---

Darkness.

You are awake.

You are alive.

You must break free.

Open your eyes.

You force your eyelids open, grunting and groaning with effort as if a great weight has been placed upon them by an unknown hand. Your mind feels unfocused and your flesh trembles with weakness. Why this is, you cannot say. There is no memory of what came before this moment, only the distant recollection of your defeat and the subsequent disorganized days of incarceration. How long have you been in this place, this Maw? There is no answer. There has only been darkness, and silence, and the cold. But now, there is light. You blink your eyes, trying to adjust your blurred vision. You catch a shadow of movement to your side, but is powerless to investigate. Growling, you try to move your limbs, but to no avail.

You have woken. That voice –

You shut your eyes once more, not sure you are ready to face her again. Face it again. But there is no escape. No matter how hard you try, you cannot break free. With a final grunt of frustration, you open your eyes to face the terror. This time, your vision is clear.

You're in a large chamber, dimly lit by a ghastly blueish light of unknown origin. The stone walls are damp with moisture, rising upwards into a vault above. There are other entities here, their forms veiled in shadow, but you barely notice any of this. You only have eyes for the entity that stands before you in the center of the room. The moment your gaze falls upon her face, despair takes hold of your heart with merciless talons of ice.

The Warden.

She (It? You're not sure the Warden can be counted as a woman) stands perfectly still, observing you. Your mind screams whenever you lay eyes upon her; something is wrong. It is as if she is 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 seem to fall upon her incorrectly, as if they have a conscience of their own and are reluctant to touch the abomination. Time stretches, your heavy breathing the only sound in the room.

The Warden remains motionless, as if you aren't there. You strain again, but cannot move. Inspecting your body, you find no bounds. You're upright, clothed as you had been the day of your capture, still as a statue. You grunt again, your frustration mingled with panic, fruitlessly straining against the invisible force holding you in place.

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

The very next moment, one of the shadowed figures begins to stir.

The Infernomancer



"It's today then?"

"Yeah we need to get him prepped, this came down directly from the Warden."

"Lords forgive us when that one is looking at one of these fools."

"Get back off your door now! Don't make me set off the traps!"

A roll of laughter through the this section of the holding cells. As no less then sixteen guards in heavy armor, with lashes, truncheons, and shields make their way down. A madman on one side of the hall cackles and slams himself against his door. Making two of the gaurds turn and set off that cells security, dousing the man with a sleeping spell. They turn it off then catch up with the others.

"Who is it?"

"Fields."

"Fields? What did he do to piss someone off? He's been good the last few days?!"

"I know but it's the Warden, we get in there subdue him, and make him ready, taking him to Isolation until the Warden is ready for him."

"That's why there are so many of us. Makes sense."

At the far far end of the hall is about 100 feet of bare stone walls, no cells near a single cell door that's locked with heavy lengths of Dwarven adamant chain, elven mithril locks, and rugged orcish banding. Anything to keep the thick alloy door on the cell from being compromised. As the guards approach and filter into the two alcoves next to the cell either side of the door, one of them pounds on it and shoves open the small hatch for conversation and handing in food trays.

A voice from within calls, "Dinner already? It's not even six bells yet." A hand snakes out of the hatch briefly, slender but weathered, "Otis? Malachi? Are you out there?" A truncheon comes down and slams on the hand, making the man within pull it back with a hiss of pain, "Oh so it's like that is it?"

"Stack up, tower shields in front, push poles behind them! Make ready the lashings and bindings."

The voice calls out, "Oh is that how it's going to be my boys?" There's a soft chuckle as a faint yellow light flares from within. A chittering sound from within adding to the moment.

"Ready!? Fields! Get back from the door."

The man inside the cell chuckles, "Mortagin? Is that you? How's the burn? It healing? Oh do come in."

"Ready the door! Conrad, Nolan!"

Two guards step forth and start working on the chains, and locks. One of them passes in front of the still open hatch, then screams, a jet of flame blasts out from within scorching his stomach. Fields, the man within chuckles, "Really should pay attention."

"Damn it! We were careless. Get the spells ready!"

The guard who had caught the flame to the stomach gets up and tries again, when another jet of flame lashes out and nearly catches him in the face this time, "Careful Conrad! I don't want to mar that pretty face!"

"Now!"

The last lock and chain swings free, and the ice and water spells inside the cell flash! Dousing Ricon Fields with shards of ice and a deluge of water, that quickly drains out of the room. Just as the door heaves open, and the guards charge in, screaming, "Get down Fields! Get down!"

But Ricon Fields, aka The Infernomancer does not get down. He clocks one of the guards across the face with a wooden plate, sending hims sprawling, another he catches in the knee with a kick, before the others swarm him and lock him into a corner.

But yet he still struggles, until a sleeping spell hits him...

And he knows only blackness.

---

Until he doesn't.

It's a voice. A sweet voice, an almost kindly voice that wakes him. Ricon, blinks and looks around.

What the honest to the Inferno is going on?

And as he comes too, he realizes, he's not in that thick itchy home spun tunic the Maw dressed him in. He's in his linen Pyromancers robe. His pauldrons, gauntlets and greaves are on his body. His grimoire hangs at his belt by the fire blacked chain. And Embershard rests in the leather scabbard at his hip.

And then he looks to his side and sees...Her.

He stares at Her.

He narrows his eyes and tests his bindings, then whispers, to Her. The Warden, "Still playing games? Still playing with us? Too scared to face any of us yet?" He grunts then shudders her words in his head, "Patience...you...want...wait..."

And he can see the others. There are others there. He stares at Her balefully, "What is this...?"

The moon above the grassland was the color of bone, charred by steady fires.

She had been there before. They all had. The Guards. The Prisoners. The Maw. And her. Always her. The Warden. And the dead. Always the dead.

Strange stars glittered in the sky. More stars than she could recall. More stars than she could count. Twilight beckoned, a dying pale blue light reaching out to touch her skin. Sariel shivered, feeling a cold wind. Revealed by starlight, untold grave markers emerged from the darkness. The names were faded, the symbols obscured. A ruined tower loomed in the distance, accompanied by great stones scattered across the ground. She did not feel unwelcome. And so Sariel lingered.

Whispers rose slowly.

Whispers grew into a sea of voices. She heard tongues long faded from the world. Words heavy with unspoken meaning. In the space between, she could hear magic woven. Subtle patterns of arcane threads, deft use of the high art, magic molded into gentle designs intended to persuade her. She listened. Pleased at the offered courtesies. Impressed by the skillful manner that they had summoned her. The dead spoke wisely. There was wisdom in what they suggested. There was truth in their ragged warnings. There was kindness, real kindness, in their offer. It would be easy to remain. It would be easier to stay. She could feel the thread that chained her soul to her body. It was a thin and fragile thing. She could cut it easily. She could escape. She had only to accept.

A mirror flickered into existence. Shattered even as it appeared. Midnight bending impossibly as light recoiled, fleeing the fragmented metal that drifted through the air towards her. Another voice spoke. Quieter than the dead. Quieter still, and yet overpowering. Unbearable, with each soundless syllable and unuttered word. The dead grew silent, with dread she thought, but did not know. Sariel felt a burning cold consume her, fog settling slowly across her eyes, scattering the fell apparitions that encircled her.

You have woken. That voice –

Sariel awoke to a graying darkness. The dim light that her elven eyes allowed her. How much time had passed since her last interrogation she could not say. Not reliably. Not by any valid measure. And not with any certainty. She could not divine the plane that she was on. She knew only that she was still in the Maw. Of this she was certain. There was no time to seek answers. Her questions were too many. Her need for answers did not matter. She could wait. The dead could wait. The Warden would not. She had grasped her situation. She had understood. She had been summoned by another. She had been called. Not just by the dead. Not thence.

The Warden was there. The stars were gone. The moon had fallen. Power swirled over the shadows. Sariel watched the Warden, enraptured by the wrongness that she felt, the dagger that slipped painlessly into her mind. It was an ancient feeling. A feeling that she could not recognize at first. Fear. An old reminder that she had once committed to memory. An old friend. And an older teacher. Amusement pulled at the corner of her lips. She had thought herself removed from such base emotions. Pathetic remnants of her discarded heart. Tasting the unwelcome sensation, Sariel shuddered with excitement. She felt alive. She felt renewed by the horror that overwhelmed her. Here was something to understand. Something to study. Something to learn. And something to channel. Power, true power.

She held no attachment to the righteousness of reality. Let the Warden twist the very truth of the world. That was magic. Real magic. High magic of the highest sort. The fear was a gift. The terror was a lesson. She would treasure it, no matter the intention. Sariel knew many things. She knew of magic. She knew of the undead. She knew of the planes of existence. She knew of what lay beyond. She knew of creatures that existed far removed from mortal eyes. And yet, she knew nothing of the Warden. She knew nothing of the nature of the creature that had imprisoned her. She knew nothing of the magic that had ensnared her. And she could not name the Warden.

Discerning that the restraints holding her had loosened, Sariel shifted steadily, permitting her muscles to awaken. The magic that had bound her vanished in angles she could not follow, splintering beyond the ether. The fragments of magic disappeared with bursts of power that Sariel found dreadfully delightful to sample. Her fascination did not leave her as her senses returned to her with each slow beat of her heart. There was a familiar weight in her arms and Sariel looked down to see an arcane grimoire in her hands. It was hers, she knew. Her fingers moved desperately over the inlaid silver, tracing the runes she had engraved in her own delicate hand. Her ornate silver dagger rested in a sheath on her hip, as if she had never been forced to relinquish it. The souls held within brushed against her, warmly greeting her once more. And she was dressed in her robes, her finest robes, not the tattered clothes that they had mockingly left her.

Curiosity stirred deep within her. Sariel suspected no kindness. She expected no mercy. She did not desire forgiveness. The Warden would not release her. The Warden would not arm her. The Warden would not awaken her. Not without a need. And not without a purpose. Sariel would not beg. She would not yell. She would not scream. She would not threaten. She would not fight against the Warden. Change loomed on the horizon and she did not need the gift of prophecy to see that she was outmatched. The Warden was strong. The Warden was stronger than all of the prisoners gathered in the Maw. It did not hurt her to admit it.

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

Faint movements and angry words from nearby drew Sariel’s attention. She might have laughed once. Chortled to hear such misplaced arrogance. Instead she waited. She knew her place. She knew her role. She had no need to prove herself. She had no wish to lash out. The Warden was in charge. The Warden was all that mattered. Watching. Waiting. Perched atop the spider web she had woven through the Maw. Perhaps beyond the Maw as well. Outside of her cell, Sariel could think. She could study the situations arrayed in front of her. She could find answers. So long as she was free. So long as she was awake. So long as she had time. The Warden was right. Sariel needed to be patient. She needed to listen. And she needed to move slowly.

Lifting the hem of her robes, as if wearing a formal gown, Sariel offered a respectful curtsy to the Warden. There was no fear in her movements and no haste. She would listen. There was no need to speak. She would hear what the Warden had to say…or not to say. She wanted to, Sariel knew, recognizing without any anger that she had already chosen.

You have woken.

Brorin's eye flickered open. His breath, stuck in his throat. His heart, aflutter, yet heavy, weighed down by a magic ancient and terrible, waiting for him. Disorientation. A mere whisper never stirred him from his sleep here in the Maw. No, here he was safe, watched by friends, as he watched them. But this whisper? This one did. He felt the familiar streaks of cold tracing his body. All of it. And it was damp, like it was after a night filled with delirious dreams. and through the haze...

That voice –

That voice –

"Here to gloat at me once more, she-devil?" Brorin gasped, barely managing to push the words from his throat, stiffened by her invisible chains. It could well have been a death rattle, unless...

Patience, the Warden says, her voice like breaking glass.

Yes, he remembered the first time she revealed herself to him. Appeared in all her vainglory. Made a mockery of him. Beauty. A woman. The only one who never flinched when she saw his half-decayed form. Who gave him a second chance, or whatever this was. How dare she. Brorin gritted his teeth. Was it anger, fear?

All in due time. They are waking.

He heard the stirring forms around him. Who were they? Hearing their bodies move it was clear he wasn't with his own kind anymore. No, no dragging limbs, they were too controlled. Their breaths too... perfect. So then... What was he doing here? Why was he chosen?

All in due time.

Azir

Azir opened her eyes to the sound of a voice speaking to her.“Shut up, me want to go back to sleep.” She yelled loudly, shaking her face at the voice. She rubbed her head, feeling like someone had kicked her head like a ball. The large ogre was scratching her head with one of her giant hands. She wanted to go back to sleep, but for some reason, she knew she couldn’t. First, she noticed she wasn’t chained up; this was nice because she could move freely. But for some reason she couldn't move at all. She didn’t understand what they were talking about, compounded by the fact she was also imprisoned. These two factors made the ogre quite angry. Looking in the direction of the voice, she was curious who this person was and what they were talking about.

“What you mean? Speak!!” Yelling again, which perhaps everyone could hear. She didn’t understand what they meant by being patient and that other people were awakening. Were there other prisoners here that she had spoken to? The ogre was starting to pace back and forth in her cell, pondering or trying to ponder what was happening. Feeling her stomach rumbling, the hunger began to set in because she hadn’t eaten in a few hours. She wondered if she was going to eat anything.

She closed her eyes and grunted, trying not to let the hunger get to her. She thought about her baby and what they would have been like. She was swallowing loudly, feeling the anger coming back in full force. The loss of her mate and baby was more painful than any injury she had sustained. Small tears were running down her cheeks.

She dreamed of a distant land, of thin grasses dusted with a light brush of snow.

The frigid air clenched around her like a fist, every bit as heavy as the dead beast she carried slung over one shoulder. No sound could be heard for miles around outside of the steady pant of her own breath, and the weighty crunch of her footsteps as she forced her way uphill. A vast and merciless figure loomed above, and sneered down at her struggles with eyes bereft of all compassion.

"Still so frail, Svanhild. You march like a wounded wolf hastening to its own death."

The girl did not look up. Her advance proceeded unfaltering, even as pain gnawed deep into her muscles and tore at the inner skin of her lungs. She could not slow down, could never slow down, not when one missed step would earn her a beating or lose her a precious meal. In a way this was lucky for her: once she was grown there would be no such merciful punishments for her mistakes.

"I am yet alive, mother," she said, between one ragged breath and the next. The top of the hill seemed so distant, further away with every passing moment, and she knew countless more lay beyond it. She spoke for her own sake, to summon up strength where none remained. "The cold and the beasts could not end me, and not once have I ever faltered. When I fall, my journey will live on in hallowed tales, and in the scars I leave upon the world. They will weep for my passing; they will sing my name to the endless heavens."

She truly believed it, even after all this time. Wanted to believe, enough that it burned her inside.

Her only answer was a laugh like the cracking of ice. "And who will weep for you, daughter? Who will sing?" The giant's gaze was unrelenting, a pitiless light that glared through to her very soul. "There is no one left to follow you, and you have nowhere left to go. You live in the dark, broken and lost, and you are alone." That laughter again, echoing from everywhere at once. Svanhild's mother was gone, and in her place stood a black and bloodied spear, its tip stabbed through a maimed and blue-skinned head that cackled ceaselessly at the girl as a fresh wind stained the landscape red.

"You are alone!"

---

Awareness returned to her by degrees, a slow and grinding inevitability. Corrupt and fetid air, that lapped against her skin with a sickly warmth incomparable to the chill of her homeland. Voices, hateful voices, speaking a language foreign and foul. Even before she opened her eyes she could guess at the truth of her surroundings, and only with great reluctance did she finally pry her lids apart to greet the sorry sight that awaited.

The woman. Svanhild would not grace her with her title, though even calling her a living thing felt somehow wrong. Regent of this accursed pit, architect of perpetual despair, slave to the crown and enslaver of all who fell into this abyss: the giantess had every reason to want this creature dead, and now she stood no more than a stride or two before her. In that moment Svanhild wanted nothing more than to lunge forward and snap that monster in half, break her like a twig and dash her brains out across the hard stone floor. Only honed instincts stayed her hand, informing her that if she were to try, she would be dead before she made it a single step.

Instead she lifted her muscular arms, and folded them across her chest. Let her attention turn to some of the others in the chamber, without ever taking her eyes off her despised foe.

She hadn't met all of them before, but rumors had a way of traveling through the Maw, and she could identify most of these people by reputation alone. The savage ogre, a crass brute even taller than Svanhild herself, though she wagered the beast had barely half of her brains. A rotting corpse of a human, who had well earned his evocative nickname. A vile elven witch and a reckless pyromaniac, each seeking to outdo the other in the field of insanity. Not a one of them was worth more than the filth that lined their cells, but their collective presence told her much about the nature of this meeting. Dangerous prisoners, all potential flight risks... Only a fool would gather them together like this for a common execution.

No, this was something special. They were needed for something.

Svanhild did not waste her breath on pointless words. Unlike many in this room, she could exhibit actual patience, a quality she proved by waiting in silence without moving a millimeter further. Her gaze remained fixed upon her ghastly captor, an unflinching blue glare filled with all the bitter defiance of a monarch trapped in hell.

Ruby

Falling, slipping through consciousness, her body was weighed down by the weight of what felt like heavy metal chains as she sank into the depths of the uncomfortable cold and dampness. Ruby's mind was filled with images of her sinking to the bottom of the ocean as her mind started to stir awake. Then there was that chilling voice, and her eyes abruptly burst open with glaring glowing red eyes.



Ruby's slumped over head quickly shot up and turned towards the woman she only knew as 'The Warden'. Though if she had to bet on it, she seemed no less a woman than she was human. Just looking at her seemed to be wrong, an icy chill filling her veins as she continued to stare at the being before her. Even as her instincts screamed for her to look away, she still glowered with her own unsettling crimson eyes.

She made no attempt to escape the bindings, physical or not; the fabric gag on her was frustrating, but she had not expected anything different. The only thing that seemed to be of interest was the softness of the cloth she wore. Finally tearing her stubborn glare away from the woman, she looked down to see the dark black dress with yellow embroidery. Even more surprisingly, there at her side, she could see her little pathetic excuse of a knife.

... What was going on?

This wasn't right. This wasn't right at all!

She was supposed to be dead by now. She was supposed to be gone. Gone from this world with one simple slice of a sword, or hidden in that dark filthy cell.



Ruby's eyes swept through the room, finally taking in the shadowy figures as they, too, became restless and lashed out with insults and demands. Letting out a heavy sigh, she fell back to waiting as she contemplated that maybe being at the bottom of the ocean would have been more peaceful than whatever was planned for next.

Consciousness at last returns to Viktor, and with it confusion. The chains, his last real memory in who knows how long, are gone, yet he feels far from free, heavy limbs unwilling to move.

You have woken.
Patience, the Warden says, her voice like breaking glass. All in due time. They are waking.

Well that explains things, of course that horror needs no chains to bind him. Or rather them, it (and it's definitely an it in his mind, far too inhuman to be anything else) mentioned a they after all.
He strains to look at the shadowy figures, but only his eyes move, darting around their sockets.
But that is all he does, he vaguely hears some words from one of the shadows, but has no intention of wasting his breath here. Just stand and wait, they, whoever they are, are here for a reason and only time will reveal it.

Omiku watched and waited. Silently. Patiently. She was practically a model prisoner. She never caused a fuss, always did whatever was told. She had little reason to think she could get away with doing otherwise, and if nothing else perhaps she could wait it out, outlive this place. Is her behavior why they brought her here? With these others? They would never free her for good behavior, so they must have some sort of job for her. Her brows furrowed, hopefully it was not something in the sun. How she despised that accursed orb, nothing like the cool embrace of the void. Of darkness and shadows. At leas that was one small comfort to this place, it felt soothing to be surrounded by but the faintest trace of light. A benefit to being 'passive', as far as those that run this place thinks she is, they do not burn her with the light and allow her some leeway. Regardless, she could not do anything against them for now. They knew that, and she knew it too.

Omiku played with her food, offering but a fraction of her attention to this 'warden'. The blood pooled around her and danced on the floor, twisting and forming into familiar patterns before dispersing and being reabsorbed into her armor just to slowly seep out on the floor again. Finally she got bored of this and peered from the darkness into the dim light. Reaching out into the shadows dancing from the glow of illumination. There was much unknown to her, but some scant traces of information was revealed of the company she was in. She could bear to be with the lot of them... as far as she can tell, but that.... fool who plays with fire. She can smell it on him. Hear it in the whispers between shadows. Instinctively her lips curled as she bore her fangs silently. Fire is not fond of her, neither is she is fond of fire. It has a tendency to... stick to her. To choke out the darkness. Whatever was going on, she had no choice in the matter. But she had the choice to not like it.

---

---

The Warden remains in the center of the room, motionless. A few of you speak to her, but if she notices, she gives no sign. once you've all awakened, she stars to speak. Her voice cannot be properly described. It sounds 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 sounds like something not of this world. You can understand the words, somehow, but you know deep down that they aren't uttered in any tongue you speak. Other than fear, perhaps.

To the near east lies the land of Sulfrey, the Warden says, a rich and powerful land, ruled by the God-King Ael-Gol who is a loved as he is feared. Sulfrey has long acted as the bulwark of the east, putting a stop to the raids and invasions of the barbarian hordes from beyond the edges of civilization. They have been very successful in this, and have because of it enjoyed a long and lasting peace with the Westerlands.

Images flash before your eyes; armies of knights with horned helmets, vast cities centered around pyramidesque temples, throngs of people cheering and raising their hands to the sky as a procession passes through the streets, a horned knight riding on a great winged lizard routing a horde of primitive barbarian warriors, and the lastly, an image of a tall and slender man in a beautiful golden mask. The man is both wonderful and terrible to behold; the sort of entity that would and could make you die for it. The face of the mask is locked in an eternal half-smile, and there are no slits for the eyes, but the hairs on your neck starts to stand up as you realize that he is looking at you, that he knows and waits, and that he smiles with anticipation.

The problem is, however, the Warden continues, that they have become too successful. Too powerful. The easterling hordes are all but spent at this point, humbled by the forces of Sulfrey. Many barbarians have taken up worship of this false god and are spreading the faith further still. It will not be long until its influence finds its way westward, and with it, armies of horned knights. The King has decreed that this cannot be allowed to continue. I have been tasked with solving the situation, and so, I am tasking you.

Suddenly, the Warden turns to face you. The very motion is unpleasant, as if she suddenly snaps from one position to the next with a strange resistance to the fluidity of the turn as if reality tries but fails to hold her in place. She doesn't approach you, but somehow it seems like she is getting closer. Her eyes - those bottomless pits of horrid darkness - stare right at you, into you, through you. When she contiues speaking, you notice that her lips aren't moving. The sound of her voice comes from within. She's in your mind!

Your mission is threefold, the Wardens voice whispers in your mind, There are advance agents already in place in Sulfrey. We have however not heard from them for over a month. Their last known place of residence is the Golden Chalice, a tavern in the city of Malasta. Your first mission is to make rendezvouz with the agents. They are three in total; Tristana, Yorleif and Nashur. Your second mission is to learn of their findings and plans, and enact them. If you suspect that any or all of them have been in any way compromized, you are to kill them. Your third and final mission is to infiltrate the court of the false God-King and slay Ael-Gol.

The visions flood your mind once more; three shadowy figures, one female and two male, her hair a telltale red, his face carrying a telltale scar; upset and uprisings in the streets, confusion and mass panic, a burning pyramid or temple; a splendorous hall devoid of life, except... He is there and the hairs on your neck starts to stand up as you realize that he is looking at you, that he knows and waits, and that he smiles with anticipation.

You are all enemies of the Kingdom, the Warden concludes, 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.

An eerie silence settles in the room, the moments stretching into seconds, or minutes, or hours. It is hard to tell. Then a rumbling begins - quiet at first, but deafening within moments. It is as if a mountain topples over, as if a river of rocks flows through the room. You can't think for the noise, can't speak. Then suddenly, something impossible occurs. The walls starts to move, folding and slithering and breaking apart. The room collapses in on itself, and it is all you can not to scream as your doom comes crashing down on you. The Warden remains motionless in the center of the room, but you could have sworn she was smiling.

---

---

Darkness.

You are awake.

You are alive.

You must break free.

Open your eyes.

Your eyelids snap open. The light blinds you, but your eyes soon adjust themselves. You are no longer in the Maw. You can feel the soft caress of the wind on your skin, feel the warmth of the sun on your face. You are in a field of tall grass. In the distance is a great forest, and beyond, high mountains. There is a river somewhere nearby; you can hear the water running. It is in the evening, just before dusk. The sun has not yet set, but is about to. Free. You are finally free. You do not understand why or how, or where, but there you are. You take a deep breath, savoring the scent of the grass and the clean crispness of the air.

Then you see them.

The Warden is nowhere to be found, but the others are. Monsters, creatures and other entities. Unknown factors. Certainly threats. Memory comes back to you; you are not free at all. Something impossible is demanded of you. Something that most likely will get you killed. And the only help you'll get are these villains, these... Blackguards. And you don't even know who, or what, they are.

Seems like you're going on an adventure. What a joy.

Brorin's voice stuck in his throat as the images and words flooded his mind. Sulfrey. Barbarians. The God-King sitting in his dead hall. That knowing smile. Red hair. A scar. Hordes of horned knights pouring over the kingdom. Blood. Then silence.

Then noise. The walls crumbling down. The world slipping away from him. Darkness closing in on him. Heart pounding, eye flitting, but nothing. Nothing but noise! And through the haze... That smile...

"Why do we keep him, father?" - "You will find out in the end, son." Echoes carry far in a church...
"I've got a treat for you, a right Foul task today." Those smiles...
"You still not dead yet?"
"You...? Why...?" Now it was his turn to smile...

Brorin's knees buckled as he fell into... Softness. A wheat field? He felt a cool breeze run through his eye socket. And there were birds! His heart calmed at a steady pace, only to flare up again as he noticed his mask had slipped. With trembling hands, he picked it up and put it back where it belonged, over his fair, unblemished half-face. You could dress up a monster, but why cover up the truth?

Grabbing his cane - his equipment all seemed to be there, alchemy satchel and all - he pushed himself up through what dizziness still lingered. Finally he could get a good look at these "chosen ones". There was a huge, brutish woman, not one to mince words that one, not even with the Warden, what few words she knew. A pale giantess surveying the scene with a stone-cold detachment, or was it dejection? An elf with a high and haughty posture, but hiding something in a sleeve of her dress. A ghostly girl, shy and red-eyed. A man who seemed too pridefully robed to have been a mere criminal, a psychopath, perhaps? A dark beast, its armor bloodied already. A lanky, silver-haired, ember-eyed man. And a halfling hidden in all their shadows. And then there was him... Blackguards, all.

What a joke. What a cruel joke. For a moment Brorin turned away, toying with the idea of leaving them in the dust of this soon-to-be destroyed land. Plagueborn were despised everywhere equally anyway, it wouldn't make much of a difference wherever he went. But he quickly remembered that he will do what She has said. That is all. He snickered, nodded, then he went silent. He truly wasn't getting out of this one, was he? They truly would have to kill a God-King, weren't they? And no one would truly lose a night of sleep for them if they died... would they? He muttered a verse from under his rasping breath. "Even the fools will find out they fit in the end, huh? Damned witch..."

Brorin turned back to the ones nearest to him. "Which way's east, friends?"

Ruby

Images of a foreign land flashed through Ruby's mind, visions of strange warriors and odd temples bringing crinkles to her forehead. None of this made sense of why she was here; she was no kind of fighter.

Then the sight of the gold mask watching her rang through her mind like the sound of a broken bell, and a shudder ran through her small frame. Just the sight of this man caused goosebumps to run across her ghostly skin, and she had thought the warden had been bad.

Wait?! Tasking us?! As in... she was supposed to face ... that?

This was madness! This - this was..... this was suicide.

Pale hands fiddled with the knife at her side as everything was starting to set into her heavy chest.

All she had ever done was try to protect her sisters. Who cared if those assholes had died in a bloody mess, they had deserved it and now... now she was a disposable pawn going to be thrown at a being that hardly seemed human.

Then, as she finally seemed to finally accept that even if this wasn't the end she had expected, it was just leaving her a dead woman walking, a new fear raised its head. The screaming of the stones was deafening and despite herself, she could feel herself screech out as she felt the world crash down above her.

---

Bright, sanguine eyes shot open as Ruby tried to understand what was happening. She had never thought she had been scared of death; it had always just seemed such a silly thing to worry about, considering she technically had already died once. It seemed the world was just finding all new kinds of ways to make her second-guess this belief.

Blinking, she blindly took in the bright light, until finally her sight returned. The sweeping views of the fields of grass and mountains in the far-off created a gasp to escape from her lungs. Ruby had never seen such a sight before in her life, all she had done was live in the dark and dangerous cramped spaces of the red light district and now. Now, there was a whole new world right in front of her.

Just as fast as the beautiful sight and fresh smell reached her, she was reminded once again of her fate. Looking back at the other figures, she eyed them one by one before looking back to the mountains and taking a deep breath in. It seemed like the Warden had found a whole new way to torture her, with such a beautiful freedom so close, and yet she had her marching orders.

The question rode the cool air to reach her ears, and it was then that Ruby turned to look at the skeletal man with a questioning raised eyebrow. 'Friends'? She let out a small pfft and rolled her eyes, they were decidedly not friends. Unfortunate souls who had been played seemed like a much more accurate term.

A fetch mission? And a assasination?

Yeah Ricon couldn't believe it at first. Find, Tristana, Yorleif and Nashur, and the things they found out. Then kill the God-King of Sulfrey? Ricon could only gape abit at that. That's a mission onto True Death. But, what's he going to do? He can't back out, not now at any rate. He wonders how long they are going to have to prepare.

But soon he starts feeling his eyes grow heavy.

And he curses. Of course it was going to be that way.

---

Gods of Flame, Heat and Fiery Beyond, it felt good to sleep. Really sleep. Oh it felt wonderful, something about a lack of the oppressive and dominanting weight of the Maw. So wonderful in fact that Ricon was very reluctant to allow his consciousness to return. The young man rolled onto his back then bit out a curse, something just poked him in the back! He jerked up, blurrily looking behind him seeing a tree stump sitting there. His eyes snapped open wider, screw the brillance of the sun. He looked at the tree, then stood.

That's why it felt so freeing. The domination of the Warden is not immediate!

And he began to laugh. "Yes!" He laughed somemore. "Yes!" he hollered.

He worked his arms, then thrust his left arm to the side and up. The sound of many ripping piece of fabric preceded the roar of a brilliant yellow jet of flame and heat. Again he yelled "Yes!" And his right arm jerked out and up, a great ball of almost blue flame gouted out, scorching the grass beneath it from the heat. He cackled and laughed again, "YES! Finally! Finally! Oh it feels so good to use it again. It's like a drug, a drug I've long been unable to use!" He pulled both arms down, then with a grunt he drew Embershard of his hip, thrust the point into the air, sucking and wooshing as the blade heated then burst into red flames, and the motion almost continued, as he nearly drove the tip of the blade into the ground at his feet. Almost to the point of channeling his greatest of destroying fire magics. But he stops, letting the flames on the blade lick and crackle. Instead he gathers them into his hands, sliding the sword back into it's scabbard. And with the flames dancing about his hands he tosses it into the air, where it floats and flickers then splits, first into two, then two into four. And then four of his little fire spirites giggles and flutter about him, orbiting about him. He grins, cradling one of the cooing spirites in his hand, "Hello there little friend. Welcome back, it's been awhile." Another of the sprirtes tugs at his robe. And Ricon turns to see the others, "Hmmm interesting. We have new friends perhaps?" He smiled at Ruby hearing her ask the same thing. An aura of flame, like a great circle of fire flares up over his shoulders, haloing his head in a faint halo of fire. He grins, "No funny business..." He slows and trails off, looking out beyond the group of criminals, creatures, fools and ne'er-do-wells.

Ricon's broad smile pales abit, then points behind the group, "That's the Spine. I think this is the Kasan Plateau by the look and smell of it." He says, "So that's west." He answers Brorin in that moment. He spins, his spirites and halo trailing with him, "If that's the Spine....then East should be there." He points away from the group, then turns again to face south, "If that all adds up we're not even in the Westerlands anymore. Almost out of reach of the King." he turns to look at the group, "I used to do my Banditry in and around parts like this." He points to the north, "There's a forest about 20 hours on a brisk walk, with one of the Low Roads leading South and South West to and through the Spine, merchant caravans often use it to get to Lands abroad or avoid the direct High Road South to Sulfrey. Less tolls. But good pickings for a brave bandit." He grins, "We're actually I'd say maybe 2 days away from Sulfrey if we stick to the Lower Roads and the Forest Paths. I know my way around here if you can trust me."

He grins and slowly takes a step North East, "I'll even sweeten the deal." He points the way he's starting to move, "There's some crags. North North East of here, I had a cache there, back during my High Banditry days, after leaving the College. For abit, I was rather wealthy, picking off trade and merchant caravans. Gold, silver, gems and jewelry, I'd steal rare spices and materials to then sell to black market dealers around the land. They'd try and fleece me bare, then I'd come back and well persuade them to pay properly. The Black Marketeers learned right quick not to try and screw me over. I know for a fact the King, and the College didn't find all my caches. And this one was so out of the way, I'd bet you all, balls to bones, that it's still filled with riches." As he walks he then points East, "Just don't go that way. Those Reavers? The cut throats and blood drinkers are over there, yeah we stay quiet and go this way." He says as he takes a few more steps and urges the group to follow, "They won't know we're here. And if we get to my cache. We'll have money for later. May even be a weapon or two in there for those who want something unique. Honestly it's been a few years can't remember what all I put in this particular cache. Got a few more caches spread out all over the place too, who knows if we might come across them right? What do you all say hmmm?"

@Red Wizard@MrSkimobile@Chrys

Azir

Her questions were not answered, which angered her quite a lot. It filled her with something she hadn’t felt in a long time. She couldn’t put her finger on it, though. Was it fear that she was feeling in this person’s presence. Listening to their words, she didn’t know where Sulfery was or who this Ael-Gol was. But she felt the so-called Warden would not answer her questions. She had lived in the deep forest of the Westerlands for most of her life. So, she didn’t know much about outside of the land. It was tasking her to take down a god. She wasn’t sure how she would qualify for killing a so-called god. Why would the king want her, of all people, for this task? Perhaps it was because she was a prisoner, so it wouldn’t matter if she lived or died. The feeling of unease continued as Azir watched the Warden’s movement. Her eyes were closed, but she still felt the Warden's eyes looking at her. She could feel the hair on the back of her neck standing up. The first couple of objectives seemed at least obtainable. However, again, she wasn’t sure killing this so-called god would be possible.

She didn’t like the person, who she thought was not impressive if this was Ael-Gol. But this thought was stopped when she felt like she was staring into those eyes. “No…” Muttering to herself while shutting her eyes tightly. This feeling of terror was something she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Opening her mouth to speak and finally address the Warden. “Me am not sure me could kill god. But me think me cannot say no to this deal. So me accept deal. Puny god is gonna die.” She said with a smile on her face. She didn't want to be couped up, wherever here was. Her smile seemed to fade as the room started to come toppling above her. Opening her eyes, she noticed that she luckily wasn’t dead. And was alive, surrounded by something that amazed her. It was a field surrounded by forest with the sun just about to set. It reminded her of her home, which she had missed greatly. A part of her wondered what would happen if she ran off—feeling that sense of dread again if she had to meet the “Warden” again if she did run away.

Looking at the others that seemed to be chosen by the Warden. Most of them didn’t seem to impress Azir. She assumed any of them couldn’t hold their own in a fight. Shrugging her shoulders at Brorin’s question. “Me no know.” Azir backed away when she saw Ricon’s flaming sword.She couldn't admit it but she was deeply afraid of fire. “Little man can lead us to our destination. He knows area well.” She said pointing towards Ricon. She noticed she had her club along with a flask of liquor she made herself. Slinging the club onto her shoulder while shoving her flask down her deep cleavage. Starring to follow Ricon.

@BigPapaBelial@MrSkimobile@Red Wizard

The creature explained her intentions, and Svanhild listened in absolute silence. Unflinching, unyielding, even when wild visions flooded her mind and some new thing gazed back at her through them. To feel fear was natural and inevitable, but to express it—to show any sign of weakness before so many watching eyes—would be fatal. The giantess's discipline held firm as an iron wall, her terrors confined to a tiny black room in the very depths of her consciousness.

In contrast, her jailers had revealed their own fragility. The White Tiger, the mighty king, turns to his monstrous pet rather than face the threat directly. And our captor, for all her wicked power, passes the task down unto us. To Svanhild the reason was clear: they were scared of this gold-masked god. They dreaded a war against him, and chose to poke and prod with spies and pawns, hoping to find a hidden flaw that would shatter his empire from within. She knew all about the way they operated: the kingdom had used the very same strategy to defeat her in the past.

Ironic, that she should be the one to carry it out now.

The chamber abruptly shook, and began to unravel itself all around her. Blinking in surprise, the giantess subtly shifted her feet, though a quick glance showed her nowhere was safe from the effect. Logically she knew that their captor would not try to kill them now, but even so it took all her willpower to stand firm and embrace the oncoming wave of magic and madness. She had to stay focused, had to remember the plan—not the one spelled out for her by that smiling abomination, but the one that she'd tucked away in her hidden thoughts the moment she'd understood the situation.

Locate the spies. Infiltrate the god-king's court. Find Ael-Gol...

...And help him burn the Westerlands to the ground.

Cradling this deadly spark, this desperate hope for revenge, she plunged headfirst towards her fate.

---

...How long had it been, since she'd last seen a sky so bright?

Her eyes cracked open, and a sharp breath filled up her lungs. Warm, sweet, fresh in the way that only untainted air could be. After all these years, it felt like a miracle, like something impossible. She wanted to weep, to cry out, to fall down on her knees and plunge her fingers into the rich and beautiful soil. The only things that stopped her were a habit of self control and her awareness of the silhouettes around her—shadows that resolved themselves into familiar shapes as her vision adjusted to the light.

It seemed the wretches had come with her, all eight of them. The majority maintained their composure better than she'd have expected—which only made the lone exception stand out all the more. Her eyes narrowed with irritation as she watched the pyromaniac dance and flaunt his power, almost as if he was trying to draw unwanted attention down upon them. A madman and a fool, better disposed of now before he could cause any further trouble...

...Or so she'd have thought, if he hadn't immediately followed up with critical information about the region. It was enough to make Svanhild raise an eyebrow, and unclench the half-formed fist she'd planned to bury halfway through his skull.

"Your word's as good as any." With a languid roll of her shoulders, she started off in the same direction as the man and the ogre. "Best we cover as much ground as we can before nightfall. Fill us in about the roads along the way."

"We're actually I'd say maybe 2 days away from Sulfrey if we stick to the Lower Roads and the Forest Paths. I know my way around here if you can trust me."

Trust. The word rung out to Brorin like a church bell. The ember-eyed man liked to blab, that much was clear. Apparently he liked talking almost as much as he liked his arson and lootings, and he liked those a whole lot. Brorin mused they wouldn't even have to go out of their way to find trouble in Sulfrey at this rate. Trouble would find them before long, or find this one at least. A wild man, capable and dangerous, yet strangely childlike. Unfeigned and unsuspecting, he could've been a fellow Brother in another life if he weren't a slave to his burning passions. That would surely become his own undoing... But it could serve them for now... 'Trust'? There's one thing you could be sure of when it came to trust: it gets broken, eventually. Everything nice dies, in the end.

The two largest members of their party had walked after the flaming bandit with little delay. One, because she followed. The other, with purpose. The ghost-girl still seemed skeptical about the whole ordeal, sighing and rolling her eyes. But she was a silent enough counterpart to the loudmouthed and hulking ground-shakers to be almost pleasant. She seemed sad, though. Strange... Sadness wouldn't get you into the Warden's Maw. Nor should it get to you once back outside of it. Brorin tried studying his new companions the way he used to do his priests and choirboys back in his parish. But they were a different breed of people. Or were they...? He decided to break the ice.

"What would you have me call you, friends? Foul's my name, or so they called me at my parish, before I..." He paused. "...came to the Maw. Brorin Foul."

@Drifting Pollen @Chrys @Lurking Shadow @Eviledd1984 @Abstract Proxy @Thunder999999 @BigPapaBelial @Vertigo @Red Wizard

It's not a true escape, no doubt that thing can track them even here, but freedom with a time limit is still freedom and Viktor does not belong in any prison, let alone that place.
The mission sounds rather challenging, or the regicide does at least, are they meant to succeed, or just tie up Sulfreyan resources while the King builds up for war. He wonders what he could get for this god-king's soul, might it be enough to arrange his own disappearance beyond even the Warden's reach?
His new associates are an interesting collection, rather unsavory, not the type he'd socialise with, but this is business, and they're hardly worse than demons.

He quietly allows a few of them to speak, the pyromancer's initial actions may speak of instability, yet he's clearly knowledgable about their surroundings, as useful as he is dangerous. The ogre is clearly just a brute, shouldn't be a problem. Too early to judge the Giant, but clearly more to her than the ogre. As the plagueborn lets slip a connection to the King's church, odd that one of their own ended up here, and starts introductions Viktor speaks.

"Since we shall be working together in this matter, you may all refer to me as Viktor." A polite smile appears on command as he speaks. "This cache sounds most useful, though I fail to see why we should avoid these Reavers, their corpses could be a convenient resource, and one that won't be missed."
Yes, it wouldn't do to travel for days without some skeletons to handle the manual labour.

The Funny Fire Fellow

Ricon leads the way, through the field, heading a little off their true direction to Sulfrey. As he goes his fire sprites flit and flutter about. Zipping along to peer and giggle a the group already following him. One of them at the rear of the small group no moving waving to the others who haven't yet fallen in.

In the meantime Ricon calls back, an intro it seems, "Some call me the Sky Cowboy. Some call me the bandit of love. Others still call me Clarence the Clearer. And yet more talk of me being the oliphant of love." He chuckles a little, as two of his sprites giggle and coo as they orbit him in two different directions almost like they are dancing around him as he speaks. He nods, and waves to the others to catch up, "Truth is I'm a Picker, I'm a grinner, I'm a lover and I'm a sinner." He chuckles dancing abit as he walks, "I'm a joker, I'm a smoker, I'm a midnight looter. I do my magic in the sun!" He chuckles, "But after all that, you can call me Ricon Fields, one of the most powerful pyromancers in recorded history. Dubbed the Infernomancer named after my strongest spell."

He stops briefly to look back at the others who haven't come along, "Now as for why we don't try and fight the reavers Mr. Viktor. How many are we exactly." He spends a moment to count. Having to stop and restarts maybe twice because of the movement of the group, "Nine? Nine of us? Some of us are giants or ogres, or vampires sure. But that's just nine of us. I've seen those reavers in action Vik." Oh great he's already calling people familiar names. He nods, "Anyway those Reavers don't come in small groups Vikky, they come in hordes usually. When they raid into the East and Westlands they come in great waves of howling men and slavering harridan women. It's why I rarely every went into those lands. I saw a great sea of them once fall onto a border outpost. They swarmed the gates and battered them down with great half giants with axes and hammers. And pulled down the stockades with grappling hooks made from the antlers of great eight point deer horns. They took everything of value to them, leaving behind much of the precious metals. But any semblence of food, drink, fur or bone or beast. They took with them and swarmed back into those east steppes."

The man with flaming eyes and fire dancing at his shoulders shook his head, "Even with all my power over fire and the heat of the inferno, I don't think I or us all together would be able to take on a horde of five hundred of them or maybe even more. If they decided to reave out of those hills on us." He motioned, "If you think you're lucky feel free. Honestly, we'd have better luck taking on one of the Sulfreyan border patrols their pikemen, archers and drake riders would be easy pickin's for a group like this. Never more then fourteen in one of their patrols. Hell even if we're luck we still may catch sight of one of them on our way to Sulfrey. They're all up and down these lands." He motions ahead and then down in the direction they came from, "Heck even the ground locked of our group could likely take out one of the Sulfrey milksops." He sighs, "But then I'll leave it up to you if you want to head into those hills. The Warden told us to get to Sulfrey, find the three, and their information and then try and come out of this alive after trying to kill the god-king." He sniffed, "Fat chance of that. I hear the guy can crush a person with a point of a finger. No amount of fire magic is going to stop that kind of power." He shrugs and continues the trek.

Ruby

Ruby had been busy questioning if the plague had affected this strange man's brain and if he thought they would all be friends when she was suddenly distracted by the wild yelling and laughter.

Turning to look at the madman, her frown was quickly changed as her eyebrows shot up at the sight before her. Taking a hesitant step backward as the man flared up on fire and began to draw his sword, she seemed to be thinking of running, but then, the next second, she stopped herself. Instead, she just stared wide-eyed at the little beings that burst into life in front of her eyes. The little giggles and dancing around made her mesmerized in confusion and wonder as she crouched down to get a better look at the one on the ground.

She was still gaping at the little sprite as the pyromancer announced that he not only knew the path but also maybe where some treasure was hidden. Instead, the flames of the little beings swayed in her wide, bright eyes, only finally looking away when she heard the sizeable booming voice of an ogre nearby.

Shaking her head, she turned to look at the other two large women. Watching them not only trust this madman's word but also agree to follow him made her question what the hell they were doing. Though, the more she thought about it... this whole thing was a madman's quest, so why the fuck not just follow the crazed pyromaniac? It made as much sense as any of the rest of this did.

She ignored all takes about reavers, already knowing her preference to avoid them at any cost. She was hardly going to be useful at a fight with a giant hoard. I mean what was she going to do, give them all headaches?

Standing back up, she shrugged and started to follow the small group. Though if to be honest, she was more following the little fire sprite than anything else. Though the next topic that was brought up made her stop in her walk for a second, as she groaned in misery. Not this shit again.

Why did they always have to share names?! Or more importantly, how the hell was she supposed to share hers without talking? ... It just seemed like another of those hopeless situations where she was going to end up getting a stupid nickname she hated.

Yet, as the group kept walking, she followed suit quietly behind. No matter what stupid names they could come up with, it was better than being lost in the wilderness by herself or ... worse. She was sure whatever the Warden had planned would be worse.

Silently walking behind the group, almost hiding in the shadows of the larger women, she listened to the chatter half paying attention. Her hand fiddled at her side at the small pocket hidden in her dress. Though as the sing-song introduction pooled back towards her, she looked up at the fiery man that was leading them to who knows where in utter disbelief before bursting out into blustery laughter. This guy was a true lunatic and she couldn't help but find it strangely hilarious in this less than delightful situation.

Omiku's focus shifted as the Warden spoke of an old haunt long long ago. Showed a familiar place. A familiar face marked for execution and it was up to her and her... co-conspirators to carry out the command. Killing a supposed 'god-king' would be quite a task to pull off she thought with a barely audible chuckle. One of the few unyielding obstacles of her past has returned. She and her kin tried to slaughter the lands of Sulfry long ago when she was barely a shadow, but their walls proved tricky to overcome. She wondered if her kind were remembered or forgotten. As the walls around her shifted and crashed, she took one glance at her companions. They were not kin, but perhaps with the crucible that is this mission they could be.

---

Omiku was among the last to awaken from the transition. Her hearing picked up first. She heard a madman cackle, the sound of crackling fire, a simple minded brute... others... but that was not a concern to her. She felt vibrations. Shaking. Felt a sizzle on her form. She...faintly smelled something burning. But before she could piece two and two together she face twisted with an inaudible smack as her vision stirred.

The Sun! Omiku came to with a startled hiss at the realization of being exposed to that accursed celestial orb as her shadow danced as if standing on hot coals while trying to alert her to the exposure. She glanced around rapidly for cover. Any cover. Her eyes settled on the welcoming shade cast by the ogre as she sprinted across the scalding field to the cool and comfortable shelter cast by the giant of a woman.

"I must borrow your shade, friend." Omiku said quickly, as pleasant and nice she could manage while she seemingly melted into her shadow and melded with the shadow casted by the ogre. The only evidence of her presence being the faint outline of her darker silhouette and piercing red eyes that glanced around the surroundings. Finally safe from the inhospitable conditions of the present environment, she relaxed and joined in on the conversation as she was carried with the shadow.

"I... have not been to this place in a long time. Since my kin and I came around here to feed some.... seventy years ago perhaps. Maybe more. It will be tough getting into the cities of Sulfey, we will need to look and act like we belong or they will be suspicious." Omiku stated, ignoring the question about her name. This group of unsavory elements of society is not one that can be easily trusted, and trust is the first step towards betrayal. Though it did not help that the sun always sours her mood, and it was a challenge to not snap at the firebrand, his attitude too brash for her to stand. But she would endure even this torment if it meant freedom.