutish man leap onto the monstrosity and break every bone in the monster’s body. A light smile and shrug she gave. Rather anti-climactic but effective nonetheless was—

It rolled over and rose. Izzy’s eyes narrowed at the sound of bones cracking once more but this time she could see that disturbingly, the thing was reforming said bones inside itself. And now it looked pissed off. Just look at those teeth…

“Foolish… the act of a brute deserves equal reaction it seems,” spat Izzzy as she waltzed on over to the rocks and away from the sandy shore. A hand went to the top of her head and plucked off the tricorn hat. They should be the ones to come to her then, universe be damned. The hat flew from her hand back towards the sandy shore behind her. If things were to be done right, she would have to do it herself.

“I will find the child and get some answers,” she called over to them from the spot where they last saw the goat and its grubby faced owner, “this beast will only tell us the obvious; nary a clue does it have of the whereabouts of a vessel to get us the hell off this damned rock...!”

Really, it was probably for the best Thomas didn't have to think of a comeback to the short-haired girl's insult - he was never much good at that sort of thing on his best day, and this was most certainly not that. The best he could have done probably would have been a high-pitched waterlogged sob. Of course, being killed by the pale monstrosity that emerged from the rocks wasn't much better.

Thomas had just managed to get his sword out when the mumbler head-butted the monster to the ground, the sound of snapping bones apparent.The blade was still dripping and he had trouble keeping his grip on the soaked masterpiece, but this was what he was here for. There would be time enough later to wonder where it had come from, what it was, or how it was mimicking their voices - for now, it was a threat, and he would not, could not, allow his charges to be threatened. Thomas gritted his teeth and advanced on the prone form just in time for it to surge back up, snapping at the one who'd laid it low.

Without thinking, Thomas rushed forward, slashing wildly at the monster and trying to interpose himself between it and its target. He meant to shout a mighty warcry, something to get the beast's attention, but all that really came out of his mouth was a burst of shrieks and high-pitched curses. He stumbled and scrabbled on the sand, trying to keep the blade between him and the monster, weighed down by waterlogged clothes. At last, he found words to shout at the others on the beach. "Get behind... get behind me!"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the nearly-naked woman charging off into the darkness, yelling about chasing the child and getting answers. "Don't leave!" he screamed after her. "That's the opposite of securing the perimeter!"

A girl's voice called out in the distance. Temp froze. The half-filled bottle in her hand fell, spilling in the sand.

"Ev?" she whispered, fragile hope in her chest. She sprinted forward, past the naked girl, who'd stopped to look through the debris on the shore. Temp skidded to a stop in front of the figure, sand flying.

It was a lone girl, half-drowned and sandy, sitting against a rock.

It wasn't Evelyn. The hope died.

"Who the piss're you?" she said like an accusation. But then the naked girl shouted something behind her and Temp glanced over her shoulder long enough to see her shouting something at the goat and… a kid?

But then… a new sound rose over the whispering sea. An evil hiss of voices echoed across the beach.

Her voice. Temp's hair stood on end, bumps raising along her flesh. Fear gripped at her throat. Something evil stood on the other side of the beach. Some demon, newly risen from hell, stalked toward them.

Then there was fighting. Temp was frozen, lips parted, as she watched. The demon fell with a sickening chorus of snapping and cracking, hissing angrily. The sound made her want to retch. Temp was shaking. It stood, golden eyes glowing.

"Get up," she forced out in a whisper. She glanced back at the girl. "Stand!" Her eyes darted along the sand, finding a stray plank of wood. Temp swiped it up, holding it in a white-knuckled grip. She faced the demon, still fighting the other people in the distance.

Temp could do this. She could do this.

She really hated her grandpa for all those ghost stories right now.

"Your legs work?"

Like lightning, the revenant was back on its feet - surprising even placid-faced Ifor with its apparent tolerance for pain. It lunged, STREAKING across the moonlit beach...before abruptly faceplanting itself onto......was that the 'Captain's' sword? Ifor blinked his eyes in confusion; though sputtering and scrambling at first entry into the fray, the boy recovered quickly, keeping his blade aimed true at the recoiling monstrosity as he shouted: "Get behind... get behind me!"

...Well, it was a nice moment while it lasted.

Plagued by the inexperience of youth, Chapt'n Thomus made the sudden mistake of taking his focus *off of the task at hand, and instead misplaced it on...something in the distance; Ifor didn't really know, and he didn't particularly care to know right now - instead planting his feet firmly apart and w i n d i n g up his left in preparation for the inevitable. Like clockwork, the beast lunged again, seeking the favor of opportunity...and once more, failed to find her: With a stout "BHOOM" Ifor's knuckles cannonballed face-first into their game, sending its momentum rippling off along the shifting white as it tumbled once...twice...before growling even more rancorously than before. Again it rose...- to the rhythm of fists as their host tagged the bloodied monster's eyesocket, nose and jaw with a quick 1-2-3 combo. It lurched forward blindly, but Ifor pressed his advantage; with a quick backstep he pulled himself out of its path and, following this up in time with its speed, yanked it by the arm into the humiliating embrace of the sands below. Even so, the man had to wince at his current victory - the slightest scrape of the beast's claws against his forearm bespeckled the arena floor with a hail of scintillating crimson...and with sudden realization, Ifor understood just how outmatched he was in going toe-to-toe against this slate-faced menace.

Wheezing and snarling, it spit grit and scrambled madly towards its now singular focus, gnashing shark's-teeth and clawing the shallow dunes under a brooding scowl; yet even now it found no success, hurling hoarse screams at its slippery prey.

...That was, unless "Success" could be defined as "An aggravating game of ring-around-the-rosie..."

......

"...pockett, full-uh-posies..."