The sun sat on the horizon and shed its light upon the land in sweeping rays, piercing through the branches of trees and the windows of houses like spears of God. Perhaps it was his attempt at repelling the undead that now roamed the world, albeit ineffective and nearly pointless as the dead did not seem to mind much if at all. Perhaps it was not an act of God but merely one of nature, and the undead simply preferred to wander more freely in the dark of night as opposed to the piercing light of day. Perhaps God was still watching over the world, but if that were true then it would seem there was nothing he was capable or willing of doing. For the last three months it seemed that humanity may well be on their own through these trying times, with little hope of salvation through prayer and worship. And yet some still believe in their faith and their gods, despite what others might think or say. For them it is the mere promise of hope and salvation that fuels their will to survive, the promise that their suffering is not without purpose, that a day of victory will come and the truly devout and faithful will survive to see it.

The rest do not think of the heavens, they do not hold out hope for a god to save them. They feel they simply cannot afford to think themselves saved from damnation just because they pray to a deity of questionable integrity, not when a sword or axe has proven more effective in their defense than a desperate plea to the indifferent sky. They are focused on surviving, and many of them know that in order to survive this epidemic they must also help others to survive as well. That isn't to say that they all now scorn the heavens above for seemingly abandoning humanity, though there are certainly some who do. And aside from those at the very opposite, extremist ends of this spectrum, people for the most part have managed to coexist within their walled cities remarkably well. Of course that's not considering the uneasy relationships held between the cities themselves, nor does it account for cities experiencing a crisis of leadership - like Mynelis of Rhogein.

Dharrec sat back in his chair, eliciting a whimpering creak from the wood as it adjusted to accommodate his shifting his weight. The candle upon the table in front of him flickered in a desperate struggle to repel the darkness that clouded the rest of the room. If it weren't for the growing presence of light bleeding in from the windows, the candle would've surely been smothered by the all-encompassing and suffocating blackness. Dharrec let loose a sigh as he turned his attention away from the battle of light and dark, focusing instead on equipping the rest of his armor. His mind, however, did not follow. Would humanity be like the candle? Their light - their life - being strangled by the dark but unseeable force of undeath, only to be saved from such a great evil by the resurgence of the heavens? Would that truly be their last and only hope for the survival of all humanity? Or could humanity pull through on their own, and push the undead back into the shadows they crept out from?

Tired of his thoughts but unable to rid himself of them, Dharrec shook his head in a futile effort to clear his mind before strapping his vambraces on as noise and movement began stirring behind him. The unyielding light of day clawed its way up the walls, quickly dispelling the darkness and illuminating a number of beds and their waking occupants. It was almost time for the midday guard shift, and by all accounts the sun was behind schedule. Delayed by the arrival of winter and perhaps inconvenienced by the cold, the sun only just arrived late into the morning as it had done throughout the winter of every year prior. Though, now that the world was struck by a plague of the undead, there was a hint of doubt - a sneaking suspicion that maybe the sun would continue to shrink, never to return to its full might out of some inescapably profound fear of the undead. A silly notion, certainly... but a frightening one to consider.

Having had enough, Dharrec rose from his chair and pushed it up under the table where the candle still sat and burned away. The insignificant little pillar of wax once again found itself the center of Dharrec's focus, though it's flame quivered almost uneasily. Reaching his arm up to lightly pinch his tongue, Dharrec brought his wettened fingers down to extinguish the candle's light. Casting a wide glance over the room as he swiftly and subtly wiped his fingers the rest of the way dry on his longskirt, he then grabbed his helmet and tucked it under his arm as he was turning to leave the barracks. Captain Hannigan was taking all of the volunteers he could get for more excursions beyond the walls, and Dharrec had participated in enough of them by now to earn his place on the roster.

But as he stepped out into the cool morning air, relieved he wasn't further north in Oroulam of Apolund where the temperatures would be much cooler, one last morbid thought crossed his mind. Even if humanity did survive through this... what's to stop a god from extinguishing the survivors like he extinguished the candle just a few short moments ago? Dharrec thumped the side of his head with the edge of his palm and shook it again, taking a moment to breathe before donning his helmet. There would be no place for that kind of thinking beyond the walls...

The partial absence of the sun made the already grim atmosphere even worse. Headaches were plaguing Edric, who was still not used to the bone-pinching cold or to the damp and dark reality of his new home. The sun was rising, except it wasn't, a new day was coming except it was going to be more of the same. The bland marshes beyond the city welcomed no one, as if they were tired of all life. Was this place always like that?

Hope was a powerful force. Edric knew that better than most. Being forced to seek unknown lands and endeavors, having to travel to mysterious lands that didn't necessarily accept him for what he was, hope was essential in keeping him from losing his identity. But not everyone understood it's importance. The people of Cartelom were struggling, but they did not believe in a better future, they didn't envision it. That much was clear to Edric. Struggling would keep them alive, for now, but it would not be enough if they were to rebuild again in the future. The undead were strugglers and much better that, having laid waste to most of civilization in that part of the world within a short period of time. From his point of view, something more was needed if they were to overcome this profound crisis.

Gearing up was second nature for Sir Edric. His armor was welcoming, his sword was sharp and his house insignia was as radiant as always and a reminder of who he was. The least he could do was keep not just his gear, but his own self in good condition, for Cartelom was not meant to be his final destination.

Stepping out of the barracks should have made him feel better. Not used to cold environments, his head was pounding. He knew it would come to pass eventually but for now he'd have to endure. Cartelom's militia assembled once again, to guard the city and push forward, away from it's walls. The country of Rhogein was vast and it's many mines and villages reportedly abandoned for the most part. The few people who dared explore it were like uninvited visitors, transient and insignificant. As if the place was not meant for their kind any longer.

Eveline De Ficquelmont, Cartelom

A small hand held oil lantern dimly lit the corner of the church hall just enough for Eveline to go through her morning routine. Not long ago it used to consist of her maid Johanna waking her up with idle chat, a pre-heated bath set up by Johanna before the earliest signs of a sunrise, a selection of freshly washed clothes put together with care by Johanna followed by a meal Johanna had prepared. She could remember clearly the words she'd always wake her with in a genuinely cheerful spirit. "Rise and shine", followed by whatever topic she felt a need to ramble on about. To her guilt she couldn't recall the sound of her voice despite being her maid since birth. Over the past weeks as all the pieces of the horrific events fell into place Eveline had concluded she missed Johanna more then the others. She had been with her more than with anyone, and even though they were twenty years apart Johanna had to have been her best friend, if not the only one.

Her morning routine now lacked any of those things. She woke before the nuns and women and children whom had taken refuge in the small church, always at the exact same time as if an inner clock mandated it. Although there was some who never slept. So Many had come to the church there was barely room left to sleep, it was more or less shoulder to shoulder. The beds consisting of just blankets on the stone floor were hard and cold. Most of the warmth was provided by the people alongside one another. With much effort she'd tip toe in between the sleeping mass to the toilets and wash with a rag and a bucket of chillingly cold water. By that time some of the nuns would wake and they'd share some of the bread Eveline had brought for the church the day prior. They rarely exchanged words, neither did they today. By the time the others were waking Eveline was dressed and on her way out, and once out turned and eyed the grim structure before making her way to the military grounds and barracks not too far removed from the small church.

The church had a sense of solidarity, even though that solidarity was one of a shared bleak hopelessness. Many had experienced horrors much akin to hers if not more gruesome. Most however were spiraling further down in that misery. Their faces, their body language and the sounds of their voices were drenched in it. But she couldn't fault them for it. She understood the sentiment far too well. While there are small rays of hope emitted by the minor successes the military of Cartelom had achieved, many were simply too shaken to the core to register this emotionally. When in the church she felt herself dragged down into that dark abyss by the people there. If it wasn't for the fact it was a safe haven for women she'd find residency elsewhere. Eveline could probably find a better and safer residency using her status and the tiny bit of wealth she had remaining, but having led an easy life prior to all this she chose to have the opposite. For now. An easy life doesn't make for a strong person. And a strong person is what she had to be in this new world. And so with hand tightly gripping onto the hilt of her sheathed blade, she made her way to volunteer for Captain Hannigan's cause.

Jethec recognized it at once from the new cloudiness clinging to his cap in the morning, fading into dewdrops as the sun rose. Then the vapors of his breath, their white tendrils persisting longer and deeper into the day. The crunch of loose earth and the pungent sweetness of fresh ice. Winter—it bred more troublemakers by the day.

Maybe the fishermen would fare better in the coming days. The frosts would aid in keeping their wares which hadn't gone off yet, and masking the stench of those which had. But the vegetables came up black and bitter which could be exhumed at all. Animals grew thin and lethargic as if their masters had become cruel in the night. The smart folks were out buying what they could with what they had before it demanded siege prices, but prices were already creeping; a slab of saltpork which had cost a few bolts of wool before now cost the whole sheep, its own meat tough and tasteless, but enough of a delicacy once the pigs and chickens were eaten. No one knew how long the next winter would last; it would be their first in this set of circumstances. An interesting way to starve.

Already not all in Tarne's old public square were so concerned with the rising prices, though. The streamers and ribbons and little paper flags were fierce in the autumnal breeze, and someone was glancing around at their colors as an excuse to look over his shoulders, to survey his surroundings, to check who was watching. He was trying very hard to look like he looked at nothing in particular. He didn’t see Jethec the way he in turn was studied with a yawn and a listless wink. The boy scratched his face; the stress was making him sweat more than the other passersby. Amateur. Jethec could not have looked more obvious if he tried, although he scratched at his neck, too, and at his arse and the backs of his knees. But he, unlike this boy across the walkways with the saltgrasses springing from their cracks, hadn't a worry at all. The door behind him was rusted shut. Afternoon suns still cradled Tarne in warmth, for now, that the men in the mayor’s colors still had little more to fuss over than yesterday’s stale sweat soaked through their gambesons. Until the scratching, fidgeting fools gave them some work to do.

Jethec’s careful deliberation was all undone when a warrior came near. The flowing red cloak denoted him as a member of the City Watch, making the common folk move in a wide berth around him. He gazed through the visor of the signature helm of the Watch, to speak to Jethec. “You’re coming with me.” He grabbed him by the arm before Jethec had a chance to object, forcing him into a side alley.

“‘Good morning, Jethec. How do you do, Jethec?’” But before the mere guard had time to actually worry, though, the City Watch guard had removed his helmet, revealing the much-expected compatriot.

“Sorry, but this news couldn’t wait until tonight.” Theon grinned, a cold, empty smile. “We’ll be eating fine tonight, lad. That warehouse near the castle, the one we thought was impenetrable? Well, when I was promoted, they gave me a map of tunnels under the city. And one of them leads right into it.” He flashed a piece of paper. “We could crack this tonight.”

“You don’t just carry this around, do you?” said Jethec. Still, something about the parchment had captured his jellied gaze, no need to guess why.

Theon narrowed his eyebrows. “I show you this, and that’s what you care about.” He shoved the paper back into his trousers. “Anyways, we’ll need to move on this as soon as night falls. I have no doubt some of my so called ‘comrades’ in the City Watch have the same idea we do.” He drew his blade. “You do the thieving, and I’ll gut any fool who tries to do the same.” Theon sheathed his blade again. “Find me in the barracks at nightfall. You’ve always been quieter anyways.”

“Hold on.” Jethec shoved at Theon’s shoulder, hoping to pin it there against the cobblestone wall. To give him a good, thought-provoking jab, at the least. Jethec took pause to peek over his shoulder, his eyes half-concealed under their steel brim, and when he turned back he had relinquished half the strength in his voice. “No one will find this slightly suspicious? The food goes missing the same day they gave a map of the stores to some rookie?“ Their glares met, Theon’s the prettier, and issued from a taller head.

Theon thought for a moment, staring into Jethec’s cool gaze. He thought for a moment, stroking his chin. After a moment, he let out a sigh. “I suppose you have a point there…Well, you are the brains. What do you suggest we do, Jethec the Genius?” Theon asked, jesting his fellow thief. “After all, you must have a solution to solve all of this. Your great wits are on a whole other plane compared to my simpleton mind!”

Jethec the Genius does have a nice ring to it. Alliteration and all. “Look, I’m not stopping you if you want to upgrade to the dungeon suite. But if you’re so sure that this thing is getting blown tonight, don’t you think the higher-ups know it, too? Let’s lay low tonight. Eliminate some competition; look good for the officers.” He was counting on his sausagey fingers. Raising the ring finger as he inhaled, paused, chewed on the next point. “Protect the goods, let the heat die down, and we have them all to ourselves next week. With it vanishing just one sackful at a time, no one will be the wiser.”

Theon smiled. “Like I said. You’re the brains. Where would I be without you?” He pulled his helm back on, stepping out of the alley. “That’s your last warning, thief.” He said loudly, just for any nosy citizens who were curious as to what a guardsman and someone as…unique...as Jethec were doing together.

Clutching his hands, cradling them against his belly for warmth, Jethec led the way out from behind the wall. “Where are you stationed today?” he asked innocuously.

Theon grinned. “I’ll be living the good life. For today at least. Guarding the interior of our lordship’s castle.” He said the last bit mockingly, bitterly. “But if it keeps me warm, so be it. After then, I’ll be freezing my ass off guarding that damn warehouse.” He shrugged. “However, this’ll be well worth my sorry ass once we get what we need.”

“If you’re right about the raid then you’re right. Better start thinking now about how we’re gonna ask for our promotions, eh?”

Theon laughed. “Pretty soon I’ll be a Captain.” He bowed. “I’ll see you,” He was interrupted by a bout of shivering. “If I don’t freeze to death first.”

“Yeah. Let’s talk tonight, at your place.“

Theon nodded, turning with a flourish, before walking back towards the castle. He could barely contain his excitement towards a warm eight hours ahead of him.

Speaking of promotions, though, Jethec scanned the market for that boy from before. Dead and listless as it was, for the life of him the thief had vanished somewhere, not to be found, with one fewer parsnip resting on an old dirt farmer’s stall.

The narrow, muddied streets of Cartelom were alive in parts, but not all throughout. The stretch that Dharrec now walked along would take him through the place where many of the city's smiths, carpenters, stone-workers and other such industrial workers were supposed to live. His gaze wandered up to the second stories of the houses as he approached, their outer walls distended out from those of the ground floor and left to hang partially over the streets. What could be seen through the windows of these houses made them appear empty and lifeless, though many of the windows did appear to be obstructed by some thing or another. But if Dharrec was to believe what he had heard - and, more importantly, if what he heard was true - then the occupants of these seemingly vacant buildings were still very much alive despite all the evidence to the contrary. And... that's just about as far as people cared to pry.

Dharrec did not feel it was his place to ask much of those who lived here, especially considering he was an outsider. But that couldn't stop him from feeling that the smiths and carpenters and all the other workers living here deserved more than what they had been given - though, in all fairness, so did everyone else. But it wasn't the merchants whom would repair the outer walls of damage; it wasn't the priests whom had devised plans to reinforce the walls against future attack; and it was most certainly not bakers whom were responsible for crafting the weapons and equipment used to fight the undead each and every day. It was the stoneworkers, the smiths, the carpenters... and now, without the resources or reason to work, they had little to do but keep to themselves. At least they had a place to call home, Dharrec supposed, though how they could afford to eat was still quite the mystery.

The buildings parted to reveal the towering form of the Lord's Keep as Dharrec rounded the corner at the end of the street. The Keep used to stand tall a bright beacon of hope, but the whiteness of the once stark walls had become weathered and faded. On account of everything that had happened in the last three months, the need for a new coat paint paled in comparison to the need for food or weapons. Dharrec certainly understood that people were more important than the color of a building... but the Lord's Keep looked to be in such a sorry state of affairs that it may as well be abandoned. Of course, the Keep itself was very much alive with activity - mostly guards, advisors, or warriors.

Dharrec stepped up and opened the door, finding himself greeted by a larger crowd than expected. A quick glance would show that a good portion of those gathered here were rather young, and had probably volunteered - or been volunteered - out of desperation. Money was hard to come by these days, and participating in expeditions could provide enough to feed a man well. That wasn't to say a family couldn't make good use of the funds, because they most definitely could, but less of it would be left to pay for new equipment or repairs. Some of these young men and women were undoubtedly going to die, from naivety or being under-equipped or any other number of possibilities, with the only uncertainty being when.

Some of these faces, though, were familiar. Dharrec had worked with some of them on prior expeditions but could not remember any of their names, he did not want to - not again. They were comrades and companions and compatriots, and nothing more. The only exceptions were Dharrec's superiors, most notably being Captain Hannigan - who was due to receive the official title of 'Lord' in but a few more days when the ceremony would be held - though Dharrec realized he was not yet present. The relative silence soon gave way to bantering and conversing as the volunteers sought to occupy themselves in Hannigan's continued absence. Meanwhile Dharrec kept to himself just a few short feet away, leaning against the wall and idly observing the other occupants of the great hall.

Eveline De Ficquelmont, Cartelom

Cartelom wasn't an unfamiliar place to the De Ficquelmont family. While initially of a younger and lower nobility, Her father Leopold De Ficquelmont had through cunning wit, military endeavor, and an intricate understanding of dynamics between houses in Rhogein successfully climbed the ladder within its hierarchy. And the higher he climbed the more frequent his visits to, and the longer his stays in the greater cities of Rhogein, which due to his military prowess were mostly in Cartelom. And as such Eveline became an increasingly more important piece on her father's chessboard. Feasts, balls and banquets were the main playing fields and her purpose was to befriend the daughters of noblemen, and to court or be courted by their sons. Dressed in ridiculous dresses and absurd hairdos she and the others would put up pretentious facades with the former in mind. The memory of it, brought back upon making her way inside the keep, made her visibly cringe. The keep itself however was nowhere near the state it used to be in, a fitting reflection of how things had changed.

Eveline had taken seat, legs crossed on the floor against the wall of the hall where some like her and many unlike her had gathered to be part of Hannigan's plans. The crowd was a mixture of battle hardened veterans, whom while not all tall and broad shouldered were adorned in armor and weaponry of great quality or had stories written on their faces that clearly made them stand out from the average soldier, who although still well equipped, lacked the look in their eyes telling of what they'd been through out there. And then there were the volunteers much like her, who came to participate despite lacking experience and skill but with a financial need or an optimistic desire to be a part of the greater purpose. Some of them she recognized from the city streets she had walked aimlessly while still in the early shock of the slaughters, others she remembered as sons and daughters of noblemen, albeit they looked nothing like they did in the past. It was as if the last months had brutally beaten something into or out of them. Or maybe it was the lack of ridiculous dress up that revealed them as they truly were. With the facade of superiority stripped away they appeared no different from everyone else.

Then Eveline spotted a clean cut bald head a top an armor all too familiar and a shield on its back with a crest decorating the armor of the only remaining knight in service to her house. Maarten Matteüsz Beldam, towering at least a head above most in the room and nearly as broad as he is tall, a truly intimidating figure with arms and legs the size of tree trunks. The shield was nearly the size of Eveline herself, and the set of Axes attached right underneath it each sufficient to cleave a person in half. Not many were able to wield such heavy equipment. A man revealed himself from behind his broad figure and pointed at Eveline, "You mean her"? She could read from his lips. Maarten turned and his dead serious and often misinterpreted as angry glare turned to what was probably intended to be a kinder expression. It was difficult to read and hardly any different. It took knowing the man to notice the slight changes on his face, but even then it was a tough task to discern. To most his face just always looked the exact same. Angry. In true Maarten fashion he grunted out a low thanks, walked up to Eveline and squatted down in front of her. "Y'didn't forget anything?". He inspected the gear Eveline had brought with her. "Sword, sword, shield, leather padding, food. Tightly strapped and no loose fabric, can't get caught behind anything." She responded, proudly pointing each detail out with her hands.

"Helmet?" he Said softly tapping her on the head. "Don't have one.. yet.." The proud Eveline quickly made way for the student getting scolded by a teacher, even though the man probably didn't intend for it to be as such. "plating?" he said tapping her on the shoulders and stomach, although it felt as if being shoved around. "Not used to moving in that yet." Maarten nodded understandingly and rose up from his squat. "Familiarity with material trumps the material itself. Next time we practice in armor. That is if you don't lose your guts before then". He then noticed the bearded man next to Eveline leaning against the wall. Maarten respectfully nodded at him as to acknowledge the man and his accomplishments. He exchanged no words, but it was as if many had been spoken with that simple nod. "Hannigan will need me. I will join you after all this is done." And so Maarten turned and disappeared into the crowd, for as much as a man like him can blend into one, bald head sticking out a fair bit above the rest. Eveline redirected her gaze and looked up at the bearded man next to her. "Hi." She said and turned her eyes back at the crowd waiting for Hannigan to appear. Heart pounding in anticipation for what she was about to throw herself into.

Just like most buildings in Cartelom, the Lord's Keep had seen better days. From the outside, it was giving a sense of abandonment, as if it was vacant and weathered, yet it was still standing strong. Cartelom as a whole was rotting away, with priorities set elsewhere. In a way, the keep symbolized the city, where progress had been halted but the final verdict on whether they'd be allowed to resume normal life was not given out yet. Edric was one of the last to enter but everyone inside was still waiting for Captain Hannigan to appear.

If there was something that made Edric feel old, it was the people in the hall. As if his country wasn't detached enough from the western provinces, the twelve years he'd been in exile rendered his remaining knowledge of "western" nobility nearly useless. Cartelom was much closer to his homeland than the countries he'd been, yet he felt he was the furthest he'd ever been. But he wasn't the only foreigner in the room, judging from appearances. People of all ranks and sizes were present. Some were clearly nobles, others not so much. A few seemed trustworthy, while others seemed like cannon fodder for the so-called undead hordes. Most were younger than him, but the difference in age didn't bother him. What worried him the most was how this sense of duty that motivated these people to be there would play out on the battlefield.

Formerly a member of a powerful mercenary, Edric knew that a thousand disciplined men could best a disorganized army of ten thousand. If the undead were as numerous as everyone was saying, they'd need this kind of discipline to avoid getting overpowered. But would inexperienced volunteers or self-centered nobles hold the line and die if they were ordered to? Would front-liners maintain their position against a rampaging horde ten times their size? For one, these people had no uniformity, as each and every one of them had their own equipment, their own weapons and, most importantly, their own goals and motivations. That could be catastrophic in an event where sacrifices would have to be made.

Edric was no better, he knew that. His goal was to reunite with his family or, if fate had it otherwise, find out how they died. And maybe find out if his people were still alive somewhere westwards of home. In any case, he wasn't planning on perishing in Rhogain defending the living, at least not yet. Casting his cynicism aside, he finally considered the silver lining of the situation. The Lord's keep only seemed abandoned from the outside.

Lord's Keep in Cartelom, Rhogein

Dharrec watched as the nearby woman spoke to a mountain of a man, one whom he was inclined to believe he had encountered before. The man offered a silent nod to Dharrec as he left, which Dharrec returned in kind - a symbol of unspoken respect betwixt two warriors. After the man had gone, though, the woman decided to extend a simple "hi". Dharrec turned his head to look at her, shifting his weight in hesitation.

"Hello." He replied after a few seconds, his voice dry from lack of use. He hadn't realized just how little he actually spoke until now, and he supposed the last time must have been over a day ago. It was an odd feeling, though perhaps it was not the only feeling.

The loud slam of a door echoing across the room silenced most of the occupants, drawing their attention to the intrusive sound. Their eyes would then be met with the sight of Captain Hannigan entering the great hall from somewhere deeper within the Keep. Followed loosely by two guards, Hannigan approached the crowd of volunteers swiftly and with a sense of urgency. A few whispers started up, likely those theorizing or betting on what the assignments would be or what issues there were, though they were hushed not long after Hannigan came to a halt.

"Brothers and sisters, lend me your ears!" Hannigan called out, silencing the last of the crowd's idle chatter. "I must apologize for my tardiness, and for the fact that this meeting must be cut shorter than I had intended. I am glad to see so many eager volunteers have assembled here today, but unfortunately Cartelom cannot spare all of you to expeditions. I have only just been informed this morning that another siege could be at our gates in the coming days, and so therefore any unnecessary risks should be avoided." Hannigan continued, beginning to pace idly.

"I'm sure that for some of you this will come as a relief, and also that many of you have come in pursuit of money to feed yourself and your family. Rest assured, however, that those of you who would prefer not to venture out there can find solace and coin in enlisting amongst the city's army or guard. Many of you are young, too young I fear to go out there and risk death on this mission. I need only the most determined souls for this expedition; men and women who are willing to do whatever it takes to see this through... because I cannot guarantee you will come back alive." Hannigan confessed, punctuating with the stomp of his heel as he came to a stop, turning to stand before the crowd once more.

"Those of you who are rightfully scared may leave. Enlist with the army or city guard if you need the coin." He said, presented more like a command than a mere suggestion. About a third of the crowd began filtering back out of the Keep, and Dharrec simply watched them go. "If you are aged under twenty years then you still have a life to live, and I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to throw away your young lives." Hannigan continued, prompting another fifth of what was left to then start leaving as well. He proceeded through a list of disqualifications before nine volunteers were left.

"Well, this is still more than I would like to spare - for the city's sake - but perhaps there is something to be said of safety in numbers." Hannigan finally announced, turning to his guards and gesturing for them to leave. "You nine must work together on this, watch each other's backs, and Keep each other alive. I've seen far too many good soldiers, good people die in this... this nightmare. I want to make sure you are fully aware of the choice you're making; what you're doing for this city and its people." Hannigan stalled as the clacking of the door's locks echoed across the room, and suddenly his demeanor changed.

"Scouts report seeing survivor activity in the village of Velgas, northeast of Cartelom. If this is true then they are not residents of Cartelom, and we cannot afford to wait for responses from the other cities to see if they're another expedition group. As you might imagine this is very urgent business, and I need you to leave as soon as you are able. Unfortunately we haven't any horses to spare, so you'll have to make the journey on foot - so stay together. Am I understood?" Hannigan finished, a look of dire seriousness in his eyes.

...

A little while later the group of volunteers was headed out of the main gate, Dharrec among them. He knew the region well, and though it would be about an hour-long trek under normal circumstances nothing could be certain now that the dead were roaming about. But aside from the odd Lich or two scattered about, it did not seem like there were too many wandering about at the moment. Perhaps this expedition might be free of significant dangers, but... they never exactly go as planned.

---

Streets of Tarne, Oroulam

"Hear ye, children of Oroulam, for all those who live upon 'er land 'n these tryin' times're 'er children indeed!" An aged voice called out in the streets of Tarne, belonging to an older man in thick robes who's face was obscured by a ceremonious looking mask.

"Th' Flames of Omen hath spoken, and have warned us that th' time for an undead attack on our city's nigh upon us! We all know what hardships we'll be faced with when those Godforsaken daemons come t' claw at our gate. We all know how close we've come t' meetin' God's embrace, an' th' struggles that our great city of Tarne's had t' endure 'cause of this hellish blight! It 'tis with such knowledge weighin' heavy 'n our hearts an' our minds that we - humble servants of God an' th' Temple of Sacred Flames - offer t' ye all a chance t' live... not just 'n body, but 'n spirit as well." The clergyman announced, bringing his arms wide.

"We humbly offer t' those who've yet t' taste of carnal desires their chance t' do so. All are welcome, an' all sins committed on this day within th' temple's chambers shall be permitted and forgiven by us 'n God's stead! We've come t' understand that indulgence 'n such carnal desires as those that shall be permitted work t' clear th' mind an' rejuvenate th' soul. Perhaps it 'tis God's true desire that we are reminded of our primal origins, of our primal selves.

"It 'tis only af'ter much debate and communing with th' sacred flames that we've come t' this verdict, an' surely th' only place such a celebration of life should be held is 'ere in th' confines of our temple. Th' priests an' priestesses shall hold a sermon 'n th' meantime t' preserve th' sanctity of th' temple should any rather heinous sins threaten all of us 'n attendance with corruption, so worry not - yer immort'l souls shall remain intact throughout!" The man continued on, preaching about how unorthodox this new ceremony must seem to everyone.

He then went on to explain that alcoholic spirits would not be permitted, save for a glass wine for each participant, yet the smoking of immoral substances would be. He listed some rules and other stipulations as people began to approach him and the Temple of Sacred Flames. The world surely did seem to be a different place than it was just three months ago. But, after all, a lot had changed... and what would otherwise just be three months of time was made to feel so much longer by the presence of the undead threat and the constant struggles of the living just to survive the week.

Eveline de Ficquelmont, Cartelom

After her attention had already shifted away from the man beside her, a rusted dry voice emerged from the man in a fashion mirroring the lack of sociability in her own greeting just prior. "Hello." The awkwardness of specifically her own actions and its impression sunk in. The man must think her to be weird. In the disconnected world of nobility a good first impression is one of the prime weapons in building connections. People are much more inclined to invest time and attention in another if their first impression is a positive one. While that world was hopefully now behind her, the weapon that is a good first impression is a timeless one and would never become obsolete. Doing her best to prevent the pretentious antics of the average noble woman, she rose from the floor and turned to give the man a proper greeting and maybe a short introduction. Or maybe a short introduction was too much she thought. Perhaps just a name will do. "Ah, excu.." "BAM!" The unexpected loud bang of a door slamming into a wall shut her up and the surprise of it shocked her more than she dared admit. To her luck, the bang had turned everyone's attention to its source and not one set of eyes had seen her jump.

Its source was Captain Hannigan and a detail of two not far behind him. Whispers emerged but were cut short when Hannigan halted and turned to face the crowd and spoke. His voice started strong and commanded the attention of those present. He cut straight to the matter at hand and few words were wasted. An impending siege and a need for voluntary personnel to fend it off. The crowd thinned out as many followed the instructions given but plenty remained, and once Hannigan disqualified more based on certain criteria only 9 remained. This was her one chance to turn tail, head back into the city and enjoy the safety the walls provided. But the word "enjoy" within that thought angered her at her own thinking. Life within the city had been far from enjoyable. It had been safe but what is safety if within the confines of misery? The city as it is now perfectly resembles her life. Safe but stuck inside a cage. And even though a cage may be made of gold, it is nonetheless a cage. And so, whether she was ready to leave her cage or not, she stayed and listened to Hannigan.

Her eyes were glued onto the Captain until he finished with a resolute "Am I understood?" Hannigan then left the group to their task. Maarten and the man from before were part of the group. The others she had not met before. Maarten approached her. "Lady, I hope it isn't a fool's resolve that's got you in this." He said spurring Eveline out of the room with him. "Once we are out there and we face the dead you'll have an answer." She returned. They made their way past some who had left the room earlier, Maarten being a superior in ranking to most exchanged formal greetings with them. "I like to think the fact you've already seen the dead up close means you know what you're headed into." "I think I do, don't doubt me." She looked into the towering figure's eyes. He looked at hers, the slightest hint of worry in his gaze. "Lady, I apologize. I do not mean to doubt you. We have seen and lost the same. I simply wish for not another Ficquelmont to perish." Eveline understood the man's worry. She nodded back at him and the two continued their way out of the keep. "I may not be that good a fighter yet, but.." She moved her gloves down a bit, raised her arms and flexed her biceps. "I'm stronger than I look! No reason to worry!" She said, a wide grin on her face. Maarten's face remained in its usual semi-annoyed angered expression, but a short chuckle was the only evidence it didn't match his feelings. "I will admit though I am scared." "So am I. And I can guarantee so are they" He said gesturing in the direction of their fellowship. "Only a fool wouldn't be."

.....

Once all were outside of the main city gate, Eveline approached the bearded man from the awkward exchange in the briefing hall. "Hello, sir! I apologize for not properly greeting you back in the hall. I am Eveline De Ficquelmont. Glad to be out here alongside you." A soft smile on her face and her tone close to neutral and polite as not to make her introduction feel too forced.

Tarne

Were Jethec to tell anyone he wished for some action and excitement in times like this, chances were he'd get slapped hard enough to clear the other side of town. Don't matter which side he started on, rich or poor; they'd take the same offense and strike from the same sentiment. He couldn't help where his mind meandered, of course. A man can bear only so much of standing in one spot, contemplating the ache in his ankles, watching old ladies pick up apples and squeeze them inspecting for bruises and put them down again. Thankfully the day must always end. The shadows always reconquer what the light has built. A dyed and polished uniform was hanged for dreary rags; rousing speeches tapered into coughs and grumbles during the long walks home. Jethec walked unplagued by these vanities. He lived for smaller comforts.

He never could keep the lice out of the mattress for long. Sometimes he could swear he felt a weevil wriggling under the burlap, gnawing on the barley chaff stuffed inside. But sleep was the city's treasure, hoarded wheresoever it could be found. Jewels could be pilfered in the night, flames could leap from the hearth and lap up the house, but no one could steal away, not altogether, with their whiles of blissful forgetfulness. People couldn't help but cherish how the hours of hunger, cold, and stink all vanished under this tender trance. Even death was no end to it, for what is death but the longest sleep of all? Yes, to partake comfortably in their panacea was the chiefest of human dignities, and though Jethec's wrappings were coarse, they were also warm, and clean, and easy to anticipate.

Although he did allow himself other comforts, to make the waking hours more bearable. Everyone needed one or two, to tell himself that he could have it worse, that he wasn't the most pitiable soul in Tarne (most people believed it most times). Although the vermin were scarce now, a mouser still patrolled the halls sometimes who Jethec liked to coax into the flat. He would trap this creature in. He dropped a splash of vinegar into a bowl of milk, and teased the creature awhile as the mixture curdled. Then he'd scoop out the curds and watch its tongue as it ate. Sometimes, Jethec would move his one chair from its corner. Kneeling then, he would reach where one of its legs had rested, and pull up there the loose floorboard, and retrieve from that place the silvered dagger he kept buried away from the envious gazes of others. Just to hold it. Just to know that it was his, like an infant with its first blanket. Both of these gave him slivers of pleasure, enough to hold him over to the next long tryst with his mattress and his coverings.

Other matters had to come first, of course. Before his next cabal with Theon, which he sadly could not forgo, there was the mild euphoria of peeling off his boots and socks. Giving them an hour or twice to dry while he sat in that same chair, letting the aches disperse across the lengths of his body. Soothing the corners of his belly with a pickled onion or a gulp of buttermilk. Salt was too precious nowadays, but vinegar could bestow even the mealiest stuffs with some semblance of flavor. Today's fee was a little sack of rye flour; the quartermaster couldn't even be arsed to mix it into a dough first.

Still, peasants' flatbread smelled better than it tasted. As Jethec stopped at his door, and reached for his key, already he could imagine it baking in his little black pot (the other treasure he had to hide away in his apartment like a squirrel its cheekful of acorns, for iron was rarer by the day). The liberation of losing his damp trappings, surely the very same as a snake shedding its old skin. Jethec turned the key. Only he knew at once that he did not arrive at the same apartment as from which he had departed that morning. Something had moved, which does not happen by mistake in Tarne. Who then had visited while he was gone? And with what motive, what goal? Jethec's instincts noticed before his eyes did, but his eyes found the answer not long thereafter: on his floor sat a note. It had been slipped under his door, and was now limping about, caught in the drafts from the hall.

The page had been torn from a holy text, and scrawled over with some sort of crude mushroom ink, already peeling away from the paper.


Jethec read it twice, and glanced over it again for good measure. He walked to the fireplace and dug at the ashes with his hands. They were too cold for the note to burn, but until he found some spare kindling nobody would think to go rooting around that spot for the evidence.

Guess it couldn't hurt.

Theon lived on the ground floor. All of them down there looked a little like him: their trappings that much cleaner, their countenances that much prettier. (Straighter teeth, softer hands, no pox scars.) The further up the stairs one walked, however, the stronger the stench got. Jethec lived a floor or two from the top; not the worst place, but he had a long walk down to the doors in the morning, and he was worked too hard for too little bread. The neighbors on this floor pretended they were too good for him, for his services, until something dire happened to change their minds, whereupon it was agreed, for a week or two, that he was not so bad at all.

This Liv's apartment, meanwhile, overlooked everything from a broken window at the end of the uppermost hall. Jethec climbed up to see her, climbed and climbed. The dog barking, the spouses screaming, the babies wailing, these he heard now in perfect clarity, whereas most nights they were but a shudder in his ceiling. A whole other world, this; were the city tenements always so stratified? Or was this Tarne's solution to the overcrowding—to waste removal? Guess the stink can't offend the anyone-who's-anyones from this high up.

Two quick rasps with his knuckles. Jethec didn't wait long for the door, though he clutched his purse and shifted his scrutiny all the while.

"Thank the Maker," Liv said, already ushering herself aside to let her guest past.

"Good evening, Lora."

She visibly bristled at the name, and tried very hard not to look it. Moving to the table, she held up a knife and a lemon for Jethec to see, but he held his hand out vertical in reply, a polite refusal. He could already smell the vapors from a pot of boil, mingling in the air with the musk of mold and mildew. Liv cut into the lemon and started wringing it into two cups. The fruit had a corona of brown, bruisy flesh around its middle. "I can't believe there are still tea leaves left in this city. Those church nuts have been sweeping it all up for their incense or something. Did you hear what their criers were saying in the streets this morning?"

"Must've missed it."

"You musta missed it! When you spend your whole day at market?"

Jethec stared a beat. She thought him a liar, then. "I can't go looking for your medicine tonight," he said. "Maybe two, three nights from now." When Liv looked over she had the look about her of the wolves in the treeline.

"Why not tonight?"

"I'm already on a job."

The rest of her body was swiveling now, to catch up to her glare. "Jethec!" she whimpered, sounding adequately pathetic. "What's more important to you than my boy? Tell me, so I can outbid 'em! Fuck! He could already be dead in there!"

In a door's stead the other room had a musty red-brown carpet nailed over its frame. Jethec could admit that he felt the dread it radiated, the nearness of death. Then again it could have been coming from anywhere in the building.

"Hold on." Liv dashed for her bedding, another burlap sack like Jethec's, but darker, grainer, and stained with patters of old blood where the sleeper's thighs would go. She rummaged around the bedding's underside, where she had shoved whatever secret she had meant to keep til now. Jethec was quite amused with this cliché, until Liv's cracked, withered hands produced something far more pale and lustrous, as delicate-seeming as silk.

"I—I told you," she said, shoving the necklace and pendant at his hands. "I can pay this time."

Jethec hadn't the wherewithal to refuse at first. Opening his fist, he appraised the chain first, the more desirable part. No broken links. Very little tarnishing. The pendant, however, a good luck sigil, seemed a more personal piece. Years of clutching and rubbing had worn down, erased, the finer features.

"I can't take this from you."

"A thanks for last time, then."

"No," Jethec said. "I mean I don't want it."

It was then like he had taken a sledgehammer to a dam. The insults and the insinuations came at him as a deluge. Many called him a coward, in so many words. Fair enough, that one. More alluded to his height, his weight, his manhood, and late-night activities involving fat prostitutes and farm animals. Jethec weathered it all, but when a desperate Liv began waving the name of the sheriff around, promising a good long talk in the morning if Jethec would not save her boy, she soon learned how many threats he would suffer. The world went bleary as her head was thrown back against the wall. Her skull struck hard lumber.

Her breaths whistled as Jethec loosened the grip on her throat. He tried to kiss her. When she wrenched her face away from his, he grabbed her by the jaw and wrenched it back.

"Stop."

"A night with you, a memory of you, these are worth far more than a thimble of silver, Lora."

"Don't call me that. You vile bastard, you don't get to call me that."

"'Vile,' am I?" She couldn't breathe again. Her eyes were bulging, but Jethec gestured at the red curtain, gestured long and hard with a finger from his free hand, til they moved to see where he was pointing. The whole weight of his arm and shoulder pinned her scrawny neck to the wall. "Does your son agree? Maybe so. Could be he'd rather die waiting for someone less 'vile' than me to happen along with his medicine—a man of principle, is he, Lora?"

She was on the floor again. The colors rushed out from the corners of her vision; she gasped long and deep and wiped the spittle from her cheek. The dizziness was fading, but her body felt sluggish, and a hot pain spread out across her neck.

Jethec looked down into his hand, as if he blamed it, like it had acted of its own will and malice. No apologies came, and he offered nothing of his to help Liv back onto her feet. "I'll see what I can find," he snarled, clodding toward the door. He hung the necklace on a nail. "I will visit again two moons from now. Be ready with a warmer welcome—and the usual payment."

Dharrec was approached once more by the woman from the hall, who promptly apologized and greeted him. Had his helmet not been on she might've easily been able to see the look in his eyes as he held back a sigh. He hated this part - meeting people... but he cared even less for being rude.

"Don't worry about it, the name's Dharrec Albannes." He replied, glancing towards the others. He doubted that she would be glad to be out here for too much longer. But, with as many members as this expedition had, he hoped that they would be enough to keep everyone alive.

The group had only been walking a short while, the guards atop the walls of Cartelom still watching as they left. A thought crossed Dharrec's mind; that woman's name... something about it seemed familiar. Perhaps he'd overheard it before, as she had likely been in Cartelom for longer than the two or so months that he had been living there.

Some of the other members had started chatting quietly by now, though Dharrec did not particularly care to listen. Maybe he should, maybe he ought to strike up a conversation with the woman... what did she say her name was again? Eveline, right? Maybe this time would be different...

By Nerdude and Arkamegeddoncat

Eveline de Ficquelmont
Bits of silent chatter among the other party members gave Eveline the little push needed to continue the short exchange into a conversation. She had felt like the odd one out starting one whilst everyone else had remained silent, but with that sentiment now gonoe she asked the man about the things on her mind. "Sir Dharrec Albennes. Your accent. You're not from around these parts?"

Dharrec Albannes
"No." Dharrec replied, turning his head to look back to the woman as the group came upon a fork in the road. "Truthfully, I've only been here for a couple of months. But I can say with certainty that Cartelom is faring far better than the home that I left behind." He continued, the group keeping to the leftmost path.

Eveline de Ficquelmont
Eveline left a window of silence to think about Dharrec's words. He's not from around here. His accent without a doubt from Mynelis, safe to conclude he came from around there. But he had neglected to share that information. He had given her an answer she had heard from many in Cartelom, and it wasn't much different from what she herself had said to most. Where ever he was from things were going much same as in all of Rhogein. But it felt rude to pry for details. People weren't too keen on sharing the stories of what forced them to Cartelom. If Dharrec wanted to he would've. Most people didn't want to know either. Most shared memories of similar nature and were very much aware nobody desired to relive the horrors. While she had initially wanted to know more about the man she would share the mission with, it was perhaps better to leave those questions for a later time. And if he wanted to know more about her, he would've asked. Or so she assumed. It would be easier to read the man if it wasn't for the helm hiding his face.

"So Sir Dharrec Albennes. Anything you can share about the creatures walking around these parts?" It had been a while since she had last seen any of the monstrous creatures loitering about outside the city walls. Perhaps now is the time to get her memory refreshed and maybe catch some new information, considering she felt any other topic would be out of place right now.

Dharrec Albannes
Dharrec gave the woman an apprehensive look through the holes of his visor. When he turned his head back to look forward, though, he figured it would be better to inform her then to keep quiet and withhold potentially life-saving information. He did not wish to discuss the dead while in such a vulnerable state, as he was one of a number who believed it was bad luck to do so... but it was a harmless enough question for her to ask.

"There have been some unconfirmed sightings, but the most frightening encounters have been with Ghouls or Dread Knights." Dharrec started, resting a hand on the head of his flanged mace. "I've not encountered a Ghoul myself, but the stories I've heard are all... uncomfortable. They like to watch from afar, waiting for their chance to feast. I heard the first few expeditions were attacked in their sleep after they made camp in what they believed to be a safe place, never knowing what the culprit was or why they had been spared. Eventually they saw it... its eyes peering back at them from some brush. They say its face was that of an old friend's, but... I don't know what could've caused their transformation into a Ghoul. At the end of the day, they prefer prey that doesn't fight back... so as long as there's someone to keep watch, they'll keep their distance." Dharrec explained, scanning the horizon as he finished in a reactionary way.

"Dread Knights, on the other hand, I have encountered. They are not to be trifled with... they are the reason I now carry a mace with me whenever I venture out." He added, his voice trailing off in a way that suggested he wished to say no more of it.

Eveline de Ficquelmont
Even though unable to see the man's face, an air of unease oozed through the slits of his visor after hearing her question. It hadn't been that weird of a question she thought. Or was it? Perhaps it implied she was as green if not greener than she appeared. Being paired with someone as green as she unintentionally made herself out to be couldn't be a comforting thought. While attentively listening to Dharrec's words, which sounded more like a story specifically intended to scare her, albeit it more or less summarized, she revisited memories of her own. They were more vivid than she'd like them to be, but the vividness she needed. There was once instance of a human-like creature distantly following Maarten and her while running through the fields chased by undead. Back then it didn't raise any thoughts in particular. Too occupied trying to survive. But thinking back to it now it did strike her as particularly odd that just that one had been following but never got involved. It scared her these things had any semblence of intelligence.

He mentioned the "Dread Knights", something Maarten had mentioned briefly touched on but never got into detail about. The way Dharrec ended his sentence implied he was done talking. She eyed the mace. It seemed heavy but rather effective and straight forward in combat. But why did "Dread Knights" motivate him to have one on him? What was a Dread Knight even? Why hadn't anyone told her about the details? A better question was why hadn't she asked anyone? Eveline's curiosity was close to reaching peak levels, but bothering the man any further seemed like it would rub him the wrong way, if she hadn't already done that. She slowed her pace a little until she was walking next to Maarten. She spoke quietly, hoping Dharrec wouldn't overhear too well. "Say Sir Beldam," She said. "You encountered a Dread Knight. What are they like? How do you fight them?"

"Ugly." Maarten grunted, eyes fixed on his surroundings, constantly scanning for anything in the slightest unusual. At least that's what Eveline liked to think. She couldn't see Maarten's face behind his helm but was sure it looked the same as ever. Eveline was starting to regret not buying a helm. "Thick chitinous growths protect the flesh. Blade can't cut or pierce. Blunt 'n heavy is better. Bludgeon it to a pulp." Maarten pointed at the mace of the man in front. "It dented and broke shields with a mere blow. Broke bone through steel plate. Tossed grown men of their feet." Dread crept up on her feeling awfully unprepared to fight or even survive a dread knight. Liches, skeletons and ghouls she was sure she could face alone. One on one that is. Two might be pushing her luck. But Dread Knights sounded like beyond a human's ability to beat. "Fight em in formation. Distract it, enable hits from the side. Joints first. Cripple it. If alone you run 'n regroup." Eveline concluded it might be best to leave fighting one to the others. She was clearly under equipped and probably lacked the strength to even damage it with the right weaponry. Her lack of armor would probably make it easier to avoid a blow, but a single hit would lead to certain death. Not worth the risk if running and surviving was an alternative. Best protect their backs from the less dangerous abominations. Secretly she wanted to encounter one. Evidently not to fight one but to see one with her own eyes.