As Vorex wandered through the Forest of Emerald his one eye brimmed with curiosity. This Forest was one he had never seen before. He would touch the weirdly colored leaves with his stubby fingers and try to pull them off. Whenever this happened he would shiver, as he felt something, however, his insatiable curiosity would get the better of him every time. All he really had was a pair of quills and some dusted paper. He was shuffling onwards until he sensed something. A presence in the Forest and what seemed to be a human-looking figure stepping out from behind a tree. It spoke in a vaguely human-sounding language, one Vorex hadn’t heard ever before, it was weird as he had been forced to learn every language possible. Vorex’ head quickly turned towards the human, his one massive eye inspecting. Up and down, up and down went the iris.

“Ir pas trapa, oros ere trois.”; Vorex spoke in some forsaken language. Its eye then shuttered close but you could see it was rapidly moving behind its eyelid. Then quickly after its eye opened back up. “Greet, I is Vorex. Libraryman for Grand Library, good meet.”; Vorex seemed to have adjusted to the language, but not whole, for its grammar was broken. “You know where people? Vorex meets people, people get book.” Vorex raised its quill in the air while the other remained in his weird rag.

---

@Overlord Thraka

---

During the first floor, Ivraan noticed something strange was happening with the skeletons. It wasn’t so much that they were weak but more so that something was sapping them of Narcae. Quickly following the flow it turns out Terilu was manipulating the energy, pulling it in towards himself. Hey, not that Ivraan would mind, it would only make it easier as it made it easier to slash through the skeletons. Just when they cleared the first floor Ivraan was about to ask Terilu what he was doing, but Terilu mentioned it himself. “Ah yes, that would explain what I was sensing. Thank you” Not at all bothered by the fact he was a Necromancer.

But it turned out that was not the only thing Terilu could do with Narcae. Just as he pulled it in from the skeletons, he could also inject them. The energies flowed through the bones quickly as the skeletons stood back up. The Narcae were ever so slightly different, but that was enough for the skeletons to completely change allegiances. It was a fascinating sight to see, so different from the Vitae he himself used, yet oddly the same. Well, that wasn’t all too odd really as Vitae and Narcae were different sides of the same coin.

After Terilu was done clarifying what was what, they descended, Ilyana taking the lead and Ivraan slowly following. On the second layer, the miasma got thicker, however, that didn’t bother Ivraan a faint glimmer of Vitae would cover his throat, cleansing the miasma before it entered his lungs. The only issue was the smell, death, decay, fear, and corruption lingered around, all slightly stronger than on the previous layer. Ivraan readied his spear and started slashing away. It was weird these skeletons while slightly stronger had almost the same equipment. With just a few having fully intact weaponry. “Perhaps we have arrived at the layer where militia would be lain to rest,” Ivraan spoke before decapitating a skeleton that entered his reach.

---

---

Galaxor was having the time of his life. Loud laughs could be heard echoing around the tomb as he swung his axe wildly, breaking skeletons as he went. Occasionally he’d use his free hand to grab one and throw it at others or simply crush them in his hand.

Luckily for the others, Galaxor was the first in the band to go forward and they were safe from his wild swings. Most of the skeletons focused on him too which let the group deal with them easily. By the end of the first few corridors, Galaxor’s legs were covered with superficial cuts and in one case, a toe had a broken nail as an undead sword got stuck in there. Giants had thick skin and simple swords wouldn’t harm them too much.

That is, until they reached what seemed to be a throne room. The group having traversed the haunting corridors of the tomb, emerged into a grand and chilling throne room. The air was heavy with a foreboding stillness, and the room seemed to stretch impossibly tall. Dim, flickering torches cast a pale, wavering light that barely illuminated the vast expanse.

In the center of the room, a massive throne of cold, gray stone loomed, an imposing symbol of the tomb's macabre authority. Carved with runes that shone in the darkness with dark power making the whole throne radiate an eerie presence, as if it were a conduit for the dark energies that filled the chamber. Atop the throne sat a spectral figure, its form obscured by tattered robes that flowed like ethereal mist. If the party would pay close attention to the spectral figure, they’d notice how tall it was and they’d feel a primal fear as it stared at each of the members in the party, in the eyes.

The walls on either side were lined with open stone coffins, many skeletons with bows, swords and spears next to them. Waiting for something or someone. The very atmosphere seemed to tighten, as if the tomb itself held its breath in anticipation for the word of the nameless leader.

As soon as the party entered the room, the door behind them closed as if by magic and all the torches in the room went on at the same time. The fire, no longer orange but a sickly green, only enhanced the evilness of the place.

When those eyes reached Ilyana, a deep chill ran through her soul. Like the ocean drawing out all her heat, making her heart flutter for a moment.

"So, uh, I guess that's the one we have to fight?" she asked quietly. Prison and boarding actions quickly taught you to save your pain - falling apart would have to wait for later.

"Sorcerer?" she asked, trying to figure out if there was anything she'd got that migh work.

"Sorcerer?" Ilyana had asked.

"Oh, is that me?" responded Terilu. He floated up behind her, his three skellies- intact but banged up- in close ranks around him, watching the spectre. They could feel its power as he could, but they weren't ready to give up without fighting it. His raised dead were just a smidge more resilient under his care than they had been before; having a necromancer pushing you does wonders for an undead's motivation. The mystic whip is at their backs. His will flows through their spirits. Terilu smirks. "Are were you asking Knossos, our more repentant occultist? No matter. I am sorcerer enough..."

The spectral figure strides down from its throne. Wow, that is a powerful energy. It's a corpse, no doubt about that, but one wreathed in such spiritual excess that it's close to becoming a spirit itself. Wrights. Terilu remembers: a creature like this is called a 'wright' in his studies. What a beautiful thing. He knows it will put up far too much of a fight for this, but the young necromancer wishes he could study it. Too bad.

He mutters something under his breath.

His three skeletal warriors charge forward with a creaking battle cry. At the same moment, Terilu stops flying, hitting the ground with a soft thud, and grips his father's staff closer in his hand. He needs all his focus for this. Already, in those few seconds, the wright has rushed forward at his minions with an otherworldly screeching and, in a blur of motion far too fast for anyone's eyes to follow, it has sliced one of his skeletons to the ground. Terilu keeps channeling his necromantic Will through the other two. He tries to reach out to the wright and touch its spirit with his own.

He's trying to enslave it. It won't work. He realizes that the moment he makes spiritual contact with it. This thing is mad, and it's power is unholy; it lashes back at Terilu in the spirit, and he crumbles down to one knee like a man struck. Spiritual wounds are far deeper than bodily ones. In the next moment a second skeleton warrior has fallen. As it is destroyed, the wright uses the narcae that Terilu shares with it to lash back at him even more. He screams in pain despite his Eratie pride. There is black crowding in at the edges of his vision. As it goes in towards his last minion.

The other undead in the room, the ones lining the walls, haven't moved. But they're beginning to stomp their feet and thump their weapons loudly in some ritual celebration. Terilu realizes that, for the first time since they entered this crypt, he may be in serious danger. This creature is a monster.

As they entered the throne room Ivraan immediately noticed how corrupt the energies here were. Completely encircling the group as if they stood in the eye of the vortex. The presence that sat upon the throne was clearly the reason for the corruption around. As if a demon of darkness descended upon this place, corrupting all that was around it. The corrupted energies a blend of corrupted Vitae and Narcae.

Ivraan readied his spear as Terilu forced his minions to charge. They would be deftly cut down. It was fast, really damn fast, Ivraan couldn’t follow it yet, but when he noticed what was happening the faint glimmer that covered his eyes got thicker and more visible. For those who could see his eyes, they were also moving beyond what was normal. Darting around and around to follow the ghastly presence. As he was following the Wright around he noticed that Terilu was trying something, something insanely stupid. For the Narcae within this presence was far stronger than what Terilu was using and soon Terilu realized it, as a backlash put him to his knees. Ivraan saw it clearly; “Terilu, drop your last skeleton and focus your efforts on the other undead around!” Ivraan shouted, he believed it to be the best course of action and thus would not hesitate to give advice.

After he gave the advice Ivraan took his spear and charged. While charging the spear shone, an odd happening considering the darkness of this place. It was clear Ivraan was using some sort of technique, a spear martial arts of sorts as slowly but surely the dragon’s head upon the spear started to emit what seemed to be fire breaths. The glimmer of the spear turned orange as Ivraan took a swing at the Wright which let out a high-pitched screech. It clearly did something and thus Ivraan had its attention. Ivraan deftly dodged the wrights counterstrike, or so he thought. Instead, he was slightly hit on his shoulder, which instantly turned darker. Ivraan swiftly covered it with his Vitae, however, he realized maintaining his spear, eyes, lungs, and shoulder would make him run out quickly. He hoped soon his companions could help him with this dastardly fast wright.

@Twannyman

A small slit appeared on the creature, just below the great eye, and it spoke in a tongue she didn't know, with an accent she didn't recognize. The great eye closed, but she could tell it was moving beneath the lid. The creature remained more or less still for a moment, then it's eye opened once more and it spoke, this time in words she could understand.

"Oooh, he sounds funny."

Mergoux's lips thinned as he spoke, her permanent frown increasing. He was a small thing, but what kind of thing he was she had no idea. A great eye, a slit of a mouth, grey skin, no, she had never seen its like before. But then even a short a trip as this had been, there were a great many things here she had not yet seen. Creatures she'd never encountered before, and odd though they might be, they were all of them still people. Some good, some bad. This one before her, this Vorex who called itself a libraryman, was just another new sight on this strange, strange trip.

Mergoux's grip on the hilt of her blade loosened, as she stepped further from the shadow of the tree towards the creature. "Well met," she offered. Her words were welcoming enough, but her tone left much to be desired. "My name is... Isorn," she lied. There was a clucking of disapproval in her ear as she spoke, but she ignored it. She was far from lands where she was known, where a bounty might be offered, but still it paid to play it safely.

"A libraryman say you? Where is your library? How long have you been searching for new books?" she asked, taking another step closer. They were still then a few paces apart, but watching him, she felt her usual suspicions subside, at least for the moment.

She'd just taken a batch of cookies out of the oven when Siri heard the rattle outside.

"Now what foolish thin' is goin' on?" the old woman demanded, but a glance through the magic eyes around the wagon didn't show anything. Stepping through the doorway to the wagon, then opened the outside door to peer out. It didn't seem like an attack, everyone was looking away from the road at a plume of smoke.

"What foolishness is this?" she wonders scratching her jaw, then steps back inside and going to her desk, pulling open the drawer to pull out a heavy velvet bag and a stand. Undoing the knot, she pulls out a small crystal sphere and sets it on the stand, then peers through it anxiously.

Someone was staring back.

"Get out of the way!" Siri barks, and the startled eye blinks, but draws back. "Damned peepers. Ah, let's see..."

It looked like a metal tower had fallen over... but there was no metal towers in the Emerald Forest! Peering closer, she could see there were two fuzzy shapes inside, but something about the tower was preventing her from seeing anything closer.

"Ah, I'm goin' ta have ta walk over," she grumbled, putting the crystal ball back in its pouch and tucking it and the stand back in its drawer. Grabbing her black medicine bag and a basket, Siri peeked into her larder and threw in a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, three leather jacks, a couple of fresh cookies, then sighed.

"No cheese," Siri said, shaking her head slightly, "I'm goin' ta have ta see Gru..."

Grabbing her hat from a peg and pulling out her cane, she stepped out the back door onto her tiny porch, closing the door behind her.

Climbing down, she made her way to the front of the wagon where the Scarecrow sat limply.

"Pilot!" she yells, nodding with satisfaction as it jumped up and saluted her. "Where's Gru's Cheese wagon?"

The construct pointed ahead and to the left, which made a few kids giggle.

"Aye, thanks. Mind da store, will ya?" Granny Siri asked, turning away as it saluted, much to the giggling delight of the children. She let a small smirk curl her lips.

"Gru!" Granny Siri calls out, working her way pass the rescued lumberjacks to stare sternly up at the cheesemonger. "I need a wedge of farmer's cheese, or gouda. And don't try ta gorge me on the price!"

As the wraith moved with inhuman speed, it cut through Terilu’s skeletons as if through butter and then, something happened. Something Galaxor didn’t fully understand but it seemed similar to the shamanic magic he grew up with. Shamanic magic which he knew little about.

“Move aside! Let the grown-ups deal with this!”

Then Galaxor jumped into the fray and swung his axe in wide arcs, attempting to strike the wraith that danced and weaved around him. The tomb echoed with the clash of steel meeting ethereal resistance.

The wraith, draped in tattered robes that looked like solid dark mist avoided Galaxor's blows effortlessly. Its eyes, glinting with dark power, focused on the giant, and with each movement, the runes on the throne seemed to pulse with malevolent energy.
Something was clearly happening, something magical in nature…something evil. It seemed that the wraith had a surprise planned for the party and only the most perceptive or magically capable would notice that the strikes from both the skeletons around and the wraith were never aimed to kill but to spill their blood all around.

Despite Galaxor's immense size and strength, the wraith proved to be too slippery for him. It darted in and out of his reach, leaving small, ethereal cuts across Galaxor's legs. Blood pouring from them.
With a roar, Galaxor jumped backwards at the same time as his axe swung around, making the wraith dodge and giving him the opportunity to pull back.

“That thing is too fast for me, someone else should kill it. I’ll deal with the bony fellows. HA! HA! ” he laughed as he started dismantling the skeletons on the side, going straight towards the archers as they rained arrows upon him.

Sadly, for them, these were not magically enhanced arrows and they barely scratched Galaxor’s skin as bones started to fly around the throne room.

As the battle raged on, the room started to vibrate wildly. The runes on the massive throne started to pulsate more intensely and soon, the blood from the wounds inflicted by the skeletons and the wraith started to float in mid-air and each small drop started to fly toward the ominous throne.

As the blood reached the runes, the wright, now empowered by this bloody ritual, started to gain substance. The hood of the wraith’s head fell down and under it, the face of a beautiful person was revealed and a crown magically appeared on his head but the rest of the body was still in an in-between state of undeath.


“Yes! YES! MOOOORRREEE! BRING ME BACK!” shouted the wraith with an unnatural voice, a sense of wrongness in it, as it charged to attack.

Soon after his rats’ departure, Gru settled the last of his arrangements with the hungry unfortunates who’d been bade to seek him out. A few of them withheld their trust, despite their circumstances, believing that they could get a better deal elsewhere that wouldn’t involve an ambiguous imposition on their future. They’d already dispersed to seek more straightforward charity from someone else in the Caravan, which suited Gru just fine. With his appearance, mannerisms, and predisposition for shady legalese, he could repel even those who stood to get something from him for free, if that was his intention. Given his current situation, he couldn’t afford to hand out cheeses even if he wanted to. A merchant with no stock, after all, was no merchant at all.

As the largely-illiterate woodsmen trickled away, mostly unsatisfied and uncertain but now inextricably bound to the wily cheesemonger, Gru was left idle. The Caravan remained at a standstill, which frustrated him to no end. How long had it been now, an hour? As a maker and curator of cheeses, Gru thought of himself as a patient man, but in the Emerald Forest he just couldn’t rest easy. Fitful nights and monotonous days had haunted him since the wagon train first entered this place, and the sensation of pointless languishing had really worn down his composure. He already harbored a sour mood, stewing quietly as he conducted his business, but now the deployment of so many rats left him nervous and fidgety. Waiting for them to return safely was torture, and given the unnatural event he’d sent them to investigate, he’d probably made a mistake. “Should’ve gone with ‘em,” he muttered, full of regret. Why in the world did he choose to stay behind and toy with those bumpkins, reducing his stocks without tangible benefit, when his darlings’ safety came first and foremost?

Just as Gru was making up his mind to follow in his scouting party’s little footsteps with a rat platoon of his own, his table and chair ferried back into Chuck Wagon, someone else intruded upon his cheesy dominion. When he heard Siri, he squinted as he smiled. “Another valued customer,” he murmured through his teeth. Her request prompted him to tent his hands, his expression vexed.

“Gorge you? Why, I would never. My cheese isn’t simple fare for mindless feasting or indulgent gluttony. No, it is something to be savored and appreciated by a discerning palette. Quality over quantity, you understand. Something akin to an art form, all the more precious for its inherent temporariness…”

Trailing off suddenly, Gru put a hand to his forehead, as if mortified. “Oh, how silly of me. You must have meant gouge. And if that’s the case, truly you wound me, madam. I never charge unfairly or arbitrarily for my goods. If my prices seem high, it is because of the time and effort put into each and every product to ensure the Yarg quality guarantee. Quite a bit of effort goes into determining my prices, accounting for a multitude of factors…including supply. When supply is low, madam, prices rise, and I’m afraid you’ve arrived at a time of great shortage. I can count the number of non-bespoke cheeses that remain on one hand.” He held up four fingers for emphasis. “Still, I may have something in your price range. I believe I have a wedge left over from a small wheel of young boerenkaas gouda that I myself enjoyed yesterday. Only so much could fit in my melting pot, you see. I planned to have the rest myself, but for my customers, anything. Nutty, toasty, richly flavored…and yours, for a very reasonable price.” Gru crossed his arms, awaiting the old woman’s response.

---

Ducking under the clumsy blow of one half-crumbled skeleton, Nemeia staggered as another hammer her shoulder with the chipped blade of a longsword. Her armor held true and Nemeia righted herself. Nimbly dodging the optimistic blow that followed, she lashed out with her mace and promptly caving in the chest of the maligned spirit. The baleful energy that had enveloped the room filled Nemeia with growing discomfort, that almost seemed like pain. The wrongness, the unholiness of whatever foul ritual the creature was performing was unmistakable. The battle was proving difficult, the tide had shifted, and they needed the moon to restore balance. The Necromancer appeared hurt, assailed by some hidden evil. Galaxor bore fresh wounds, but fought on with his unbeatable spirit. The bounding spearman too had been painted with blood and still danced gracefully between undead. Nemeia would do no less. She would not let the other pilgrim's down.

Time came to a slow creeping halt for Nemeia as she drew a long, slow breath. Prayer escaped her lips. Old words shaped by her tongue, formed by her heart, and guided by Valradun's merciful teachings. She raised her free hand and a silvery beam of pale light shone impossibly from above, through the carved stone of the vaulted ceiling crowning the crypt. The dim light took form, shifting into a physical shape, erupting into a brilliant cylinder, several feet wide and tens of feet tall. It was no spell that required careful aiming. It was no precise magic that relied on expert timing. It was faith. And it was divine magic. It was the purifying radiance of restoration and the blessing of her Goddess.

Caught in the moonlight, ghostly flames engulfed the wright and the undead servants that surrounded him. Valradun's mercy reached out with holy fire. She had armed Nemeia well.

Nemeia had no time to observe what effect her divine magic had, instead she found herself desperately backpedaling, defending herself by mere hair lengths from a two handed hammer that thundered after her. Clothed in mail, the helmed figure that harried her stood several heads taller than her, and bore little of the decay of the other undead. He spun his weapon expertly, pushed her further backwards, sending sparks into the air as he smashed his hammer down onto the ground with each missing blow.

"Courage friends, Valradun is with us!" she managed, catching the mailed skeleton across the knee, slowing his pace as his kneecap almost fully escaped what remained of his leg.

The Ainok were best suited to open plains and rolling savannah, where they could let loose their full speed and tear across the landscape... This constrained forest was hardly the best terrain then, but even so malleck would have had to actively try to be as slow as Athulwin, something that the young storyteller just didn't quite have the patience in him to be able to do. Every now and again he'd stop his traversal of the forest to turn back to the older man and let loose an impatient yip or heavy huff, but despite his complaining he never let the monk out of his sight until at last the pair had arrived into the artificial clearing.

Almost immediately the Ainok could tell something was wrong. Without thinking, Malleck's lips drew back, his ears flattened and his tail stiffened, the dog's nose repeatedly probing the air. There was a scent they'd never encountered before on the edge of their scent. They mentioned as much to Athulwin, before eagerly nodding at his suggestion and slipping back into the treeline, blotched fur making him remarkably hard to track among the sun-dappled forest.

Ivraan's voice comes in as a far away blur. Terilu hears it a half-second after he hits the floor, a command- or a plea, it's hard to tell which of those is which in the midst of a battle- to "Drop your last skeleton and focus your efforts on the other undead around!"

The bat has to catch his breath first. A wraith like this is a real evil. Not something that dabbles in evil, like Terilu does. Or revels in it, like his old master Arynn had. But an evil in and of itself. It's soul is a black hole. He can't stand it that Ivraan is probably right.

He pulls his mystic power out from over the last skeleton, releasing it, as the giant Galaxor is failing to kill it just as Terilu failed. The huge warrior is too slow for it, just as the skeletons were. But as he gives up and turns his attention to the minions at the outskirts, smashing them up, Terilu's spirits begin to lift.

"Oh yes, Galaxor, yes!" shouts Terilu. This is good. As Galaxor crushes the weaker skeletons, Terilu feeds on their deaths. He pulls in all the power from them that he can; there's plenty of it. Of all the companions he's met today, Terilu thinks the giant is probably his favorite. He's a brute, but brutes have a natural purpose to them. The trail of bones this creature leaves wherever he goes is evidence of that. Terilu wishes he could reanimate them all, but his spirit still aches where the wraith twice wounded him. He won't make the same mistake of sending minions at it again.

Instead he pulls on the dark magic until he can force himself to his feet. He rises up slow and swaying, probably looking a bit like a zombie himself in this tomb's half-light. Ironic. He certainly feels undead at the moment- he looks at the wraith, the thing that is in a way the manifestation of all his own goals. An undead that rules over lesser undead, an immortal that can't die because it isn't alive.

He hates it.

It's that petty, childish kind of hate, the sort born out of jealousy. The hate you have when you see someone else being what you wish that you were. But hate and jealousy both are good for bad magics. Terilu thinks of them as his fuels.

He reaches out towards it with his left hand at the same time that he reaches out towards it in the spirit. In one quick flash, he tears at its soul, or whatever it has instead of a soul, and tries to rip it from this world. It shouldn't work; a midling necromancer like Terilu really shouldn't be able to wound some lord of the dead like this. But in this moment, with it so distracted by his companions and with jealous vitriol burning like coal inside him, Terilu is almost shocked to feel his magic working. The wraith stumbles. Face contorted with agony. The bat is delighted to realize that its the same kind of agony it had just inflicted upon him.

"Ha!" he shouts in triumph, his body still swaying in the dark. "In the name of Ad'itie and all Eratie, by the power of necromancy, I swear that I will put you back in the grave!"

The wraith lifts its head to him. At the look in its eyes, Terilu feels his gut lurch and all his victory turn to fear. He's hurt it. It's vulnerable, more than it was. He knows that much. The others could probably hurt it now. But evil made vulnerable is also evil made cruel and vindictive. "Ad'itie I know of," it says in its hollow voice, the voice of a sepulcher, "and necromancy I know very well. But who are you?"

It rushes the distances between them, not half as fast before, but still too quick for the spiritually wounded Terilu to get away. It reaches him and in two quick slashes of its blade, the bat's blood is splattered against the wall. It aims for the wings next and hits its mark again; two nasty gashes have appeared on Terilu's left wing. It laughs as he screeches.

"Bloody he..." Ilyana mutters as she swings her silvered cutlass at the wrath's sword arm. Or more pointedly, its elbow.

And the blade stuck.

"Hey!" Ilyana yells, glaring angrily as she yanks hard on the blade's hilt, making the sword it held wave helplessly in the air. "Give that back!"

This thing was so incredibly foul with stench, was this evil? Did she carry a bit of this with her that everyone seem to see?

The frowning person introduced herself as Isorn, not exactly a name Vorex had heard ever before. But hey he was flung forward in time a few thousand years. As she asked about his library she relaxed, which was unfortunate as what Vorex was about to say was clearly suspicious.

“Destroyed, long ago.. Know in head, need paper to write. Need people to ask books. Cannot access myself. You read book or know who need book? Trapped for long. Now free, so Vorex search.” Vorex spoke in rapid succession. He’d lift one of his quills to indicate he wanted to write something and smiled. This smile looked very weird, but non-hostile for sure, as the slit underneath his eye would appear ever so slightly.

After this Vorex started sort of wobbling between his 2 feet and crouched down to pluck some grass and slide it in his slit that functioned as mouth. “Grass weird… Very weird.. You know? Interesting place. Not when library stood.”

It's eye glittered in curiosity. Vorex really hoped the first humanoid he met could help him, but he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything really/

---

@Overlord Thraka

---

Ivraan narrowly dodged Galaxor as he started swinging at the Wraith. Luckily Ivraan had fought with Galaxor before and knew of his.. Enthusiastic tendencies. The Wraith dashed and weaved through the group, leaving cuts all over while the corruption on Ivraan's shoulder started to slowly spread. It meant he was on a faster timer than he had initially expected. Luckily with Galaxor joining the fray, Ivraan did not have to pay any attention towards the other skeletons as Galaxor's brute force was perfect for dealing with them. Ivraan's attention went fully towards the Wraith as it started to transform. Ivraan sensed something from the Throne, a corrupt Vitae that was taken from the blood that touched the runes.

Meanwhile, Nemeia was hammering around her mace. An astute fighter in her own right and definitely a great help on this battlefield. If the undead were a swarm of weak fighters led by a single powerful entity, the group that had come here from the Caravan was like an elite strike team meant to pierce directly into the heart of the enemy. This became even more clear as Nemeia chanted some kind of prayer that clearly helped them. Holy fire, the undead's greatest weakness shone down like a beam of light, vaporizing some weak undead.

In the back, the wounded Terilu got back up. Draining the Narcae of the skeletons that Galaxor is smashing. Revitalizing and strengthening himself, great yet another elite fighter who got back on his.. Well, feet. As Ivraan is focusing his efforts on containing the Wraith he feels something coming from behind him. Terilu did something to it, what Ivraan didn’t know but it was clear it hurt the Wraith. What surprised him was that the Wraith after speaking a few words just ignored him to rush Terilu. Creating a great opening for Ivraan who slashed his spear across its back, hurting it more as it reached Terilu. The wraith was still fast, albeit not as fast as before, and slashed at Terilu. Blood covered the walls around the bat as two gaping slashes were seen. Ivraan dashed after the Wraith dropping the Vitae he had covering his shoulder to pierce deep within the Wraith. He struck which was great but then Ivraan realized it. The wraith could not be killed, not without destroying that which gives it life. “THE THRONE!!! DESTROY IT!” Ivraan screamed, his spear almost stuck within the Wraith who slashed at Ivraan in retaliation. Luckily the blade that Ilyana had left in its shoulder was enough to hamper its movement, allowing Ivraan to narrowly avoid the slash leaving his spear inside the Wraith he grabbed two daggers from his belt to lock up the wraith hoping to buy some time here so Galaxor and Nemeia can focus their efforts on the throne.

Fumiko stared in a mixture of fear and disbelief at what was now arrayed before her. She continued to yell, thoug whatever words she spoke dd not register in her mind, transfixed as it was by what filled her eyes.

Fucking humans.

She watched as another one ran in, waving a… a chain. A chain that was on fire. He seemed to be himself breathing fire. A fucking human, wearing clothes that looked like something from artwork of the medieval period some three thousand years ago. Wielding pyromantic magics. From a chain. A fucking chain.

It was all too much. She didn’t process that one of the humans was, clearly, a dwarf - but if she had it would have made the situation all the more hilarious. All the more absolutely incomprehensibly mad. She started to laugh, still pointing her gun at them, finger still tight on the trigger, sword still clutched in her other hand. But she laughed, she laughed and laughed and laughed at the sheer absurdity of the situation before her. What else was there to do? She looked at the man, a wizened old man like the humans all inevitably became, and her laughter only increased further.

She must have looked absolutely mad, she realized, somewhere deep inside. But she simply did not care. She looked up towards the heavens, towards the empty sky where beyond billions of stars simply continued to churn along, oblivious to everything. One of them was hers, she was sure of it.

And she was stuck here instead.

She laughed more, yelling aloud to the heavens, screaming every syllable with every ounce of energy she could muster. She barely knew what she was saying, and if the people around her were saying anything in turn, she couldn’t hear. She knew the new human had said something, but cosmic coincidences did not extend as far as shared languages. But she had to do something, anything, really, to avoid ending up dead or making enemies in… wherever she was.

She snapped back to reality, pointing her gun at the newcomers as her laughing fit ended as suddenly as it had begun. She watched them, eyes boring a hole through each of them. Words would do no good, that much was evident. She took a chance, and lowered her gun.

She raised her sword, and took a step back, tapping the blade against the hull. “Khosveisa.” And drew a rectangle in the dirt. She pointed to the sun, “Saiyontse,” and drew a circle in the dirt. She repeated the word as she pointed somewhere off into space, and then drew a second circle, further away from the word. She looked up to her impromptu audience - whether this little explanation was doing anything she knew not. The tip of the sword traced a line in the dirt, from the spaceship around the second star, to this world’s star, and then formed a new smaller circle, “Mikai.” She tapped the tip of the sword on the ground, then gestured to the world around them, repeating the word again. Hesitantly, she sheathed her sword, and holstered her firearm, taking another step back.

She looked at them, and waited.

@twannyman

Mergoux pondered the strange creature for a few moments as it spoke, making little gestures with one of it's quills. This library had been destroyed long ago it said? How long ago was that exactly she wondered? There were few signs of life, let alone ruins of a once-great library in the forest that she had seen, and such things did not spring up overnight. She found it unlikely it had wandered so far without finding people or paper, so what then had it been doing?

"He seems harmless..."

"Maybe," Mergoux muttered.

She frowned deeper as Vorex bent and plucked some of the grass and tasted it. "Answer my questions Vorex, and I'll help you" she offered. He didn't feel threatening, but you could never be too careful, and while she wasn't worried for herself, there were many in the caravan who might not be so able at defending themselves. This creature was small, but dangerous things often came in small packages, as anyone who'd ever fought a Dwarf could attest to.

"Who destroyed your library, who trapped you, and how were you freed?"

"Six bits," Siri scowled. Most bakeries, that would get you six loaves of bread, or six ales from an alewife.

"Oho, an appraisal?" Gru acted surprised, but inwardly he was already chuckling. When it came to the art of haggling, Siri would find that this cheesemonger was no amateur. She no doubt thought herself wiser and more discerning than the average customer, stubborn, suspicious, a shrewd dealer, and nobody's fool. Well, everybody thought that, so in truth she was exactly the same. Negotiation was like a timed game of cards, a race against the customer's patience as both parties played their hands in turn. Flattery, downplay, theatrics, aspersions, compromise--nothing was off the table. Gru had an ace up his sleeve, though: only he knew what this product was really worth, and in trying to seize the initiative, Siri had made a serious faux pas. It was on the vendor to set the starting price, not the buyer. If this crone thought she could wrest control away from him, she was going to get the business.

"Well, madam, I've dealt with my fair share of highway robbers, and let me tell you, I've gotten better prices from them! At least do me the courtesy of inspecting my wares before you lowball..." He snapped his fingers. A gang of his rats, who'd already retrieved the gouda in question, hurried forward. As one held the parcel wrapped in eye-catching crimson velvet, the others worked together like cheerleaders to toss the carrier up so he could dunk the cheese into Gru's waiting hand. "Thank you, darlings." He unwrapped the cheese, allowing Siri to see what she'd be buying. It was half a wheel, medium-sized, the cheese a pale yellow encased in summery orange rind, both of which contrasted nicely against the darker, richer cloth.

"Ahh, yes. That color. That aroma! This is an artisanal cheese, you know," Gru explained, using gestures to aid his speech. "And I do save the best for myself. In its pristine state, I'd price it at twenty bits easily. But since I'm in a bind, and you're clearly not to be trifled with...let's say it's half off. Just ten bits, now that's a steal, eh?"

"That's not a wedge," Siri sniffed, glaring suspiciously at the half-round. "I don't want all that. Four bits for a third."

"Hm?" Gru scratched his chin. Well, that was one way to simplify things. He could do worse than four bits for a sixth of what had originally been, in truth, a twelve-bit cheese at most. He did not save the best for himself, after all; that was just poor business sense. Some might call it cheating to charge more for the lesser part of something, but that was just basic supply and demand; the less of something there was, the more valuable it became.

Still, none of that changed the fact that the Siri's price for a wedge of cheese had dropped by one third, and that left a bitter taste in his mouth. "What's this? A peek at the goods, and your offer goes down? The cheek!" With pursed lips and narrowed eyes, he crossed his arms. A moment later he raised his finger, as if he'd gotten a brainwave. "Well, look at it this way. If you're willing to pay four for a third, then ten for three times that is a bargain! You can never have too much of a good thing, you know. And my cheese keeps. "

Siri glanced down at the cheese critically, taking in its appearance, then turned to scowl back at Gru.

"I don't have time for this," Granny stated. "I asked for a third of that, not a half-round of cheese I'd have to carry with me! If you're not interested in giving me what I'm asking for, then I shall have to go without. Good day!"

She turned with a huff, clearly offended.

"Now, now, whoever said I wasn't interested?" Gru interjected, an apologetic look on his face as he held out one hand beseechingly. "Surely you can't begrudge a desperate merchant's attempt to upsell. Here, here." He produced his personal cheese knife, and with a single expert cut he parted one third of the half-round from its two fellows. "If I must, I must. One wedge of gouda. Four bits."

Siri turned, watching as he sliceed the massive wedge from the half-round, then handed over the four bits from her belt pouch.

This would be a month of eating for her, saving the rind for the soup pot. But then this wasn't for her, was it?

"Thank you, Gru," she said grudgingly, slipping the massive wedge into her basket with the other things. "You coming to services on the day of rest?

After stowing his knife, the cheesemonger snapped his fingers. His rats accepted Siri's payment on his behalf and raced her coins back to his lockbox on the Chuck Wagon, along with the remainder of the gouda wheel, bound for its resting place on the dry storage shelf. This transaction did not please him. He did get twice what he figured that piece of cheese would actually be worth, but her initial offer of six convinced him that he could get more. In the end, he lost even that. It seemed that when the years piled up, old folk didn't just grow hard of hearing, but also deaf to reason. Well, no matter; this was a learning opportunity. He would dial down his perceived level of Siri's patience, and dial up his efforts to be accommodating.

Starting right now. "I see no reason to refuse. Are we not all wanderers, after a fashion? As a man of business, I'm keenly aware: it pays to pay our respects." He held his palms upward in a show of openness. "Yet who knows what tomorrow might bring. We may well die of plague or thirst before this blasted wagon train gets moving again." He hung his head despondently.

"We are all but dust in the wind," Siri intoned, then offered a cookie from her basket. "May you soon receive what you seek the most, in His will."

Wouldn't that be nice. Right now, what Gru sought most was milk. As goals went that was more attainable than most, but as long as the Pilgrim's Caravan remained in this accursed Emerald Forest, his simple desire might as well be a wish upon a star. After a moment, he gingerly accepted the cookie with a wry smile. A price of zero needed no negotiation. "And you as well."

This isn't what Athulwin expected of a Beyonder. The tales of such creatures are, one can admit, scant and esoteric. He recalls a description of an 'errant spirit' given in the Annals of Wandering Brother Theobald: "Twas like soft sprinkling rain at night, felt and not seen, known by the sensation it leaves one with and not by its form. It chilled my skin like frost." Those in the Old Marshes who believe in Beyonders as real, living creatures always cite this as a 'sighting' of one. Athulwin has just this morning joined the ranks of those who believe in Beyonders; and he does not see anything akin at all to Brother Theobald's Monster before him. This laughing woman, this half-fox. It had in its hands- and it has hands, where Beyonders shouldn't- something like a metal wand. But it put it down.

No, this, whatever else it is, is a person. The words it speaks are nonsense to him; yet Athulwin is one who studies languages, and he knows that what is only sound to him may carry deep meaning to someone else.

Still holding his chain, he tries, at first, some of the other mundane languages he knows. Maybe they do hbe a middle ground with this odd stranger after all. He tries Sinverish, Middle Dwarven, an old elvish tongue, and a few broken words in the Dinnin's language. But whatever else she may think, it's clear the not-a-Beyonder understands these no more than she understood Athulwin the first time.

"Fine," he says aloud, unnecessarily. "I bet there is one language you do speak after all."

He drops his chain to the ground, letting it coil up like a smoldering serpent.

"Peace."

As Galaxor did what he did best, destroying the tiny skeletons by any means necessary, kicking them, smashing them, throwing them and a few other ways of achieving the same effect, the others dealt with the Wraith. Not that it was a very successful undertaking..with one exception. Terilu’s second attack seemed to work better than the first and the Wraith was hurt, truly hurt, for the first time since the battle started.

Then, Ivraan screamed the only words that Galaxor needed to hear.

“DESTROY THE THRONE”

With a powerful leap, Galaxor soared high into the air, his massive form silhouetted against the dim, flickering torchlight making him look even more terrifying than he already was.

The runes on the massive throne pulsed ominously as Galaxor descended with formidable force, aiming to destroy the throne in one hit. The Wraith, sensing the threat, let out a guttural "NOO! STOP HIM!" and the room shook violently as Galaxor's attack connected with the ominous throne.

Pieces of rock flew all over the room as Galaxor used his axe like a hammer. Each hit caused a small tremor through the room and with each hit, the Wraith became paler.

Soon enough, tens if not hundreds of eerie lights started to exit the throne and swarmed over Galaxor as tiny cuts appeared whenever one would touch it. The skin turned a sickly white around each cut as Galaxor’s life essence was slowly consumed.

With a loud scream, Galaxor hit the throne once more and an explosion of light followed. It threw Galaxor through the air, hitting the entrance to the throne room with a loud BOOM.

Momentarily dazed, Galaxor couldn't help but notice that everyone in the party suffered a similar faith. Either thrown through the air or hugging the floor as the shockwave hit them.

With a loud, blood curdling scream, the Wraith collapsed on the floor and turned into ashes almost immediately afterwards. While the remaining skeletons turned back into simple bones, as the magic that sustained them disappeared.

In the next following minutes, the group would feel the effect of their actions. The very air seemed lighter, welcoming them.

The effect soon extended through the forest, spreading like wildfire. It would take many years for the forest to get back to its original beauty but even now, there were new plants growing, and birds started to sign through the trees. Life returned to the Emerald Forest.

Back in the throne room, a ghost of a paladin appeared. His armour was shining with divine light and a mighty mace handed by his waist.

Upon looking closer, the ghost looked like the skeleton the party first killed when they entered the tomb.

“Adventurers. My name was Arthas Merenthil and I was one of the many sworn to the Old King, my father. Once, he ruled these lands with love for his people. No one starved, no one needed to die. His necromancy was used as a power for the Light. Sadly, he received a gift from a jealous neighbouring kingdom, a cursed artefact.

The throne which you destroyed. The more he sat on it, the more his mind became twisted and the more his mind became twisted, the more people suffered.

Until everyone left or died and came back. Twisted versions of themselves. I stood up to my father towards the end of his reign and killed for it, turned into what you saw…so, I thank you brave pilgrims for finally allowing these old souls some rest. “

And with that, in a blinding flash of light, the old ghost disappeared onto the next world…and the Pilgrim's Caravan lifted their first curse and saved countless people.

Fumiko frowned in visible confusion as the human began to speak in a bewildering variety of what were obviously different languages of this world. Certainly, she could try some of her own - Yatoviniy, Kamitanese, Lyusadiy, and so on. But that would come to nothing. Even with the enormous, incomprehensible cosmic coincidence of humans on this world - and these were humans as she knew them, she was sure - there was absolutely no chance they spoke any language she might know.

And so she watched in tense silence, not wanting to provoke a fight, or worse.

The ship’s spirit crept up behind her from where he’d fled, watching wide eyed in equal shock and awe. Neither of them had any words for the other - what would they even say? Even if they had known what to say to each other, the humans might have thought it was dangerous in some way, a threat, a plan of action.

They watched as the man held up his chain, then let it drop to the ground where it coiled before them. A symbolic gesture, for certain. She had sheathed her own weapons, and he had dropped his own in turn. She didn’t know the word he spoke as he let it drop, but she didn’t need to. Its message was clear enough. Neither of them wanted to fight today.

The question was what to do next.

She shared another look with the spirit, and took a step forward, keeping her hands clear of her weapons. She pointed to herself, “Fu-mi-ko.” She paused, and repeated her name, then pointed to the human man, waiting for his response. After a moment, she then turned to her ship, pointing at it, pointing to herself, and threw her arms in the air to flop down at her side in defeat. Whatever other communication barriers there might be - *that* at least was an expression she was confident would be hard to misunderstand. She hoped.