[IC] Redemption: Shadows of Esarion

[Gowi]

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[Gowi]

At the bottom of The Hollows was what the remnants of humanity called The Pit, a long since abandoned chamber that had drawn much darkness due to the nature of its existence as a desperate domain to revitalize the efforts of humanity’s survival and to refuse the fate of their now accursed existence. It was true, of course, that the apocalypse that they called the Inalienable Dreamless had damned humanity to a fate that was worse than death as harrowing monsters and vile demons now roamed the world before them with a hunger for destruction that could not be sated. But how far would humanity’s desperation take them? The answer lied in what remained in The Hollows’ darkest corners and deepest chambers. However, humanity’s darkest hour was not the only thing that existed in this well of sorrow, this pit of lost souls— for it was here on this day that the gods would look back upon humanity and in the mounds of corpses, pools of blood, and stench of decay that seven would reawaken as their lips once again gasped for air as the flinching pain of the death they had been absolved from would be their last clear memory.

The first to awaken had hair of pink and sapphire of eyes, her body face down in a pool of crimson. Only moments ago had she been lifeless as she laid in an everlasting purgatorial state— as she had for some amount of years. Her fists clenched in the shallow pool, grasping onto the debris of cracked stone that lied underneath, her body shaking painfully before she rose her head out of the pool in a painful gasp as the crimson water came flooding out of her lungs.

What?

The girl continued to cough for some amount of minutes as her eyes widened, her body adjusting to its sudden revitalization considering the last thing that was felt was the battering of an enemy’s maul and the pressure of a metal-entrenched boot upon the neck as blood filled her lungs. The pink-haired girl remembered drowning, choking… and the blackness of death. But as her senses came back to her, painful as they were there was one thing she knew even in the haze of pain and confusion— this place was nothing like the one she remembered losing her life upon. A death that to her felt like seconds ago.

…this isn’t right.

Before she could compose herself any further the sound of six succeeding gasps and murmurs of pain could be heard from all across the bottom of the chamber-like pit she had awoken within. A frown forming on her lip as she clumsily made to her feet, instinctively grabbing for a now missing bow in nervous anxiety.

Where am I? What happened to my bow? The battlefield I was on? Who dragged me here? Why?

She didn’t know what was going on. All she knew was that the chamber smelled like rot, looked abhorrent, and felt wrong.

Her eyes shot down to that of a rusted sword that laid in the blood and filth-entrenched pool of water. She was little good with a sword, but she was trained in it as far as she could recall; if the shuffle of others in this abhorrent place was precedent of a battle to occur than she needed to at least be able to defend herself from harm. She may of have been an archer first and all things second, but she couldn’t be choosy considering what little she remembered and where upon she had awakened.

Damnation. It's better than nothing.

She swiped the sword from the pool as she walked backward— back against the wall.

By Lyriel's blessing, what is going on?

[Zeroth]

XEGA

”Wh-why…? Why here? I was not meant...not here...I can’t...die…”

Pale, thin hands grasped futilely at the haft of the spear sticking out of his chest. Even touching it sent waves of pain through him. He vomited, his own blood. Suddenly he was on the ground--why weren’t his legs working? Everything...was...cold...and…

Cracked lips parted and drew breath. Lungs that had atrophied, shriveled, suddenly began to inflate again, their long dried flesh somehow filled with life giving blood again, their veins beginning to swell. A heart beat, forcing new life through the mummified tissues like squeezing water through a dry-rotted hose. Violent coughing, a body jerking in agony as muscles unused for who knew how long were forced to spasm and stretch. A scream. A sucking chest wound began to exhale as it pushed out a rusty spearhead. The corroded metal clattered to the ground.

Xega opened his eyes, blue sparks dancing through them.

He suddenly jerked up, as if from a dream. As he did so, the corpses he was lying underneath rolled away, further down the pile, until they landed with a splash in a pool of fetid, blood-hued fluid. Was it water, stained by the blood of the corpses? Or something else, dripping and flowing from some ungodly creature’s lair?

“...How?” He opened and closed his fingers, felt his arms. He had been dead. He knew it. He had been dead, and yet now he was not. Now his wounds were gone and he was alive and he could breathe. He did so now, a deep, shuddering breath. He looked around the room, taking everything in.

Piles of corpses. Stone floors...some unspeakable, nameless mass of flesh suspended from up high. A tower of some sort. Stairs, a walkway. Braziers...still burning. Who was here?

Movement, near the wall. He snapped his head around, holding up one hand...a woman, with a sword. Pink hair. Small of frame, but something about the way she stood with the rusty implement that spoke of training. Fear and confusion in her face.

“Who are you?” he spoke, pushing on the corpses below himself to stand up. His voice carried a tone of superiority, despite his uncertainty--for indeed, if anything was certain, it was that he, Xega, had already apparently trumped Death once, and that he would not be cowed by fear of the unknown, not on his pride as a researcher. “What is this place?” He almost stumbled as he made his way down the pile, his robes--now tattered and torn--catching on a limb and his feet unsteady on the pliant, dead flesh of others. But soon he stood on solid ground--his legs shook, but he hid it with a sweep of his cape--and faced the woman. He waited for her to answer, his eyes casting further glances about the room. Where was his staff? His foci? Their protective runes should have kept robbers from them, and they had been with him when he fell...

[ClocktowerEchos]

EDORIC

Edoric jolted awake, something had stirred him from his deathly slumber. He went to take his first breath, only to be met with a lung full of... blood?

After suffocating on his own vomit as he violetnly wriggled like a fish on land, he managed to maneuver himself onto his knees where he could properly clear his lungs. He stared at the pool of red that had formed under him, how his salvia had mixed with the crimson liquid to form blood trails that still hung on his cracked lips like red spider webs.

He could feel his eyes dialting in and out as they got used to being of use once more and slowly brought the man into the persepctive of his world. And boy was it not pretty.

First thing Edoric noticed was the pile of bodies laying before him, all hallowed and emanciated with faces carved of suffering and agony. Edoric wanted to vomit it again, but this time only a thin trickle of blood dribbled out, followed by bitter bile that he forced himself to swallow.

As his breathing increased and his heart began to kickstart itself, he could feel him hands grasping at the cold, hard stone floor to try and pull his legs free from the mount of pained corpses whose outstretched, boney arms begged for Edoric's assistance. Giving in, he pulled his leg free and reflectively kicked one of the arms he thought was still moving towards him; a sickening crunch followed as the marrow and bone broke and toppled over in a way that no arm should, the sinew to weak to hold on to the broken limb.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to cry.

He wanted to curl up and bawl empty tears like he was a child again.

But yet, he didn't. He held on to his mind (and probably his sanity) with all dear hope he could muster out, shutting his eyes as to try and end this horrid vision of death and decay as if it was all some bad dream and he'd wake up on a nice comfy bed soon enough.

But there was no bed, for twas no dream.

Twas a nightmare.

O-o-oh ka-ka-kayyy... ju-just ke-e-epppp k-kk-kalm um-umm... e-er-er... E-Edward? N-noe... Eb-Ebadlian? N-n-no...

Edoric racked his dusty, decripet mind for his own name as the tried to shut out the sights and smells around him, but the stentch of death and rot was overbearing and caused him to gag on his own breath before coming to his name.

E-Ed-Edoric w-w-w-was itttt? Y-yes... T-twas m-my na-nam-me... I-I-I th-thinnnk?

With his namely firmly in tow, the man began to fill in some of the other holes he had.

He was Edoric of a family name he couldn't recall, a merchant of sorts from Zeal? No, Sith. Nonono, that also wans't right. It was Sikth, ahhh yes, that was the place. He had wandered from place to place to trade and deal in goods... maybe with comrades? Or was he always alone?

Clasping his hands on to his shaking head, the ringing and clinging of chains heralded his hearing back into the world. Slowly, he lowered his hand unto his vision.

Chains?

Edoric shook them once.

They jangled.

He shook them again.

They danced to a rusted tune.

The chains were real alright, a quick look down revealed that there were more chains around his ankles, or, what used to be chains. It seemed like at some point the links broke away, granting him freedom of access but Edoric couldn't remember why he had chains on him to begin with.

Then soemthind drew his hand to his neck.

He swallowed hard as his shaky hand traced a long, wicked, gnarly scar on his neck with a horrified finger.

W-w-what the h-hell ha-happened? Wha did I dew-

...

Wh-wha? Th-th-this i-is...?

Edoric looked up.

His bleached skin went white once more as the image of... of... a thing be burned into his eyes.

It was like a giant, cancerous intestine. Its buldging mass barely contained by the chains, hooks and pipes that pierced it and held it alof. Glowing tumors on its underside seemed to... breath as if they were alive, a faint howling of some wind through the flayed flesh sounded like it was howling in pain at the many cuts, gashes and laceration all over it. Some of which had spilled... something on to Edoric.

He shivered with fear and disgust as it slide down his back, it was like blood... but ch-chuunkier... and g-g-gl-loopier... and s-s-s-s-slimierrrr... and... mon-mo-mo-m-monstrous...

*CRACK*

Edoric finally broke as his breathing of the dead air filled his undead lungs as his panicked hyperventaliation forced its way past his gag reflex.

Grabbing his head and curling up, rocking back and forth, Edoric screamed.

_{AAAaaAAHHHAhhhHHhhhAAaaaHhHhhaAaaAAAAAA!!!!!!!}

[Zamokra41]

LYANNA

Laughter….it was laughter that she last heard. It started as a low cackling and escalated to an all-out bellow. The feeling of her body becoming numb as a solid blade made it’s way through her, rending flesh and breaking bone, struggling to be removed. Laughter, that loud…maniacal laughter was always present as her vision began to blacken. Yet…before all life would leave her as she knew, that laughter…changed? It sounded more erratic…twisting into…into…sobs? Finally it did not matter. The darkness had taken her and the world around was swallowed by the darkness clouding her vision…and then…

She heard a scream.

This scream jolted her senses awake. A gasp escaped her, only to be replaced by a coughing fit as the old, stale fluid evacuated her nearly-shriveled lungs. She struggled to get up, her vision blurry and a ringing sound in her ears. In the end she only managed to get on all fours, leaning on her elbows as she continued to cough, the rotten red fluid escaping through her mouth and nostrils as she gasped for air. It took a bit for her vision to clear, ever-so-slightly, just enough to paint a picture of her environment. A horrific place…

‘By all the Gods!’

Another gasp escaped her along with those thoughts. She was on her knees, glancing around at this place she found herself into. A dark place with barely enough light to see, the ground was humid with a mucky fluid of a sickly, red coloration. It’s consistency made it clear it was…something other than water. Around her were nothing but old, lifeless bodies, all shriveled up and in mid decomposition. This was a place where no life was welcome as not even maggots seem to thrive on the bountiful piles of corpses around. Instinctively she gazed upwards, her colorless eyes widening in horror as she saw…she couldn’t even describe what it was. Some sort of gigantic, fleshy monstrosity, pulsating and dangling from the celling by a number of great chains and hooks that perforated its bulbous surface. The mucky fluid seem to originate from this…thing, cascading from a few places where it appeared that the hooks caused too large of a gash. The mere vision of such an abomination was enough to break one’s mind.

She could feel her body shaking as she just stood there, her gaze affixed to that creature, unable to move. A whimper nearly escaped her as another coughing fit snapped her back to her senses. Still alarmed at the sight of that.. thing, she struggled to rise to her feet. The sloshy surface did not make it easy and the still semi-numb feeling in her muscles only made it that much harder. She struggled to hold her balance, damn it all, it felt like her muscles atrophied due to a prolonged time of inactivity. The familiar weight of her armor also weighed on her, yet this burden came with an odd sensation of comfort, the comfort of something she was well accustomed to. Her left side felt much heavier, upon looking she could see that it was not only due to the gross lack of armoring on her right arm but it was also because her left hand was tightly grasping at a battered shield. The shadow of a smile creeped on her face, it felt oddly comforting to know that she held on to her all-familiar shield even…even in..
It hit her.

Her mind raced, struggling to recall the last moments before she blacked out. A shiver ran down her spine and her knees began to tremble as she came to the same conclusion.

She, Lyanna, had died. Worse even, she found herself in such a…horrific place.

Was this the after-life? Was this the place where wicked souls came and awaited punishment? No..No.. this could not be….Could it?

A scream snapped her once again to reality. It was the same scream that she heard when she awoke. She quickly turned her head, trying to distinguish the source, barley making out what looked like someone curled up with their hands on their head. Numb or not, her instincts kicked in, forcing her to run with heavy feet, her armor, or what was left of it, clanking as she strode through the muddy fluid and past a number of corpses lying around. She reached the person, making out their features more clearly. It was a man, with messy, yet bright, hair. His attire may have once been of fine make but just like their owner they were now worse for wear, a series of shackles around his wrists and ankles completed his visage. With a firm hand, Lyanna shook the man, forcing him to turn and face her.

“Calm yourself, sir. This is no time to lose your head, get up!”

The tone and the words came out by sheer instinct. She spoke like some sort of soldier… Ah, yes… That’s right. She was a soldier…of some kind. From…from Badarium…right? Yes…yes. Her name was Lyanna and she was a soldier…a guard! A guard of Badarium. Memories slowly came back to her, piece by piece. Yet there was still much left in the fog. For now, she was content with knowing who she was and…how she apparently died.

Her gazed turned to her vicinity. She was not alone. A few corpses from a nearby pile had toppled down in the messy puddle of red fluid. There was someone else there…yet who…or what? Fearing the worst, Lyanna reached for her sword, a sensation of relief washed over her as she felt the handle on her side…yet it was followed by disappointment when she discovered that the sword was utterly broken in half. Ugh…no matter, it was better than fighting empty handed and she still had her shield. Stepping between the unknown presence nearby and the frightened man behind her, Lyanna adopted a defensive battle stance and bellowed.

“Whoever is there, show thyself! Now!”

[Mcmolly]

Frei

Frei could not fathom a sorrow so profound as what plagued the face of the man before her. He was young, frail, and even though she was kneeling he only just managed to level his ghostly eyes with hers. Through all of her questions she found herself most wanting to ask him what was wrong, if he needed help, but found her throat wound tight and unwilling to comply.

He brushed long, oaken hair from his face, revealing tear-streaked cheeks that brought to her attention the fact that hers were wet as well. Before she could ask why they were crying, he spoke, his voice a match to his weak, mournful being.

He said: ”I loved you, Frei,” and though she couldn’t understand why, she felt her heart shatter.

But a roar caught her attention, not of a beast, but of men. She looked aside in the uncertain void, and saw hundreds and hundreds of people, all faceless yet their hateful eyes tore holes in her. Their cheers and screams were horrid amalgamations of man and woman, child and elder, and she felt a deep fear take root within her. She wanted to run, but was given no time. Her hands were bound tight by the wrists, the constriction at her throat became a tether that would not let her move from the stage she could not see but nonetheless knew she stood upon.

Then at last, she was falling.

She awoke to screaming, not her own, not the voice of the young man nor any of the crowd, but new and distinct. Vaguely she could hear voices elsewhere around, but they were drowned out by the yelling, which itself took a step behind her own bewilderment.

First she took a breath, funneled in steady if slight streams of air that alone were enough to make her aware of her surroundings. She was on her back at an incline, upon what she wasn’t sure, but staring up she was far more concerned with what was hanging above. The thing was a terror, alive or inanimate, with its pulsing, shuddering form hung from hooks by stretched flesh.

The instinct to run once again took hold, but where in the void she was barred by unseen tethers, in the waking world her restraints were much more visceral. Merely trying to sit up sent aches shooting up her spine, as though it were crooked and struggling to realign itself. Her whole body felt heavy, which, upon glancing at the armor encasing her from the neck down, made sense, though it didn’t lend any comfort to the soreness in her joints. There was a brief, albeit sharp pain centered on her chest, but it was washed over by the sudden panic of suffocation.

It quickly became apparent that the air she’d taken in moments ago had done well in bringing her back to her senses, but was not nearly enough to sustain her freshly heaving diaphragm. Without the energy yet to sit up, she instead managed to roll herself onto her stomach, coming to face with the cold, clammy tangle of limbs that had been her rest. It was a shock, but one she pushed into the back of her mind with the others. Her boots found purchase in the pile of bodies, enough to brace herself so that her hands were free to work at her neck. At first she thought the armor might be dented in on her, but her fingers looped not around metal, but rope. Desperately she yanked at it front and side to no avail, hand sliding further and further back until they found the series of knots holding it together. It was then her body got away from her, distancing itself from her hysterical mind and acting off of muscle memory. With practiced expertise she could only hope to remember long enough to question, she slackened the hold on her throat, just enough to allow for a full, proper gasp.

For a moment she let herself relax, gulping down air mindless to its fetid stench and sour taste. She kept her eyes shut tight, both from exhaustion and the desire not to see the morbid mound beneath her as her brief respite came to a close. She knew, whatever was happening, that she couldn’t stay put, and more importantly that someone else in here with her needed help.

Shakily she got to her feet, and felt an added weight on her side. She saw a sword in its sheath, dangling from her belt by a single, fraying leather strap. It didn’t take much effort to tear it off, and when she did she found with some relief that the weapon wasn’t very heavy at all. In fact with its weight she doubted much above the guard was present, but an inch or two of steel was better than no steel at all.

That said, she didn’t draw it, and instead opted to wind the leather strap round the guard and sheath to keep it shut. If there was someone else down here with her, she didn’t want to approach them bearing a blade.

The voices nearby picked up again, and over the crest of bodies she thought she could just make out the top of someone’s head. Surely they might catch a glimpse of her as well, looking around at the corpses Frei saw she was far and away taller than most of them. Knowing she wasn’t alone was a relief to say the least, but before her own comfort she had to ensure theirs, or at least their safety.

”Hel–” a violent crack and cough crippled her voice and sent her to a knee. She retched up a vile liquid, but spared it only a moment’s concern before pushing herself back up. There was no more time to be slow, hers was not the only life in danger.

”Hello?” she called, pleased to hear her voice was strong and unhindered. ”I’m coming over! Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you, I promise!”

With that she started an uneven but certain journey over the dead, making her way towards what she was beginning to know as others, plural. Good, there was safety in numbers, solidarity that could get them all out of here alive. Or at least, as close to alive as could be.

It was not a matter she wished to address for the time being.

[Gowi]

Who am I? Where am I?

The pink-haired woman's brows narrowed as she kept the sword in a defensive position, unflinching in her resolve due to the fact her encounter in this pit could turn out badly. She knew not of this man or the others that were awakening nor their intentions, so there was no way to know who was friend or foe. She took a light breath as the man approached her as others continued to shuffle out of the pile of corpses across the stone floor; the man looked in her direction with a concerning look before calling out to her with questions that were issued like demands; a sentiment that she felt was familiar to her for reasons she could barely recall. As for his questions, from her perspective they seemed like good enough ones to be asked of— the knowledge of their newfound location and the identities of the other living beings. However, at the moment she didn’t quite have any answers for him as she was trying to rein in what she could recollect; a fact that was difficult considering that her senses kept getting barraged by what she was sensing all around her.

The woman thought hard as she kept fishing through her thoughts. The last thing she remembered was the crunching pain of a maul hitting her chest… and the slamming of an enemy’s foot upon her neck as she suffocated on her own blood. She had… died hadn’t she? An anxious dread filled her mind as she recollected it and where she ended up did look like some sort of pit of corpses. If her memories were true then it was likely she was possibly tossed into this pit? But why had she awoken? Why had she been revived? The thought of revivals were nothing new as far as she could remember considering the existence of powerful divine artifacts; but the place that she found herself was not a temple of healing, but an accursed necromancer's laboratory. It was a presumption, of course; but what else could it be?

That doesn’t matter right now.

She took another light breath. As she dug deeper into her thoughts for more information. Her name was Syrenia, an old adjustment of the word “siren”. The name was… from Iliandur. No, she was from Iliandur. The land of clerical knights, of which she was a member, and apostles of a trinity of gods— a mother and two sons. She remembered the mother god was named Lyriel, a fact that she jumped to upon reawakening; so that must’ve been her patron goddess. The other two were important though.

Aegis, the Protector. Helstar, the Judge.

Whilst it was good that she remembered this much, this man wasn’t asking for theological information. She looked back at him and cleared her voice of any nerves. She could tell him what she knew in accordance to his questions; she hoped it would be satisfactory. But before she could reply a loud shout from another individual interrupted them. Syrenia looked to the origin of the voice before looking back at the man in a quick moment.

“I have no idea where we are… I don’t remember anything like this. I have never even heard of anything like where we stand.. As for my name? My name is Syrenia— of Iliandur.”

There was a pause.

“Who are you?”

[Zeroth]

XEGA

This place was damned, to be sure. A scream echoed throughout the cavern. Others were shifting among the corpses. Had they all returned to life as well? No...for the moment, it would seem that only a few of the dead that filled this place were rising again. Still, to be reborn with all one's faculties intact, no trace of the wounds that had preceded his death...what powerful necromancy, if indeed that was what it was that had called them back from beyond the grave. Xega glanced around the chamber before the woman answered him. She cleared her throat before she spoke, and spoke calmly. So she did not intend violence with that blade, it seemed.

"I have no idea where we are...I don’t remember anything like this. I have never even heard of anything like where we stand. As for my name? My name is Syrenia… of Iliandur. Who are you?"

"I am..." He paused. Xega? Was that his name? Why was he unsure? Where was he from? Iliandur? No. He didn't know where that country was, or if indeed it was a country, but he knew he did not come from there, somehow.

"I am Xega. I am...or perhaps was...a practitioner of the Arcane. I am from..." Finally the word came to him. "Xir. I am Xega of Xir."

Saying it with more emphasis gave him confidence. Yes. He was from a place called Xir, a nation of magi. Iliandur, that was another country, famous for its clerical knights. Perhaps this woman was one of them, judging from her state of dress and the familiarity with which she held the weapon.

“Whoever is there, show thyself! Now!” Another voice rang out, another woman's tone. Xega turned towards the noise with a look of some consternation. Though there were holes in his memory, his personality was very much intact, and he would not be ordered about.

”Hello?" Another new voice, this one less sure of itself. And another woman. Xega quirked an eyebrow. "I’m coming over! Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you, I promise!”

"'Twould seem we've quite the crowd." he said to Syrenia of Iliandur. The woman who'd spoken last was headed in their direction, and now that Xega had a look at her, she too seemed some sort of warrioress. Her armor had been battered and corroded by time, pieces of it stolen, but Xega felt the coloration strike a chord with him somehow. They were probably the colors of her homeland. This twinge of memory told Xega what he had already begun to suspect. He might be in a new place, but his old memories were very much intact. They were simply...hidden...from him for the moment. He just needed to find something to trigger them, to restore them. Speaking with these people, learning what they knew, would likely help with that. As would finding his staff and foci. He at least knew, deep in his core, what he was; a most prestigious magi. Already he could feel the Arcane Stream again, a sensation that felt like drawing breath for the first time after nearly drowning. He supposed the first breath he had taken upon his revival might have felt like that too, had it not been for the agonizing pain that came with it.

"Miss Syrenia, if you would greet our newcomer," he nodded towards the other woman in armor, "I'll address...the others."

Turning on his heel--his actual heel, as it seemed some grave robber had stolen his boots and now he was barefoot, which made him grimace--he walked around the pile of corpses, giving it a wide berth and covering his nose with his sleeve against the stench. He did his best not to look at it; he did not consider himself weak of mind nor stomach, but such carnage was too much for any sane individual to witness. Soon he came into view of two more freshly risen: a fierce eyed woman, though her stature was not at all unpleasing to his own eye, and a man whose features were almost as delicate as Xega's own. The man was the source of the screaming, as he writhed on the ground. Was he still in the throes of revival, or had he simply been driven to hysterics by the horrors around him?

"I, Xega of Xir, deign to show myself." he said to the woman, placing one hand on his own chest. Then he gestured to her, his eyes narrowing. "Now name thy own self."

[Fabricant451]

CARISA

There was music. There was always music, oh how it soothed, how it pleased the ear. Someone was fond of music, of the lilting notes and the divine voices of one trained in the art of performance - so high and strong that the glass on the tables vibrated just enough to be impressive rather than a mess in the making. Even then there was music, though the melody seemed lost, forgotten, discarded; but not just music, there was something else just as pleasant. Heat. Warmth. She was smiling, was she not? Might it have been the one time she truly meant it?

Blue lights beaming their rays onto her, bringing a comfort that blended with the soft tones of that sweet music; a serenade played just for her ears. Was this paradise? Heaven? Had she been so blessed, with such saccharine sounds and a warm belly? But always the music stops, the singing voice replaced by hushed whispers and a shrill scream that wasn't familiar. The warmth returned but not in her belly, but her mouth as those blue lights burn brighter before the only sound is dulled to nothing. That warmth brought no comfort, but there was something about it...something that was just so...

familiar

Why was it damp?

As before there was a scream, but this one was not nearly as shrill as the one that ended the music, but it was far more clear, far closer than any sound she had heard before. First, however, there was movement. It was as if she had taken a trip, but that was impossible, no properly trained lady would ever fall over her own feet. The screaming is what brought her back, opened a dim pair of blue eyes to a crimson sight.

That explained the dampness in one quick glance. Somehow she had been taken away from the comfort of music and the warmth of...whatever that was and brought to the discomfort of corpses and horrific scenery and the watery pools that lay at the base of the mountains of flesh, bone, and junk. A shaking hand turns before her eyes and is met not with the familiar ivory but with a stain marring what was once such flawless skin. That same hand moved closer, touching sunken cheeks and leaving behind five simple streaks of sickly fluids.

The realization settled in after a moment's consideration, unaided by the loud screaming that was suddenly much clearer and much more understandable. A slow craning of her neck had her eyes settle on another figure, the shape of a male - but who could really tell amidst corpses - asking simple questions. The bodies near his feet slid down towards the same pool she found herself in, no doubt she was amongst that number not too long ago. So it is the fault of this curious, confused boy that she was now covered in a fine coat of what she could only hope was just blood.

Before a confrontation, the blonde woman - though with hair now stringy and stained with red - quickly grabbed at her other hand, hoping that it was still there and, if so, that it had remained unpilfered. A soft sigh of relief from her lips as thin fingers closed around a once sparkling, beautiful accessory. Things were looking up already; losing that would have simply made the woman want nothing more than to lay back into the pool, face first this time, and bring about her own undoing.

The presence of a ring on her finger was soothing, calming, though it did little to alleviate the lingering worry and confusion. Questions for a later time, surely. More important was determining motor functions. Her hands were fine and slowly she rose to her feet, both of them having been submerged. Had she been wearing boots - no...wait...she was in finely cobbled heels, wasn't she? - or indeed any footwear at all she might have been saved the feeling of this bloody soup between her toes...but alas she was not so fortunate.

She stood, her toes wiggling and making small ripples, and took a step. She didn't tumble. She didn't trip. She could move, slowly for now, but wading was better than nothing at all.

With those concerns out of the way, her ears began picking up other sounds. Words. Motions. Questions. Answers.

"H...Hello? Who...Who are you...people?" she asked, but only in her head. She opened her mouth to speak, to question, but no words left those lips. All that came out, all that she heard, were sounds not unlike a growl from a beast that vaguely sounded like questions from the inflection of her guttural noises.

"Can anybody hear me?" Her watery growl pegged again, asking no intelligible question and expecting nothing in return.

Her body being covered in blood seemed now to be the least of her concerns.

[ClocktowerEchos]

EDORIC

Edoric jolted up and yelped a high pitched, almost animal-like sound as he scurried away, hands pattering on the slick stone floor before his sense slowly drifted back into him.

He looked up, and through his heavy breathing, he saw someone else. Another human (?), standing before him, offering an outstretched hand. Flashbacks of the rotting, grasping arm he kicked in earlier, the unnerving cracking and twisting sung scars into his head as they overlapped with his current visions of the armored maiden in front of him.

There was something amazing about this lady who kept her head level in such a situation. Edoric did the best to emulate her mental state as he gripped his face, his mind running through disconnected memories. He saw himself huddling next to a wall on a rainy night, swapping coins with a faceless figures and witnessing the most beautiful horizons.

"Get up," a voice faintly beckoned for him in the distance, a much more masculine voice than that of the armored maiden's, it was pompous and joyous, but yet still warm and caring, curious almost, "Why are you on the ground? There's a world to be explored, opportunities to exploit and adventures to be had! For tis the merchant's code!"

"A w-world toe ex-explore..." Edoric mumbled to himself as his hands graced the ground, searching for an stone to which anchor his arms to lift him up, his eyes closed and hidden behind bangs of his silvery hair.

"Ch-chances to be tachenn..." the man planted his shaky arms into the ground and firmed them up like pack earth as the maiden-at-arms raised a shield and dared a presence which Edoric could not sense to come out.

"Adventures to b-be had..." old, stale, musky air of death rushed in to fill his heavy lungs that sat like stones in his chest, no gagging or vomiting came as it filled his vile blood with unholy spirit.

"For tis the creed of which I follow." Edoric took a deep breath and looked up, his gaze turning from that of the bloodied, grimy floor to that which laid a head of him, his mind now clear as he finished his chant.

The place was still nightmarish and hellish and disgusting and creepy no doubt, but Edoric felt like it had lost its shock impact. Of course he still wanted to shit his pants when he saw a small brood of incest crawl out of the open jaws of a decaying body, but at least he didn't actually shit himself.

With his refreshed and stabler mind, he looked around, finally being able to take a good look at the armored maiden after wiping away drying tears with a dirty, tattered sleeve.

She was beautiful, even in her sorry state, surrounded in this wretched chamber of horrors. Silken black hair and doll-like skin with a aura of strength; Edoric would be lying if he said that such a lady didn't catch his eye, even if she wore broken, battered plate, but decided to dwell on more important things for the moment, namely trying to defend himself.

He panned his gaze around, nothing worthy of a weapon yet besides bones and bodies. Than again he had heard that femurs were incredibly sturdy bones, stronger than steel by some accounts. He wondered if a bone club-hammer-bashy-bonger would do the trick but started to realize how unsavory the prospect of lugging around what was basically some poor sod's leg as a bludgeoning device was.

Thankfully, he had spotted something else, something that glimmered dimly in the decrepted chamber, like a fleeting embers before the darkened shadows. Crawling towards it, Edoric reached for the gentle, dying shine and grasped his hand around it. Aging, molding leather greeted the flesh of his skin as he wrapped his fingers around the handle it feebly tried to protect, there was no doubting that it was some sort of blade of sorts.

Metals rasping as it was draw from its thousand year slumber in its sheath, Edoric pulled out a broad sword, the faded steel held but the faintest of memories of a proud warrior with a silver blade at his side.

However, it was clear such an age was long gone as the presumed warrior was now amongst the many piles of decaying, decrepit, disgusting fleshy mountains, whose faint groans still tugged at Edoric's ear.

It took little skill to see that the sword had only faired marginally better than its user; the cracks and chinks that ran along the once fine blade that now ran dull. The sword was in poor shape to put it at best, Edoric wouldn't be surprised if it shattered soon but yet it held.

Some sparks in his brain told him to forgo its use as a sword and instead to use its hard sheath to encase it in a layer of hardness to be used like a club that he thought a femur could provide just a short while ago.

Armed with a new, glorified club, Edoric took a stand behind the maiden in armor and took a stance with the blunted broadsword slung over his shoulder and head to be brought down, "Say... you know what you're doing right?"

[Zamokra41]

LYANNA

Like a wounded animal, the frightened man scurried away from her, analyzing her with wide eyes. Thankfully it didn’t take long for him to realize that Lyanna did not mean any harm to him, quite the contrary, she wanted to help. She took her stance and called out in the opposite direction for whomever or whatever lie there to show itself, a feeling of confidence came when the young man from before stood at her side brandishing a weapon of his own. However, that feeling soon faded once Lyanna noticed that he wielded a sword still sheathed in it’s scabbard. Granted, it did appear a touch more imposing than her own broken blade, but a sheathed sword was not going to do much better by comparison. As if to salt the fleeting feeling, the young man appeared unsure, "Say... you know what you're doing right?" he asked sheepishly. ‘I hope so…’ Lyanna thought yet did not voice it, she knew that if she responded with uncertainty it would unnerve the lad more than he already is. Instead, she glanced in his direction and gave him a confident nod with a slight smile on her sunken visage. This feeling… the feeling of standing side-by-side with someone, armed and ready in anticipation for danger felt awfully familiar to her. As familiar as breathing, almost. Her vision flashed and her senses left her, for a small, fleeting moment she was elsewhere, adopting the same stance, accompanied by a number of men on each side, all armored and armed in a similar fashion. The one to her right was distinguishably younger and threw he an uneasy smile with a nod, the same that she just gave to the silvery haired man whose image melded into the soldier’s in the next moment.

What was that? A flash from a different time? A different life? The memory felt so….distant….like it didn’t really happen and was all just in her head. Just what happened to her exactly? But memories of a time long past would have to wait as a new person made its presence noted. This one was another man, dressed in some tattered yet still distinguishably decorated flowing robes. His features appeared fine and almost feminine, his eyes had a faint shine to them and his stance boosted confidence.

“I, Xega of Xir, deign to show myself” he spoke, with the same attitude and tone befitting of a man of high birth.

“Now name thy own self.”

It almost sounded as a demand rather than a request, yet the tone of his voice, the stance he adopted and the air of nobility about him sent more feelings of familiarity through her, as if she had interacted with his kind more often than she thought. However, instead of the comforting feeling this one sent slight jolts of tension through her muscles, why she did not know. For now, she was content with knowing that this person came with no ill will, this made her relax even if just a bit. What was it he said? His name was Xega. Of Xir? That name sounded familiar… Xir..Xir… Ah, yes! Xir was another kingdom, a place where magic existed and magi wielded its powers, if she was not mistaken. Recalling this made her cautious of the robed man again, just because he appeared empty handed does not mean he was harmless if he was indeed a mage. Lyanna didn’t recall ever having confronted sorcery before, and while not being afraid she would prefer it not come to that.

“I am Lyanna of Badarium.” she responded “and this is…” she stopped. Only now realizing that she had no idea who the silvery haired man besides her was. “I…I apologize, I did not catch your name…”

Once the introductions were made and it became clear that none of them had any hostile intentions towards one or another, Lyanna dropped he guard and sheathed her broken sword at her side, approaching Xega with Edoric by her side. Glancing around she couldn’t see anyone else, perhaps they were the only ones here? More importantly, where was here? And what exactly happened to them? She cleared her throat, slightly, and the addressed Xega “Wise magus, do you know what is happening here? Are we the only ones of…” she hesitated before continuing “…sane mind?” the word was weakly uttered. As if Lyanna didn’t believe the meaning behind it. Who could blame her? Recalling the final moments of your apparent death and then waking up in this place? It would make the most learned of men question their own mental stability.

[Zeroth]

XEGA

The silver-haired young man seemed to have recovered his wits, and now stood behind the woman with a sheathed sword at the ready. The way he held it, like a club, either spoke to a lack of training or the condition of the blade. There wasn’t any way to tell which, at the moment, but nonetheless Xega did not let the weapon intimidate him. He flexed his fingers, one at a time, curling them to his palms in a languid motion, then opening them in the reverse order.

The woman introduced herself. Lyanna of Badarium. Another nation’s name that rang a bell, but no distinct memories would come forth. The woman seemed satisfied that no violence needed to be done here, and she sheathed her weapon and lowered her shield. She cleared her throat, slightly, and then addressed Xega.

“Wise magus, do you know what is happening here? Are we the only ones of…” she hesitated before continuing “…sane mind?” the word was weakly uttered.

“No.” Xega said simply, folding his arms into his sleeves. In a way, this was a movement of similar nature to the woman’s sheathing of her blade. It, as well as the finger flexing from before, seemed to be reflexes. Even if his memories weren’t entirely intact, it seemed his body’s muscles, slight as they were, remembered whatever movements they had been trained to perform in tandem with his spellcraft. “I do not know what has happened here beyond the obvious; we’ve risen from the dead, and I presume that the rest of you suffer the same condition I do in regards to our memory faculties. I hypothesize, thus far, that it is the work of a necromancer who intends to deliver unto us some fell task or use us in some abhorrent ritual.” He shrugged. “But one would think such a sorcerer would be present. And seems to me that such effort to raise the dead, in such a condition as we are--made wholesome once more despite our cause of death--would be more taxing than simply capturing some schmuck to bleed out on one’s altar.”

He took a few steps off to one side, looking around the chamber. As he did so he continued to speak to Lyanna and Edoric, though in the way a lecturer might to a student, and without looking directly at them.

“We are also not the only ones to have risen. I have already met a Miss Syrenia, of Iliandur, on the other side of this blood-soaked tower. And with her is another woman, who called out to us in hesitant confusion. I believe Miss Syrenia awoke before I did, perhaps by now she has learned more of our situation. I do not know how many more of these corpses will rise...nor what condition their minds will be in when they do.”

He heard a sound then, and turned towards it, his hands reappearing and falling to his sides. It sounded like a growl of some sort.

“Ah, of course. There is also the matter of animals. Of course I should have suspected we might encounter some blighted beast; there’s plenty of scraps for it, after all.” He looked back at Lyanna and Edoric, and simply nodded in the direction of the sound. Afterwards he began to approach it...Slowly, he rounded another pile of corpses lying some few feet from the tower, and came across a shallow pool of the murky red fluid. Standing in it, covered head to toe in it, was yet another woman, this one with pale alabaster skin and hair that should have been blonde, but had seemingly been washed in blood. Her appearance, like Lyanna’s, would have been quite pleasing to the eye were she not wearing the guise of some horrific ghoul. When she tried to speak again, only that strange growl came out. Xega stared at her for a long moment.

“...Has your tongue been cut out?” he finally asked, before he stroked his chin with one hand and muttered to himself. “How strange...I was under the impression that we had all risen with our wounds healed...but perhaps it is only whatever that caused our death that has been cured? Would Lyanna and Syrenia, being trained warriors, perhaps still bear scars that were gained before they died? Hmm…” He stood there, tapping his foot, for some time before he looked up, as if he had just remembered there were others there with him.

“I am Xega, of Xir.” he said plainly to the woman who apparently could not speak. “I mean you no harm, should you mean myself the same.”

[ClocktowerEchos]

EDORIC

Edoric simply watched and observed as the knight Lyanna and the magos Xega conversed about their situation. The two were certainly a pretty interesting bunch from first impressions at least, one from a kingdom of magic and the other a kingdom of sensual indulgence. Both rang faint bells inside Edoric's head, had he been there before? Where they even around the same time periods? Could it have been one was built upon the ruins of the other?

It was quite clear that his mind was still cobbling itself together after its long slumber and its reconstruction after he snapped. The merchant prayed to whatever God was still around that it didn't make himself look too much like a babbling madman, it would not be good first impressions but something told Edoric not to worry about that. He'd already botched it.

“I do not know what has happened here beyond the obvious; we’ve risen from the dead, and I presume that the rest of you suffer the same condition I do in regards to our memory faculties. I hypothesize, thus far, that it is the work of a necromancer who intends to deliver unto us some fell task or use us in some abhorrent ritual. But one would think such a sorcerer would be present. And seems to me that such effort to raise the dead, in such a condition as we are--made wholesome once more despite our cause of death--would be more taxing than simply capturing some schmuck to bleed out on one’s altar.”

Edoric listened intently as the Magos Xega spoke, his mind much sharper than his own on such matters. Matters of arcane had always intrigued the man, but after a few dabbles into it, he had convinced himself that perhaps it was the shine of gold which his mind saw more clearly than that of ancient tomes and mythical scrolls. However, Edoric did discover that such could make for good bed time stories for those long, sleepless nights that crawled back into his memories.

"I've heard of these sorts of things before on my travels. To some degree of truth, probably." Edoric corrected himself as he present his own idea of their situation, "I've heard that there are pagans who've managed to call upon the spirits of the dead through unholy rituals, albeit not full bodies. If I remember correctly there was also a plague in the city of... of... ermm... never mind. There was something that had spread amongst the populace which caused deaths like these, but nothing about resurrection. Perhaps this state might be a mix of events?"

Edoric can only pray that he didn't sound too ignorant or uninformed compared to that of Xega, lest he get a mouthful of how improbable such things were before he'd quote some advanced arcane scripture on the matter. Never the less, those stories where true in the way that Edoric had heard them from others in life, he thought at least.

"O-oh, I've almost forgotten to introduce myself." Edoric took a step back and place one hand on his chest and the other outstretched to his side and gracefully bowed, "Edoric of Sikth? Yes, Skith. Merchant explorer of House-"

Shit, Edoric mentally cursed. His brain had made the connection to merchant houses of his homeland but stopped right there, his mind unable to draw up a name, You're making a wonderful fool of yourself mate

"Edoric of Skith; merchant explorer of House Dwyndelir", Edoric quickly repeated himself and inserted a random name, hoping that no one would notice as he formed up a much more level-headed, almost noble fascade, "Sorry about that, it would seem that this place has had quite the effect on my mind-"

A low growl echoed in the bloody chamber as Xega piped up once more, “Ah, of course. There is also the matter of animals. Of course I should have suspected we might encounter some blighted beast; there’s plenty of scraps for it, after all.”

Gripping his sword-mace with ironhands and sweatly palms, Edoric worried on what "beast" Xega was speaking of. He wanted to say that it might have just been soem stray wolf, allured by the scent of meat and blood. But given the giant instinal-looking thing that hung from the ceiling (and whose unholy slime had slithered down his back), Edoric was expecting something much, much worse. Something like a... mute woman?

Edoric listened as Xega began to talk once more, a chatty one he was but none the less informative or inquisitive. As the woman in question moved more in closer to Edoric's feel of view, he could immediately tell she was worse for wear than possibly any of them. Forgoing the missing tongue which was no doubt the cause of her beastly growls, he could tell that she was of royalty, or at the very least, of wealth. But it had seemed like such wealth was a distant memory given her lack of shoes and sunken face with a number of blemishes upon her probably pretty face.

"Edoric of Sikth; Explorer Merchant of House Dwyndelir." Edoric politely bowed, his lie much more natural this time, "Can I assume that you also have no idea how you ended up in such a hell?"

[Wishful Stray]

Ratha

The murky red confines of the young blonde’s lungs clawed its way up her throat, the unused organs revolting against their rebirth and the intrusion of liquid into their domain. A quick blur saw a pale and slender hand shoot out to push herself up out of the small pool she found herself laying in; her aching fingers made contact with something cold and leathery, her brow furrowed as she moved her hand over the foreign object. It moved under her touch, stiff and lifeless as she followed it up into a small divot, smooth and hollow as if something had once occupied it. The use of muscles long atrophied sent pins and needles dancing up her arm as the groggy woman tried to pull her mind away for the swirling memories dancing behind her eyes; they teased her and called for her, she knew that they were important but couldn’t remember much else, not her name, her lineage, her birthplace, anything. A groan escaped her lips as the echoing of voices chimed cheerfully in her ear. Someone was rattling on, words, places, some she recognized others had no meaning to her, but they seemed to know their names…what was her name….her teeth mashed against her lower lip in frustration as she laid there hunched over desperately clawing through her rugged mind for her name.

’Why does a dead woman need a name?

The thought tore through her, her other hand caressing the armor bound against her a small crack ran through it expanding outwards from the left side…but something was missing….wasn’t there an arrow there before….green eyes peered downward focusing on the empty space, the bright gold fletched arrow was gone, the only proof of it was the hole in her chest plate. Its worn green livery flickered a scene in her mind’s eye, the warmth of the summer sun and the subtle wind of the forest surrounded her briefly before replaced once again by the cold dark dampness she now found herself in. This was wrong, she had been on patrol…hunting a trespasser….how did she get here…The harsh stone and brackish water were clear indicators that she was no longer in the forest, and that the fields of Irisia were long gone.

Irisia? Is that where she was from, the thought seemed right to her, at least she hand answered one question, her eyes traveled away from the armor, down to see what her other hand rested on.

An eyeless face stared back up at her, a barbaric grin plastered across its face, frozen by time, unwilling to focus on it her eyes shifted around her finding more and more corpses littering the ground around her. It seemed that the answer to where she was would be among the dead, the clarity of the thought was lost as her wavering and fraying emotions took over; her body took over doubling her over once again as low retched coughs tore through her, unfortunately the entire content of her stomach was nothing but cold acid that tore at her already sore throat. Several seconds passed like hour as she continued to dry heave against the unmoving ground, a small whimper escaping her lips. What god had she pissed off that would bring her back in such a desolate place, a hand reaching up to cover her mouth eyes brimming with hot tears threatening to mix with the bile of pile soaking into her right hand.

Perhaps this is Hell.

Another clear and cold thought cut through the food in her mind, one she gladly latched on to, perhaps she hadn’t been a good Ranger, was that right….in her past life so know she had to atone for it. Revived alone amongst the dead; a soft light shimmered on the water drawing her attention upwards grateful for any reprieve against the darkness seeping into her mind. Another whimper hung in the air as she scrambled backwards landing ungracefully on her haunches with a loud splash into another puddle, a strange spear refracting in its grips unnoticed as her eyes stayed transfixed on the pulsing sack hanging far above her head.

”This….T-This has to be Hell…I’ve been damned..”

A harsh grating sound rumbled in her chest as she spoke, the words were forced and sharp, her voice cracking with each syllable, the soft melody it used to carry long gone. Unable to tear her eyes away from the strange creature, if it was even a creature she didn’t hear the words being spoken by the others until the clattering of people moving caught her attention. Just because there where others didn’t mean it was safe, maybe it was someone sent to test her, or to kill her again. Her hands flailed out around her searching for a weapon, a shield, anything that would aid in her survival. Why she needed to survive she didn’t know, but the thought was clear and set into her head. Her left hand curled around the wooden handle, drawing it closer and out of the waters depth. The wood was warm in her cold touch, the pronged blade catching the lowlight sending small reflections of it dancing around the blonde. Her hands naturally found the worn hand holds and settled there using it deftly to brace herself against slowly rising once more to her feet. A quick succession of hand motions sent the trident spinning lazily through the air making small circles around her, the pull and strain on muscles long since used was a welcomed feeling. It felt right, a small nagging sensation whispered that this was hers, not a weapon callously thrown away, this was something she had worked for and had honed her skills on.

A soft smile graced her cracked lips, she was Ratha, and she was the only Ranger dumb enough to use a spear.

Craddling the weapon close to her chest, she sighed breathing in the putrid air deeply before steeling herself. It would be better to announce herself than wait and be discovered perhaps that way she might have the advantage of surprise if it came down to a fight for her life.

”Hello? Is anyone there?”

[Mcmolly]

Frei

Frei arrived in time to see colorful heads, one a sunken violet and the other pink, a young man and a woman respectively, from what she could tell. The former started off, and instinctively she wanted to call out for him to wait. Surely someone so frail in appearance should not wander in a place like this, not alone.

But he wasn’t, for not a few moments later she heard the chattering of other voices. Perhaps he would be safe for the time being, but she would be sure to check just as soon as she got some answers.

The pink-haired girl had stayed behind, and much like the young man she appeared petite and battered. Was she a child? Frei shuddered to think children might be caught up in whatever horrific things were going on, but she also found her resolve strengthened at the notion.

Upon closer inspection she found the girl to be brandishing a ruined sword, at which point Frei came to a stop and put out a hand in open surrender.

”I’m sorry,” she said softly, as much due to the condition of her throat as her will to lower her own voice. ”I don’t mean to startle, I’m a friend.”

It occurred to Frei that the statement, however well meaning, could be a lie. She didn’t know who this girl was, where she came from, or how she was mixed up in the current events. In their prior lives, they might have been mortal enemies, or they might have been complete strangers. The sword in her hand could have been plunged into the hearts of Frei’s closest allies, or loved ones, if she had any, or it could have been used in the protection of innocent lives.

Looking around at the carnage, and hearing the distant voices again, Frei felt it a risk worth taking. Slowly, hand still out and open, she approached.

”My name is Frei, I just woke up not too far that way. Are you alright? Do you need help?”

Suddenly aware of the sword she carried, Frei gave the handle a few good tugs. It remained firmly sheathed through the leather straps binding it. ”Oh sorry. See? Shut tight, I promise I won’t draw it on you, if you promise not to stick me with yours. Deal?”