Chronicles Of Enduwin Chapter 2: Gatherings ~ Part Two



Within the heart of the Olc’s highest peak, The Fang, the Underkeep lay, like a lumbering beast. A mighty fortress shaped into the mountain’s hollow centre, with parapets and buttress gnarling away from its body. Deep in the Underkeep itself, in its most internal chambers, waited the Necromancer. The room was empty save for Bawzel himself. They were his chambers, his inner sanctuary. A four poster bed sat in the middle of the room and looked as if it was rarely, if ever used. The room was illuminated, for the most part, by oil lanterns on each post of the bed. Bawzel sat a desk. Even the undead grew weary and sitting was much more of comfort than it had been when he lived. Black and uneven, the table was carved from rock. Bawzel sat in a large wooden chair. On the wall opposite hung a mirror which dominated the entire wall. Rising from his seat the Necromancer went and stood in front of the mirror. Casting his gaze up and down along his naked form, he thought deeply about how to handle his current predicament. Right now, as he stood there, the so-called champions of the Nanotheon were descending up the Point of Origin. How he wished he could just go there now and crush them. Killing them would be so simple. Wring the dwarf’s neck, flay the orc and the humans. Let Mizat have fun with the goblin. Yet, he couldn’t. Slaughtering them would reveal far too much to the Nanotheon. Doing away with the adventurers would give away too much of his plan. Then they would know that he knew, and his biggest weapon was that knowledge. Did they even know? Sometimes he wondered if he had overcomplicated things. He would let the travellers live, for now, but perhaps a shock to their systems may deter them without the need to kill.

Holding his right palm out in front of himself sAlightly, he breathed into it. The breath stayed around his hand, swarming it like flies humming around a carcass. It condensed and took solid form, becoming a velvety smoke. The smoke was black, then grey before fading completely to white. The patterns it swirled in become more definite, and it slowed. Suddenly it was no longer smoke and in his hand the Necromancer held a perfectly smooth, porcelain mask. It was as white as snow and held a sinister grin. Raising his hand once more, he placed the mask on over his face.

Turning away from the mirror he began striding towards the large set of doors that lead away from his own chambers and towards the War Room. They doors swung back, seemingly of their own accord upon his approach. As he walked through the now opened doors, a red mist swirled around his entire body, much like the smoke had around his hand. The mist too solidified and formed many layers of cloaks around his body. The all seemed to flow into one and another creating a cacophony of shapes and folds.

Already waiting in the War Room were two of the Elven lords who served under him.
“M’lord.” They both beckoned, the taller one with a slight quiver in his voice.
Bawzel waved them to sit down and then rapped his knuckles in a manner such as to indicate he wished them to continue speaking.
“Reports remain the same sire, a small misfit band seems to converging in the plains. There’s a wizard among them. We presume he is going to be the conduit.”
“He is old?” Bawzel rumbled.
“Well he is a Farrg,” piped the second elf, but yes. Old.”
“Hah.” Exclaimed the Necromancer “Always with their mercy.”
Bawzel stared at the two elves, both looked back into the unmoving expressing of porcelain, one with fear one with respect.
“So be it. Don’t attack them yet. Continue the raids. The siege engines are your priority for now.”
“See to it this Vrikdarok and the others are sent to me, and quickly, I have business I need to personally attend to. And somebody fetch Mizat.”

It wasn’t until after noticing the armored man and goblin that Oscar noticed the orc. Filthy, robbing vermin that held no value for life in any form, orcs were. The man started to call out but was cut short by the booming voice that emanated from thin air. “That,” he mumbled to himself, shaking the voice, which was different this time, from his noggin.

Rupert neighed and obviously wanted to follow the other two, or join them at the very least. Taking the time to unsheathe his arm from the shield, he fixed it to his back once more. No fighting would occur, it seemed. Hopefully the fight would not be between the two and him, though the orc offered a different tale to be told, perhaps. Shifting in his saddle, Oscar patted Rupert on the side of his neck twice. The horse jerked forward and was at full speed in only a matter of moments. Dirt flew up behind the horse, splattering the swordsman’s legs with moist dirt.

He encroached on the two within only a few moments. Whether they supposed he now posed a threat was to be seen, but little mattered in that regard at the moment. “That,” he repeated. “is what brought me to you two I’m guessing. Well,” he continued, “not that exactly. More of a voice in the sky with no body to accompany it, is why we are finding ourselves talking at this moment.” Oscar’s voice was thick with the island accent that most Ju’ra citizens had. The fiery red hue of his hair was faded by the thin layer of dust and muck that accented the follicles. It hung in tendrils that kissed his cheeks. Once, about three days ago, it had been slicked back and held tight to his scalp. Things, however, had changed rather abruptly.

“Since we are going in the same direction, I ask two things,” he questioned, “has anything odd happened to the two of you lately? And, is that filth your companion; or, do we turn on it and have it for dinner this evening?” There was only a slight nod of his head as it tilted backward, motioning to the orc that stood in the distance behind them. Normally, Oscar’s voice was laced with jovial tones and gentle kidding, but not now. He was serious about turning on the orc and slaying it where it stood. Also, he may have been sincere about eating it. There were rumors that floated around Ju’ra about cannibalistic tribes that sought power from devouring their foes, or anything that they could get their hands on for that matter.

Rupert’s breath returned to him and he walked beside the two, who seemed to be companions already. The horse had seen armored men all of his life. In his conquest for freedom with Oscar, he had even seen a few goblins. This one, however, seemed likeable. The horse’s head peered from above, large eyes cast down at the creature’s form. Would it be too much if I nudged him? Maybe he has some food? I will have to make sure to nudge him when we get where we are going. This grass is plain and tasteless. Maybe he has a carrot. Without an eye forward, Rupert almost walked directly in front of the armored man, correcting his stride at the last moment possible.

The horse looked upon the armored man, shaking his head and breathing a sigh of apology for almost trampling him.

For the most part, being lord of the keep was uneventful. It wasn’t often that Vrikdarok was able to leave and go on his own adventures. The orc was too valuable and indispensable to Vish’Kar’s daily operation. He oversaw every department. Decisions about sanitary concerns and steadily increasing population and need for expansion of the mountain keep were required of him at every corner he rounded in the halls of the keep. It was exhausting and made the orc almost wish he had never slain his father to gain the position. These were the musings that currently ran through the enormous warrior’s head as he sat on his throne, one armored hand curled into a fist, on which his jaw rested lazily. He yawned. More of a grunt and growl, the air forced its way free of his throat and echoed throughout the large throne room.

The band of orcs had returned, half of what he had sent with a quarter of the suspected spoils. The roads were being guarded better and misinformation was being spread like wild fire. The damned Necromancer, as the orcs referred to it as, was causing Vrikdarok trouble. The raids from the under keep grew steadily in number and ferocity, causing the orc lord to waste more and more soldiers to defeat the humans and take their provisions. Suddenly enraged at the thought of orc lives being wasted at the hands of insignificant roaches like the humans, Vrikdarok stood and trampled the ground beneath his heavily armored feet, lashing out with his right hand at one of the iron ornamental torch holders that garnished the edge of the worn carpet leading to the throne. He snatched it into his hand, candles and all, and flung it at the wall in front of him. It clattered off , bent slightly. He wasn’t done. Chasing the candle holder down, he took it back to his form and beat it off the wall until it was nothing more than a folded mass of iron. He kicked the wall, roaring in his rage. Turning, he whipped the folded wreckage of iron and wax at the opposite wall. It clanked to the floor. Crossing across the carpet to the wall he knew well, the orc punched it and kicked the opening door, causing it fling open in front of him. He glared at the statue of Dúv, the crimson pools of sight dancing with the flames of fury that burnt within him. His digits of his right hand stung, bleeding into the spiked gauntlet from where he had punched the grey stone. “ANSWERS!” the orc roared at the statue, approaching it. “I want them!” His anger did not wane, “and you will give them to me! My forces do as you suggest we should and STILL, my kind are the ones dying!”

Black wisps of smoke emerged from the altar, swimming around it before solidifying into a hazy form, one that supposedly represented a servant of Dúv. It spoke, the words whispered hisses of air, “And do they not find comfort in death? Is death in battle not what your kind desires?”

Vrikdarok’s nostrils flared and his arm lifted above his head, dragging the six foot axe over his head. In a fluid motion, using the momentum gained from the downward swipe, the blade passed through the shade and into the ground, chipping the rock and burying a quarter of its edge into the rock. The intangible form regained its form unharmed. The lord huffed and screamed at it, “You know nothing of my people. You know nothing! To die by these insects is an insult to the idea of battle! You whisper things into my head and have never shown yourself! You’re a fucking coward!” The orc roared, spit flinging from his mouth, lips drawn back and pointed teeth and tusks shimmering with mucus as he growled the words.

Calm still, the shade replied, “I have survived longer than anything you have ever known, orc. Go to the under keep. You know the way. Go alone, though. Speak to this Necromancer… Have your concerns heard.” The orc’s eyes narrowed and his sneer softened.

“If I do not have answers when I return, tell your master that I will march to Ifreann and claim his head and intestines as my own. And I will make a coin purse from his meager nut sac!” Vrikdarok did not wait for a response. He turned on his heel, ripping the axe from the stone and strode from the room, placing two fingers between his mouth and whistling as he did so. His other hand grabbed the passage’s door and flung it closed behind him. The smashed back into place and the collision echoed through the hall. He continued walking toward the entrance of the throne room, replacing the axe to his back. His footsteps were joined by another’s whose pattered instead of clanged against the floor. The scraping of claws tore through the relative silence that overcame the inner sanctum of the keep. Without looking, Vrikdarok took a hold of the mane of the great mountain wolf and swung over its back and dug his heels into its flanks. “To the mines!”

The beast took off and the lord ducked his head, the long cape trailing out behind him just as his tail of hair did. They descended down the winding corridor and further down still, pushing several guards out of the way as they went. They were going to the deepest of the chambers recently opened in the mountain. Vrikdarok readied his mammoth axe yet again.

At precisely the right moment he struck out, shattering the boards that stretched across the mouth of the chamber, breaking it open in a single swing that crossed in front of the wolf’s path. He did not sheath it again. The two charged into the darkness, fearless though both could feel the coldness of what they would soon face.

Time lost its meaning in the darkness that engulfed them. They exploded through the mouth of the cavern, looking over the Necromancer’s keep from above it. A winding path that was carved naturally into the face of the cliff, led down to the eastern side of the fortress. Knowing nothing of caution at this point, the orc charged forward, altering his course so that he could approach directly, heading for bridge, across which a gate lay. Vish’Kar, Vrikdarok soon realized, was nothing compared to the size of The Fang.

While the wolf started to slow as grew near to the heavy, massive doors that barred entrance to The Fang, Vrikdarok sped up. He leapt from the back of the beast and raised his foot as he did, slamming it into center of the doors. They did not budge but the impact rang through the cavern and the main hall of the Necromancer’s lair. From the other side, the intensity of the orc’s anger did not decrease, “Open these doors before I cut them down!” Knowing that it was a futile effort, the orc still swung the axe, which was showing signs of wear from striking so many objects of equal or greater strength than it, at the doors. The clanging rang out, showing that he meant what he had said. He kicked it again, not knowing that he was literally knocking on the door of the most evil creature that had been born under the signs of the Nine.

---

The dragon had felt something. It was a fierce churning in her stomach that Sariloth originally attributed to the number of sheep she’d eaten. However, that meal had been passed from her rear several hours before and still the uneasiness persisted. As she flew, seemingly without direction, the upset inside of her grew. It was a sense that had never presented itself to the dragon before. The closest resemblance of similarity was when a mage had tried to capture her, several hundred years before. Magic! The thought crossed her mind, which, as feral as it was, reeled with attempts to find the intent behind this feeling.

That had to be it. There was no better explanation. The great beast almost altered her course, but continued inland. The peaks of the Olc Cairn rose before her on the horizon and her wings shifted her slightly. She was teetering, drawn in both directions at once. The further she went toward the Plains of Origin, the stronger the feeling her stomach grew. However, a separate beckoning of power begged for her to redirect herself toward the mountain chain. No, she ordered herself. First this, then that.

The dragon flew just above the cloud cover, avoiding detection.

~Four days prior
The cool breeze of Zephyr plains were truly a sensation to partake. The range of life within the plains were as diverse as a childs imagination. Grass and sand scattered the lands, sharing it hand in hand in a copacetic symbiosis that was majestic and inspiring. The young Alunei woman took a deep breath of the fresh hair, not plagued with dust like back in The Soul where she had lived most of her life. The breeze brought the scent of the salty ocean so far in land it was almost unbelievable. She could spend her life here, she knew she could. It was perfect for young Alina, former Guardian turned wanderer. The plains held a vast array of herbs and wild growths for her medicinal purposes and the natural attunement the Alunei had with living creatures had little fear of harm.

Alina stretched her arms high in the arm, loosening her muscles for the long day of herb gathering she had ahead of hear. Her wide, powerful wings also reached out far before folding back in on itself. With a confident nod to herself she was off. Each step left a foot print in the sand as she walked, her violet hues skimming the area for any herbs that she might find useful. This continued on for the next few hours, nearly filling the several previously empty pouch she had along her belt. She was almost done for the day before setting up camp and continuing on her aimless journey in the morning. Though something distracted the girl. The pained whines of a create far off in the distance and behind a formation of rocks, hidden from view.

But Alina needed no incentive to figure out what would make a creature make such a sound. She burst into a dash, running at full speed in the direction of the sound. As she rounded the rock formation she saw a small boar was limping as fast as it could avoid from an approaching hunter, an arrow sticking out of the boars back leg. The sight made Alina disgusted and physically ill. The man covered in exotic leathers head to toe proved he had little appreciation for the life of Enduwin other than a trophy. A sick, twisted trophy. Alina once more eased into a fast run to intercept the hunter from his would be kill; pulling her long, thin blade from its sheath at her hip.

"Stop!" She cried out as she knew her speed alone wouldn't get there in time, hoping her cries would distract him.

Her attempt worked, the man looked over at the sprinting Alunei with the drawn sword set the man back a bit. Alunei were a rare sight in the realm of Enduwin, especially outside the vast sands of The Soul. Finally she made it between the limping boar and the hunting, Alina's presence easing the hurt boar to a point it lay behind her panting; the boar knowing it was safe behind her. She held out her sword towards the man that was a mere twenty feet from the girl.

"Stop there! Leave the boar alone!" She demanded with a harsh tone, faintly undermined by Alina's naturally sweet, melodic voice.

Though the hunter simply smirked as he knocked another arrow into his bow and pulled back the string, aiming at Alina's chest. "I no longer have interest in the boar, girl. You will fetch a greater price than a hundred little boars." He commented, his words nearly drowning in saliva at the thought of such a prize. "Now, you could either come along with me or I can put you down. Your wings alone would set me up with enough gold for years to come. I know your kind can't kill, so there is no use fighting."

Alina cringed as she stood there, she were truly hoping the man didn't know as much as he did about her race. Though that would not stop her. She would not be killed or even worse. Not today. Not ever. Within a fraction of a moment Alina's free hand flung out towards the hunter with an open hand. Suddenly came forth a bright light out from her palm towards the hunter, blinding him only a moment before his arrow was shot free. The flash of light distorted his aim though still crossed her side, giving her a terrible gash though nothing serious. She winced in pain and gripped at her side. Though she needed to do something fast, his eyes would regain focus soon.

The hunter wobbled and stomped about as her held her eyes, crying out obscenities. Alina went into a limping run towards the hunter, sheathing her blade and the other hand gripping at her bleeding side. As she closed the distance she noticed the hunter beginning to blink and regain some of his vision, but it was to late. Releasing her side she would need both hands to incapacitate the man. She jabbed powerfully into the mans abdomen twice, he grunted and hugged his stomach in pain leaving his head defenseless. Winding back her right fist she let a devastating hook connect to his jaw, sending him spiraling back through the air before crashing into the earth unconscious. She might not be able to kill but she could certainly lay a beat down on some low life.

She winced and clenched her jaw tight from the pain that shot out from her side. The movement did little help for the wound, probably making it worse. She gripped at her side once more in attempt to stop the bleeding. Alunei were fast healing but they still needed time. She turned around and made her way back to the small boar that lay panting and quietly whining in pain, the leg that was hit with the arrow fainting twitching from the pain. She knelt down beside boar, looking it over caringly. Her heart ached as she realized the boar would not make it. The damage to the leg was to severe and would never survive in this habitat without the use of its leg. It would lived a pained couple of days before a predator found it. She sighed, she could not let the poor thing suffer like that. She then placed a hand affectionately on the boars faintly furred head. The boar rested his head down, as if it knew what were coming and accepted its fate in Alina's hands.

Once more Alina withdrew her blade. "Vaon Hinh, auvet Neyav." she softly whispered to the boar, which roughly translates to 'Rest little one, travel to neyav.' With the she pointed the tip of her blade to the chest of the laying boar. It's eyes fell shut before swiftly the blade sank through flesh and into its heart, ending its misery, but it was then the beginning of Alina's pain. Even though her killing was pure and to keep a creature from suffering, she still took a life and the Alunei could not take a life without sacrifice. A pain shot through her the instant the life faded from the boar. Like a bolt of lightning twisting and churning within her heart so strong that it made her entire body clench from the agony. She could not breath, even utter a sound at the pain that scorched through the very fiber of her soul. As the pain slowly subsided she collapsed to the earth, her muscles felt as if they were torn into shreds and she could hardly move as she panted on the ground.

It took her several moments before she could push herself up onto her feet with incredible strain. She hardly noticed the pain at her side in comparison to what she had just under gone. As she regained a little more strength she leaned down and picked up the dead boar into her arms. She carried it a good distance until she found the perfect for the burial ritual. A large over hanging tree bearing several white flowers. The Alunei called it the Whimpering Tree, for the way the branches hung and how it only grew in sand. It was the only vegetation that grew in The Soul. It was there the Alunei put the dead to rest. Alina dropped to her knees, setting down the boar in front of her. she removed the arrow and cleaned the dried blood from its leg. She then stood and went about the tree, plucking vines and flowers from the Whimpering tree. It took her nearly an hour weaving the vines into an almost blanket just big enough to cover the boar, flowers placed throughout the blanket.

She draped the vine blanket over the boar, closing her eyes and saying a silent prayer. She then took flint and a jagged rock, striking the rock across the flint to make a spark til the vines got fire. As the vines took flame Alina scooped back though stayed on her knees, her hands respectfully resting on her lap as the burning vines filled the air with a sweet scented smoke. The smoke slowly dancing up through the over hanging tree and reaching for the heavens.

"No need to worry child, he will find his way." A warm voice quietly whispered at Alina's right side. She looked over to see a strange looking man seemingly made of bark and flowers. He had no arms and his body seemed to come straight out of the ground. All he had was a torso, a handsome face, a kind smile and long branches outstretched from the back of his head which held beautiful light blue flowers. His gaze turned to Alina from the burial ceremony, a warm smile cracking the bark near his lips.

Alina should be afraid, she should be terrified but there was a coming aura about the creature. A soothing presence he held that let her know there was no need to fear, like the boar felt around Alina. "Trayig?" she simply questioned under her breath.

"Yes, Alina. I have come to you with very little time." He began to speak once more, "You are needed. Something evil is brewing within Enduwin. There is a man, the Storyteller. He awaits you in the Plains of Origin. He will tell you more. I have sent you a strong steed, it should be here soon. My time is up within this world. Make haste young Alina, there is little time..." With that his voice faded into the sky, his physical form slowly sinking back into the earth and sealing around him as if he were never there at all.

~Present Day

Alina galloped atop a weary steed, her arms clung tight around its powerful neck as she could not sit upright any longer. They had rode straight through the days without a stop. After the first eighteen hours the horse began to tire though Alina was able to pool her healing powers into the steed. Mending worn muscles and giving them strength to go on though Alina was slowly draining. How she had barely anything left, the strong gate of the creature kept Alina bouncing on its back and reopening the wound at her side repeatedly giving it no time to heal only worsening her in the long run.

Alas she finally heard it. The call of the story teller that echo through the lands and directing the steed where to go. They adjusted and continued on, air rushing past her. Her long black hair whipping in the breeze. She simply held tight to the steed neck and trusted in him to take her to where she needed. It was not long before the steed eased its gallop to a slow trot as it entered the encircling rocks. Shaky arms pushed her upright to take upon the sight before her. This was it. She had finally arrived. She groaned as she lifted a sore leg up and over until she practically fell off the horse and landed on her feet. She her knees buckled and she collapsed to the ground. The gash at her side throbbed, grabbing at it once more with her hand to hold the wound closed finally.

"Could someone please... grab some herbs from the.... the pouch along my waist..." She whimpered as she lay on her back, her wings out stretched along the grass.

Arnack and his pony flew across the plains toward the origin of the voice, and the origin of all Enduwin. The afternoon sun casted long shadows across the plains, which turned their shadows into long distorted shapes. Sir Birdsley had decided to follow him and seemed to be struggling to keep up as it weaved about the sky. Arnack wondered if it was dying now that night was falling.

A few more minutes of galloping and they crested a hill to a sight that if he was standing would have floored him in awe. The pony as usual showed little reaction and Sir Birdsley showing renewed vigour began squawking again as it zipped off forwards. A collection of rocks, in itself it wasn’t very impressive but what it symbolised, the gods themselves had stood here and crafted Enduwin. If you believed the stories, given recent events Arnack was hard pressed not to. Observing the scene he noticed a tall old man standing amongst the stones holding a staff that matched his great height.

Arnack continued at a slower speed fighting the feeling to turn tail and run, the gods wouldn’t care if he lived or died on this quest, whatever it was about. At least if he ran he might have a chance, he wasn’t meant for this his life was to be spent fighting the beasts that roamed preying on the weak. He could do that without embarking on a mad quest, and if Lasair really cared why was he not here now. Sir Birdsley flitted back circling him, urging him on. A memory forced its way up in Arnack’s mind, of his brother the time Calak was bullied and pushed off the docks into the sea. The day Arnack was chosen from amongst the other Candidates. And finally the day he ran into Calak after his Proving.
He was here because he was a Slayer, sworn to protect the people of Enduwin from all threats. He did this so others did not have to.

He continued on towards the old man as a winged woman trotted up on the back of a horse the pair looking utterly exhausted. As she collapsed to the ground he heard her calling for herbs. An Alunai, if his memory served from the long days spent in class being tutored on all things beast and magic of Enduwin. The few sightings of them reported by Slayers of old were sketchy at best, creatures of magic unable to do harm, all agreed on that.

He raced up to her dismounting his pony with all his dwarven grace and began searching for the herbs she so desperately needed, taking his time patting down her waist as he took in her utter beauty. Long dark hair, pale complexion and violet eyes glowing faintly in the sun’s light. He realized he was taking a long time and quickly moved his hands to the pouch untying it from her waist and handing it to her. He hoped in her pained state she would not have noticed his lingering hands.

He moved away from her giving her some space to work whatever healing magic she would, best not to get in the way of magic. He observed her wound which looked as if it were at least a couple days old and had not even begun the healing process. “You know you really should have rested with that for a day or so before traveling,” He told her self-righteously, even as he noticed the itching beneath his breastplate where the jaguar had torn though his leather. He had not looked at it since the fight, a night ago. He went about removing his breastplate and sweated through undershirt. He moved over to his pony and rummaged through his saddlebags finding fresh bandages, both for himself and the winged-beauty tossing a roll of cloth to her and cleansed his own injury.

Between the woman’s arrival and tending to himself the old man was forgotten and he looked up to the man and said grandly, “Oh by the way, I’m Arnack,” he said holding out his hand once again, except this time without alcohol to offer. Sir Birdsley had decided to land on one of the pillars of origin, where it burst into a brighter flame disintegrating into ashes. “Oh and that’s Sir Birdsley the Fourth,” he said the light of revelation in his eyes as he remembered how the Pheonix had gotten the latter part of its name as a smaller bird ignited from the ashes squawking proudly.

Eeiys had taken quite a liking to the warrior who had approached he and Dssialii, he didn’t seem to be afraid to approach the pair, nor ask questions which a lesser man may have been dubious to put forth. He didn’t seem too much younger than Eeiys; who was sure that the years of a potentially hard life, paralleled with one on the field of battle had not done the man’s age wonders. he also had a slightly unusual friendship with his horse, Rupert, which Eeiys found a little odd, but he was not one to judge a man’s preference of companions. After all, he had just been teleported across the continent with a glass-blowing widower Goblin. He ran through all these thoughts in his mind, while keeping in his head that a rather large Orc who trudged somewhat behind the trio was intending on picking a fight with any of them, or all of them. He wasn’t yet sure how mad the creature was. He did, however, know that he was here specifically to fight either Eeiys, Dssialii or Oscar; no creature, not even a cumbersome Orc rides into the Plains of Origin looking for a random fight. No, the Orc was here with a clear purpose, but it was yet unknown to the Knight.

He shook his head gently, breaking himself from his overthinking and looking up at Oscar who was asking several questions at once. Eeiys remained silent while he finished his queries.

“Something strange did happen to us.” Eeiys started. “Some sort of… mage appeared and moved us, against our will, to here. We have no idea why, and I have never even seen a creature of such power. Were you forced here too?”

The Knight shifted his head slightly to get a sneaky glimpse of the Orc trailing them. “Oh, and… no. He is not with us. Feel free to make an example of the beast. You killed many Or-“ Eeiys was interrupted by Oscar’s rebellious horse trotting directly in front of him, blocking his path and nearly knocking him down unexpectedly, before it’s rider was able to correct it’s course to prevent an awkward collision. Though the horse’s eyes suggested an apology, Eeiys decided to keep an eye on the creature for the time being. It had it in for him, he could just tell.

It was before long that they small group came to a crest in the unnaturally uniform hills, which, as they traversed it, their goal slowly rose into sight not far in the distance. Eeiys had seen the place three times before, no more, no less. Each time was on a Pale Crusade with the Winter Knights; it was considered a true place of corporeal divinity. The thought that that was their destination made Eeiys feel sick to the core, but he withheld his opinions for the moment.

“The point of Origin.”

Great monoliths of rock jutted from the ground, making a patchwork structure of pillared stones, each one diffusing the light in different ways to make them look as if they glistened in the evening sun, even though the stones were dull and rough to the touch. If you were to catch the Point of Origin and a specific angle at a specific time, then stories say that you were able to communicate with the gods through The Point, directly. An old wives tale, surely; for if such was possible, Eeiys would have flipped Farriga and Trayig and Naduir the finger by now. The thought did, however, amuse him, distracting him from the fact that were going down there. It was easy to make out several figures already there: what looked to be a topless dwarf rummaging through the pack of a… was that an Alunei? Was he mugging her? Eeiys wasn’t exactly sure how to feel about that, he’d only seen an Alunei once on his travels, and she saved him from near certain death at the hands of a Xoatl-Toxin blade, earning the healer-race his grudging respect, even if they did revere the Gods more than he had hoped, though they often value good will over divine teachings. In his experience, at least.
And then, at the centre of the Point of Origin, was another figure: tall, extremely dark skinned. Was it a Farrgorm? If that wasn’t the source of the magical call, he wasn’t sure what was. If that creature was what pulled he and Dssialii to this place against their will, he wasn’t going to risk getting toyed with a second time. Eeiys was aware, however, it may not have been down to this Farrgorm. He looked to Dssialii, Oscar, and then back to the Farrgorm at The Point, almost urging them forward. He drew his sword cautiously, and broke out into a small jog towards the source of the call, calling out:
“What is going on here?”

It, sadly, didn't take very long for possible explanations for their random teleportation to start showing up. Here Dssialii had been enjoying a nice smoke (he was finally getting somewhere with it, too, his vision starting to swim pleasantly and his nose starting to smell distinctly of blood), and apparently it was already time to get up again. He stood with the aid of his spear as the horseman called out something to them, a slightly-doped smile on his face. Why, if he just had some good alcohol in him, he'd be set. But ah, such things weren't likely to magically find their way into the Middle of Nowhere; as unlikely as everything that had happened in the past few minutes had been, he doubted the gods were particularly interested in his desire to get properly intoxicated.

"Hullo!" He waved halfheartedly at the horseman as he drew close, though his attention was divided to the orc that he'd noticed upon standing; that was a much-more-interesting foe, and a more-likely one, since he actually had weapons drawn instead of just a shield. And then there was that booming call, and it truly seemed that their period of lounging on the nearly-flat hill was over.

He trudged along with the others in the direction of the sound, pulling his crossbow from under his cape. It was one of those amazing bits of engineering particularly long-lived goblins tended to make when they realized that invention wasn't just for other races. In this case, it was an answer to the problem that goblins couldn't really use bows. Any limb with a strong-enough pull weight had to be nearly two times the height of a goblin, and so they had been forced to use thrown spears and slingshots as ranged weapons. Then someone went out and found that crossbows were a thing, and goblins had adopted them quickly. And then eventually one of them designed a repeating method,and someone else eventually modified the limbs to a drastically-recurve tri-limb design, and voila, here was the result.

He pulled five bolts from his belt, pulling back the lever that cocked the thing and cycled the ammunition, carefully wracking them through the firing hold and into the horizontal magazine that sat underneath. The fifth couldn't fit (such was the nature of a four-bolt magazine, after all), and so sat at the ready to be fire at a moment's notice. He snapped shut the top cover that stopped the bolts from falling out and slung the bow back onto his belt, suitable assured of his ability to keep himself alive if such ability were needed.

The horseman fell in line with them, but Dssialii seemed content to continue puffing on his pipe while Eeiys answered the man's questions.

But then, suddenly, as the formation of rocks denoting the point of Origin came into view over the horizon, he made a happy noise and whipped back out his map. "Aha!" Dssialii exclaimed, jabbing a finger excitedly at a part of his map, which he'd labeled with a question mark and a lot of scribbles that seemed to be places where he'd placed lines in the wrong place and needed to redraw them. "I knew it!" At whatever confused glances he garnered, he explained himself. "When I was walking through charting this area, I noticed an incongruence in the position of the sun. It jumped slightly across the sky when I would pass this point, and really messed up my attempts to map the area. Only later did I figure out that there must have been some sort of magical barrier teleporting me around an area right in this point, when I determined that the distance I had traveled in this direction was too small for me to have reached the edge of the biome. Haha!" He seemed immensely pleased with himself, resuming his puffing happily. "The Point of Origin, I'd guess." And Eeiys confirmed his suspicions, so with a twinkle in his eyes, he continued along mirthfully.

But apparently there were already people there, he could hear them before they came over the last rise, and so he pulled out the crossbow. Would be no good to discover something like this and then die before he had a chance to update his maps. Thankfully, the orc still seemed to be the worst threat there (unlike Eeiys, he could hear what the dwarf was saying to the Alunei, and so didn't consider him a threat). Still, better safe than sorry.

“I suppose,” Oscar began, “if I had not listened, I would have been forced to listen.” The man patted Rupert’s side as they continued forward, “But, when a voice from the sky claims to be a god and tells me to do something, I tend to listen.” Oscar chuckled and looked over his shoulder, not being one for secretive glances and spying. “I am not one for killing something that has not tried to kill me. If it wants to fancy us from afar, let it.” His words were soft but pointed, leaving the air split and with a divide of dry humor running through the tension of the situation.

The goblin had pulled a wonderful contraption of a crossbow from beneath his layers, which Oscar admired with a glance. “That, little sir, is a fancy contraption; but, I don’t think that someone or something would gather all of us—people who have no relation of connection to one another—in a place like this just to kill us.” Watching him load it, Oscar counted the number of available shots; it was something he should remember if he ever found himself on the business end of the goblin’s weapon. The scent of burning herb had illuminated the clean air for minutes now, but Oscar finally couldn’t take it any longer. “Ya know,” he started hesitantly, “I could part with a silver piece or two if you had any extra smoke in one of your pouches somewhere.” It had been ages, but current events seemed to warrant a detachment from reality.

Then they cleared the cusp of the hill to overlook the Point of Origin. “Ho-ly shit.” The words slipped between Oscar’s lips and grazed the air with little impact. “I don’t think there is enough herb in Enduwin to make this alright.” The cross pieces of rock were the first to come into sight, bathed in the sun’s light like a freshly washed virgin on her wedding night. The upright stacks formed a circle around a creature as dark as night… and a half naked dwarf with his pudgy hands clasped around a winged woman. Farrgorm were not entirely unknown to Oscar. He had seen a few in his years. But this one, the Alunei, was only a whisper in the dark and scratched illustrations in books of myth. To be in the presence of one excited Oscar. From the stories he had been told, they were wonderful creatures of peace and care. The ex-sellsword couldn’t help but think that such a creature would make a wonderful lover.

He was certain to keep this thought to himself as their trio trotted into the threshold of the Point of Origin. On closer inspection, it was apparent that the winged woman was hurt. Dismounting, Oscar grabbed one of the several canteens strapped to Rupert, ignored the Farrgorm (and the fact that he, indeed, stood at the center of the fabled epicenter of the world’s creation) for now and approached the dwarf and Alunei. He knelt, nodding to the half-dressed, half-man and asked, “What more can be done for her?”

Rupert stayed where Oscar had left him for only a moment. He lowered his head and pretended to graze, taking small steps as he circled around to the side of the goblin. The large eyes of the equestrian creature lifted, peering at the goblin. He took a step closer, his ears flicking out against the long eared creatures shoulder. He took another decisive step and nudged his head against the goblin’s side. Neighing softly, Rupert seemed to be asking for some sort of treat, whether the goblin may or may not have one for him.

The powerfully built Orc looked upon his temporary companion’s nervous backwards glances with moderate amusement, a novelty for his kind. In truth, he expected such a reception, for it was not in any way unwarranted. The rather twisted thing was that the reputation of the Orcs came from the majority taking hostile action against other races, which made the reputation a fair one. What fewer humans, and other races, knew, was that they had not drawn first blood. Naïve, warlike even, the first tribal groups of Orcs were purged in vicious campaigns. Only the strong, and the bloodthirsty, survived.

That was the irony. The reason Orcs raid, and kill, and why they value killing over everything else, was that humanity became their greatest selection pressure. Those who were now butchered in droves by Orcs… their ancestors had created the monsters.

Norak took some time to appreciate this fact as he walked along, paying scant attention to the land around him. It didn’t really bother him that things were that way. Just one glance at a smooth pool of water told him he was built for little but war. The gods made the humans, and the humans made the Orcs what they were. It all came to what it needed to be, and he wasn’t one to question it, the humans could hate him or fear him if they wished, they were comparatively nothing to him.

The thing that interested him the most, other than the metal-man who he was most likely going to kill, was the large beast the black one rode. Horses tasted delicious when stewed properly or spitted… or even eaten raw if you preferred. Norak couldn’t understand why you would ride upon your dinner, unless the human’s legs were defective? The Orc was fairly confident he could outpace the beast, even with four legs it may be able to sprint faster than him… but it would tire and he would not. His fingers itched at the thought of wrestling the creature to the ground and feasting on it. He licked his lips.

Soon, the landscape changed, and the small group came upon their ultimate destination. The Rocky formation known as the Point of Origin, a region even the relatively uneducated Orc knew of. Unsurprisingly, a number of other individuals were waiting for them, and even the Orc was taken aback by the sight of some sort of winged woman being accosted… or perhaps aided, by a Dwarf. The tall figure over to one side (and in actuality the centre point of the world…) caught his attention for only a moment before he started surveying what might soon become a field of battle.

The Goblin was showing signs of being an ally of the knight, and his weapon was clearly a problem. Crossbow, though of a design the Orc hadn’t encountered, despite fighting countless battles. If he made a move, he would die first, an axe lodged in his fragile body. He wouldn’t expect the ferocious speed of such a large foe, an easy kill. Slowly, so as not to draw attention to a potentially hostile action, he pulled his axe from its leather thong and hefted it in his right hand, looking around intently as if expecting a trap. A reasonable response, they could hardly blame the Orc for arming himself when everyone around him was armed, and expecting the worse. Everyone was busy taking a long time to get to the point, so the Orc took it upon himself finally to close some distance on he who seemed the most likely to have brought them here, the tall one all alone with an aura of importance about him.

“You have us, you brought us here with your voice, now use it, speak.”

"Here's your coin, lad."

Ulfar checked the pouch to make sure nothing was missing. He turned around and began walking away. A battle had just ended, and those who survived got a nice bonus.

"Hey, we could use more guys like you." The recruiter began. "You seem to know how to handle a sword. What say you join us?"

There was no response from the man walking away.

"Come on, there'll be more coin in it next time."

"There won't be a next time."

That's all Ulfar said. Just his tone seemed to convey his meaning, and the recruiter got the message. He left him alone.

Ulfar walked until sunset. He managed to make it into the coastline of Dufair's famous forest. The vegetation wasn't all that thick out here near the edge, and living conditions weren't as harsh as it would have been in the center. After a long battle, Ulfar tended to retreat to the trees before starting his journey to some other land in need of a sell-sword. Something about the sounds of nature made the resting experience a lot more enjoyable than a night at the inn. He gathered firewood, set his greatsword down, and began making camp. With some bread to eat, water to drink, and a few bandages to seal the rare wounds here and there, life was alright. The soft breeze caressed his cheek as it rolled by; its touch had the chill of the night.

After finishing his food, Ulfar was ready to get his much deserved sleep. The fire would keep the animals at bay, and he was at least a day's walk from civilization. It was safe, and he was ready to lie down...

A rustle came from the brush nearby.

Ulfar reacted fast. He reached for his sword, and his fingers were just about to touch the hilt-

A gust of air knocked it away from him. Incandescent chains spurred from the ground, their metal giving off a blue hue. They wrapped themselves around Ulfar's neck and arms, and then dragged him down so that he was kneeling before his fire. His arms were kept down at his sides. Ulfar grimaced; his eyes were widened with a life or death sense of urgency. The chain around his neck was getting tighter and tighter by the second.

"Relax, child." An old female voice spoke from the darkness within the woods. She sounded like she was dying. "I have not come here to take your life."

Ulfar remained silent, but the look on his face clearly showed that he was struggling.

"I have other plans for you." The weary voice said from the dark. An old woman stepped into the light, dressed in a tattered old blue robe. Her white hair was tousled like a spider's web, and her face had so many wrinkles that it resembled old tree bark. Ulfar was shocked by what he saw... but then his mouth slowly turned into a smile, and he let out a chuckle. Even the old woman was confused.

"Why do you laugh?"

"Thought I was being ambushed by wild spirits..." Ulfar said, slowly. He was still smiling. "Turns out it's just some old hag who knows a few parlor tricks."

Within the next moment, the chains around his neck tightened. They began to sear with heat, and it sent a burning sensation across his skin.

"You still think this is a parlor trick, boy?" The woman hissed.

She eased the magical grip on his neck so that he could reply. But all Ulfar could do was catch his breath. Satisfied, the witch moved on to her main topic.

"I have a use for you, child." She said again. "And... unfortunately for both of us, you're the best candidate I have."

"Go to hell." Ulfar spat.

"There's someone I need you to protect." The witch continued, ignoring him. "And you can fight. I've been watching the battles nearby. I've been looking for someone like you."

One of the chains wrapped itself around Ulfar's jaw and forced his mouth open. The old woman pulled a glass vial with red contents from her robe. She uncorked the top and poured it down Ulfar's throat, despite his attempts to resist. It tasted like blood, but there was a funny accent to the taste... like something wasn't quite right about it. Then the chains around his jaw eased and fell off. His mouth was free again. He began coughing; some of the liquid had slipped into his windpipe.

"That was a concoction with the life essence of whom you are to protect... along with some other magical ingredients." The woman explained, her voice wheezing. "Any pain she feels, you will feel. Try to harm her, and you will undergo the worst torment of your life. Mark my words, boy, from this day forth, you are to obey this and keep her from all harm. When she dies, so will you."

And before he could tell the witch to go plough herself, Ulfar's vision faded. He fell into a deep sleep.

---

There was a smell. It was the rich aroma of boiling tea. Ulfar groaned, tried to open his eyes and sit up, but all that did was sent a rush of pain into his head.

"What's happening?" He asked into the darkness before his eyes.

"Relax." A voice answered him. It was a female voice... a young one.

He felt a wooden cup pushed into his hands. It was hot. A few lithe fingers guided it to his mouth and urged him to drink. So he drank.

Slowly, his vision came back. The brightness scorched his eyes at first, but he slowly adjusted to it. A girl was sitting in front of him. She had long, black hair, and blue eyes that stared at him, void of any emotion.

"Your body is still adjusting to the concoction you drank two nights ago." She stated flatly, like she was reading from a book. Except her eyes kept staring. It was unsettling. "Keep drinking this tea, and it should help." She turned around as if nothing was out of the ordinary and sat next to a table.

Ulfar noticed his surroundings. He was inside some hut, with strands of light penetrating through the straw roof. The whole place was cramped, filled with books, vials, and potted plants in every corner.

"Where's my sword?" He asked. "And where am I?"

"Your sword is outside. You're in Dufair." She said. "Before you ask anything else, I will explain everything to you."

She paused. For a very long time, she didn't say anything else. Ulfar was just about to tell her to speak, but she started again on her own.

"My mistress is the old woman you met two nights ago. She handpicked you to protect me on a journey. The vial she has contained my blood, among other ingredients, and-"

"Yeah, I got that part." Ulfar said.

"So I won't have to explain it to yo-"

"Take me to my sword, and then show me where that old hag is."

The girl looked at him coldly, her eyes scorning him.

"She's dead." She said.

"Damn. That's a shame." Ulfar said as he sat up. The girl moved out of his way as before he even got out of the bed. When Ulfar stepped outside, he saw his sword and gear laid down next to a large rock. He picked up the pieces and put everything on.

"Are you planning on leaving?" The girl asked as he put his armour on.

"Damn right I am."

"But you heard what mistress said about the concoctio-"

"As if I'd believe that." Ulfar said. He picked up the final piece of his equipment, the greatsword. It slid into the scabbard on his back.

"Then please watch this." The girl said. She walked towards a batch of roses in the garden next to the hut. She moved her hair behind her ear, knelt down, and plucked a rose from the dirt. Then she placed it into her open palm, and then closed it into a tight fist. Within that same moment, pain shot up through Ulfar's hand, as if tiny needles were pricking his palm from the inside.

He was feeling the thorns of the rose in the girl's hand.

"What kind of sorcery is this..." Ulfar was shocked, but he didn't really know what to say. He looked into his hand to see that there were no physical wounds, but it definitely hurt as though he had them. In truth, he knew not a thing about the arcane.

"Before her death, my mistress made preparations to aid me on a journey I am foretold to take." The girl began once again, in her monotone, lifeless voice. "But I cannot protect myself just yet. For this reason alone, mistress has chosen you to guard me through my voyage. I'm afraid you have no choice or say in this matter."

"So I'm to just become your slave?"

"Not slave. Guardian." She corrected matter-of-factly.

"Does calling it that make you feel better?" Ulfar asked. It was a rhetorical question, but the girl answered.

"No. It doesn't make me feel better or worse. But I understand how you must feel." The way she said it, however, betrayed no emotion. It came off as cold.

"Sure you do." Ulfar muttered to himself.

"My name is Eila." The girl said. "Would you tell me yours?"

"Just tell me where you're going on this journey of yours so we can get it over with."

"The great plains." She said flatly. "If you follow me, I will show you what I need you to carry."

And Ulfar followed her, though he felt like he was signing his freedom away in the progress. If his head hadn't been so dizzy from the side effects of the concoction, he would have been angrier. But for now, he just wanted to get through this mess as fast as possible. The girl lead him back into the hut and showed him a backpack with some books and alchemical tools in it.

"I cannot carry it." She stated. "Besides, even if I tried to, it would make me very tired, which would wear down your body as well. But since you are stronger than me, carrying this yourself should prove you to be more effective."

Ulfar picked up the backpack and slung it over his shoulder.

"Careful!" Eila, for the first time, had some emotion to her voice. Although it wasn't much, her alarmed voice had the faintest touch of worry. "The contents in that bag are fragile." She added, and her she was back to her normal self. She stared up blankly at Ulfar. Her eyes weren't angry, or alarmed. Just neutral.

"So when do we set out?" He asked.

"When you have recovered, which should be tomorrow." Eila answered.

"I'm fine now, let's go."

"No, we will wait until tomorrow morning to make sure that you are in good condition."

"Fine, which way will we go tomorrow?"

As he had expected, the girl was rather gullible.

"It's in that direction, but-" She was cut off once again as Ulfar picked her up and carried her over his shoulder.

"Please, set me down!"

"You have anything else you need to pick up from here?" Ulfar asked, ignoring her.

"No, but please do set me down."

They walked that way until sunset, when Ulfar finally put her down so that they could make camp for the night.

---

Up until the third day of travel, Eila and Ulfar rarely talked. The girl didn't really show it, but she was clearly angry at him for what he had done earlier. In Ulfar's eyes, his freedom was the one that was taken away from him, so he wasn't on good terms with the Eila, either. He still hadn't even told her his name.

"Halt!" A voice came from the trees above. Ulfar and Eila came to a stop. A man stepped out from behind a tree. "You are to pay a due for passing through this turf." He said to Ulfar, who had already begun to reach for his sword. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you." The man added. Two other men, one of them an elf, approached from the trees, bows drawn at the ready.

"Let's start with that sword of yours." The man said to Ulfar. "I like the way it looks." He added.

"I'm afraid that can't happen." Eila spoke up. "He needs that sword to protect me."

The bandit looked at the girl for a moment, and then began laughing.

"Did you hear that, guys? He needs the sword to protect the lass!"

The other two bandits joined in. Their focus was off for just a moment... Ulfar dropped the bag of alchemical tools and books on the ground.

In one fluid motion, before the bag hit the ground, Ulfar tossed a throwing knife at the bandit on his left, and then grabbed the leader. He turned the man to the elf bowman on the right, using the leader as a human shield. The elf couldn't let the arrow go, so Ulfar kicked the leader towards him, and drew out his sword in the process. The bowman and the leader collided, and Ulfar dashed out of the way to avoid an arrow from the first man he had thrown a dagger to earlier. The leader and the second bowman were still on the ground, so Ulfar charged the first bowman - the human.

The bandit made a mistake. He attempted to switch to his sword to parry the attack, but Ulfar's blade was already through. The force of his blade crushing into the bandit's ribcage, and then bursting out through the back, sent ripples through the metal of the handle. Ulfar could feel them in hardened flesh of his palms. It was a feeling he was used to. He pulled out the blade in one single motion, the bandit began to fall, and Ulfar saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was the bandit leader.

Ulfar went down on one knee, and a blade swept over his head, almost cutting some of his hair off. He drove his left fist into the attacker's stomach, and rose to his feet in the process, adding more power to the force. Ulfar coupled this with a shove from his shoulder, which pushed the attacker a foot away from him - the perfect distance for his blade. With both hands back on the handle, Ulfar sent a sweep with his sword that cleaved the air in two. The blade landed and dug into the supple flesh, making its home on the area between the bandit's neck and shoulder, about four inches deep. He pushed the bandit leader away with his foot while pulling his sword out in the process.

The last remaining bandit was the second bowman, the elf. His hands were clearly shaking, and the only arrow he fired was a wide miss. He dropped the bow and took out two daggers from his belt.

"Don't you have a family to go back to?" Ulfar asked. The elf didn't say anything. Instead he charged him with both daggers extended out ahead of him. Ulfar lifted his sword out to his right side. Just at the exact moment, he brought his blade across to his left side in a horizontal arc. The greatsword collided with the daggers, and knocked them off of the elf's hand. The elf lost his balance and fell face fist on the ground.

"Who the hell charges with daggers?" Ulfar said, amusedly. He flipped the blade over just as the elf was about to get up, and plunged it down onto his back. The elf was forced onto the ground, and when the sword was pulled out, he let out a pitiful cry.

Three bandits lay dead on the ground. They were amateurs, one could tell from their clothing and lack of tattoos. There was no colour code among them, no souvenirs, dried skulls, or anything that could pass off as a show off. Their leader had even had somewhat of an ale-belly. It would have been comical to Ulfar, had it not been so pathetic.

The girl was down on her knees. Her eyes had fear in them, but she wasn't moving or saying anything. She just stared forward, blankly, at no one and nothing in particular.

"Hey," Ulfar called out. "You alright?"

The girl didn't say anything.

"Just stay there for a moment, I need to see what these guys have on them." Ulfar said as he began rummaging through the corpses. He found nothing worth mentioning. The closest thing of use were the two daggers, but neither of them were balanced, meaning they would serve poorly as throwing knives. Instead, Ulfar went to the area where he thought his own throwing knife may have landed - the one he threw at the beginning of the fight. He knelt down and began combing the ground for it.

"Are they dead?" The girl's voice came from behind him.

"Yeah," Ulfar said, still looking for the balanced blade he had thrown. "now come help me find this damn knife."

"All they wanted was some gold." Eila said, her voice was beginning to get shaky. "We could have talked them out of wanting your sword."

"They would have robbed us of every coin." Ulfar said. He cursed under his breath. The throwing knife was nowhere to be found. That meant he was down to two, now. "You don't negotiate with bandits." He added as he got up. When he turned around, he was surprised to see the girl still sitting on her knees. She was looking at the dead, now.

"Come on, let's keep going." Ulfar was about to grab the girl by her arm and bring her to her feet, but she recoiled away instantly.

"Don't." She said.

"We're not going to stop just because your stomach can't handle the death of some scum." Ulfar said, he was beginning to get angry. He grabbed the girl by her arm, and put her on his shoulder again, but she began screaming. It was loud, and she was right next to his ear. He had to stop, so he put her down.

She was quiet again, almost instantly. She sat on her knees once more and kept staring ahead.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Ulfar asked. She didn't say anything. He just stared at her for a moment, finding it hard to believe how the girl was acting. "Fine, what's it going to take for us to keep walking again?" He asked.

"Bury them."

Ulfar was almost offended by the idea. Bandits were about as low as it got in his eyes, and having to prepare their burials was an embarrassing thought to him.

Despite hating every second of it, he didn't protest.

With just his hands, Ulfar spent the rest of the day digging the graves. They weren't six feet down, and they were hardly holes on the ground. But it was enough to be something that could pass as a "grave". In the meantime, Eila went into the forest by herself. She came back at sunset with some flowers and herbs in her hands, and spent the rest of the night grounding them in her mortar.

By the next morning, they continued on their path. It took them nearly two weeks to make it to the Great Plains. Thankfully, the only trouble they ran into were some wild beasts. At least Eila didn't want those to be buried.

The next four days were spent walking across the grassy plains, until they heard of a mystical voice booming across the land. Eila insisted that they were to follow it, and so they went. The two came across a strange formation of stone, seeing as others had already arrived.

Ascending rapidly through the whirlwind, the Keeper was pulled higher and higher into the sky. As his body reached up into the clouds, the vortex began to disperse around him, leaving Charon suspended in the cloud. “Chosen Keeper, behold. It is I, Tintrayach, God of the Storms and wearer of many faces. What you see in me is the reflection of your steadfast calm; it is the Eye. Wise and humbled warrior, I have called upon you for a task of great importance.” The cloud dispersed from around the Keeper, revealing a new scene unfolding down on the earth below. They certainly weren’t in Fuaere anymore…

On the ground Charon could see various figures gathered in what he could only assume to be the Plains of Origin. “This way. Over here now, come now this way.” A new voice called, reaching up into the heavens to the Keepers ears. Looking around from this vantage point, Charon located the source of the call, a figure standing among a circle of stones.

“I do not have time to explain further, soon you will be late. Until next we meet, Keeper.” Somehow, Charon had kept calm this whole time, despite everything had happening so fast. Moments ago he had been planning his escape from a hostile town, and now he was floating above the plains speaking to a god…

“I accept this task, oh God of Storms, may your teachings give me the strength to uphold the Great Compassion. Having woken up within the dream, my duty is clear and I shall follow it until I meet my own end.” Charon finally spoke, “I have but one question: how do I get down?”

“The fastest way I know.” Tintrayach replied, the stormy side of his split-personalities seeping back in. “Goodbye, chosen warrior farewell in your journeys!” He laughed a little mischievously. As the god spoke the cloud which had formerly surrounded Charon began to take shape again, quickly turning dark in the sky. Then, suddenly and without warning, a bolt of lightning struck, carrying the Keeper down from the sky in a flash.

Appearing amidst the stone circle, Charon looked around, “Pardon the entrance, I didn’t really have a choice.” He said, taking stock of the strange cast of characters gathered nearby.

Celabrin sat in a chair a small fire, the only light in the room. She was naked but there was no one to admire her beauty as she calmly lazed by the fire. The sounds from the lively tap room downstairs penetrated into the quiet room. Behind her an orc lay in the bed tired out from the night’s fun and the poison slowly shutting down his organs. She sighed to the fire crackling in the hearth, another man another man on her mind. If you could call an evil necromancer a man, it had been a while since she had been allowed to have such fun.

Since taking up with Bawzel she had been tasked with bring him more allies to fight for the cause whatever that was, she did not really care only that she had her fun and was able to keep from being one of the common folk. She had brought round many orc leaders who did not wish to follow Bawzel’s lead. Now she was just getting rid of the loud-mouths who thought they could do better. There was always a few but, they would not last long in this army.

The figure in the bed behind her began tossing and turning as he entered his death throes. He spoke his voice harsh and croaked, even for an orc. “What… have you done… to me!” He cried out, although his voice was not very loud.

“All must die, I am your death,” She told him quietly without turning to look, her voice as sultry as ever.

“NO!” he cried, “I must die in battle.’

“Such a death is not for those who wish to overthrow Bawzel. I am their death, your death” She said turning to him a smile. His breathing changed becoming more strained as his strong will finally gave in to the poison. With a finally gasp he died and she began dressing in the red dress she had worn earlier in the night. She secured her blades hidden amongst the dress; although one would think with such a revealing dress there would be no place to hide such things. She sat by the fire again as it slowly died down, putting her soft leather boots on again. Fully dressed she climbed out the small window into the dark and wild night of Olc Cairn.

She made her way through the drunken crowds of the town, now flooded with Orcish warbands and all manner of people who waited for the call to battle with the rest of Enduwin. The crowd parted around her, brawlers ceasing their fights as she strode past, all types of men turning to stare at her as she passed by, even those with women at their sides. She heard the fights break out again this time over her, and quite a few slaps from disgruntled women disciplining their men. She didn’t turn to look back. As she left the town she charmed a horse from a man as he arrived in town. And with the horse to carry her she sped towards the Underkeep.

"Um... are you really quite sure you want that?" Dssialii glanced up incredulously at the horseman. Sure, he'd been teasing Eeiys with offers of a smoke of his pipe, but both of them knew that there really was no chance that he was going to take it; southern mage weed being what it was, it wasn't really something that magical races joked with. Obviously this fellow couldn't tell from the smell and the distinctive red smoke that Dssialii was exhaling like a dragon what this was; that made sense, of course, since most people never really had much experience with the stuff, other than hearing stories of just how wrong things could go when you overdosed on it (which was incredibly easy). Dssialii, though always one for a good time, decided that it was probably better all-around if he informed this man what he was asking for instead of just giving it to him.

"No, you see, this is southern mage weed. You take a whole pipeful of this and you'll be waking up in a decade, like what happened to Vip Wan Rinkle." It was a pretty well-known story, one that wasn't so common amongst the goblins but certainly wouldn't miss the mark with humans. Unless they had horrible parents and no childhood. Had he and Rssilant had children...

But even now the strange happenings weren't over. Damping down his load in a manner that suggested he figured it was time to be serious, Dssialii took account of them, and as he did so the line of his mouth bent further and further down until it was an undeniable frown.

This was an adventuring party. All of them but the wizard were warriors, he could tell right away; each of them had a sword, or an axe, or a sword AND a shield. And, well, the wizard was obviously a wizard, so it made sense he didn't have a weapon. And all Dssialii had was his spear and his crossbow. And, unlike the way he imagined these other characters (and all adventurers, really) spent their time, Dssialii was one for more peace-and-quiet, even when traipsing about the country, than death-and-slaughter-and-glory-and-adventure. Even when he was gallivanting this way and that over the country, he was just making maps! Well, and selling things, but he wasn't running around slaughtering things! For all their fanciness and sturdy construct, Dssialii hadn't actually used any of these weapons on sentient beings before! And this... well this group just didn't look like a good fit for him.

Some fellow getting transported into their midst (some armed fellow, he noted) by a bolt of lightning was just enough. "'Kay, yeah, you know what? This isn't my thing." Dssialii waved his crossbow back and forth in a way which may have looked like he'd shoot anyone who dared protest. "I'm a glassblower. I'm not a world-saver, or even an adventurer at all! And please, I'm just too old for this garbage. I think I'll just be taking my leave now, you all have yourselves a wonderful time doing whatever."

Alina looked up from off the ground as she heard the ruffling of a man wiggling off a horse and landing with a heavy thud. There she saw a shirtless dwarf, hairy and muscle bound; warmly tanned from a life lived on the land. She smiled warmly, trying to seem appreciative of his help though it was tough fighting against her exhaustion. The pain at her side throbbed painfully, the distraction hid the feeling of the dwarf's idle hands searching for the herbs she had asked for. Hearing the dwarf offer Alina the herbs she looked up at the man once more. She placed her free hand to the ground and weakly pushed herself up into a seated position and back to rest against one of the small stone structures. She took the offered herbs and bowed her head. "Thank you, Dwarf." She stated, her voice delicate and weak yet ever flowing with a genuine affection.

She removed the hand covered in a mixture of fresh and dried blood from her side and began to tear and rip the herbs in half, then those halves into another half. Then another arrived on the scene to help the injured Alunei. A human male, red hair and dark skin. He held fast a canteen in one hand and knelt by Alina's side.

"What more can be done for her?" The man seemed to ask the dwarf.

"If you co..." She began though her words fell short as another person scope up a small distance away. It was a Goblin, a familiar creature to the Alunei as they both shared a home in Trayig's sand.

"'Kay, yeah, you know what? This isn't my thing. I'm a glassblower. I'm not a world-saver, or even an adventurer at all! And please, I'm just too old for this garbage. I think I'll just be taking my leave now, you all have yourselves a wonderful time doing whatever." The goblin stated as he began to turn and leave.

"Wa.. nng.." She groaned as she tried pushing herself up to her feet, cringing and clenching her jaw tight. Finally getting to her feet she called out to the Goblin. "Wait."

She limped over to the Goblin, pulling herself around to the front of the small creature. She fell to her knees before him, wincing with the impact to the earth shook her body. This was an attempt to keep at eye line with the creature and the fact she was to weak to stand any further helped the decision. "You can't leave.." She plead sweetly, her soft violet eyes locking onto those of the Goblins. "You were asked here for a reason. You are needed for a great purpose..." Her words trailed as she bit down on her lip to work through another wave of throbbing pain from her side. She sighed as the pain subsided. "You can't leave. We need you. I need you. You are meant for great things. Isn't that reason enough to stay?" She softly questioned, her gentle and serene voice spoke sweetly.

With that she weakly sat back on the back of her heels, kneeling on the soft grass. She needed to treat the wound now, it was becoming unbearable. She took the torn leaves she had clenched in her hand and brought it slowly to her gashed side. Taking a deep breath before clenching her jaw tight she pressed the herbs hard to her side. The oils extracted from tearing the herbs seeped into the open wound and caused a searing pain. She collapsed in on herself as she whimpered in pain, though she kept the herbs held tight to the wound. It stung like an army of fire ants were biting into the flesh but they healed and cleansed wounds better than any other herb she had ever found. As the pain subsided and wound was cleansed she looked up and out to the man who had asked to help earlier, Oscar though she did not know his name.

"Could you help me please?" She called out to him, trying to sound calm though the tinge of pain was left on her lips. "Could you wrap my wound, please?"

Before he had left Rupert to rummage around with the goblin, Oscar responded to the little fellow. “From the color of It, I’d call it mage weed. And from the smell of it, I’d call it good.” The man was familiar with it, very much so, actually. He had heard of men sleeping eternally from its effects. “I don’t particularly mean to slumber on for years because of its effects, my concerned friend,” Oscar’s eyes drifted down to give the goblin his full attention. “To take more than a small puff would be dangerous, wouldn’t you say? To take any, with this orc on our tail, would be stupid. But we can talk more soon.” There was something he wasn’t saying to the goblin, something of relative importance. Why would a man with no assumed magical essence want such a potent smoking delight? The plumes of smoke from the goblin’s pipe burnt as red as Oscar’s hair, but the conversation was dropped as the swordsman’s attention was taken.

He watched the winged woman pass before him as she made her way to the goblin, who spoke of leaving. He winced at the thought of the small fellow taking off before he could acquire the weed from him. It was of some great importance that the goblin part with it. Importance that he didn’t speak of, nor did he enjoy thinking of.

He was not a doctor or a field medic, but Oscar knew something of wounds. The words barely trickled off the Alunei’s soft lips before he was in action, slinging the canteen over his shoulder. He knew he had little in his sack that would be clean enough to stave off an infection from the bacteria found on any of his clothes. But, he had liquor. Not the type of liquor that is enjoyed around a camp fire and raises the spirits of the company that one found in the evening. These were the spirits that a man drank when he wanted to leave the world behind and slip into a slumber that did not bring dreams.

Quickly, he crossed the distance back to Rupert, whom he hissed at to grab the horse’s curiosity away from the goblin. He reached into the saddle, producing the bottle and a slightly faded shirt, which was stained with blood and already ripped at the abdomen. There was obviously a story behind it.

The liquor seemed to glow inside of its container, a faint azure color that was misleadingly beautiful to stare at. Oscar did not have a proper name for it, but often heard it referred to as the Arcane Nectar. With both hands occupied, he popped the cork with his mouth and took a swig to clear any grime and bacteria from his mouth. He then tore at the cloth with the assistance of the hand that held the bottle and his teeth; clumsily making makeshift wraps for the woman’s wound.

He took a second swig and could already feel the warmth running to his face and his hands becoming steadier. So much for a clear mind, he thought. The orc, which encroached from its far away post to being in their party, wielded his axe as he spoke gruffly to the wizard. All of that would be dealt with momentarily. He knelt by the woman’s side. He corked and dropped the bottle at his side after dousing all of the strips in its essence. He looked to the woman, speaking softly, “I know you are strong but the pain you will feel from this will be greater than the wound’s itself.” He glanced away from her to the goblin that stood above her, “You need to stay put for now my little friend.” Friend. A word Oscar seldom used for anyone but Rupert. Why had it slipped out so quickly? And without any sort of knowledge of the goblin’s deeds or character?

Oscar’s free hand reached under the Alunei and carefully found a space beneath her folded wings, against the soft skin of her lower back. He lifted her up, most likely causing her significant pain, simultaneously moving to grab the first end of the strips. He took it and wrapped it to her midsection, and then brought the other end back over her mid drift, holding the loose end firm. He lifted her and continued wrapping her entire waist. The Arcane Nectar mixed with the blood of her wound, and fire broke out in her innards. He used all of the strips he had made, successfully making the worst wrap known to humankind; but, it would hold and the alcohol would keep any infection at bay. He tied and knotted the last strip. The alcohol cooled and would evaporate quickly, but the wrap, and wound would lack any disease.

With an increased metabolism because of adrenaline, the alcohol that Oscar consumed had broken down quickly and it burned in his belly, creating fuel that lit his temper aflame. A hurt woman winged or not, did not sit well with the man. He knew the orc had not caused it, or so assumed, but that did not matter. So many were killed at their hand, so many of Oscar’s old buddies fell to the hands of orc bandits, that it did not matter whether this one had or hadn’t brought harm. It wanted to.

The difference in tone, stature, and gait would be evident to even those that had only met his acquaintance nearly five minutes before. "Dwarf!” Oscar snapped, “Get this woman to her feet.” The steps were decisive, as if the liquor did not dull his senses but awakened them, when Oscar strode across the distance between the orc and he, whose words were lost to the wind of the newcomer, who arrived in a spiraling gust, as it addressed the wizard. Oscar had forgotten about such things as the voice in the sky or the Farrgorm that beckoned them to his side.

The beast dwarfed him by a set of shoulders. It would be fast, it would be strong, if it dared attack. He did not reach for his shield, though he probably should have. Oscar drew down on the orc, the blade slicing the air as its point rose. His wrist cocked and he stopped, his feet apart the width of his shoulders, slightly bent, one positioned nearly a toe behind the other, looking down the tip to the orc that stood on the other end of it. Determination danced across the swordsman’s eyes. There was no fear for the orc to feed on, no weakness that could be deciphered from Oscar’s dark face. Standing before the orc, between the wizard and it, he did not carry on with a frenzy of words and spoke directly, “You have intent in your eyes beast. Let it be known.” The words were calm, steady.

Sam had winced at the sound of the booming voice, not because it hurt his head, but because it was startling enough. Then like that, the dwarf took off on a trot with his donkey. Just like that, Sam was pissed off. Who the hell just dashes off without the people they were traveling with, and furthermore, without saying a word.

Despite his somewhat shaky steps, Sam took off on a sprint after the dwarf, running fast enough to almost seem unnatural. He arrived about fifteen minutes after the dwarf, but his anger was melted away when he saw the dwarf helping the Alunei. He'd do something about it, but she seemed to be having enough attention as is.

Speaking of Alunei, he remembered back to when he rescued a few Alunei slaves by convincing a nearby Cirk to steal them away, those two ladies had made that Cirk one of the more popular ones, such lovely voices. They're wings and brief flying dances where beautiful as well, quite the envious ability to Sam. However, he could make flowers sprout from the ground! That was pretty!

Damn it, flying dances where still better.

Sam was in the midst of memory, hanging behind most of the people already around the man with the... Very loud voice. Oh, hey! Wouldn't that be good for a concert! Having an entire audience Frozen in Ecstasy... For some reason that thought sounded weird to Sam, even though it was his. Must be his imagination.

...Anyway, Sam was in the midst of memory when some sword wielding idiot decided to make a fuss over a damn Orc who hadn't even did anything. From Sam's point of view, the Orc did nothing but show up at the wrong time. The idiot had no reason to be waving a sword around in such a holy place, or at least, he assumed it was holy, it had that feeling.

With that, Sam pushed past a few people, his anger quickly reawakened. Some silly sword wielder didn't have an overbearing advantage over Sam, since well, Sam owned a disarming knife that hung on a belt loop. It was a rather heavy knife, actually it was a full blown dagger, but the Naeri called it a knife. It was a dull blade, but it was sturdy enough to parry a sword if used with enough precision, and doubled with another blade, it could be used to rip it out of the wielder a hands, assuming you caught them off guard.

So, with the swordsman having no more advantage over him at that moment than the average man fighting unarmed with Sam also being unarmed, Sam took his hand, and backhanded the man from behind. It was rather loud, and it really hurt Sam's hand, but he didn't care.

"For Naduir's sake you overgrown ass, put the blade down. I'm assuming we were all here being called by the Gods and what not. So put down your damned sword, I won't risk any more thunder and lightning."

(With that last part, he looked over his shoulder to the man who arrived in a whirlwind and gave a brief smile)

The slap against the back of his head was no more than the buzz of a fly in one’s ear: annoying but painless. Oscar’s eyes did not leave the orc. That would be a mistake that could cost the man his life. What this imp of a man that struck him did not know was the manner in which the orc came upon the two others. The look in his eyes that dealt death with each glance was something that this boy of a man did not see. Oscar had no intention of letting his attention be diluted until the situation was resolved between the orc and him.

Rupert saw Sam’s attack, witnessing it with hazy clarity from the eyes of a horse. The steed turned, and broke into a quick trot, lowering his head and butting against him. It would feel like a small train ran over the top of Sam, though the hooves missed every part of his body. The horse stood with its head lowered and lips pulled away. They may not have been sharp like a wolf’s or able to pierce like a dagger, but the horse’s teeth would crush his face if he laid another hand on Rupert’s companion.

A smirk snuck onto Oscar’s face as he heard the thud behind him and the clomp of feet as they stilled at his rear. His wrist turned slightly, the blade resting before the orc, held by a gentle grasp.

((ignore this silliness.))

Collaboration with Sicarius and Inspector

Despite the size of the Underkeep, the doors were large enough and the orcs arms strong enough, that some part of the echo of the pounding reached the ears of Bawzel directly. The Necromancer knew it was Vrikdarok. He didn't need telling. However, a few paces into his journey to open the gate a particularly attentive and eager to please Farrg ran towards him mouth ajar "Lord, it's.."

The guard lost his train of speech as his body was flung backwards as if his chest had been impacted by the swing of a troll's club. The damage though, had been done by a simple flick of Bawzel's wrist and motioning of his energy.
He was impatient as it was, deeds needed doing and he was not in the humour to suffer fools.

Still, even now, months into his reign, as he saw it, he was surprised at how idiotic some of his soldiers could be. What surprised him the most was their incessant belief that he somehow cared, or thought something of them? Bawzel was not some nameless dark lord devoid of a character or personality, but nor was he a king seeking to expand his domain. He was an agent of death, his followers simply served the process of speeding things up and allowing him to attain his ultimate goal. He knew that much of his seduction was arcane in nature, and as such some idiocy was to be expected.

The little ghoul barely dodged a flying Farrg as it stepped out from a small archway, dancing out of the way and watching the creature groan as it lay on the stone floor. There was a spark of delight as Mizat listened to the man’s labored breathing, noises of pain & weakness with every breath that left him; it was a radiant sight to the small ghoul’s eyes. The creature snapped back to attention, weaving its way to its towering master’s heels, its feet making a small thump noise with every step unlike the silent Bawzel.

“You called?” Mizat chimed, swinging his head to stare up at the porcelain mask – finding it pleasant but always preferring what lay beneath. Swaying ever so slightly as it kept it’s time with its master “Off to deal with Vrikdarok, we are?” He nodded, not really needing the answer but enjoying the verification nonetheless. The swaying stopped the wisp of a smile on his knotted features.

Bawzel was pleased that Mizat had joined him. The little creature existed outside of the realm of normal living things and was the closest thing to having a child the Necromancer would ever come.
"Indeed. I am going to deal with this orc. I think subtlety is the order of the day though. This one seems smart and headstrong."

“Subtlety” It spoke the word as if foreign, slowly and pronouncing each sound distinctly. His gaze leaving to stare up into the ceiling as it thought seemingly displeased. “As master orders” He brought back grey eyes to stare at Bawzel’s back, nodding as it took in the movement of each fold of obsidian fabric. Mizat didn’t like it, making negotiations and agreements with the likes of orcs but master knew best. Bawzel always knew what the best course of action was, that was what made the necromancer so great, so feared, he was intelligent along with powerful.

Making his way through the halls of the Underkeep, Bawzel reached the main foyer, Mizat still in tow. Stopping before the massive gates of the keep, Bawzel outstretched both arms in front of his waist.
"Let's greet the orc shall we?" He said to Mizat.
The room, in its cavernous entirety, suddenly went dark. The dozens of oil lamps which had illuminated the walls simply seemed to vanish. The hulking gates swung up and open quicker than any natural force could of pulled them. No light from the outside penetrated the darkness of the Underkeep despite the gate being open. Vrikdarok now stared into nothing but oblivion.
"Do not so lightly scorn the Dark God little orc." boomed Bawzel's voice out through the gate.
"You have come to this place seeking answers haven't you?" the voice carried no hate or anger, only seductive undertones and deceptive waves.

"And do not think that we 'orcs' fear the dark," Vrikdarok's voice carried strong, though he was no fool; the doors were opened with a force of magic, not bipedal hands. Axe in hand, he strode inside. "You seek to provide answers but hide yourself? You are no dark god. Just a child playing warlord." The orc's body was swallowed by the darkness, but the fire of his eyes was not suffocated. They burnt through the dark, surveying what could not be seen. "I smell you, Necromancer," the orc snarled quietly, "...and your pet."

Though his footsteps once thundered across the ground, they were as quiet as an armored beast's could be. It was a fruitless attempt, though; Vrikdarok let the tip of one of the crescent shaped blades drag across the ground, screeching and throwing sparks behind him. "What do you want with our land, Necromancer? You raid and pillage and set seige and we know it is you. Yet you have shown no face, you stay shut up in this fortress like a coward." Vrikdarok spat the words into the dark, though his eyes were starting to see shapes. He had come to a stopping at what he assumed was the epicenter of the vile stench, the location of Bawzel and Mizat.

His breathing was heavy. Not because he was winded, but because he still seethed with anger.

"Coward?!!" exclaimed Bawzel. He moved and confronted the orc directly, bringing the pale lifelessness of the mask up to Vrikdarok's face.
"You traipse your win into my domain, and call me coward."
Bawzel shot a hand forward and attempted to pick the orc up by the throat.

Bawzel was closer to the orc lord than Vrikdarok expected and he had to backstep clumsily just to keep himself from the necromancer's grip. Nails raked across the gorget of his breastplate. Even still, they deflected off and caught against the orc's exposed skin, digging into the flesh like it was warmed butter. Hot pain shot through Vrikdarok's nervous system and relayed it to the creature's brain. While his opposite hand reached to clasp his throat, the other extended the axe in an upward strike, a feeble attempt to lop the creature's hand from its body. The attack was slow and unsteady.

As he drew back a step into the darkness, the white of Bawzel's mask still displayed clearly in the orc's mind. It was lifeless, blank and nearly frightening. It were as if it was alive, somehow, piercing the veil between inanimate and sentient. He spat the words through clenched teeth, "Only a coward attacks from the dark! Only a coward attacks the emissary of a neighbouring clan when he has come to discuss negotiations for.." the orc hesitated, choking back bile at the thought of the word he was about to say, "peace."

Bawzel had expected the orc to swing back in retaliation, much as he had anticipated that the orc would not be so easily caught. Predictable creatures, mused the Necromancer.
Letting his hands fall limp to his side, the darkness subsided somewhat as the oil lamps seemed to come back into existence and illuminated the room partially.
"Peace?" remarked Bawzel. This orc was a clever one for his race, the Necromancer would have to thread correctly. For now, Vrikdarok would be of more use alive than dead.
"Peace isn't an option, as peace implies two separate entities."
Through the porcelain, Bawzel's eyes caught the orc's stare. Invisible tendrils lashed out from the Necromancer's mind, attempting to latch on and corrupt the orc's thoughts.
"What you mean to say it you wish to join under the banner of despair which will soon sweep the civilized world. Do not front me with such brash nature; admit your desires, give into your desires."

Matters of magic were lost on Vrikdarok. Matters of willpower, however, were not. The orc was of strong mind and stronger body. His desires were well known to him. The fuzziness of the necromancer's magic washed over his brain, trying to flog it into submission. The orc's willpower fought back, as was seen on his face: A strained visage, gritted teeth, a look of a battle weary veteran who had but one foe left to slay.

The orc raised his axe, the pointed barb on its end levelled to the face of Bawzel, "What," The orc's words came carefully, hard to express as he fought the need to let the tide of corruption wash over and devour him, "I mean is peace for the strong. We have no reason to fight. There is no glory in death at the hand of a caravan guard. Give assurance that my people will not fall for a few silver coins and my army will fight with your bannermen."

The orc's axe fell, the point digging into the ground. The words of the necromancer stung deep and the inner desires began to rush forth, his fortitude beginning to wane in the presence of such power. "Know this. My thoughts are of my people. The treasures I hunt down are for them. My inner desire," the orc closed the distance between Bawzel and he, coming face to mask, "is to watch Enduwin burn to the ground. I care not for riches or women. They can all die. Every man, woman, and child can turn to ash and be washed away to Ifreann." The voice growled from Vrikdarok's throat, but originated deep in his belly, where any supposed soul may exist. The eyes grew bright at the thought, dancing with the flames of the war to come.

"Hahaha." laughed the Necromancer in a self-gratifying manner, full of malice.
"Then it seems we seek much in the same thing."
Bawzel reached up and carefully gripped the mask, and took it, holding it against his chest.
His bare skeletal face now confronted the orc. It was both a skull and a full head, almost intangible and beyond description and as black as the darkest cave. Catching the orc's gaze the Necromancer extended his free arm and placed it on the back of Vrikdarok's head and pushed slightly bringing their skulls into contact.
"And burn it shall orc. Along with every soul that inhabits it."
Stepping back from the orc warlord Bawzel put the mask back in its place and it sat firm there.
"Mizat, take Vrikdarok to see Celabrin. She can inform him of our current movements. I have business that needs personal attention. I shall return shortly."
Turning back to the orc the Necromancer spoke more harshly than he had before, yet spoke softer words, "You and your kin shall be greatest swords and axes in the wave of despair. I would see you command a mighty brigand, much greater and fiercer than any single orcish war band. There is much to be done Vrikdarok."
With those last words Bawzel turned and strode away back into the heart of the Underkeep leaving the orc and ghoul alone together.

The touch of Bawzel's fingers, if they could be called that, were unnaturally cold. So much that they stung the orc's bare head. He rested his head to the necromancer's and a smirk crept over his lips. And then the warlord was gone. To the darkness, Vrikdarok whispered, "We shall see."

His attention turned to Mizat, or as Bawzel called him. Vrikdarok took a step to him, the axe's tip dragging behind him on the ground. "You smell foul, creature."

Jovalyn continued her pained stumble towards a stack of rocks she was almost positive wasn't some form of native plant. Oh, how she loathed the effulgent sun, with its piercing rays that shot across her porcelain skin and bore into her eyes. She was going to give whoever yelled, whatever yelled, a thrashing that would possibly make the prospect of offspring less of a decision and more of a finality. Maybe after that she'd even let him die.

There was a wounded bird woman that seemed like something she would care about, but not really. If she couldn't make it to the beginning of their journey unwounded, the bird woman would only slow them down. It was best to let her bleed out at the worlds end, or beginning, possibly both. It was hard for Jovalyn to understand anything that wasn't absolutely cyclical in nature.

With the pleasant thought of murdering the shouting man bubbling in her mind - then exploding painfully like fireworks - she paid the vaguest attention to the cluster of things around her. They were like a shipwreck that had landed in the plains, senseless and disoriented going towards the same thing with varying wills to do so. One of them was a goblin. Sam, who she paid special attention to, was absolutely failing at the simple task of reaching rocks. He had foolishly decided to defend an Orc, rather than butcher it and scatter the remains. This of course ended with him almost being trampled by a horse; Jovalyn couldn't help but laugh. She slumped forward, spear dug into the ground. If she could just focus on Sam's suffering, she might be able to make it to the rocks on that energy alone.