---

Darkness.

I am awake.

I must break free.

I must have vengeance.

Open your eyes.

Holgarth Half-Blood, King o’ the Hills and the High Places, forced his eyelids open. He grunted and groaned with effort, as if a great weight had been placed upon them by an unknown hand. His mind felt unfocused and his flesh trembled with weakness. Why this was, he could not say. There was no memory of what had come before this moment, only the distant recollection of his defeat and the subsequent disorganized days of incarceration. How long had he been in this place, this Maw? There was no answer. There had only been darkness, and silence, and the cold. But now, there was light. He blinked his eyes, trying to adjust his blurred vision. He caught a shadow of movement to his side, but was powerless to investigate. Growling, the Half-Blood tried to move his limbs, but to no avail.

You have woken. That voice –

Holgarth forced his eyes shut once more, struggling against his confines. He wasn’t ready to face it again, refused to play this game of cat and mouse for the Witches amusement. But there was no escape. No matter how hard he tried, he could not break loose. With a final roar of frustration, he opened his eyes to face the terror. This time, his vision was clear.

Half-Blood. I have been waiting.

He was in a large chamber, dimly lit by a ghastly blueish light of unknown origin. The stone walls were damp with moisture, rising upwards into a vault above. There were other people there, their forms veiled in shadow, but Holgarth barely noticed any of this. He only had eyes for the entity that stood before him, in the center of the room. The moment his gaze fell upon her face, despair took hold of his heart with merciless talons of ice.

The Warden.

She (It? Holgarth wasn’t sure the Warden could be counted as a woman) stood perfectly still, observing him. His mind screamed whenever he laid eyes upon her; something was wrong. It was as if she was not really there, not real at all, but at the same time the only real thing in the room. Even the light and the shadows seemed to fall upon her incorrectly, as if they had a conscience of their own and were reluctant to touch the abomination. Time stretched, Holgarths heavy breathing the only sound in the room. Finally, he could bear it no longer and roared his rage at her.

Release me, witch, or kill me! I tire of your games! Why do you keep me here? What is it that you want?

The Warden remained motionless, as if he hadn’t spoken. As if he wasn’t there. Holgarth strained again, but could not move. He looked down on his body, but found no bounds. He stood upright, clothed as he had been the day of his capture, still as a statue. He roared again, his frustration mingled with panic, fruitlessly straining against the invisible force holding him in place.

Patience, the Warden said, her voice like breaking glass. All in due time. They are waking.

The very next moment, one of the shadowed figures began to stir. Holgarth growled.

Once more, she awoke to a pale, ethereal light that was not the moon. Once more, she felt the heavy, full-body embrace of something that was not sleep paralysis. That meant the otherworldly being who was not a Moonwalker was near. In response, the otherworldly being known as "Weaves" faintly stirred, looking around the space that was not her cell. That meant the Warden needed something from her—something that was not related to her more mundane skills. Something that was not related to the upkeep of the Maw—what could it be? Weaves stirred, but was resisted. She offered no further struggle. Patience and serenity were virtues she had in abundance, and she knew what that force meant.



Moonwalkers had only one thing to say regarding the sun. Those touched by its light will be forever bound to it, unable to return to the tribe—banished. Yet the tribe had judged themselves unworthy of her, Weaves had decided. Perhaps the guardian of the woodland creatures would be kinder to her, she had thought. Awaiting its approach over the crest of the hill, she stood paralyzed with anticipation. What did she feel, when that warmth enveloped her skin for the first time? Whether it was comfort or terror, she couldn't say. Yet, it was beautiful.

For a time, Weaves had been content, living in the light. Woodland creatures were terrified of her, and would remain as still as the dead in her presence—but Weaves wished for them to sing, and so she had learned to imitate their stillness. Perhaps stillness had given way to idleness, however. One day, humans had come, and they were not so terrified of her as they should have been. Had she seen something of a mirror of herself in those creatures, confronting their fear of her as she had confronted her fear of the sun? Regardless, mercy had been a mistake. She allowed them to leech off of her land for far too long, these loathsome creatures who offered their newborn babes to a pyre in homage to a god whose name even the ancient Moonwalkers did not know. When they refused to leave, she slaughtered them, as was her right. In reply, their king had sent more. She slaughtered them, too. Then, a much fiercer man came, along with many others, with arms and armor.

The force slowly marched over the crest of the hill, alongside their guardian the sun, whom Weaves had angered. This time, however, she felt no fear—only rage. Again, she slaughtered them all, this time slowly and meticulously. Yet their leader matched her movements, and traded her every blow with one of his own. He had appeared to her as the very embodiment of the sun itself, and no matter how hard she tried she could not kill him. Mutually exhausted, each had let the other escape to fight another day. Perhaps mercy had been a mistake yet again.

Another force slowly marched over the crest of the hill, with the moon as her guardian. Once more, Weaves awaited its approach with anticipation, paralyzed where she stood. What did she feel, when that coldness enveloped her skin for the first time? Whether it was comfort or terror, she couldn't say. For a time, Weaves had been content, living in the light. However, it was time for her to return to darkness.



Weaves watched the half-giant rage against his restraints. She couldn't understand his useless struggle. What did he hope to gain by making all that noise? Patience, the Warden responded—rightfully so—allowing the man to stand up in his place. Then, she regarded the others in the room. Weaves supposed that was her cue to stand. She had no reason to keep the Warden waiting. She'd fulfilled the promises she made.

The creature, cloaked in darkness, had appeared to have been standing already, at the appropriate height for a human female. Yet, a pair of thin legs materialized from the dank fog that enveloped the ground and hoisted the figure into the air. With a slightly sickening crunch, it straightened its back, such that it towered over all present, even the Warden. It held an appropriately long staff in its right hand, sharpened in a taper off to one side like a piece of bamboo. Its blank eyes returned no light. Neither red nor yellow pierced the dark room as it gazed down upon the others. Its leering was not seen, but felt as a cold chill, enhanced by the mournful wail of its voice.

Moments ago?

Nine jail gaurds stood about the lip of a pit. A single thin stairs made from wood, easily broken if need be, leading down into the darkness of the pit below. This was the usual size of the detail. Sometimes bigger sometimes only one or two members smaller. Never less then three though. They stood and looked into the pit below. And listened, watching in carefully. From below the steady grunt of exertion, from below the crunch-grind of steel on stone. Here below the Maw itself, an inmate did his penance, willingly.

One guard turns to another, "Is it really true about this guy?" He asks of thr other. The other gaurd pushes up their visor revealing a grizzled old woman, tired and looking like they have seen things. She looks the first guard over, "New here?" The first guard nods, "First shift. So is it true? You jbow there are stories about some of those who are in here." The woman hums rubbing her cheek right beside a painful looking scar, "This one is the regicide..." She says and points into the pit. "Killed royaltythis one. The Dwarves gave him up to the King, couldn't deal with their own." There is a crunch from below and then a flicker of light and the gaurds startle, there in the black a face lit by candle.light. Staring up at the nine of them, as if gauging them. Then with a puff, the candle light is gone.

The gaurds trade looks and thus none of them.see thr flitting shadow that ghost down the stairs.

It takes them an hour to realize the strike of steel on stone has stopped. Bit are told not to report it when the nine boil to the surface.

It's taken care of.

Now

The darkness is welcome. The light this strange blue light, is not.

Then the voice, no not it, no..."Yes my friend. Up now. Up."

With a groan he shifts, and feels many things. The hard shaft of something at hand, and many many hard plates, and chain, and leather a deep breath and he feels a familiar hiss and smells a familiar scent. He's in his armor and his mask and his helm with his axe pick at hand, but he's bound. Why?

He opens his eyes, and though it is shadowy a Dwarves natural darksight picks out forms, but his eyes stop on...it...that thing, woman shaped could be comely, could be curvy, but not really.

He stares at the Warden.

Then sees the half giant, ahh someone who shares in the rage. And then stands tall the shadow moon thing. And he feels his bindings give. He sets his plated boots upon the floor, hobnails biting before he finds his footing. And a rumbling voice, "What is sought of stone?" He looks about wondering who else is here.

For a moment he bristles, eyes behind the steel mask going wide pupils dilating, and he takes up the might axe pick in one hand, weighing it anew, and for a moment he seems to be wondering how much it would take to kill them all, or if the Warden would stop him if he tried. But then with a sigh and a long low hiss through the mask Bors calms himself, no, no killing here today. No killing these ones.

No.

Not today.

His attention returns to the Warden, the others are dangerous but the Warden is the most deadly. He waits and listens.

He awoke, head pounding like church bells. He could feel himself bruised and battered, and there was a taste of blood in his mouth. The telltale sign of either a good night out, or...

He looked around, drinking in his surroundings. He was standing in a stone room, which was odd. He would usually wake in such rooms sprawled on the floor or curled in a corner, or in some rare cases, tied to a chair. Around him were ominous shadows, surrounding a central even more ominous figure. Some of the shadows made strange sounds as they stirred, roaring like beasts. Well, it looked like his first impression was wrong after all.

It had been a great night out.

Christoph reflexively grasped his fingers, only to find he couldn't move them. Magical restraints, he presumed. He could move his eyes and little else. It was a pity, that he couldn't show the female(?) figure in the center his winning smile. Nevertheless, there were plenty of things he could sense. His expensive clothes were torn and tattered (and he had bought them for so much gold!), but he could still feel a pair of dice poking his side from an inside pocket. His right hand clenched a deck of cards. A pittance of possessions for one of his stature, but he didn't mind so much. Ordinary people would perhaps be fearful being awoken in a strange situation, alone, with no money and unknown enemies. But he wasn't dead, and that was all that really mattered to him. Besides, he wasn't alone.

Maybe it was the orange blur that would pass through the corner of his eyes as he looked around, only to disappear when he wasn't looking. Maybe it was the wiff of brimstone that faded from his senses as soon as he focused on it. Maybe it was the eyes on the joker in his hand, gleeming with malicious intent. It was still here, as always. He knew that It would keep watching him, until the day he died, and probably long after that. He didn't know what it wanted, really, only that it seemed to go to great lengths to wring every moment of amusement it could out of his life. Nevertheless, it usually helped more than it harmed.

Christoph closed his eyes, content with his observations. There was no reason to worry about things outside of his control. His foggy brain couldn't offer any reason as to why he awoke in this situation, but what did it matter? Soon the memories would surface from the haze of memory, or maybe they wouldn't. He didn't really mind. It wasn't the first time he found himself in this state, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Besides, where was the fun in knowing everything?

How long she laid in her casket, Cian didn't know. There was always the thirst, made worse by the ever present drain that left her unable to move in the slightest. From time to time, animal's blood would drip into her mouth, providing brief relief but without the essence, and never enough to satisfy.

And then one day, something else dripped in her mouth, cold, wet, cloying, with a flavor she hadn't had since... since...

Wordless agony ripped through her as her body cramped against this vile, disgusting fluid, this... milk?! And yet there was nothing she could do, frozen, as it continued to drip into her mouth!

Yet in the midst of this torture, her tongue picked up a hint, a bare trace of the essence she hadn't tasted in ages...! Human blood.

The iron lid of her casket protested as it was pushed away, and she could feel her strength starting to return. Opening her eyes in the torchlight, she could see three human faces peering down at her. The ever-present thirst roared in her and she latched onto the nearest throat...

---

Something bit her. By reflex, she grabbed it, coming face to face with a rat. Instinct took over as she bit it, ignoring its anguished squeal, and began feeding. Sitting up, she took in the dim room and the other rats.

"This... isn't the crypt," she muttered, wringing its neck before tossing the rat away and catching the next one. All their eyes were on her, watching despite themselves as she broke the neck of the second before tossing it at the first, then reaching for the the next to feed on.

---

In the dim light, Cian examined the door. This had to be one of the doors down from the punishment room underneath Mor's house, what the staff whispered were the cells. It wasn't much, a mattress stuffed with straw, a bucket in the corner, and a sturdy door bolted on the other side. Had she not been wearing the necklace bearing the seal of the Dead God, she might have easily battered it down, fortified as she were with human and rat blood.

"Does she really think I would turn one of the girls...?" the vampire said softly, shaking her head. It was clear Mor wasn't going to let her out until she was ready. But she needed no mirror to know she and her leathers were caked with filth.

"Attendant!" Cian calls out, banging on the door. "Attendant! I need a bath! Lots of hot water! Soap! My box with the combs and brushes! Attendant! Where are you?"

---

It may have been hours or days, she couldn't be sure, when something heavy rolled past outside the door before stopping. The flap at the bottom of the door was unbolted and latched up.

"Bucket," orders the man on the other side.
"Attendant! Where have you been?" Cian demands. "I called for a bath hours..."

The flap slams shut then bolted.

"Where are you going?" Cian demands angrily. "I told you I need a bath! Clean clothes! My combs and brushes...!"

The cart rolls on.

---

The next time the flap opens, she wordlessly passes through the bucket and the dead rats. The empty bucket was slid back, then she got a small jug of water and a cracked bowl with a hunk of coarse bread and a lump of hard cheese. Cian scowls at the vile lump, then sets it aside on the floor, waiting for the next rat to show up.

Let Mor play her games.

---

She'd lost count of the times the flap opened, but this time only two rats crawled through the crack in the wall and were mesmerized. After draining the first, Cian studies the second one, a gravid female, before placing it on the floor and gave it a kick to the rump. It wakes up with a squeal and darts for the crack. Fetching the lump of moldering cheese, she shoves it in the crack after it.

"Go have babies," she orders. "I grow thirs..."

Sleep.

Cian's eyes roll up and she falls to the floor, unmoving.

---

There was buzzing, like some fly near her ear. Cian's hand jerked, but the buzzing continues. She scowls as consciousness slowly returns. This wasn't buzzing, this was words...!

She bolts upright, hearing the jangling of her necklace.

There were others around her, stirring like she had been, but her eyes were on the woman.

"Who are you?" she demands. "Where is Mor? Do you know how long I've been waiting for a...."

Be silent.

To the vampire's horror, her mouth clamps shut. Her hands fly to her face, but she couldn't open her mouth! Cian stares with horror at the woman standing there.

---

There she stood. For time longer than most could count deep down in perhaps the deepest depth of The Maw she stood, sealed in an iron cage at the bottom of a pit. When they first brought her weakened body to this place they tried to pry her loose from her armor but the mundane staff found the task most complex. The armor itself seemed reluctant to release her so instead they opted for a simpler answer. They sealed her inside a cage and then lowered that cage into a deep, deep pit. They figured even if she broke out from the cage there was no way she could climb all the way up and break her way through the grating they had placed at the top just in case.

Gangraena hadn't made an effort to break out of the cage. The last time she tried that they threatened to break her anchor and that would make her sad so down in the bottom she waited. Minutes turned to hours turned to days turned to months to possibly years and yet she remained, standing there like a decorative suit of armor for all that those who occasionally patrolled the top of the pit could tell. Eventually even they grew bored of watching something that neither moved more even needed food nor water. Effectively they had just dropped her to the bottom of a pit and forgot about her.

Of course, not everyone forgot her.

Why else then would one day they would drag her cage up from the bottom of the pit, horses pulling the chain hooked onto the top of it and looped through a pulley for easier lift. They threw a tarp over the top of the cage. Some of the guards speculated the creature within wasn't even alive anymore, just a corpse resting in a metal shell. Such was why they questioned the need for the tarp in the first place but the warden demanded it be covered and so it was done. There was no arguing directives from above down in The Maw, at least where any living soul could hear.

They weren't wrong about her. A corpse resting in a metal shell, an apt description. A lifeless corpse she was not however. After so long staring at the same walls however she seemed to slump back into her old routine, just repeating the last thing she was doing and dreaming of a life once lived, of things she once knew like light and the sun and flowers and such.

The only thing to cause her to stir was what happened when they reached their destination: a room which at this point was empty for the most part. After someone removed the tarp upon her cage another threw a sack cloth bag over her head, keeping her vision impaired still. Apparently it was also the Warden's orders. None of this stirred her however, at least not until she was pushed out from the confines of her cage by a long wooden stick. Landing on her face with a thud the armor seemed immobile for a bit before she began to stir within. Something was happening... Or was it just her imagination?

---

Some time later...

---

Voices, movement, the sounds of others being laid down in the room. Something was being set up here. She had half a mind to stand up and try to take a look around. Of course, she hadn't. Not until a voice both hollow and crisp spoke directly to her, it's direction unknown.

Stand up

Oh good! Somebody to talk to! She missed having conversations so. Thus, Gangraena got up. It wasn't the command that compelled her but rather just something she'd do anyways, it was just nice that they asked. Looking around she soon realized the room was still pitch black. Why was that? She wondered to herself as she stood there, a looming silent statue of metal or so she appeared to any else who were looking her way at that time. Anyone else could also notice that this figure still had a bag over it's head, the cause as to why she still couldn't see anything.

Of course, she'd gotten so used to standing around that it hadn't crossed her mind yet to try and check to see if something was blocking her vision. She simply stood, unspeaking, unmoving save for the faint turning below the sack that sat over her head while she attempted to look around in vain.

Feras the Frail

Then

The sun was just beginning to peep its face over the mountain ridge, giving Meadows just enough weak morning light to read the Temple’s message. It didn’t take long, there wasn’t a lot there to read. The Doppler took their time though, eyes tracking back and forth, chasing the words across the page like a dog chasing its own tail. Perhaps they thought that if they kept searching they’d pick out some new, crucial piece of information and crack the code to solve all their problems. Or maybe they were hoping that the harsh words might change into something more pleasing, something that left more room to manoeuvre.

But they won’t. I should know, I spent last night reading and re-reading the damn thing myself. Look as hard as you want. It never gets better.

The letter was short and concise. Mercifully so, in fact. Usually the Temple’s missives were couched in flowery language, dressed up in all sorts of religious iconography, parables, and dogma. It was a fact Feras had learnt during his time in the Abbey that as soon as you teach a man to write that's all he wants to do, write and write and write, using a hundred words where just ten would do. Not difficult to understand why, when you have a talent that so few share then it’s understandable if you want to show off.

Someone in the church had obviously decided to dispense with all the pretence here, perhaps deciding Feras and his rebel Commandos weren’t worth the effort. No, this writer got straight to the point.

Feras.

Surrender yourself by noon, and your people go free.

Refuse, and you all die.

It wasn’t the kind of letter that left much room to manoeuvre.

“Fuck.” Meadows finally muttered.

“Fuck.” Feras agreed.

“They can’t seriously expect you to go through with this, it’s tantamount to suicide! Do they think you're an idiot!” Meadows' rasp-like voice continued on in their berations of the Temples' demands, but Feras let the noise wash over him. He’d already had this argument with himself last night, weighed up all his options, considered all the angles.

What options do you think we have left, Meadows?

Instead he let his attention wander across the outcrop the Rangers had set their camp upon. The rest of the crew were rousing now, rolling awake and alert. It didn’t matter how restless a night they’d had, his lads were experienced woodsmen, able to leap from sleep to wakefulness in a heartbeat. Slim was already at the cookfire, getting the oats ready for the band to break their fast. Or at least try to break it. We’ve barely got enough supplies left to slate Polly's appetite alone, never mind the rest of us. Denting the fast might be the best we can hope for.

He realised that Meadows had stopped ranting and was instead fixing him with those black, inscrutable eyes. Feras remembered being off-put by those midnight, slanted orbs when they had first met. They were too dark, too inscrutable, too alien. Not human enough, was the problem. Funny, in a sad, futile sort of way, that he, with his orc-tainted blood, had been so concerned about someone not appearing human enough. But then time had taught him that while he had inherited the strength, hardiness, and temper of his Orc forebears, unbased prejudice seemed to be the most obvious gift he had received from his human side.

“You can’t go along with this.” Meadows rasped, his silvery brow furrowed in concern.

“We don’t have any other options.” Feras replied softly, waving his arm to gesture at the box canyon around them, and the Commandos trapped within it. They had been cornered by the Temple’s soldiers, two whole platoons dedicated solely to the capture of twelve demi-human ‘heathens’.

It had been bad luck that did them in the end. Bad luck that Polly had broken her leg a few days before, kicking a platemail wearing Temple commander to death. Bad luck that they’d beaten one enemy force, just to exhaust themselves before more arrived. Bad luck that the weather had turned, and forced them deeper into the mountains to evade their pursuers. Bad luck that Cateye had also been wounded during the battle, so he hadn’t been able to take up his usual role of scout, leading the whole force of rangers to taking a wrong turn into this death alley.

Only one way out, and the Temple soldiers had sewn it up tight behind them.

Aye, if war had taught Feras one thing it was that you can be as big, as tough, as experienced and as mean as you like, but if you haven’t got luck on your side, then your as good as fucked before the first arrow falls.

“We can try to climb out … ” Meadows started weakly then petered out, knowing that wasn’t an option. Not really. Polly couldn’t climb, not with her leg as bad as it was, and no one else could carry her out. She was just too big. That was the problem with Cyclops, great to have at your back in a brawl, not so easy to give a piggyback to, especially not when scaling the side of a vertical cliff. Not to mention that would mean having to leave Redmane behind as well. Centaurs weren’t known for their climbing ability, after all.

And I’m all done leaving people behind.

“No Meadows. My mind’s all made up. I give myself up, and you all get to live. That’s a fair trade in my eyes.” The smooth silvery flesh around Meadow’s eyes creased and furrowed, the Skinchanger readying his arguments for why that was a terrible idea. Feras cut him off before he had a chance, plastering a glib smile across his face - not the easiest thing to do with tusks - and forcing a confidence into this voice that he didn’t feel.

“Besides, the worst they can do is kill me.”

Now

He had been wrong.

This was worse.

This was much worse.

The last good memory he had was watching his crew march out of the box canyon, all eleven of them in a line, casting worried glances over their shoulders back towards where he stood ringed by a guard of Temple of Sun Soldiers. My life for theirs, he’d reminded himself as they disappeared out of sight, the fear and crushing realisation of the choice he’d made weighing heavy, like an anchor round the neck of a drowning man.

Fair trade.

The beatings had started almost immediately. Soldiers, inquisitors, priests, Hell, even the camp cook, all took their turn thrashing the Half-Orc who’d killed so many of their friends and comrades. Half-Orcs are hardier than any human which in his line of work was usually a good thing. Usually. The kicking seemed to go on for eons, until they’d surely tenderised his hide to the consistency of warmed butter, but eventually - mercifully - he lost consciousness. As silver linings went it was decidedly thin, but considering the fix he was in he couldn’t afford to be choosey.

He couldn’t say how long ago that had been. Every time he’d come back to the soldiers would just beat him again. It was a savage cycle, but no more than he had expected when he’d surrendered himself. The Temple of the Sun wasn’t known for being merciful. In his brief moments of lucidity he had wondered why they hadn’t started on the real, proper torture. Fingernails pulled forcibly from their nail beds, pointed ears being sliced off, hot pokers getting shoved up places where no one wants a hot poker; that kind of thing. Lacking any other information he was forced to assume it was because the Priests wanted him whole and relatively healthy for his trial and execution.The plebs always preferred their victims fresh and unmarred. It made the gradual torture all the more entertaining, to see a fresh canvas filled in. The Priests were nothing if not showmen.

It was with some surprise then when he began to rouse from his stupor and wasn’t immediately greeted with a blow to the face. Try not to get too excited though. They might just be taking their time to put on gloves. However as the seconds ticked by and he remained un-assaulted he began to realise that something must have changed. He wasn’t optimistic enough to think it had changed for the better though. The only reason his captors would stop torturing him would be if they had some worse punishment in mind.

He clambered to his feet with a groan. Didn’t feel like anything was broken, but he ached all over. Even his pinkies hurt. He took a moment to let his head stop spinning before glancing around. The vault - for vault it appeared to be - was damp, and dark, lit only partially by some ghostly blue light that did little to take either the chill or the dread atmosphere from the room. Orc eyes were well suited to seeing in the dark, though that felt like more curse than blessing right now.

Everywhere he looked there was some new horror advancing out of the shadows. Looming giants, clanging metal monstrosities, smirking madmen. And there in the centre, the worst of the lot. He wasn’t sure what exactly it was he was looking at. The creature, for thats the only word he could use to describe it, wore the shape of a woman but he doubted thats all it was. It was difficult to even look directly at it, like trying to stare directly into an open flame, though there was nothing warm about this figure.

It’s like somebody has wounded the world in the shape of a person, he decided, some horrid scar that even the shadows don’t want to touch. He wasn’t sure what he was looking at, but he was certain he didn’t want to be any closer to it than he had to be.

Feras backed off a pace, hands dropping towards his waist and a weapons belt that wasn’t there anymore. The soldiers had confiscated it when he’d surrendered, figures that they wouldn’t give it back. From the frying pan into the fire. He balled his fists, not sure he liked his prospects throwing hands with all these devils, but it wasn’t like he had a wealth of options

He waited for what came next, trying to stifle his rising panic and praying there was a reason he was down here beyond becoming a green-tinged entrée.

Awoken suddenly and abruptly, Qal could feel their limbs ache like the beast had been rampaging; and considering Qal couldn’t seem to move an inch, perhaps it had been. Although, Qal pondered, the ache is slightly different - like sitting wrong for too long instead of the usual muscle fatigue that Qal gets after a transformation, and there was no fog or hazy memories, so Qal figured they could confidently say the beast had not been in control. At least, not yet; Qal could feel it trying to break free, to little effect. Whatever bonds were keeping Qal from moving seemed to be keeping the beast in line too.

Qal couldn’t seem to remember how they got here; the last thing they remembered was sitting in their too bright and warm cell, drawing odd patterns in the dust on the floor while watching the sleepy pile of mice huddled up on their ratty blanket. Qal often found themself surrounded by the company of small critters, their cell being the warmest in the Maw to keep the beast sluggish and slow. Qal remembered looking up as a visitor’s presence was felt at the door - no, not a visitor, The Warden.

Ah. That explains it then.

Tuning back into their surroundings, Qal listened to the shouts and concerns of others in the room. Hearing such loud and angry voices around them was discerning; the rats and spiders weren't usually so noisy, and Qal’s solitary cell kept almost all noise out. Qal finally looked around and tried to focus on their surroundings as they could feel the beast’s unease - not just from The Warden, who stood prominently before them, but it seemed that there was magic flowing through some of the others in the room too. Qal kept their focus solely on the Warden though, knowing that whoever else might be in here, none of them could compare to The Warden’s power.

Plus, in Qal’s experience here, it was simply easier and faster to stay quiet and listen to what the authority wanted. As much as Qal wished to escape back to the sylvan forests, they enjoyed the small amount of peace and solitude they were rewarded with for their cooperation. Qal had witnessed countless times already how ineffective and counterproductive arguing and struggling was.

So, Qal stood still and stared at The Warden, waiting for her to announce whatever reason she had brought them all here.

A cold wind swept across the plains and Sariel shivered. The moon above her was the color of bone, charred by steady fires. She studied the strange stars that glittered in the distance. Fading before her, the pale blue light that shone from the stars felt cold as it touched her. Appearing in the starlight, untold grave markers surrounded her, the names faded, and the symbols obscured. In the distance, a ruined tower remained, great stones scattered across the ground. She did not feel unwelcome. And so she lingered.

Whispers.

Whispers grew to a sea of voices. Sariel heard tongues faded from the world. Words heavy with forgotten meaning. In the space between she could hear magic woven. Subtle patterns, deft use of the high art, molded into gentle designs that beseeched her. She listened, pleased at the courteous gesture and the patient skill used to summon her. There was wisdom in what was offered. It would be easy to remain. It would be easier to stay. She could feel a thin thread holding her back. She could escape. She had only to accept.

Another voice spoke. Not louder than the others, but overpowering still. A frozen flame flickered into existence in front of her, consuming her with cold, and scattering the faded visages that now encircled her. The dead grew silent, with dread she thought, but did not know.

Wake up, Necromancer.

She awoke to a dim light, the faded gray that her elven eyes allowed her. How much time had passed since her last interrogation she could not tell. Not reliably. Not by any valid measure. She remained on the material plane. She was still in the Maw. Of this she was certain. There was no time to seek answers to her many questions. No matter her need for answers. The dead could wait, the Warden would not. She had grasped her situation. She understood. She had been summoned. She had been called. Not just by the dead. Not thence.

The Warden was there. They were there. The stars had shifted. The moon had fallen. They were caught by a being far beyond their meager powers. Driven by arcane interest and a gnawing curiosity that filled her with reckless courage, Sariel watched the Warden as she stood in front of them. Sariel recognized an ancient feeling. An old reminder she had committed to memory through pain and danger. Fear. She paused, tasting the distant feeling that reached beyond the necessary wall she had built around her humanity. She examined her reaction. Considered her emotions with growing interest. She had trained herself. Taught herself to see beyond the veil. She had thought herself removed from such base feelings.

That the wrongness of the Warden would trouble her surprised her. She should have felt more, but she didn’t feel much these days. She could still feel fear. An unexpected gift, she would treasure it. The nature of the Warden eluded her. She knew of the undead. She knew of extraplanar beings. She knew of many powerful creatures that existed far from the eyes of the uninitiated. And yet, she did not know the Warden. She could not place her. She could not name her. She knew only to tread carefully and to listen well.

Discerning that her restraints had vanished, Sariel rose slowly. She sensed the fading remnants of the magic that had bound her. Power! Such Power! she thought. That even the fragments of the fell magic the Warden commanded could surge with such power concerned her, captivated her. Fascination passed as her senses returned to her with each slow and measured breath. There was a weight in her arms and she looked down to see an arcane grimoire in her hands. It was hers! She could have cried tears of joy, had she not considered such behavior beneath her. It was a bribe, she suspected, and a message from her mysterious captor. The Warden would not miss such a detail. She would not forget. Her ornate silver dagger wrested in a sheath on her hip, as if she had never been forced to relinquish it. And she was dressed in her robe, no longer attired in the tattered clothes they had left her.

Faint movement drew her attention. A large form stood unmoving nearby. Layers upon layers of blackened armor motionless save for the faintly shifting cloth that rested on the head of whatever stood beneath. Sariel was not unkind. It would not do to be unseeing when dealing with the Warden. Bad enough to be faced with such a powerful entity without the difficulties of blindness. Sariel felt drawn to the armored juggernaut. She sensed unfamiliar magic, but magic all the same. There was a presence, a presence that intrigued her.

She approached carefully, standing on her toes to reach high enough. Removing the scrap of cloth, she placed it gently in one of the gauntleted hands, and studied the creature that stood before her. Seeking eyes, Sariel found two pale orbs, shimmering in the darkness. She had found something new, something different. She felt a temptation, a compulsion, to reach out and touch the figure, but thought better of it, and instead politely nodded.

Satisfied, Sariel offered a courteous bow to the Warden. She would not beg. She recognized her place. She would not yell. She would not scream. And she would not foolishly fight. Change loomed on the horizon. She did not need the gift of prophecy to know as much. Whatever deadly machinations had been set in motion, she was certain that the Warden was at the heart of it. She could contemplate matters outside of her cell. She was patient. She would move slowly.

She would hear what the Warden had to say. She wanted to, recognizing without malice that she had no choice.

"My humble greetings, dear Warden. How may I be of service?"

---

---

---

---

The evening air was cool and crisp. Dusk had not long fallen, a thin band of baleful crimson still rimmed the western horizon, casting long shadows of a deep bruised purple. It would be night soon.

Sir Brandon hefted the longsword in his hand. It was his own blade, plain but serviceable, it had been given to him by his brother in arms Sir Hyrwine the Gallant, in recompense for the one he had broken against his fellow knight's shield during the great tourney at Meadowview. It was a good blade, nimble in the hand, well balanced, and honed to a razor edge.

His resolve tightened. He knew what he had to do. He twirled the blade once more, hoping the motion would steady his hands. They continued to trembled.

The knight turned away from the fading light and walked towards the pavilion behind him. He was girded in his mail, the armour gently shifted around him, a reassuring cascade of metal clinking against metal, letting him know that he was well protected.

Tonight, it would be tonight. He would put an end to this wretched folly once and for all. He pulled aside the curtain, and stepped into the tent.

The room he found was not what he was expecting. Inquisitor Thomond's personal pavilion was filled with expensive furniture, lined with plush silks. Instead Brandon found himself standing in a very different sort of room. It was made of bare stone, roughly dressed in places, seemingly hewn into natural rock in others. Light came from a single guttering torch from a metal sconce upon the wall. It was empty save for a kneeling figure.

They were a pitiful sight, whoever they were. Thin and dressed in rags, with long, greasy, tangled, greying hair. A chain snaked its way from the wall they knelt beside to join to a pair of irons affixed upon their wrists and ankles.

This was some kind of cell. And this was its prisoner.

But where was the Inquisitor? It was Thomond that had to find, had to stop, before... before he could do something unspeakable. Unforgivable. Brandon's head began to spin, he felt dazed, confused. He had been looking for the Inquisitor. Why was he here? How had he ended up here?

"You there, wretch! Where is Inquisitor Thomond?" He tried to steady himself, barked an order at the kneeling prisoner. He would find the Inquisitor. He would put a stop to this.

The man on the floor did not answer. Brandon took a step closer.

As he drew closer, he could not help but think that this man seemed familiar somehow. Like he should know who this was. He had faced many enemies and fell foes over his years of service to the crown. Doubtless many of them were housed in cells such as this. But somehow he didn't think that was where he knew this person from. They felt so much more... intimate...

"Look up." Brandon spoke in a hoarse whisper.

Slowly the prisoner stirred, uncoiling themselves from the ball they had cowered in. The rats nest of dirty hair and sackcloth unravelled to reveal a pale face staring back up at him, grey eyes wide, trembling with desperate tears.

Sir Brandon stared in horrified disbelief at his own face.

"Too late." A voice spoke from behind him, it sounded like glass being shattered. "Too late to save anyone, little knight."

And then it all came flooding back. The memory of what he had done. Of what he had failed to do. The horror of it all. The rage, the shame, the hatred, the despair.

Suddenly he wasn't the knight standing over the broken prisoner. He was the kneeling figure, bound by chains, unable to move. Forced to watch as the terrible tableau was played out again once more. The knight before him stepped forward and lifted the guttering torch from out of the the wall sconce.

They weren't in the cell anymore. Oh gods they were there. The Pyre. The Pyre!

He saw himself. Torch in hand. The Pyre already stacked.

Oh Gods. Oh Gods why didn't anyone stop him? Why couldn't he stop himself? But he could not move, he could not even cry out. The light from the torch grew brighter and brighter. Until it was a blazing inferno. Redder than the setting sun. Hotter than the flames of hell.

The world shifted again and suddenly he was not the Brandon stood frozen at the side lines, watching the horror before him unfold. No, now he was the one holding the torch.

He lit the pyre.

And the screaming began.



With a stifled scream Sir Brandon awoke from the nightmare, eyes wide with panic. Slowly he managed to get his breathing under control enough to realise that he had not awoken in his cell. He was in a darkened room, surrounded by other individuals, held by some kind of unseen force.

It did not matter.

Nothing mattered anymore. And anywhere was better than being trapped inside of his own head.

Aoife, the Listening Mouse

How long have I been here?

Over seven-thousand five-hundred, under eight-thousand, days. It was hard to measure the exact passage of time when one couldn’t see the sun--so Aoife based it on how many times she’d slept. They’d moved her to a different cell exactly thirty-seven times. The Warden had figured out that Aoife was learning and plotting against the structural integrity of each of her cells--learning how to escape. It was disappointing–what else was she supposed to do in the Maw? Just exist?

I’ve been here long enough that I’ve had to cut my hair seventeen times.

It was really the only reliable source of time passing--her hair. Nothing else in the Maw seemed to move or grow. Her hair had recently reached the point of tickling at her eyes, but not long enough to be held back with a tie just yet. A few more inches before the eighteenth cut.

But something had changed. Something was new.

Instead of waking up in her cell, the small halfling realized she was waking up to tight bonds and a new location. She was in a too-large chair, her arms tied behind her and ankles tied to the cold metal legs. Aoife wiggled slightly as she rose into consciousness, testing the unfamiliar feeling. It was wire-like rope that held her in place--I’m not big or strong enough to warrant chains. They know that my mind is the reason I’m here.

As Aoife tried to get a sense of her surroundings, she realized that whoever had brought her here--the Warden, no doubt--had known to cover her eyes. The halfling found that her eyes would not open, harsh cloth tied around her head to keep her blind. Was she being moved again? She was always kept unconscious when she was moved to a different cell--her mind had started building a mental map of the maze-like Maw, and the Warden didn’t want that to continue.

No, I’m not moving. This is something else. Aoife kept her breathing shallow as she moved her head slowly, using her ears. It’s a bigger room--the echo. There are others--I can hear them stirring. She heard the gentle pitter of a graceful stride on a stone floor. A voice like a honeyed blade spoke, inquiring what the Warden needed.

Ah. The Warden has gathered a collection of denizens of the Maw together, then. But what for? Aoife quickly realized that everyone in the room had received different treatment--the honey-dagger voice was not bound like Aoife was. She could hear someone--someone large--grunting and straining against harsher bindings. Someone else let out a bit-back scream, but not from torture or bindings. Everyone had received a different treatment--which means they have different strengths and abilities. Different types of threats. Different reasons for being in the Maw. And the Warden had placed all of them under her control.

Well, I can do nothing but listen, the Warden has made sure of that. So let’s see what my captor has to say.

Aoife kept her ears trained towards the center of the room, but didn’t make a sound. She would listen. It was what she did best, after all.

Cian paused, letting her hands drop to her sides.

Was she being ignored by this woman?

They took away her freedom, making her a slave.
They took away her ability to choose who to let in her bed.
They took away her life, giving her to a vampire.
He took away her humanity, giving her this unquenchable thirst.
Mor locked her up in that iron casket, letting her loose only when there was a job.
And now she was here, and she was being denied a bath.

Mor would have understood.

Mor would have provided her with a hot bath, clean clothes, and everything that implied! Her appearance was the only thing she had any control over.

Let this "warden" see what happens if you dared to ignore Cian!

Carefully, Cian reached up and undid the buckles for her stained and soiled leathers, slipping out of the armor quietly and placing it gently on the ground. Leaning forward to let the Dead God seal dangle away from her slightly, she began undoing the toggles for the rotting gambeson underneath...

---

Holgarths eyes narrowed as the situation unfolded, his gaze shifting between the entities gathered in the vault. Some of the creatures he knew off, but most were strange to him. He smelled the stench of sorcery in the room, and the reek of rot and death. The scent reminded him of the crypt where he had fought Geur-Nagh, and he suspected these new devils were of a similar mold. Whatever they were, Holgarth knew they were dangerous. He would have to be careful and patient, and strike when the time was right. He ceased his struggle for the moment, but would not let himself relax. As soon as the Witch released him, he had to be ready to act. Ready to fight.

The Warden remained in the center of the room, motionless. A few of the others spoke to her, but if she noticed, she gave no sign. When they had all woken, she started to speak. Her voice could not be properly described. It sounded like the ice cracking beneath your feet, like the blade rasping against your ribs, like your home burning in the night. Most of all, it sounded like something not of this world. Holgarth could understand the words, somehow, but he knew deep down that they had not been uttered in any tongue he spoke. Other than fear, perhaps.

The King is in need of aid, the Warden said, And you have been chosen to aid him. To do this, you will be let loose from this place. Your belongings have been returned to you, and once this briefing is concluded, you will be free to roam as you wish. You will, however, do that which is asked of you... or you will die trying.

Holgarth did not know wether he wanted to laugh or growl. He decided on neither, and held his tongue. The Witch had spoken to him like this on the day of his defeat. She was working her magic now, somehow, but he could not see it, nor hear it or smell it. It was a subtle kind of sorcery, if sorcery it was, unlike any that Holgarth had ever experienced before. How could he fight that which he could not understand? If only he could reach her with the Underblade... In his mind, he could see how the shadowed edge of the fell sword split her neck from her body; how her lifeless corpse slumped to the ground. Strangely, though, even in his daydreaming there was no blood. And when the head stopped tumbling, facing him, it smiled. Holgarth blinked hard, gritting his teeth. She was already in his head, and she wasn't even looking at him!

To the east of the Kingdom, the Warden continued, lies the land of Sulfrey. The Sulfreyans are our friends and allies, and keep the rest of the eastern hordes at bay. It is a rich and powerful land, ruled by a living god known as Ael-Gol. We know surprisingly little about this being other than that it is ancient, seemingly immortal, and extremely powerful. This has been a great benefit to the Kingdom, as Ael-Gol and his armies have defeated the barbarians of the east time and time again.

Holgarth listened intently at this point. He knew of the Sulfreyans. They were fierce warriors, with horned helmets and curved blades. Their knights rode winged reptile nightmares called Wyverns, with daggers for teeth and poisonous barbs on their tails. Holgarths tribe had fought these easterlings during his campaign to conquer the Hills and beyond, and it had been some of the bloodiest battles he'd won. He had not expected them and the White Tigers as allies, but figured that it probably was a wise move for both parties. What the Witch could want with them, though, Holgarth could only guess.

That is however also the problem. The easterlings are all but spent at this point, and our reports indicate that several clans have taken up worship of the false god. Naturally, this cannot be allowed to proceed. The King has sent agents to... solve the situation, but we have not heard from them for over a fortnight and suspect the worst. Your mission is threefold: First, you will locate the agents and, if possible, rescue them. When last we heard from them, they stayed at the Golden Chalice Inn in the city of Malasta. If they have been compromised in any way, your mission is instead to kill them. They are three in total; Tristana, Yorleif, and Nashur. Second, you will investigate their findings and see if you can finish what they started. Last, but not least, you will infiltrate the court of Ael-Gol and slay the false god king of the Sulfreyans.

This time, it was useless to resist. Holgarth tried to stifle a chuckle, but it was no use. Soon, he was laughing out loud, the vaulted room booming with his voice. This would be the death of him. This would be the death of them all. But what a death it would be! To fight an immortal foe, to take the chance and risk everything on an impossible bet... he could not help but to feel joy at the prospect. And if he lived, he would come find them. They would see. Holgarth continued laughing even as the Warden finished her speech. She did not stop him.

You are all enemies of the Kingdom. Monsters, villains, traitors... Blackguards, all. You have been chosen, because noone will believe you work for the King. You have been chosen, because noone will care if you die. Do your best, or do your worst - it matters not. Know only that you will do what I have said. That is all.

Holgarth continued laughing as the Warden fell silent. He expected the guards to come and take them away, but noone came. His laughter trailed off. For a moment, all wass silent. Then the rumbling began - quiet at first, but deafening within moments. It was as if a mountain toppled over, as if a river of rocks flowed through the room. He couldn't think for the noice, couldn't speak. Then suddenly, something impossible occurred. The walls started moving, folding and slithering and breaking apart. The room caved in on itself, and it was all Holgarth could do to scream as his doom came crashing down on him. The Warden remained motionless in the center of the room, but he could have sworn she was smiling. Just like her head had done in her dream.

---

Darkness.

I am awake.

I must break free.

I must have vengeance.

Open your eyes.

Holgarths eyelids snapped open. The light blinded him, but his eyes soon adjusted themselves. He was no longer in the Maw. He could feel the soft caress of the wind on his skin, feel the warmth of the sun on his face. He was in a field of tall grass. In the distance was a great forest, and beyond, high mountains. There was a river somewhere nearby; he could hear the water running. It was in the evening, just before dusk. The sun had not yet set, but was about to. Free. He was finally free. He did not understand why or how, or where, but there he was. He took a deep breath, savoring the scent of the grass and the clean crispness of the air.

Then he saw them.

The Witch was nowhere to be found... but the others were. Monsters, creatures, and other entities. Unknown factors. Most certainly threats. He reached for the Underblade at his belt, and found to his surprise that it was there. Resting one hand on the hilt, he decided to speak. I do not know how or why we have come to be in this place, he said in a low voice, But know this. I am Holgarth Half-Blood, King o' the Hills and the High Places, and you would do well to keep out of my arms reach. Who, or what, are you?

Cian cried out as she fell, feeling briefly the touch of the sun on her skin, scorching her, but before she could begin to smoke she was swallowed by the cold water of the river, the chill making even her eyes widen in shock.

Now she was being toyed with.

Her begrimed leather breastplate splashed down next to her. She desperately reached out to grab it, even as the rotting padding she wore gave up in chunks, taken by the current. She paid it no mind, as leathers in hand, she struggled for the surface.

This would be so much easier without this seal around my neck!

She broke the surface with a gasp as the sun slipped behind the mountains. Someone was yelling hoarsely nearby, unseen. Cian ignored them as she struggled towards shore, going with the current until she reached a calm spot along the bank and could crawl out, still clutching her breastplate in one hand.

It was not a hot bath. There were no perfume soaps, soft warmed towels, oils, combs or brushes. It was, however, clean.

Cian stripped away the rest of her armor, laying it on the bank to dry before grabbing up a handful of sand as she slipped back in to bathe.

Tomorrow, there would be sun. She'd have to find a sheltered spot away from it, possibly a hollow in a tree or a cave, more clothes, certainly, and something to feed on.

"I... am..." He rasped from his position on the floor.

He hands grabbed stiffly at empty air as his legs folded in, pushing against the ground and bringing his hips off the floor. Slowly he rose torso first, dragging his head with it like a strange zombie rising from its grave. His chest heaved as he breated deep.
"ALIVE!" He yelled suddenly.

Christoph exhaled in relief and his body immediately relaxed into a sitting position.
"I know the Kingdom's been in a tight spot as of late, but you'd think they could spare their guests better accomodation..." He said, stretching his battered body.
He was bruised all over, most likely from some beating, and his wrists held the telltale marks of manacles. Fortunately he still had a deck of cards, and a pair of dice. For however long their little mission would take, he at least wouldn't be bored. The Warden's words hadn't helped with clarity, and they definitely hadn't helped with his headache. But the fresh air was soothing, and he could feel himself remembering. Remembering his circumstances. His sins...

Christoph couldn't help but smile.

"I'll let it slide seeing as they sent me to this wonderful place..." He muttered to himself, staring at the horizon.
The sun slowly crept down, allowing darkness to slowly creep into the sky. This was his favourite hour, the moment when the bright and monotonous sky dyed itself into a riot of colours, fading into the white-speckled night. Sadly, he wasn't in the mood to watch it right now.
"Say, where are we, anyways?" He said to no one in particular.

---

The interior of the sack peeled away to reveal a room with several other people in it. A nice woman had gone and removed the bag from her head. That made her happy.

"Thaaaank yooouu..." An uncharacteristically feminine voice emanated from the tall thrall of metal. It sounded like a chipper lady of some youth, a voice like a spring's morning. The voice was distorted however, echoing out from the helm like it was being spoken from the bottom of an unfathomably deep chasm yet still clear and understandable as the words of someone standing next to them would be. Her words were dragged out too, the vowels stretched long like a suspenseful violin note as the hapless victim slowly pushes open the door, revealing the horror that lurked beyond it's threshold.

Needless to say her friendliness was well undercut by her uncanniness.

Only towards the end of her dialogue did Gangraena finally look up and grasp her in full: The Warden of The Maw. Like the figurehead upon a mast she stood, beckoning to them all as she laid forth her demands. With a voice not unlike the crackling of frost beneath her boots and a figure that was... Female, that much she could make out of her.

It was like those stars she'd see whenever she was low on oxygen, back when breathing was still a concern for her. It was akin to those fleeting sparkles, ephemeral as they bled in and out of view except in this case The Warden was no sparkle, quite the opposite. It sort of reminded her of something she saw, long long ago, so long in fact it felt like trying to recall a face...

A face from before she was born.

But that was impossible, no? After all her earliest memories were all a fog of walking and recollections of the surface before she'd sunk. Perhaps people who seemed oddly juxtaposed over reality itself just had that kind of face you'd swear you'd recognized even though you just met. She really couldn't tell.

Snapping briefly out of her ponderings Gangraena overheard something about killing a god or what-not. Truth be told she was only halfway paying attention to what was actually being said. Of course, even if she had warned them it would of come as a surprise nonetheless when the room seemed to fold away, spilling the earth unto them once more. Of course, the darkness hid no secrets from her so it merely seemed as though she'd been buried now. Not really a step up from drowning if she had to be honest.

---

Elsewhere...

---

Of course when the pocket of reality they had been stuck in finally peeled away she dropped with a thunk and a splash, landing a bit up the river from where everyone else had been sent. Water flowed around her prone form like it was yet another stone in the path, seeping into what parts of her armor were submerged. As she braced her hands against the rock-strewn riverbed the very ground seemed to strain under the force of her lifting herself up onto her knees so she could then gather up onto her feet. It was a task that would seem impossible on any ordinary person as the armor's very designed screamed heavy and unwieldy but she made it look as natural as getting up in pajamas. Water flowed out from her helmet, the state of the being beneath it unseen by the world around.

She took a step forward only for a handle to prod into her chestplate. Looking down she let out a ghastly gasp of delight upon discovering her anchor jutting up, the anchor's head partially imbedded in the muddy earth over which the water glided.

"Myyy Aaanchoor! Yyaaayy!"

With a merry cheery from the hollow knight she embraced the nautical tool turned murder weapon in a great big hug. Her weapon returned she was now complete and ready to tackle this new adventure! Err... After she figured out what exactly that was. Whilst wrapping the six or so meters of age old chain that hung from the loop which now served as this weapon's pommel around her torso for ease of carrying she looked around. In the distance some others were awakening, talking could be heard though she couldn't make out exactly what yet. More directly in view was a lady washing her bare skin down with sand and water. Slinging the weighty anchor over her shoulder she started meandering her way over to strike up a conversation of her own and perhaps figure out what they were even supposed to do.

"Ssooo... Waaardens hhuuhh? Aare theeeyy crraazyy oorr whaat?..." The strange figure which loomed over the smaller one jested, their odd voice not really complimenting the more casual air she was hoping to strike.

"Haaahaaahaaa..." She then laughed at her own joke. It was not a disingenuous laugh either, simply a mirthful droning guffaw at the silliness of it all.

Weaves

The King. The one who had sent countless men to her home, in search of shiny rocks. Men who reviled her simply for existing, and who tried to kill her for no other reason than because they were told. Yet also, the one who had sent the Warrior, who was like the sun, shining and magnificent in battle, who now stood before her as, presumably, her equal and ally—and also the Warden, who was like the moon, the pale and beautiful light which shines in the darkness, the harbinger of dangerous times, the understated force which moved the oceans simply by existing. Here, too, these black waters, the Blackguards, were being moved by her presence alone. The King, who commanded both the fools and the finest, was a strange figure. Would he, too, resemble the sun? The Warden, she was stranger still, but made good on her words.

Weaves did not understand most of her words, but perhaps as a courtesy to her—or perhaps it was true for everyone, she had no way of knowing—Weaves saw, in her mind's eye, images of people, places, and names written. These would weave themselves into her memories far more strongly than any words ever could. While some others in the room would latch on to the hope of freedom immediately, barely paying attention to anything the Warden said, Weaves was in something akin to a meditative state, committing all of the images to memory, her mouth slightly agape at the sudden realization that they were to attempt to slay a god. It was certainly not a common occurrence for Weaves to interact at all with something more ancient than herself, that wasn't also a tree. Perhaps the occasional tortoise, but nothing more. To kill a being such as this—such a scene would make a fine tapestry. To find brilliant enough colors to do it justice—that alone would be an adventure.

And if she were destined by the stars to fail, then—she would simply have to fight for a place in someone else's tapestry.

---

Blackness. Fragments of a memory spun in Weaves' mind, stitching themselves back together. Something like an earthquake.

"Oh..! The sun..!" she cried out with wistful longing. Ah... she had missed the sun's warmth, after all.

She quickly stood up, Marrow in hand, greedily basking in the lingering sun, the cool breeze, the smell of trees and flowers dancing on the wind. Oh, she'd missed them all. How quickly she'd gotten acquainted with the Maw and its darkness—such was her nature—but this scene reminded her what it was like, all those moons ago, to confront the sun, to face fear and death, to howl in the face of fate. For the first time in many moons, she stretched her too-long limbs freely, and breathed all the way in. In amongst the pleasant smells of nature, however, there was a pungent smell. It wasn't her; Moonwalkers didn't smell like anything at all. It was one of the men who accompanied her here.

Turning to face the others, Weaves eyed them all curiously, one by one. Though she was close by—a daunting, looming figure nearly eight feet tall—her eyes felt far away, her gaze a thousand-yard stare, her smile a forced one, though not malicious in its falsity. Weaves cast a glance at Christoph, who introduced himself as "alive," and applauded him in a slow and stiff way that showed Weaves didn't really understand why, when or how she was supposed to do it. She looked at Holgarth next and dropped her false smile, which she seemed to take as equivalent to a frown. "I smell your incense, but am not knowing, why," she tried to say, her voice lacking the upward inflection that should accompany a question. Instead, she tilted her head to the side like a child. "Does a High-Place King kill also the children," she added seemingly out of nowhere, ignoring his question about who or what she was. Though in fairness, perhaps she also didn't know how precisely to answer it. ☾Woe, O Kings of the Earth, who send their fools to the high places to place their babes upon a pyre,☽ she mourned, her face upturned toward the heavens, but devoid of obvious emotion.

Feras the Frail

For the second time that day Feras gingerly picked himself up off of the cold ground, groggy, confused, and sore. With a groan he dusted himself down and felt for any injuries Miraculously nothing was broken. Hells, nothing was even sprained. Other than the cuts, scrapes, and bruises he’d picked up during his weeks in the Temple Soldiers ‘gentle’ care he was completely uninjured. But how could that even be possible? Hadn’t a mountain just collapsed on top of him? And now he was standing, free and unharmed, in a green field surrounded by peaceful forests under a setting sun. A chill ran up his spine at the realisation, and he had to clasp his hands together to stop them trembling.

He wasn’t all that comfortable around sorcery at the best of times. Didn’t know enough about it, really, which didn't help. It was more than that though. The fact that someone could just pluck reality apart and then rethread it in a way to suit them better left him cold all over. It was a level of power that couldn’t help but corrupt even the most well meaning of folk. How could you trust a person when, at any moment, they could twiddle their fingers and melt the flesh from your bones with balls of fire?

But whatever it was that thing in the dark had done seemed a magnitude more powerful than fireballs. To collapse a mountain - no, not collapse, he realised, thinking back to the event, to fold a mountain in on itself - and somehow use that immense act of power to transport a group of strangers somewhere else? Feras couldn’t even begin to comprehend the kind of witchcraft that would take.

What in the hells have I gotten mixed up in?

He was beginning to spiral, to reel from the immensity of the situation he found himself wrapped up in when he heard the others begin to wake. Maybe they might have a better idea of what's happening. Worth asking. Anything to distract himself from whatever had just happened.

The first to introduce themselves - unsurprisingly, really, as he looked like the kind of man used to being heard - was a legend in over-muscled flesh. Holgarth Half-Blood, King o' the Hills and the High Places. He’d long been on the Wyld Hunts watch list. A half-giant warlord and his barbarian hordes, perched on the border, like a hungry wolf lurking in the woods at the edge of a shepherd's pasture? Yeah, it was a safe bet that was going to end bloody. Sooner, rather than later, if Holgarth’s reputation had been anything to go by. It surprised Feras little that the Usurper Tyronde had eventually clashed with the King o' the Hills and the High Places. The world didn’t seem big enough for two greedy shits like them.

Bit of a concern, that he’s still got his big blade and fingering it like the sweetest maiden at the summer harvest festival, and I don’t have so much as a dagger to my name. Best to tread carefully around him

Feras raised his palms up, talking low and slow, in a way he’d found best to calm down violent souls in the past. And more importantly he kept out of arms - and swords - reach. “Easy there, your highness. Sounds like we’ve got enemies a’plenty without feuding amongst ourselves. Maybes we put our heads together instead, and figure out just what our next move is, yeah? My name's Feras, sometimes called the Frail.”

Another man, this one in no way nearly as physically imposing as Holgarth, clambered up from the dirt with theatrical flourish. Strange one, him. He didn’t seem like much, just a skinny human decked out in well worn finery, a knowing smirk plastered upon his face like he was privy to some joke that nobody else was aware of. Feras felt he had met his like before, amongst the con-artists and thieves he grew up with. The man didn’t seem like much threat, not in this company. Not sitting alongside some of the more exotic individuals, like the giant woman who moved like a spider and spoke in riddles so esoteric that it made Feras’ head hurt just trying to parse them for meaning, or the walking suit of armour that was splashing about in the river a little ways off. Still, just because he doesn’t look like a threat, doesn’t mean he isn’t one. It’s the knife you don’t see coming that sinks the deepest. Still, unimposing he may be, at least he was talking some sense and wasn’t threatening anyone. They needed to figure out where they were.

He scrutinised the landscape, the green trees, the running river, the smudge that was the mountains in the gathering gloom. He focused on those rocky crags before realising he recognised them.

“That’s the Spine, over there” Feras replied, pointing westwards towards what he knew was a near impregnable wall of rocky crags stretching miles and miles from north to south. “So if I was a betting man I’d say we’re near the Kasan Plateau.”

And no one with any sense wants to be near the Kasan Plateau. If he was right that meant they’d been dropped just south-west of Sulfrey, and directly west of the Eastlands. Smackdab in the middle of a whole heap of trouble.Eastern Barbarian reavers were a common site out here, warriors that could give even an Orcish hunting party a run for its money in the savagery stakes.

Then, if that wasn’t bad enough, the Sulfreyans had their own patrols out in these borderlands, companies of elite knights and wyverneers, hardened veterans after years of clashing with their eastern neighbours. According to some of the stories he’d heard they were just as blood-thristy as the barbarians they fought. Feras had no doubt that they’d all end up as Wyvern chow if the Sulfreyans found them stumbling around out here.

He scanned the horizon, certain that at any moment a band of screaming reavers or charging knights would hove into view.

“We should move … ” He started to say to the group, but trailed off before he finished. There was a noise that caught his attention, distant and low on the wind, but getting closer. A noise that had his guts sinking, and his eyes darting for a weapon, or a place to hide.

Sounded like hoofbeats…

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Reality distorted before Brandon's very eyes.

It was the sort of thing he had become used to in those seemingly never ending nightmares that he had faced these last few years. The only problem this time was that he was entirely sure he was completely awake. That might have horrified him at some point in the past, but he guessed he was beyond that now. Besides, it was the Warden that they were dealing with. He had heard enough rumours, seen her... well... It in the flesh a few times before. He had tried to discount them as fanciful, exaggerations of the powers of a mere sorceress in the employ of the King, but now he was starting to believe them in their entirety.

After all the evil shit you ended up doing for Tyronde, was it small wonder that the King would have gotten into bed with a monster such as this? No, easier to believe that than some of things you've done with thatblade... with your own hands. Easier to believe in evil like that than what you have allowed yourself t-

No. He stopped himself from pursuing that train of thought before it could lead him any further into a pit of black despair. He needed to keep what little of his wits he had left about him.

First of all, where the hell was he now?

Slowly the knight opened his eyes to... light. Real actual sunlight. He was outside, under open skies in a field of tall grass that was blowing gently in the breeze. The outside world... he had never thought he would live to see it again. The briefest echo of a smile flickered across his face. Shame about all the people who will never see this again because of you. It died again just as quickly.

He sat up, his armour gentling clinking around him as he did so. Brandon didn't recognise his surroundings, it was wilderness, presumably somewhere in Sulfrey or at least on the borders of it. There was a river bank to the right of him, to his left a wide plain that gave way to forests and white peaked mountains on the far horizon.

He could also see that he was not alone.

There was a group of other... creatures... near him. He could see several of them, and heard more down by the water's edge. A hulking barbarian giant with a massive blade, a slender man wearing tattered finery, a half-orc... and some monstrous woman who put him vaguely in mind of a giant spider. His grey gaze lingered on her longer than the others, his hand instinctively went for the blade at his side. She was strangely familiar... in fact...

Her words stopped him from drawing his sword any further. He froze at them, assaulted by the hidden meaning in them that was plain to him. What the fuck? How... how the hell could she possibly know about that? It couldn't be a coincidence. Not with those words... She knew about The Pyre. SHE KNEW ABOUT THE FUCKING PYRE!

He laughed out loud. It was not a pleasant sound. His voice was hoarse from disuse... it sounded like a dry rattle, like a dying man's last breath. He didn't finish for a long time. As he finally quieted he heard them on the wind, the sound of hoofbeats heading towards them.

You know what you need to do.

The knight wiped the tears from his eyes and pulled himself to his feet roughly.

"Sir Brandon of Bainbridge, honoured to make your acquaintances." He turned in the direction he could hear the horsemen approaching from. "Now... who wants to come and die with me?"

The dwarf listened closely to what he could hear of the Warden speaking. National problems, people in peril. What does he owe the King, or the Kingdom. The humans, the elves or the dwarves? His own people have done nothing but throw him out of the Dwarven Realm. True he had killed and humiliated quite a few high ranking people but that's there fault isn't it? He's about to say something about the Warden can go suck something long, hard, round and rod like, but before he can do so, it finishes speaking.

And then he's falling.

Or it feels like falling.

It could be soaring.

Or even flying.

Guess he didn't have a choice.

As he fell he could hear it's voice in his head, "Apologies Titanstone, but the crimes you committed will not allow me to just let you decide. Good luck."

And then the ground is racing up at him.

Bors braces, turning and with a clanking bang he strikes the dirt and stone of a low cliff edge, and rolls. A flurry of Dwarven swear words blares as the short figure rolls down the cliff face. And finally lands in about a foot of water. He'd landed several meters away from the main group, just at the edge of the forest and the clearing, right in the water. And as others begin you rouse. From the stream steps the tank armored dwarven miner. Dripping wet, face beneath his helmet and face mask still dark with the dust of stone that had settled while he had been digging for the prison. Held easily in his hands the axe pick, the great two handed weapon seeming like something that weighed near nothing to the Dwarf.

He scans the ground he can see. The hill-man, the armored thing, the abominations, the half orc, and others besides. He heaved himself up the low bank of the stream. Squinting through the bright light of the surface sun. He growled and looked skyward briefly, growling out in Dwarven, "Raaagh, that blasted sun light, the surface is too bright!" With a sigh he continues rattling out in deeply accented Common, "Borselv Titanstone, you can all call me Bors. Blackgaurds the Thing from the Deep called us." He grunts, "Well any camp when in the Deep." He turns, his armor creaking just, nary a sound made as if the plates are fitted so find they would never make a noise even if crashed against stone or only is struck by steel. He looks towards the sound of horses. "Hmmm does the enemy come then?" He peers over at the man who has given himself the prefix of Sir. Bors hefts his axe pick, "Emmm yes, let's. There are some things that get the heart going. Blood, drink, sex and a mythril vein. Let's shed some blood then eh human? What better way to get to know someone then to crack a few skulls together. Nothing an Axe or Hammer can't solve manling!"

Already the dwarf has thumped his way over and settled in beside but just far enough away that he can't be used as a shield or flung ahead to take a blow. Cagey dwarf he is, not quite fully trusting the lot. But willing to kill something? What dwarf isn't? Under his faceplate his lips part into a pale toothed grin, "There'll be plenty for all of us eh? Let the best Dwarf win!"