The horse had shocked Sam but when he was first being knocked down his brain caught up with him. Several, several past bar fights had taught him to think on his feet, plus the improvisation any musician knows how to use.

His arms found themselves around the horses neck and he jumped out of the way, only to find himself very acrobatically sat on top of the horse. The horse protested for a moment but Sam's voice started a low hum and he instantly charmed the magic of life in the horse, as he normally did to horses to screw with their owners. The big guy stamped his hooves for a moment before the horse knelt down and began to fall asleep from the lullaby Sam was resounding in his ear.

Sam doubted anyone else could tell he was singing with how softly he was doing it. In the meantime, he hugged the horse and waited for the guy in the stone circle to speak again, he seemed to be a leader figure here.

They had arrived. The pieces had gathered at the point of origin. Now all that was needed was for the scene to be set. Shankee had stayed unmoving as the called champions heeded his call. He stood in the hollow, head dipped into his chest clutching his staff. The group of travellers around him had begun descending into a rabble rather quickly, worryingly quickly in fact. Suddenly Shankee’s head snapped up and back until it was hanging slightly back. His staff fell from his hands before they shot out at his sides. The old storyteller then seemed to somehow lift of the ground. A great force seemed to have grasped the Farrg and raised him up by the scruff of his neck. He continued to rise until he was several meters off the ground, above the heads of those around him. There was a long pause in time where nothing to seemed to happen, the moment hung in the air far too long. It was shattered by a crackling booming sound that echoed like a thousand warhorns. It was followed by a bolt of lightning that struck right through Shankee’s floating form. Only, it wasn't a bolt of lightning, it was a solid cylinder of brilliant baby-blue light that enshrouded the Farrg. Moments after making contact with the ground the light grew and spread its influence over the entire Point, becoming brighter and whiter as it moved.

Once the light had encircled the entire point it faded in brilliance and seemed to split into a multitude of separate colours: blue, green, red, purple and more. Shankee remained in the middle of it all high above the others.
Then, without any more warning, it happened. Seven humanoid figures stood before the crowd of gathered travellers. Each was indescribably tall, yet not so large. They were difficult to look at but impossible to turn away from. Their very being seemed to defy tangible quantification. Solas, Naduir, Gweeha, Tintrayach, Lasair, Trayig and Oiyaer. The seven divines who remained in Neyav. The seven true gods.

“Greetings Champions.” The words came from what seemed to be the tallest of the figures, the one still wrapped in white light that flowed over his form like endless robes and cloaks; Solas, the Sun itself. The voice was light and gentle, not at all what one expected from the most powerful force in nature. “Again, we are not long here. Our tether to Enduwin is very frail and comes at a dire cost. Thus, you must have ascertained that we come with great haste and importance. Our world, your world, is about to be laid siege to. To the south, in the heart of the Olc a great evil gathers. This Necromancer is unlike any dark mage before him. He, he…”

“He bested even our powers to hold him in Ifreann.” Continued Lasair, picking up where Solas had seemed to stutter. The fire god’s voice was thick and deep and hot on the ears of those who heard it.

“We do not know how. We do however, know what he seeks. He wishes to find four artefacts known as the Envoys.”
Trayig stepped forward. Or rather seemed to flow forwards like sand down a hill.

“They are the Envoys of the end of the world.” Spoke the Sand God, giver of life and magic in a wispy voice.

“They are treacherous objects of immense power. They were crafted by… by dark forces long ago. The first is to the north in Fuaere in a long abandoned crypt.” These words now came from Oiyaer and chilled the party to their cores.

“We must depart again sweet things.” Whispered Gweeha, her words carried by the wind.
“Our power is waning. There is nought we can do for now. You are Enduwin’s only hope.”

With that there was a second flash of light and another clap of thunder and the gods were gone. Or rather six of them were. A woman who hadn't spoken remained. Wrapped in vines and moss, the naked beauty knelt before those that had been beckoned.
“There is much the others would not have you know.” Said Naduir.
“But I feel you must darlings, in order to win you must know your enemy. The Envoys were created by Dúv and, and one of us, another of the nine, in secret. These four objects alone have the power to open the Black Tower in Ifreann and free Dúv. The artefacts are shrouded by powers beyond any one of us. We cannot see who the traitor in our midst is. Be warned. The treacherous god may have summoned a champion into your ranks also. Be wary my beautiful adventurers.”
With that, the mother of nature disappeared along with her siblings.

*****************************************

‘Now!’ thought Bawzel, screaming in anticipation to himself. The gods had departed, undoubtedly as weak as children from their excursion to the Point. In an instant Bawzel was there. He was there were the gods had just stood, shrouding the area in a veil through which the gods’ gaze could not pierce, a veil created with vast amounts of blood magic. Before him a Farrg was crumpled in a heap in the hollow.
“Haha” barked the Necromancer. “Not much of a conduit.”
Facing the bewildered beings before him, the Necromancer steadied his stance and flung both arms outwards. The upright stones shattered in place and those already on the ground disintegrated where they lay. A tremendous force flung the rubble and the travellers tens of feet away from the point.

****************************************

‘Now! Now!’ screamed Sariloth to herself. The other one, the other source of power had just sprung up where the first just was. This darker force now inhabited the space the purer one just had. She had to know. She must know. Arcing her wings up behind her, she thrust her head down and dove, dove straight at the power source; the magic.

***************************************
Bawzel knew the dragon was coming. He heard it crashing through the sky above. Its dive stopped a kilometre behind him as it levelled up and flew at full speed towards him. Smiling underneath the mask, Bawzel made a simple side step and slight duck as the dragon flew overhead. Reaching out with his right arm, he extended his index finger. The metal tip of his gauntlet just caught the beast on her chin, and drove in a few inches. The skin around the finger peeled and seamed away, melting from the bones. The dragon could not stop its momentum and by the time it had realised what was happening Bawzel’s finger had glided through its entire abdomen, along its tail and off the tip tearing it open as all flesh and organs melted into a bile soup. Still unstopping, the dragon, only a great mass of bone and rot now crashed into a heap right before the travellers.
‘How convenient’ thought the Necromancer. He literally could not have planned things better.
Now standing atop the pile of bones he spoke to the so-called champions.
“Go. Go home. Do not embark on this quest. Your world is ending. Enjoy its last whimpers of life. Return to your families and hope they aren’t raped before they are flayed. This ‘quest’ is pointless. Embark upon it and I promise you agonising deaths.”
As the last words slipped from his tongue, Bawzel felt the veil beginning to waver. He must leave. The seven could not know he had come. They could not know that he knew. Knowledge was power.
As quickly as he had appeared the Necromancer was gone, along with the dragon’s still rotting skeletal remains, leaving the gods’ chosen reeling at what had just occurred.

The Orc remained silent, caught in the act of hefting his axe and slaying his aggressor by the very gods themselves. Slowly his hand fell, his jaw dropped, even for one as old and tested as him he barely maintained his composure.

A quest… for the gods themselves? Such a story it would make, my name will be remembered.

And then the light was gone, and darkness filled the void. Shadow was the void.

Norak had no time to react as he was launched full-bodily away from the centre of the point, collapsing in a heap some distance down the hill, his armour cracking loudly against stone. If not for the padding, he could have been grievously wounded, instead he jumped to his feet roaring in anger, his axe still clutched tight in his grasp.

The Orc was once again struck dumb as a dragon launched itself at the shadowy evil which had made its presence known to them, a naïve hope in his heart. Even he felt the slight twinge of fear as the dragon was cruelly murdered, its corpse splattering to the ground at his feet. He swallowed once.

“I am Norak! I do not fear you!” He shouted, ensuring that should he die those here would at least be able to tell of his passing as he charged the Necromancer, a death worthy of an Orcish warchief.

He threw his axe, watching it glide through the air towards the dark hovering figure even as it concluded its grim prediction of the adventurer’s fate. Norak was sure the axe would land.

And then the Necromancer was gone. The axe sailed through open air and plunked into the ground, sinking deep into the soil as a testament to the strength of the one who threw it. Norak drew his blade with his empty right hand, and looked around intently. Provided the human knight he had been hunting for his bounty was within ear shot, he would give him a piercing glare.

“It seems like our fight stays on hold.” The Orc barked, his voice now marked by an excited inflection. This was the first time the Orc was facing a challenge worthy of him, and the thought made his blood race.

Arnack stood by his pony watching as everyone arrived, he did not say anything merely watched as the man who had helped bird-lady drew his blade on the orc. Arnack like most did not like Orcs but this one had yet to do anything suspicious so he let him be. Besides the man seemed to have it handle that was until Sam made his dramatic entrance and slapped him, to little affect it seemed. When the horse came by Arnack was not sure whether to laugh or lend a hand.

Finally he noticed the old man finally move and then the rest was a blur, he remembered the gods and their speech and the evil presence then all hell broke loose. He slammed into the ground jarring his spine then a great weight fell atop him. It was warm and soft but so heavy he could not move his legs at all. It took him a few moments to realize what it was, his trusty pony had followed him into the air and landed on top of him.

The smell of rotting dragon and evil was heavy in the air, which did not matter to the dwarf right then. He cried out in pain trying to break free, but the unconscious animal was dead weight. He struggled for a while until exhausted gave up and yelled out “Will someone get this damned pony off me!” He hoped help would come soon he was beginning to lose feeling in his legs. He heard a squawk above his head and looked up at the fiery visage of Sir Birdsley pecking at his hair. “Not you, shoo Sir Birdsley!” The bird squawked again and took flight flying away.

The light washed over the swordsman before it reached the orc and then changed into what looked to be the makings of a giant rainbow. When he felt its presence, he stopped and stepped to the side, the tip of his sword falling when he saw what exactly he was staring at. They were beautiful and terrifying as they loomed over the top of him. Oscar also noticed that the one that had hit him was sitting atop of his steed. Something would have to be done about that at a later date.

For now, this band had a direction and a place to be. And, then the gods were gone, leaving silence in their wake. It was not long lived as darkness poured from the center of the point and the necromancer they spoke of stood in their place. He cast words of despair on the hope the gods instilled before destroying the Point. The rocks were shattered by the force and danced in the air a moment before rushing forward at Oscar. In the instant before impact, he flung himself to protect Rupert.

A dragon? Where the hell did a dragon come from? It descended from the cloud cover, drawn in by something brilliant, dangerous, and magical. And then it was dead, skinned and plagued with a hastened rot. Its corpse was gone before Oscar even registered it was there to begin with. But its imprint in the earth was not lost. The scar in the ground remained.

Shard after shard scattered after stabbing at his skin and leather armor. Much like arrows, they were lodged into the chain links and did not pierce. The backward gust of power pressed Oscar against Rupert, who landed on his side with a protest. The rider was surely thrown from his back and his senses would start returning to him. Oscar found the hilt of his sword and dragged it and him to a standing position. He was in time to see an axe soar through the fading form of the necromancer and land in the clearing made by the shockwave.

The silence that surrounded him was eerie, unnatural. There were no noises of nature, just the breathing of the orc, him, Rupert, the others. Oscar turned to see if the Alunei was alright. He also took ahold of Rupert and helped the horse find his hooves as best Oscar could. Rupert whinnied and neighed, glaring at Oscar. “I know buddy. I know.” He hadn’t forgotten what he was in the midst of doing, but the orc was attacking the right things for now.

Oscar approached the rubble, the wisps of darkness still clinging to his armor, evaporating to the air as he strode to what was once the center of the Point of Origin. He sheathed his sword as he knelt, his right hand pressing into Shankee’s neck to find a pulse, the other finding the handle of the orc’s axe. It was heavy. He flipped it, catching it closer to the head, offering the handle to the orc. Without looking, he spoke quietly, “This is yours, I believe.” There was a pulse. Oscar stood, knowing to let the Farrg come to consciousness on his own and took the necessary steps to come before the orc, the axe still held in his hand. “Keep trying to kill the right things and we will be fine.”

---

The destination became obvious to Sariloth moments before she discovered it. The essence of magic flooded her senses and she immediately dropped from the sky, wings snapped tight to her form and tail straight behind her. Every scale on her body resonated with the power emanating from the land beneath her. Such a trap had never been laid so perfectly. The dragon’s dive halted, but her form continued. The pain seared through her and she collapsed from a single blow.

Her scales were eaten from her form, organs and blood gobbled up by some mysterious force. Her bones were left, threatening and ominous, describing what would come to any that opposed the necromancer. When he left, her corpse was taken with him.

Eeiys barely had had time to react to the Farrg’s arcane actions before the area was washed with the brilliant cone of light that had signalled the arrival of the Gods. The Exile Knight had watched with utter contempt as they had spoken to all those gathered about being chosen for some righteous mission that they were too weak to finish. Eeiys had found himself unable to move in their presence, however, held in place by unexplainable power; probably for good reason. Even the Gods must have known what would happen if he was allowed his way with them. He had tried to scream out to them while they spoke, trying to shout to them that they were all traitors, all weak and frail beings, but even he could not hear his own voice over the cacophonous voices of the divines. It sickened him, but he and little choice but to stand and listen to their frail whines.
As fast as they had appeared, they disappeared back into that same ether, and almost like it was planned, a figure appeared in their place. One of almost pure, shadowy blackness, wisps of darkness rising from his tall, slender body like smoke. Silence seemed to follow the creature as it flung words at the assembled group; threats of death and suffering, torture and pain. Eeiys was sure an angry bandit could have conceived of a more threatening statement, but he was a little numb to threats. In fact, he was almost sure he would have laughed at the creature’s musings if it had not decided to demonstrate it’s power by obliterating the Point with a shockwave of pure energy: shards of jagged rock exploded from the epicentre of the blast, followed by an enormous gust of wind that would take many a man off their feet with ease -Eeiys included- had he not braced for the impact. Slamming the blade of Frost into the ground, Eeiys set himself into the position of a praying man with his head down, kneeling, holding the grip of his weapon tight. His entire body was forced backwards but he stayed upright and shards of rock clinked and bounced off his armour, making a multitude of shallow scratches on the surface, though there were no serious gashes. He avoided the worst of it.
Eeiys avoided looking up for a few seconds to give himself time to ensure the assault was over, but during those few seconds there was a mighty roar, and another gust of wind, but this time from above, as if a mighty creature was soaring towards the ground at speed…

Eeiys’ head shot upwards just in time to catch a glimpse of a gigantic dragon being cleaved nearly in half along it’s length by the necromancer’s mere finger as it crashed face-first into the ground, scarring the land badly as it slid and shooting up spurts of thick mud and dusty grime. He barely even had time to register the fiasco before his eyes locked in to an axe hurdling through the air, directly towards the dark assailant, though it simply passed through the creature before it vanished entirely.

“I am Norak! I do not fear you!” He heard the Stalky Orcy shout, a small distance behind and to his left. It seems the orc threw the axe. Brave… but not bright. Eeiys stood, spinning round to glare at the Orc, who now had a sword drawn in his right hand.
“If you don’t fear that thing, then maybe you are as stupid as the stories say” he said, probably over-maliciously to the beast; though Eeiys was angry that he had missed a chance to gut the Gods. That chance didn’t manifest itself often.
Eeiys chose not to let on his rejection of the Gods, perhaps this whole quest was his chance to get close, and to rip out the heart of the Necromancer. He hated it when people threatened his Mortal Enduwin. Though, that said, Eeiys was sure that at least some of the assembled group would realise that he was not friendly with the Divines. His name had becomes somewhat well known in Enduwin as of late, almost all of which were tales of evil and malice. They were twisted tales, though. Nevertheless, a good majority of the day’s children would have heard maybe one or two stories of the Godless Exile Knight who goes about the land, desecrating sanctification with no purpose or reason. Somebody would recognise his name, he was sure of it.

Eeiys turned, as though to address everyone at the scene.

“They say he escaped from Ifreann?”

He resheathed his blade.

“The place is little more than a prison for the lost and wretched,”

He turned again, approaching the Farrg, crumpled to the floor, half helping him up, half addressing him directly.

“I intend to show the thing the true meaning of Hell.”

It was over. The dust around him cleared to reveal Ulfar, still standing with his hand on the greatsword’s handle. His blade was impaled into the ground, offering him support so that he may stand through the gust of rubble and rock.

But his back hurt, as if he had been thrown around and landed on his spine, even though he had managed to stand still and brace through the blast wave. He didn’t know where the pain was coming from, as nothing had happened to his back. But it still hurt, and he couldn’t guess why it was until he turned around to see Eila on the ground. Ulfar pulled his blade from the soil and went over to her.

“…Fuaere… abandoned crypt…” Eila was muttering as he helped her up.

“Your back is hurt, I can feel it too.” Ulfar said.

“I know what is happening.” Eila began. “Everyone here must get to Fuaere so that we may- “ Her words were cut off by a gasp of pain as she tried to stand up. She settled on the ground and looked up blankly at Ulfar, who was hardly troubled by the pain they now both felt. “…I’ll stay here for a bit.” She said.

“I heard it too.” Ulfar turned to where the giant beings had appeared. “Whatever this is, we’re not going to get involved.”

“I’m going with them, no matter what.” Eila said. She didn't sound defiant, or even determined. It was as if she was stating a normal fact, and she stared ahead blankly. “But if you wish to stay behind, you may.”

Ulfar looked at everyone around the point. Humans, an orc, a goblin… a dwarf. Some of them seemed tough, while others needed protecting. Some of them didn’t even look trustworthy to begin with. Leaving the girl with them was no option. If anything happened to her, Ulfar would share the same fate. Even now, his own back hurt in correlation to the girl’s. If she died, it was obvious that he would, too.

Eila spoke up again. “That Alunei… her wounds must have re-opened.” Her voice and face both lacked emotion, as usual.

Ulfar noticed it as well. “It’s none of our business.” Then he dropped the bag by Eila.

“Careful.” Eila whispered as the bag hit the ground. But her words were barely loud enough to be heard. Ulfar had already begun walking towards the point. People were converging on the center.

There was murmur around. One man had already crouched over the Farrg, checking for a pulse.

’Can’t believe I’m getting caught up in this mess. Ulfar thought to himself.

To him, it all seemed like the perfect trap for a group of would-be adventurers. The giant beings that had appeared were probably illusory tricks by the old Faarg. It was even more likely that the rest of the group was about to walk into some sort of an ambush. If everyone else was naïve enough to fall for it, it wasn’t up to Ulfar to save anyone but Eila.

“Hoy.” Ulfar called out to the people. “Didn’t you hear what the giants said? Let’s pack up and go already. The world is in danger. ” He ended the last part with a snide puff from his nose.

Alina cringed painfully as she was sprawled out on the ground after getting thrown back by a sudden and powerful force. She hugged herself around her stomach, applying pressure to the bloodied wrapping at her side. It certainly reopened but the alcohol the made poured upon it without a doubt kept it clean. It might hurt like no ones business but there was no fear of any serious damage. After a few moments she weakly pushed herself up to her knees, taking a breath before continuing up onto her feet. She heard from a group of two, male and female that had arrived at the same time that the girls back was hurt. Despite her own injuries she knew she should help. She couldn't use her own healing magic on herself but she could use a little to aid the girl.

She walked, rather limped, over to the still lying girl as the male seemed to leave and check on things in the now pile of rubble. As she arrived at the girls side Alina dropped to her knees rather hard, wincing a little as the impact sent a searing pain out from her side.

"I heard your back was hurt..." She admitted as her soft violet hues looked the girl over carefully, checking for any cuts or signs of injury other than her back. The girl seemed didn't seem to have anything else. "Excuse my touch. But it is the only way to heal you..." She said as she gently pushed the back of her right hand along the dirt and slowly under the girls back, trying not to move her around to move and cause her anymore pain. As her hand found the girls spine she stopped and looked her in the eyes with a reassuring smile.

"I promise this won't hurt. And you will feel better in no time." With that her eyes closed in concentration. Suddenly a gentle warmth would begin to radiate out of her hand and into the girls back, spreading out from the center of her back. Within only a few moments she reopened her eyes yet the warmth remained with the pain within her back seeming no more. She slowly pulled her hand out from under the girls back and leaned back on her ankles where she sat. "How are you feeling now?"

The scene which was quickly unfolding before Charon’s eyes was an interesting one to say the least. How could the champions of the gods be so foolish, he wondered. Fawning over an Alunei, rushing almost like puppy dogs to lick her wounds for her. Picking fights with each other when it should be clear to each and every gathered soul: from this day forward all of their fates have been intertwined. Squabbling is pointless, as even though they may argue how it should be walked, the path laid before each chosen creature leads in but one direction. Caught up in the little picture, such as an aggressive Orc, one fails to see the grand scheme where soon it shall stand upon the corpses of the party’s enemies.

At least the meaningless commotion had distracted from the Keeper’s overly flashy entrance, though it seemed to have bothered the goblin. Charon contemplated an apology but it would seem out of place considering the circumstances… Besides the goblin, only the young Naeri man seemed to pay him any mind. The Keeper nodded to him in acknowledgement of his smile, but otherwise this was how he preferred things to be, only contributing when it’s necessary. Charon had always found it hard to maintain interactions with people, they always seemed so fake and meaningless in the end. Besides, he was here to make sure the cycle of life did not fall apart, making friends was not a priority. For now at least, the crystal-flecked warrior was content to observe; surely there was a lot to take in.

First the Farrg, who appeared to be the only one of them that knew anything substantial already, began his ascent into the bright blue light. Next appeared the seven gods, and their explanation of the group’s task. It all seemed to be going well enough until the Necromancer arrived. His words could not deter the steadfast will of the Keeper however, though the powerful shockwave was another story altogether. Throwing his arms up in front of him did little to protect the lightly armored man against the shards of rock, which battered against him. Leaping backwards, and traveling with the flow of energy allowed him to maintain his balance and let him land on his feet, instead of the ground like many of his companions. Yet before he could even draw his blade, the Orc had thrown his axe and the Necromancer disappeared. Of course. It wouldn’t do to have the story end already; the twisting threads of fate worked in a much grander scheme.

Putting a hand to his face, Charon felt warm, sticky blood on the tips of his fingers from a deep gash alongside his right cheek. “Damn…” The Keeper muttered to himself, “I’ve already got enough scars as it is.” The wound stung badly, but at least it would not hinder him as long as it didn’t become infected. Maybe later he would have to ask the Alunei for some herbs…

“Will someone get this damned pony off me!” A voice called out, returning the Keeper’s thoughts to the present. Brushing off the dust from his robes, Charon looked around for the source of the request. “Not you, shoo Sir Birdsley!” Cried the dwarf, stuck under the weight of his pony.

“It seems you’ve landed yourself in quite the predicament.” Charon said, a little rare humor breaking into his tone as he stepped over towards the small pile of creatures. “Here we go, I’ll lift and you push. Together now, 1, 2, 3!”

Arnack lay under the weight of his trusty pony for what seemed like forever the beast was out cold. He wondered if he’d ever be free of the weight, not only of the pony but of the trust Lasair had placed upon him. They hadn’t even had a chance to fight the Necromancer, how would they ever catch him, let alone kill him. Finally as he pondered the group’s fate a man came to his aid. The one who came from the sky all but unnoticed in the pandemonium.

“It seems you’ve landed yourself in quite the predicament.” The man said, Arnack wasn’t sure if he sensed a little humour in his words. “Here we go, I’ll lift and you push. Together now, 1, 2, 3!” Arnack pushed with all his might, aided by the man, he wriggled free and knelt rubbing his numb legs back to life.

As he did so he observed his saviour who wasn’t actually a human at all. His grizzled features and scars marked him as a warrior, but his skin was dotted with odd flecks of what looked like purple crystals. Arnack wracked his brain trying to remember the lessons he learnt only a year ago, which now seemed so long ago. He struck upon the information after a short time and said, “I thank you Keeper, I did not land in that predicament, it landed on me,” he laughed. Standing he held out his hand once again and said, “Arnack of the Slayers, we fight for much the same thing in different ways.”

Arnack glanced around observing the scene, a few of them had been injured in small ways, the Keeper had a gash on his cheek and a girl he hadn’t noticed before was receiving healing from the bird-woman. The Point of Origin itself looked like it was the site of an explosion. He wondered what all the scholars and holy men would think of such desecration.

The Orc looked on the dark-skinned warrior with hidden bemusement, accepting the axe with little more than a curt nod and a grunt. He placed it back on its thong, though he kept his sword drawn in a low stance.

This one jumps from one mood to the next, as quick to help me as draw on me, he’ll take some getting used to. Norak decided.

After that his confrontation with the knight was far more disappointing. The metal-clad warrior seemed to ignore his decision to postpone their fight, instead berating him for an apparent lack of fear.

“You show your foes fear?” The Orc asked rhetorically, contempt thick in his voice. He spat on the floor before the knight, and moved on without another word. The warrior could question his intelligence if he wished; it seemed he struggled with the very basics of battle-morale, something the Warchief was very familiar with. The Orc recognised his anger, somewhere in his less than brilliant mind; he remembered that he was an exile from a holy order. That probably meant he was no friend of any of the divines which had just approached them.

How disappointing, it is good that I did not seek to fight this one, there would be no glory in it. He summed up the knight Eeiys.

After that, the Orc took the time to survey the remnants of the party which had arrived at the point. The overly flashy warrior who he had noted in his peripheral was aiding the flailing Dwarf beneath his own pony, so the Orc did not move to his aid. The winged woman was healing some other hanger-on, a female of little regard to the Orc. Alongside her was a warrior who seemed reluctant somehow, though also formidable, he gained some respect from the Orc whether he cared for it or not.

The others who may have been around the Point had yet to move, likely too weak to even survive the shockwave which had emenated from the shadowy figure that had attacked them. They immediately earned contempt from the Orc, but his mind was already moving onto more poignant issues.

The Orc ended his brief but more detailed study of his possible companions, and leapt straight to the task at hand. The tall figure, being helped up by the knight, had the answers he needed. The Orc had no idea what the god’s messages had meant, nor where he was supposed to be going. Once he had a direction he could understand, he could get on with it, and have the head of the mage who threatened his homeland.

“How are we to find this crypt?” He asked Shankee, though in truth he was asking anyone in earshot. The gods had been suspiciously lax in details.

The axe left the man’s hand and he turned, the grunt murmured into his back. His hatred for orcs was not one that he tried to hide. It did not matter to Oscar whether they were noble or vicious, he hated them. Whether it made him a racist, he did not know. Nor did he care. They were filthy beasts deserving of the pike.

Rupert nudged Oscar. Oscar moved to his bags and drew out some vegetables from Ju’ra. Orange root, they were called. He handed them over to Rupert’s mouth, who ate them greedily and with a look of “Where’s the rest?” While he rummaged for more food for his companion, Oscar surveyed the scene. The dwarf was back to his feet, his pony starting to come to. Others had arrived as well: a man and a woman. The Alunei was back to her feet. A being he did not know was urging them forward. Where to, though? This crypt wasn’t something that would be easy to find. If it was abandoned, it was for good reason.

Oscar was in the midst of turning toward Shankee when the orc approached and asked the question that was on his mind. Well then, he thought. Finally his hand wrapped around what felt like the head of a lettuce. The shape of it reminded Oscar that he never picked up the bottle of Arcane Nectar. As he handed it off to Rupert, he scanned for the bottle. When he saw it, he immediately went to it. It wasn’t broken. “Thank the nine,” Oscar whispered and kissed the side of the bottle. He brought it back to Rupert and shoved it into his sack.

People were still getting to their feet so Oscar just waited. His eyes went to the Alunei. For a being of a different race and probably a different species all together, she was quite attractive. Her giving nature was already playing at the swordsman’s emotions. He would have to keep an eye out for her. Given his past, he would certainly need her abilities at one point or another. Her side was bleeding into the wrap he made for her earlier. What more could he do though? Oscar’s thoughts lingered on trying to help the woman more, but soon drifted to the woman she was helping and her companion. Where was the goblin? His mind was like a raccoon in a world of shiny objects. His eyes scanned for the little fellow.

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."

The ghoul’s face seemed to crack beneath the orc’s words, lips twitching upon themselves into what resembled a smile. Mizat’s hands rested behind his back, moving as he stared at the orc before him, the action resembling that of wringing the neck of a chicken. “Oh?” The sound came as his fingers cracked invisible bone.
The sound was dry leaving Mizat’s throat, as if it was covered in a fine layer of dust. Swallowing spit before continuing “You shouldn’t throw stones in a glass house, pig” The last word was barely a breath that left his chest, leaving Vrikdarok as he strode into the darkness his master had just occupied.

However as the child peered into the hall, the Necromancer was gone – not a trace of Bawzel was left, not even that heavy presence that seemed to accompany him. Off, somewhere, deep in the belly of this palace of stone and blood Mizat could imagine the Necromancer scheming. That curled up smile, so plastered on his lips softened at the thought.
“Come” The small creature barked, waving with its left for Vrikdarok to follow him deeper into the heart of the Underkeep. He weaved along the wide hallway, seemingly drunk and about to topple over as it peered down each arch it passed. And then the child seemed to have disappeared, the sound of its feet hitting the stone floor the only clue as to which archway it had descended into.

"Careful," the orc hissed. "I eat pigs for breakfast." With that, the shrill whistle that echoed through the halls and outside of the keep found the wolf's ears and it darted in, coming to stand beside Vrikdarok. Its shoulders stood almost as tall as the orc lord did, its shaggy coat thick and hard to penetrate. The ghoul motioned for him to follow and he did. He was damned if he was going to leave his quick escape where it was of no use to him.

The orc hated games. This pint sized creature was toying and playing with him. With his axe still in one hand, the grip tightened. How angry would Bawzel be if he took only a foot or a hand. Maybe the head, which was obviously the most useless part of this shit sized creature. The wolf trotted beside Vrikdarok, his absent hand patting the side of the beast. It was whimpering.

"Calm yourself Ragnarok." The wolf was as uneasy as Vrikdarok. In a snap of his head, the helmet rose from its hinged position on the back of his armor and fell, clasped, over his face. His hand left Ragnarok's side and moved to the back of his cape. He lifted the pelt's head over the helmet, letting it rest, the horns of the helmet finding their slots and sticking out into the air. From beneath the fur covered iron, the glowing pools of crimson scoured the area.

He followed the ghoul's footsteps.

Celabrin rode down into the depths of the mountain which was much to cold and dark for her liking, she saw no reason why those of evil intent could not live under the sun. Maybe it decreased their evilness she mused as she rode over the bridge and round the keep to a side door. She dismounted and handed the reins to an orc on guard, not that guards were really needed. The ugly beast smiled at her and she resisted the urge to disembowel the lecherous beast.

She continued through the keep her bright red dress seemed out of place in a dark dwelling such as this. Her heels clicked on the cold damp floor as she strode towards her rooms. Later she would have to report to her master, but right now she knew he was not here. Finally she reached her suite and walked into a brightly lit room, unlike any other in the keep. It opened to a sitting room lavishly decorated in red and black hues. through another door lay her bed chamber, an immense four poster bed on display through the open door. The last was a plain door looking like that of a cupboard but in reality lead to her workshop.

She went into her bedroom and bathed quickly, washing off the stinking orc smell, then changed into attire more suitable to receive the kind of guests she was expecting, leather chest armour and tight leather leggings with soft orc-skin boots. She returned to the sitting room and went to the hearth where a fire was already roaring, She set a kettle to boil and prepared tea. By the time those she was expecting would arrive she was sitting with a cup of the steaming brew in the chair closest the fire.

That high whistle caught the ghoul’s attention, momentarily slowing down as its head turned to view the whimpering wolf that could to Mizat’s shock and horror easily maul him, perhaps even eat him whole. His gait returned quickly, eyes forward even as he felt some muscles in his face twitch. Some small voice screeched to tell the pig his pet wasn’t allowed but… of course such a creature thought similarly of a ghoul, of course it couldn’t understand the difference. If pigs weren’t good at the whole murdering and pillaging thing it was sure they’d be good for nothing, it earned some begrudging respect though that they could do something.

His fingers curled around cold cast iron, stopping as it listened to the orc and his companion near. One hand quickly left, as if it had forgotten something, knocking hard against the door and listening for any protests. One couldn’t be too careful dealing with a whore. The hand still clutching iron pushed in, letting the shining light within seep into the hall and momentarily blind both the creatures within it. Celabrin seemed to like light a bit too much, Mizat couldn’t recall a visit that didn’t start with his pupils burning. He left the door ajar, walking in at a slow pace as his curled up fists rubbed at his eyes. “I’d take a cup, with honey.” His voice was strained as it sucked in that sweet perfume that filled the room, stinging with each new breath drawn in. The ghoul continued to blink as it made its way toward and into the chair the left of the elven woman, pushing itself up and into the back of it, letting its body sink into the plush. Its toes scraped the floor, feet not quite able to be planted firmly so instead he pushed his knees to his chest, feet now gripping the edge.

The clank of metal rung through the hall beside the scrape of claws and the thump of the giant wolf's steps. Light flooded the corridor in front of the two and the shadowed figure of the ghoul disappeared within. The grotesque face was illuminated by the light for a moment, perfectly exhibiting each stitch of the patchwork, before Mizat dove into the room. They were here to meet Celabrin, a name unfamiliar to the orc. Vrikdarok came to the threshold, his eyes taking a moment to adjust. He blinked several times before entering, axe still in hand. Looking over his shoulder, he spoke to Ragnarok, "Wait."

The wolf fell to it's hind haunches and extended its paws out before it, laying with its body halfway through the door, tail wrapped around to the left of his hind legs. Inside there was an Elven woman drinking tea, wearing leather, and looking quite cozy. The ghoul sat with its legs dangling, looking like the impotent child it was. "I would burn that chair," the orc spoke to Celabrin, his face concealed behind the mask of wolf's fur and iron.

If Vrikdarok found things beautiful, or delved in attraction, the elf would be rather beautiful. But, as it were, neither applied to the lord. She was a bag of bones and guts covered in fair flesh, easily flayed and made into a chew toy for Ragnarok. The orc did not sit, not out of respect for the furniture but because he wasn't certain yet if he was going to have to kill one of them. This was their territory. And, while the two were aligned, until Bawzel made true to his claims, they were still enemies.

Celabrin smiled warmly as the ghoul entered followed by the orc and his wolf who he order to stay by the door. She took in the orcs wolf mask, and red glowing eyes. Quite scary if she was one to scare easily, she could imagine townsfolk fleeing from the very sight of him. Mizat she was more famlilar with, despite his grotesque look he was a child at heart, if he had such a thing. She leaned forward to the kettle over the fire lifting it out her gloves protecting her skin moving over to the coffee table and poured the tea into a cup for Mizat. She then reached over for the honey pot and put a great dolp of it into the cup stirring it with the spoon.

She then handed the cup to Mizat and looked up at the still standing orc, wondering if he was waiting for permission. She smiled sweetly again as she worked her subtle magic on him. "Please take a seat, we're all enemies here," she said gesturing to the seat on the opposite side of the warm fire. "Besides if any of us wanted to kill each other then we would all be dead by now."
She nodded to the wolf at the door, he's welcome too, right by the nice warm fire, no need for a beloved pet to sit outside in the cold." Celabrin sat smiling waiting for the orc to concede to her will, making it clear she wouldn't discuss anything else until he did.

One leg dropped to hang from the chair as the child leaned forward “Thank you” It spoke softly, wrapping both of his hands around the cup before leaning back, crossing its legs as it slumped into the velvet embrace of the chair. His fingers fumbled with the cup, seeming to ignore the other twos introductions. Finally, his left hand held the cup alone and his right began to pull at the fabric wrapped around the creature’s throat, each pull out and downwards showed more of the striking scars stitched upon its skin. “Well” It spoke after a large gulp, letting the honey coat its voice “You two would be dead, not I” Its large grey eyes stared at the two adults before looking back into the amber liquid, seeming to be chuckling to itself.

The orc looked at the chairs, sizing each one up and looking for one that would hold the weight of his armor. While manners were thin among the Orcish, Vrikdarok knew how to use them, especially when threatening a person, "I do want to kill you, miss. I will always want to kill you. But, as we find ourselves and it," Vrikdarok looked to the ghoul with disdain and disgust, "blood must not be shed."

As he walked to a large arm chair with thick legs, he whistled and pointed with his free hand toward the fireplace. Ragnarok rose and stretched before making his way to the soothing flames of the fireplace. He took care to be far enough away that the airborne embers would not char his fur. He turned once and then twice, before collapsing to the floor with a slight thud. He laid his maw over his front legs, his amber orbs washing over the three.

Sitting, Vrikdarok moved his hand to his head, pulling back the hood of the cape and the armored helmet beneath, letting both fall to his back. His face was marked with the scars that Ragnarok delivered, stress lines marking his brow and cheeks. Stubbledd marred his chin and cheeks. The orc leaned forward, the point of his massive axe resting on the floor, his hands on end of the haft. "Enough of your tea and cakes. Why am I here?" Vrikdarok spoke gruffly. Something so sweet as honey smelled horrible to the orc. Perhaps it was because he had never had any. More likely, he was just a sour being with no sense of taste.

“We don’t have cakes” The liquid sloshed as his hand swirled the cup around, seemingly displeased at his own comment. The child sipped slowly,staring at the orc’s features. Scars. Vrikdarok really had a lot of them, probably more hidden under that armor – to Mizat, it could only conclude that scars were a badge that one was alive and had overcome many troubles, that the bearer had received them and won. Though, it had no thoughts on the lines that covered the orc’s face for it itself had none and was likely to never have such a thing. Now, it occurred to him as those grey orbs drifted to the elf to wonder whether she held such a badge.
“It’s a funny concept…” it muttered to itself, sloshing the words down with the last drops of its drink.

Celabrin listened to Vrikdarok as he took a seat and the wolf got comfy, she all but ignored Mizat's side comments although next time there would be cakes, she found it quite funny that Mizat was drinking tea from a known poisoner. She noted that Vridarok did not partake, he was a smart one for an orc. She smiled once again before turning serious and saying. "You're right orc," She moved the tea set off the table and walked into her 'cupboard"'returning a moment later with a map."You and your men are yet untested, That shall change now. Listen well Mizat, Master has ordered you to come too."

She explained to them the mission she had devised over the course of an hour, when she finally finished she asked the pair "Understood?" To Mizat she said, "You can do that right? I'm sure it will be no problem for a master wizard like yourself," grooming his big ego so he would not be mad. Addressing Vridarok she said " Of course we'll need your best men for this, remember we are leaving at dusk tomorrow."

Without giving them time to question her she walked into her cupboard and began preparing the various things she would need for the trip.

It was a long pause after the sound of the door shutting so gently. Mizat sat, staring at the place the woman had just occupied. He sighed, obviously grumpy. This would not be easy. The ghoul was a competent magic user, truly what was asked of him wasn’t too difficult but… at this scale was another story. He could do it, in theory…

His confidence was wavering despite the certainty in his voice “Of course.” He slid from the chair, meeting Vrikdarok’s eyes as he did so “I will see you tomorrow, sleep well.” It turned, making a beeline to that odd cupboard the woman always retreated to.

The ghoul was such a serious fellow when it came to refreshments. If there were cake, it would have been laid out. The orc snorted at his comment and listened to Celabrin as she spoke. When she stood and returned with the maps, he lifted his ass and scooted the chair forward with his free hand. Returning to listening, Vrikdarok nodded along to the plans that were laid out before him, taking into note the strategic points laid out by the map's cartographer. His fingers clasped together over the end of the axe, thinking to himself.

When addressed, he looked to Celabrin. "Very well." As she stood, so did he. There wasn't a doubt in his mind as he turned, lifting the axe and letting it fall onto his shoulder, that he wouldn't be bringing his best men. He would never risk that loss for Bawzel. Not until the spoils of war were in his grasp. Vrikdarok wouldn't even risk his second best men for the necromancer's plan. His third, yes. He looked back to Mizat, snorting again. "Sleep is a cousin of death and I have no time for dying. Even for a night." The orc whistled and Ragnarok, who dozed quietly in the warmth of the fire, awoke and jumped to his paws. They left the room before Vrikdarok clambered up onto the wolf's back and dove into the complex halls of the Underkeep.

When he returned to Vish'Kar, the orc lord called to counsel his commanders. He told them what they needed to know. A party would be coming with him. Each of the fifteen were to choose their three best warriors and send them to the throne room before the dawn's coming. From there, they would return and regroup with Celabrin and Mizat.

Instead of sleeping, Vrikdarok prayed to Dúv until the first hints of red began to clasp the cusp of the horizon.

Of all the... well that could have gone better. Dssialii blinked slowly, and then again and again, trying to get the blood out of his eyes. He was probably likely to be alive, he reasoned, but gosh that was annoying. At least he was reasonably disconnected from what was probably a ton of pain by the magical fog over his every thought.

He finally got enough of the blood flushed out of his eyes for him to get an okay look around. To his right was a rather large chunk of rock, possibly two times him in volume. Alright. To his left was the pleasant rolling hills of the plains, with a few similarly-sized rocks strewn about. Thankfully he seemed to have dodged a concussion, he could remember what happened right up to the point where the pillars around the point had suddenly exploded and one of the particularly-large segments had smashed directly into him, knocking him senseless and apparently bloodying up his head or something... well, somehow getting blood in his eyes.

He grunted as he struggled his way onto his feet, looking over the rock at the rest of the group and snapping his right shoulder back into its socket. Thankfully the rock must not have had that much momentum, he wasn't too far from where he'd been standing before. Didn't look like anyone else had taken a direct hit (yaaaaaaay, the goblin always dies first), and even he had gotten off pretty well, considering that he'd just had a slab of ages-old rock slammed into him. A quick check of himself informed him that there were no serious injuries except for some bruising that was making itself known, the gash on his forehead which was still trying to flood his vision in red, and that dislocated arm. Thank goodness the rock hadn't landed on him, he didn't really want to deal with crushed ribs right then.

Hmmm, well, he was kind of seeing double a little bit, so maybe he had gotten some sort of concussion, but maybe that was just the mage weed. You never did know with such amazing stuff. Didn't matter, anyway, he could see just fine!

Dssialli stumbled his way around the rock (okay, so that was the real image, not that one, got it) and made his way to the rest of the group, trying to get a new krik out of his spine as he came over. With a slightly-doped expression, he called out to anyone who would maybe give him an answer "So, yeah, I got hit by a rock. What happened?"

Jovalyn managed to stumble her way to the circle of stones, only to have her need to strangle Shankee interrupted by the divine glory of the Gods. She was much more enamored with Naduir, who she had always imagined would be more...clothed, would be the word. It was odd the things one would focus on when tottering about on Dwarven ale. Naduir went on about a treacherous champion, which was worrying. Anyone who would willingly take on a group of this magnitude would be dangerous indeed.

When all divinity's left to whatever respective mayfly dimensions Gods dawdle upon in the twilight of eternity, an Eldritch horror of necromantic energies came in to taunt the group. Tyranical and terrible, Bawzel shattered the stones and sent the already dizzy Jovalyn through the air, far off and rolling upon the ground on impact, only to be pettled with several hard stones. She covered her face and brought her legs to her chest. Once the pillar shards stopped trying to kill her, Jovalyn proceeded to roll push her bruised body onto her knees and vomit everything she'd eaten or drank in the past few hours, which was mostly alcohol and some form of native bird. She rubbed all over her face, smearing blood over a gash on her forehead.

The ground warbled and groaned. She looked at her hands, which seemed to be functioning even though there were about six of them at the moment. With more blood on them than was usual. Curiouser and curiouser. Stumbling onto her legs, all three of them, she held onto her stomach and was pleased to find all of her belongings were still strapped along. Besides for her eight spears, which seemed to have landed next to her point first. Luck was at least on her side, for the moment. The concussion certainly wasn't, which she finally realized she had.

Bloodied, bruised, and delirious, she walked over to Shankee and asked a question not dissimilar to the Orcs. “Crypt.” After a brief moment of consideration, she was pretty sure the Goblin would make a good meal if they ever ran out of food.

Adventure In Earnest

At first the world was white. Everything all around him was nothing but white. Yet, it wasn’t a soft white, it was a harsh blinding fullness of colour. It washed over him and into his pupils burning them. Suddenly though, it was the opposite. All the storyteller experience for what felt like the longest time was utter darkness. Devoid of all light he almost wished the searing whiteness would come back. Maybe it had caused the darkness, maybe he would never see again. Shankee remained motionless almost afraid to move. Time had no meaning, he could have been there several seconds or several cycles, he had no way of knowing. No way, until the darkness began to be pierced ever so slightly. It was as if a curtain was being drawn ever so slowly; ‘no’ he thought, it was more like the walls of a darkened room were crumbling. Eventually, surely, the wall broke and sight returned to the old Farrg.

At first all he saw were the tufts of grass. It took him a moment to realise he was lying on his side, in a bit of a heap in the hollow. The words of the gods still rang through in his head; as did those of the Necromancer. It was the Crypt Of Giants of which they had spoken he was sure.
Rising to his feet a little unsteadily he turned and faced the gathered travellers again. Among them he saw an orc, a goblin, a dwarf, a witch, an alunei and a Northern knight, among other hardy looking men. It was quite the ensemble of would-be-heroes. Taking it all in, Shankee suddenly got a little flustered. The artefact! Time was of the essence.
“Come now. Enough dilly-dallying.” He proclaimed, probably looking a bit silly shaking his staff about at them. Wasting no more precious time he immediately began to stride away in a generally north-easterly direction.
Exclaiming as he walked “We venture to were giants lay!” sounding a little excited by the prospect.
Iron End is a days march north, we should gather supplies there first. Well those of us that actually go.”
The old bard and wizard seemed extremely nonchalant about the whole affair, and was internally hoping to infect the rest of the group with his obtusely good mood.

*********************************

“I’m glad we understand each other.”
The words slipped from Bawzel’s tongue and floated along the air to Sariloth. Nodding at the massive, now undead, dragon, Bawzel trained his attention on other matters and began walking across the expansive stone arch that served as the Underkeep’s drawbridge.

Inside he summoned Celabrin and Mizat, anxious to hear the report of their meeting with Vrikdarok.

For this group, the Old Orc knew he could be no leader. For an Orc warband maybe, but his time had passed long ago, he had let it go. That was why without as much as a question he simply upped and followed the wizard when he regained his senses suddenly and muttered something about their destination.

However when he told the group about seeking supplies in a nearby town called Iron End the Orc knew he would be unfit for the task. His refusal was a simple shake of his head. He was more than fit to carry out a long journey with his current equipment including the sword he sheathed, for it became apparent he wasn’t going to need it. However, the hulking Orc was unlikely to be greeted any better in town than he had with the party, likely far worse, which would do their party no favours to say the least.

Still, it was a day’s march according to the strange thin man, which was likely in pitiful human terms but regardless, time for him to think on matters before any action was required. Unique to most Orcs, Norak relished some moments of tranquillity before battle was to be joined.

Collab with Melon

Eeiys had been surprised to say the least at the unusually youthful energy of the Farrg who had been at the center of the Point before it was obliterated by the Necromantic Assailant. He had simply hopped up, shaking free of Eeiys' attempt to help him up and trotted of in a North Easterly direction, headed to a small town by the name of Iron's End. The Knight had never heard of it, then again it would have been impossible to have visitied every town in Enduwin. It was too big of a world. The one thing that had caught his attention, however, was the Orc. A rather brusque beast who clearly had a fight to pick with several of those gathered. He wanted to question the creature, though he was sure that such forward actions would probably result in crossed blades. Nevertheless, he strode onwards to the side of the creature who was following the Farrg with powerful, focused steps.
Eeiys looked to his left ever so slightly, walking briskly to keep up with the far longer strides of the Orc Warlord.

"You didn't come to save the world, I don't feel that that is your style or intent. You came for a life, didn't you?" he asked.

Norak turned and sniffed once, while regarding the Human with a dark stare the like of which only an Orc can manage.

"I came for your head. Your bounty is worth more to me than your life, such as it is." The Orc replied, not even attempting to soften the fact that he had indeed come to kill the human warrior.

The Orc was to the point, which, even if Eeiys didn't like the beast, he could respect well enough. It certainly made a change from the superflouous ramblings of many of the others he had seen thus far.

"So, would you do me the kindess to tell me who sent you? And why you really came? An Orc your size has no need for gold. Why are you really here?" he retorted.

"You think any warband wants gold? We kill for the bloodlust, and other reasons." He replied shortly. "As for who sent me, many want you dead human, you must be a worthy warrior."

Eeiys shook his head a little, exhaling a blast of air from his nose in a slightly more forceful manner than normal.

"So why do you think I was singled out as your target? Many people want me dead, I know. Have you ever asked yourself why?"

"There are pictures with faces, I have many in this bag." He nodded backwards. "An Orc told me you were here, so I sought you out, the others will die later." He shrugged. "Why ask why? Only the kill matters to me."

"Merely curious. I find it odd that the one who sent you would not tell you about your quarry. Typical Orc, not looking into the thing which may be his downfall. I can tell you now, you were sent here because others before you have failed, and many after you will fail. Orc, I will tell you now that you were sent for my head on a vain quest for glory because you cannot kill me."

The Orc looked at the wizard some distance still ahead, and the others around, his fingers flexing as his body flushed with a familiar feeling. With a grim determination, he clamped down on the adrenaline and the blood lust immediately sparked up by the upstart's challenge.

"Maybe we will still see." Was all the Orc said in reply, spitting at the ground close to the human's feet.

Eeiys did a playful step to the right, maintaining a little distance from the small projectile of saliva that the Orc had so angrily spewed at him.

"You wont kill me by spitting at me, you know. I don't know which Humans you have put down before you came here, but I won't be killed so easily," Eeiys laughed a little at his own wit, despite the innapropriate timing.
"If you knew any more about me than just my name, you would not be here. So yes, maybe we will see. I always like to see how long Orcs can survive before their own blunders damn them,"

"I'm sure you've seen many Orcs hiding in your snowy little fortress." The Orc spat, finally overcome with anger to the point where he let slip more than he wanted to.

"Yes! Absolutely! Look at me hiding in my snowy little fortress. By which, I assume you refer to the Citadel of Winter? You think i'm associated with those God-shaggers and Ritual fucks? You have not been told enough about me. I almost feel sorry for you, your little fits of anger... your tantrums. All Orcs are the same, overconfident and relying on bellicose insults to strike fear into the hearts of your foes."

"I think you were so weak you had to run from them, and now they're pining for your ugly head." The Orc replied, though his voice did not betray much in the way of anger now, he refused to let anymore than the one piece of information slip.

"Weak to run from behind the lines of an entire army? If you think anybody would have been strong to stand against that, then you truly don't know how battle works. Nothing can stand up to that many and live. Not you, and not I,"

"Better to die than live a coward, though no human would know that, your blood is as thin as your courage." The Orc bit back.

"Better to live for a purpose, than die for nothing," Eeiys responded calmly. He could tell the Orc was getting a little more frustrated by the absurdity of his replies, but he found a twisted enjoyment in seeing what made the Warlord tick.
"But is that what Orcs like to do? Die for nothing?"

"My name will be remembered, human, yours has been dragged through shit by those you once trusted, you will be the one who dies for nothing." The Orc finished, happy to let the human get the last word in if he wished. The brief conversation had been more than enough to increase his suspicions of the knight's own motives for being with the group, considering he had let slip that he hated the gods.

"Maybe for a generation, or two. If you're lucky. You'll be remembered right until another 'Unbeatable Orc' comes along, and your name will be lost to the wind. Your warband will die, their children will die, and all you will have ever acheived would have been a little bit of intangible glory. That isn't what it is to be remembered, Orc. That is to simply exist as a fading memory. The slander of the Winter Knights is temporary, simple cries of frustration by an Order who promote evil and wrongdoing, but I will not be forgotten. By the time we are finished here, the world will have changed forever. For better, or worse. You can either stand against the change, or with it; but if your sword comes across mine, i'll bury it in your neck, and we will see how long the Orcs remember you, dying in the mud, choking on your own blood,"

Norak simply grunted, hardly showing any response as he had returned to looking forward even as the human began his long tirade. Woman's words the Orc thought silently, knowing he had made an enemy on this quest amongst their very party, and reveling in the challenge. Eeiys however, emptied his thoughts and hurried onwards, making an attempt to catch up with the Farrg. he wanted to know all he could about the nature of their quest if he was to put an end to the age of the Gods. At least now he knew why the Orc was there.

When Sam had initially seen the Gods all he could focus on was Naduir, that she-demon, mother-nature, being of everything he stood for. So it was no surprise to him when she stayed behind to warn them, he was actually sorta already thinking something seemed off when she said it. He went to say something to her but she disappeared and she was replaced with a being of almost total opposition to her, a necromancer. Sam's stomach boiled with rage against the death enchanter as he gave his spectacle with the rocks.

Sam saw it coming and wasn't knocked back like a ragdoll from the explosion, instead he was knocked backwards into a series of backflips that he used to keep himself from being... slammed into the ground like almost everyone else. He was successful in the first several flips but the force was strong enough he couldn't keep track long enough and he ended up falling on his back. He'd laugh if the situation wasn't so serious.

He sat up to see the tail-end of the spectacle with the dragon. Such a majestic creature killed in such a horrible manner... Sam's stomach boiled again, this time with sickness from the stench of rot and the soup of alcohol he had ingested from that dwarf. He moved forward onto his knees and wretched for a moment, ignoring the "aftermath" and the party-members around him.

What did he care anyway? Since when did a Naeri rogue care about a party of adventurers?

Since Naduir called him, that's right.

The door of the place clicked behind him, leaning on the smooth wood as he took in the room and its contents. The ghoul seemed to ignore who it was intruding on as it investigated the plants, rubbing leaves between fingers and sniffing. It appeared Mizat knew what he was doing and looking for, which he did… kind of. Not really. Textbook knowledge and pictures didn't live up to their real world counterparts. The only plants he had familiarity with would simply not do for what was needed.

Celabrin looked up from her desk as the ghoul entered. She eyed him curiously wondering why he was in here, he knew this room was off limits to everyone, except maybe Bawzel but even then she wouldn't be comfortable with it. Unable to tolerate it any longer she blurted out "Mizat, what in Ifreann are you doing!" She noticed the plant he was smelling had the potency to kill in its raw form and hoped it would have an effect on the little brat.

He sniffed at the oddly bright, purple hued leaves suddenly feeling like he was breathing in embers His head felt as if a pressure was building. That pressure popped with Celabrin’s shout, startling the little ghoul enough to produce a jump and a small noise that may have announced possible heart failure.

“Don’t shout!” It barked in return, rubbing its temples. “I am trying to find things…” His fingers left his head, hands dangling by its side as its guard dropped “I need your help” Those grey orbs refused to meet Celabrin, staring at the plants as if suddenly what he sought would jump out at him. Its neck snapped, eyes glaring “I just can’t find anything in this mess of yours”

Celabrin stood up covering up the concoction she was working on with a cloth. She listened to Mizat's frustrated words. "Why do you need something from in here?" she asked him letting annoyance colour her words placing a hand on her hip. "It's not a mess you just have to know what to touch and what not to!" She said with growing anger, nobody was allowed in this room.

He backed slowly, fear taking root in the pit of his stomach. This was quickly wilting into a bad idea; while she could not kill the ghoul Celabrin had more than enough knowledge and power to make it quickly think death would be far sweeter.

“You have the best supply of plants in all of the Underkeep; you’re the only one I’d think would have what I’ll need for tomorrow…” He was quickly shrinking like a violet under her boiling anger, hitting the door of the room with its back finding nowhere left to run. “Master makes it look easy” It began, really wishing it was not in the position to admit its shortcomings “But, I’ll need help. I’ve never done this before, not quite like this. I think I can get it down but…” It was essentially rambling, voice quickening as its fingers danced against its thigh.
Words dying and being replaced by a strange humming for several long moments. “I’ll need a lot more magic…”

Celabrin considered his words for a short while, they could not ask Bawzel, he had trusted them with this, and they had no time to walk. She turned away for a second and uttered a few words under her breath. When she turned around she was someone else, with long blonde hair and blue eyes wearing a yellow dress. "You forget I have magic too, little one." She waved her hand and was herself again, "With a little practice you could channel my raw mana and use it to fuel the spell."

The small one watched like a kitten, curiosity taking the better of him as he listened to those muttered words- undecipherable but the purpose was obvious enough as he spotted the blonde locks and bright blue eyes. "I didn't know you needed incantations for magic, Celabrin" The thing grinned, smirked truly as it soaked in that fact. It could be considered a talent, how easily the child became smug.
It leaned lazily against the smooth door, considering her next words for a moment "That... could very well work." Mizat hadn't thought of that, channeling magic, master had even done it before but the idea had never crossed its mind. It should have, really, thought of such a thing.

She reached up for a bunch of herbs with spiky leaves left to dry hanging down from the roof, 'I can also make something from this, it will restore your energy for a while but once it wears off, well to be honest I'm not sure what it will do to you, but to anybody else they'd have to sleep for three days nearly comatose," She told him, if made wrong it could be deadly, but for her it would be easy to get the right mix.

It went silent. Staring blankly at the herbs she clutched. It finally spoke with hopeless words "You have not even a hunch at what it will do to me?”. In the silence after its question it still stared at the strange leaves as if deep in thought, not of the upcoming events but something entirely different. It took a deep long breath, breaking its gaze on the plant and back to the holder "Make it, it could be useful”.

It stepped from the door, walking to the Halfling's side as it spoke “Let’s practice; faster we get this done the quicker we can…” Mizat trailed off, turning slightly to stare at the door. He turned back, confused but continued “Quicker we can-“

“Lady Celabrian! Bawzel requests you immediately” Some Faarg banged against the woman’s outer door, staring into the lavish setup and peering at the maps sprawled out upon the low table.

Cela was mentally preparing her mind for another to use her magic, it was much like losing control and that was the one thing she never did easily. Not since the day she left her father's home. The interruption was the last thing she wanted. "Go tell him we shall be there soon, and run he hates late news." She said moving to her sitting room the Farrgs eyes narrowed and he turned tail and ran, her magic and fear of their master urging him on. Not for the first time she mused Bawzel's pawns were too easy to manipulate, the fear of him doing most of the work for her.

"Well," she said to the ghoul, "No time like the present." She extended her hand to him symbolic of her accepting his control, if only for a few moments. "Let's test this out, take us to our master."

It placed its slight hand into hers, fingers curling around her palm and held it in a weak grip. “If we’re lucky, we’ll be there before that lackey” It mused out the thought, closing its eyelids as it let out a long breath.
He breathed in and out, slowly for a long time, each rising of its chest more of that warmth soaked into its own flesh. Each bit of warmth it shaped in its mind, the shape leaving and turning his flesh cold as the threads of magic danced about seeming to search for something before encircling the pair. The golden threads tightened around, pushing into both of their flesh daring to let crimson flow but they fell to the floor before that point, tearing apart and fading.

The ghoul shook, like a dog after a bath before catching the white glimpse of Bawzel’s mask.

She felt the slight drain on her energy from the ghouls' spell and forced back the fear that threatened to overwhelm her. As soon as the spell was over she tore her hand away from Mizat as if it burnt. She quickly regained her composure and smilled at the farrg who was just arriving, his chest heaving. "Something to tell our master, young man?" she said to him with a cruel smile knowing what Bawzel would gladly do to him.