So Illium is where he is at, wherever that was. The name does not sound familiar to him, and a question formed in his mind. Where is Illium and... He made a long sigh, more questions, it seems, but at least he knew where he was and with people who could tell him more. If they wish to fill him in. Though the younger man with blond hair seemed familiar to him somehow and he seemed more friendly than the horned one. Meko, the horned one's name based on what the blond one said. Also, the survivors of Shalut are what the blond one called himself and the other two. But, still, that name holds no meaning to him.

Still, it is better than nothing so far, and more information should come in time, hopefully. However, it seems like he was not the only one with a missing memory. The others with him were in the same situation, but who were they and why? Where they were companions of his and suffered the same fate or something else entirely? Well, he can't ask what they do not know, and maybe the people here have an answer to this. At least a diction to guide them towards if they know that is.

He would silently listen to what the others were saying, and the one that stuck out the most for him was the man with half his head being fire. How does someone wind up like that? Was he born that way or cursed, or was it something else?

But, his attempts to get one of them to stick their hand into the fire and, by extension, his head was... very weird. He is not sure why someone would do that, and when one of them spoke, the woman with grey hair, he replied while looking in her direction. "That is a very good question." Sounding serious and when the fact he can not recall even his own name. If he cannot do that, then how is he able to survive in this world?

Since the words bring with him dread that is apparently caused by the old woman's words. The gods did this to Illium, and what kinds of gods would just reduce a place like this to ruins? Are the beings who did this really gods or something else? But, if it was the gods, then why do this?

More questions and little answers, the survivors should know more though. So, turning to their direction, he again spoke but in a more relaxed tone. "Can you tell us more about this place and why the gods chose to destroy it?" And what are your names? I... do not know mine, unfortunately."

More friends come forth, shadows shaping and speaking up, and for a short time she pauses her approach toward the hut to admire the precious things. Particularly adorable is the little lady in her darling cape. A cape! Love that...how does one even get into cape-wearing? She has to wonder if there are good beginner capes to ease into the practice with. It'd surely be nerve-wracking to start off with such a nice, proper cloak like what the little woman's got on, but a professional cape-wearer like herself must have started somewhere.

Then there's the funny-looking gentleman at her side, and the one further off and on fire (!?). Her immediate neighbor is gifted a smile and a fast wave, which is enthusiastic but almost painful-looking.

"No. I don't know my name." A beat. Then she shrugs this off, wincing at the tightness in her shoulders. "Those things are everywhere, though. I bet we'll find new ones in no time. After we exchange names, you have to tell me why your ears are like that."

She's not a fan of the burning man's tone when he speaks, but his observation is a good one, so no fuss is made. She doubts he came from the same place as her, either. Looking at him brings about the same faint, patronizing kind of amusement she feels looking at most of the people here; their strangeness feels so novel, like some new treat. She nods emphatically, not actually sure what to make of this information right now so instead she uses the sweetheart who had why?'d waving back at her as a palate cleanser. How nice!

Now she's moving again.

The request that they stay where they are goes unheeded. She doesn't mean to be a pest, but she's got this overwhelming certainty that she is untouchable and above the demands of these costumed strangers. She'll careen around their charming little hellhole at her leisure, thank you very much! Then the man, which she swears had just been over there but is now right here, remedies her arrogance by shoving a spear at her. This would be hiiiilarious if it hadn't touched her in the next split-second. That's not supposed to happen.

She doesn't flinch. It's not that this woman fancies herself all brave and unintimidatable but that whatever instinct a rational person might have to shield themself is long gone. Because this isn't supposed to happen.

And yet.

I'm right here. She's right here, the danger's right there, and in spite of what she feels should and should not be able to happen, it can touch her. Hurt her. It is. That sting at her unguarded neck is all that she can focus on for the moment that follows, and it stretches,

—this is a horrible way to make friends, you know...whatever happened to class—

and it stretches,

—shoving your great big weapon at me, not even a mention of treating me to dinner, for shame—

and it stretches. What has he done to her? Had she felt slow and irate before? Well this is agonizing. Had she thought the spear was silly before? Well...well!! For weeks she is held at spear-point and for months a pale hand creeps into view. Distantly she can tell that other things are still happening, but it's hard enough to discern the slow crawl of events happening immediately front of her.

It could have been years before the friend at her side has fully grabbed the spear. She admires the gradual light-show that ensues since it's a fun way to conclude ages of watching something otherwise very boring. These arcs of electricity slowly blooming from his hand, which doesn't seem to be easing the sting at her throat, but may at least be preventing the spearhead from digging any deeper. She can't tell.

There are words. Several. She cannot register them any better than she can make sense of the things happening in her peripherals. Sick dread is finally setting in after a forever-long lag; what does she do if she's just stuck like this forever? In a sense, it already feels as though she has been. The man at her side's hand pries up after the light-show is done, dragging out of view little by little. Plumes of soot are starting to climb into the air, pushed by some other force. She'd be disappointed and amazed by these two things if she wasn't already super busy quietly wishing that Strange-Eyes' (she couldn't make out Meko's proper introduction) horned head would explode as a way to stay ahead of the despair. She isn't proud of this, but it helps.

From the moment the spider had started paying attention to the others, she had felt overwhelmed. No small part of her wanted to interact with the people present, was desperate to introduce herself to each and every one of them and find out everything about them in turn… but at the same time, at that very moment, it was just too much.

There were simply too many of them. Too many ifs and buts and maybes for her to contend with in her mind.

So when an opportunity arose – the strange hairless woman whose attention danced from person to person, offered a greeting to the spider’s simulacrum – the simulacrum didn’t respond, simply shrinking back upon itself as the spider desperately tried and failed to think up an acceptable response to the greeting.

Only when the strange woman’s attention shifted once more, did the spider realised she’d missed her chance, her body and simulacrum both sagging with a warring mixture of relief and disappointment, not that she would make any move to rectify the missed opportunity; instead settling in to observe the other interactions happening around, all the while wishing that somewhat might deign to approach her simulacrum and at the same time desperately hoping that they did not.

The spider couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy as she watched a short girl manage to actually respond to the bald woman’s greeting. But it was the marble-skinned man who's words managed to properly catch her attention, as he asked a question that hadn’t once occurred to her.

Did she have a name? Obviously, not one that she could recall, but then, had she ever had one? From the single memory she could parse it seemed almost weird to think she might once have had one, but at the same time now that she thought on it, the spider felt almost as though something was missing; a hole where a name might go…

Before the spider could figure out any answers to the peculiar question, she was snapped out from her musings by the approach of yet more people. Once more she hoped that an opportunity to interact with them might arise, even as her subconscious mind undermined that very wish by edging her simulacrum away from their approach.

When the first of the newcomers – a pikeman with horns of a sort the spider didn’t think she’d ever seen on a human – announced his suspicions of the group and demanded they stay where they were, the spider decided that maybe this particular person wasn’t one she wanted to talk to. When he moved to threaten the lady that offered greetings – a motion so fast that even with her eight eyes the spider had to reposition herself to see where he went – she decided he definitely wasn’t someone she wanted to talk to.

At the very least, the other two newcomers seemed more agreeable than the pikeman, both acting to talk their more aggressive fellow down.

When the elderly woman – the shaman the spider presumed – managed to produce a gust of wind with a mere tap of her staff, the spider was forced to momentarily retreat back behind cover, wondering exactly how the woman had cast what was clearly a spell with so little fanfare…

At the same time, inadvertently responding to the spider’s actions and intentions, the simulacrum takes several steps back of its own, and to any observing close enough, they might notice that while the magical construct responded to the world around it – the sudden gust of wind whipping its clothes wild about – the world did not acknowledge it in kind – ash and debris passing unimpeded through its illusory body. Of course, from where she was sheltered the spider was unable to observe this phenomenon – though she’d hardly have been surprised had she been – nor did she notice the way the shaman looked right at her, if only for a moment.

Once the wind had died down and she felt relatively confident the shaman wasn’t about to start it back up again, the spider peeked back out of her hidey-hole and returned to her people-watching.

It was becoming increasingly clear that of those that had come to around the spider, like her, none of them seemed to remember their names, nor presumably much else of their pasts. The three that had stridden in from a little ways distance on the other hand apparently retained knowledge of their names and pasts, which seemed like a pretty important distinction to make. What was it that made the two groups different?

Was it just a matter of location? Perhaps some highly localised spell or phenomena had caused them all to lose their memories? The spider could certainly believe such a thing might be possible, but at the same time, the foul-tempered pikeman had seemed to indicate that the spider and her fellow amnesiacs had just shown up out of the blue, and their group was certainly disparate enough to call into question whether they’d been connected before now.

Ever so cautiously, the spider extracted herself from the safety of her cover, then when she was sure no one was walking by to potentially step on her, she scurried over to another patch of cover, before repeating the process several more times in an attempt to map out the area her fellow amnesiacs had arrived and to see if she could identify anything special about it.

The crackling wood and smoldering stone of the ruins raged on even amidst the chaos and conversation. Their discussion abruptly halted as all three survivors noticed the @Exit scarlet-eyed girl’s transformation. “They’re not?—” The blonde man’s terror was unmistakable, his face twisting in disbelief as he cast a desperate glance toward the shaman next to him.

A tired, anxious expression drooped across the old woman’s face as she observed scales creeping along the girl’s arm—and, thankfully, they ceased their spread before consuming her entirely. “I know not for certain, yet time shall unveil the truth. Verily, they are of a strange and foreign stock, perchance borne out with the ill-fated loss of memory.” The blonde-haired man and the shaman fell into a reflective silence, their minds adrift as they sought to decipher the mystery surrounding these strangers.

”None of it matters, Baldr.”

With a low, rumbling grunt, the black-horned captain declared his indifference as the @Kronshi grey-skinned combatant, wielding strange lightning, met the incoming spear intended for the woman with a shaved head.

”One bends lightning, and another is likely [some type of ghoul]
B wikekvlv tsk vhcoov zilxwvmz.
raised by the Undying One.”

The question, asked by the eloquent individual draped in a coat radiating a peculiar aura, was met with a resigned sigh as the shaman finally broke her silence to answer. Yet before any words could escape her lips, her hand unfurled from Baldr’s hold. The elderly woman proceeded at a deliberate pace over the ash-laden soil, drawing nearer to the group. With quiet resolve, she reached out toward the girl, whose transformation was spreading through her slowly. “Come forth, child, shouldst thou not desire to fall under the benediction of the Scaled God.”

Whether or not she would listen, the answer would finally come for @Archangel as the shaman turned to look at him with a tired gaze laced with an underlying layer of scrutiny. “Some yet endure, whilst others hath perished by the hands of their own kindred.”

The dagger-wielding man, bearing a pained expression, soon caught the shaman’s gaze. She returned it with a warm smile and a tender look as she answered him. @Festive “Not all their names are known to us; only the names of those who have marred the very land we hold dear.”

The angelic figure @SilverPaw did voice their query, breaking through the crowd, and Baldr, with steadier tongue, did grant them his answer. Now, without the shaman at his side and the tension having momentarily alleviated, placed an open palm upon his chest to clarify with a short bow to them. ”Never, but a few of you are at least recognizable to being from this continent. Despite the horror you see before you, I have lived a privileged life,” then a frown curls the blonde-haired man’s lips. ”cities being razed like this is not uncommon, so for [mortals] like us to meet others? It is impossible to not have some hope.” Their exchange was abruptly silenced as the angelic figure suddenly ascended into the air. In that instant, the shaman, Baldr, and Meko froze, their eyes widening in shared horror, sensing the gravity of what was unfolding.

It was the perfect moment to voice the blind swordsman’s question. As the words lingered in the air, the black-scaled spearman pulled back his weapon and drove its tip into the ashen ground with a firm, decisive motion, his focus unwavering in his determination as the air around him would suddenly change. That black vapor that spilled from between his soot-covered lips thickened and from his eyes and ears that same substance wild begin to float outward.

@Theyra”Because we learned that they do not belong here, nor will they see us as playthings.”

Amber eyes would set once again upon @bugmeat the strange woman who reeled back in from their boisterous exterior. The scaled man softens his expression, sympathizing briefly as the angelic stranger’s actions would soon bring an ill-omen upon them and could very well bring their short lives to a very swift end.



The sky, shrouded in hues of brown and gray, hid everything that dwelled above. While the angel pressed on with remarkable speed, she felt something observing her, though she could not determine how far away or how fast it moved. Predators thrive on surprise attacks, none would know that as well as @TheMushroomLord who still skittered across the broken stone and charred wood, weaving their webs and mapping out their environment.

”Should we flee? Baldr asked as be finally took the spear from his back and gripped it tightly, the same black mist that surrounded Meko seemingly started to float up from the spear itself rather than releasing from the body of the soldier.

”We remain.”

Small, candle-sized flames began to fall from the clouds like gentle rain. At first, they were calm, but with each passing moment, both their size and speed steadily increased. The shaman’s staff would raise upward and although no wind kicked up as before, an invisible barrier would seemingly ward off the small fires from landing upon any of those around her, even the strangers.

But any remaining would they could catch, would, and those fires would once again rise up to maintain the fiery purgatory of this corpse of a city.