[IC] The Symphony - A Fated Quest

[NoriWasHere]

“Ignis,” Eros shouted as he reached across the Obsidian hall with a hand stretched out trying to grab his friend. Yet, it was too little too late as Ignis was pulled across the hall and towards Malakith, and his symphony filled with heralds. Eros took a step back as the anger that filled his eyes slowly gave way to confusion before that too gave way to sadness.

“Alaria what do we do?” Eros asked as he looked back. She was in the middle of her protection song, her fingers becoming raw from the sheer amount of music she’s had to play. Alaria did not respond as she continued playing. Eros looked back towards the front and his eyes settled on Ignis. He was on the ground now, his back pressed downward by the darkness of the maestro's hand. The Maestro opened its mouth and began to sing its incomprehensible song, causing the entire area to shake violently. The song continued for several seconds before the maestro rose back up. The chains that binded him had begun to fail, and it was only a matter of time very he ripped himself free of them. A second later, Ignis began to clap his hands and applaud. “ALARIA,” Eros shouted as he took a step back. Ignis began to stand up, turning around as he did, and faced the group. His red face bore the tell tale signs of corruption as black tendrils began to snake under his skin.

“WHAT DO WE DO-,” Eros started but stopped as he turned and saw the Fates behind his friend. They were whispering in her ear, guiding her hand with a new song, and each had their eyes locked on Malakith. “Alaria..” Eros started as he lowered his guard.

“It’s okay, my friend,” Alaria said as tears began to stream down her face, “we can still seal him. We can buy the fates more time” Alaria finished as she began to pluck the strings.

“How much-“ Eros paused as he looked back at Ignis. Ignis had retrieved his weapon and had begun to walk towards the remaining two fated. “I can hold him off for a bit, how long do the fates need?”

“Years,” Veidia whispered to Eros, her voice in guts head alone.

“Centuries,” Chrona responded with a sad tone.

“More.” Eclipses finished as she pulled at invisible fate strings around them.

“We’re going to lock him in here Eros,” Alaria spoke in a singsong tone, “we’re going to finish the mission.”

Eros felt his mind grow cloudy, his strength begin to falter, and a deep desire to lay down and embrace the eternal sleep began to fill his waking thoughts. “I guess that means that I won’t be able to do my hero’s whoring then,” Eros joked as he turned to face Malakith. He knew what was happening. He never considered the possibility of it, nor did he know exactly what the fates were doing. But something in his mind told him that he and Alaria were about to die. And that this moment was Fated. “Oi, you’re a proper cunt for taking my friends.. You’ve lost to the fated five once,” Eros paused as he felt the strength fall away from his legs, “and you’ve lost to them again.”

Eros fell to the ground and as he hit the ground he was gone. Alaria too began to slump over but she continued the song. Alaria rested her eyes on Eros before she shifted them to get corrupted friends and gave them one final smile. Eventually her music slowed as did her breathing before she too found herself on the ground next to Eros.

Malakith chuckled in response. He looked out and saw only victory here today. Three of the fated five had joined his symphony, and the remaining two were about to be dead. What ploy were they working on, what did the fates whisper to them? A second later the chains that bound him pulled taught. He watched as stands of fate itself made its way into the metal itself, blessing them and making them fated. What’s more, these fated strands were powerful. The maestro began to feel weakened, tired, and ready to sleep as well. He couldn’t help but laugh.

“A year, a century, or eons more time will free me forevermore,” he laughed as he commanded his heralds to sleep. The chains that bound him pulled themselves tighter, and tighter, and tighter until each of his limbs were locked into place. The dull red glow of the maestro went dark, bringing himself, the heralds, and the fated five into darkness.

Deep within the heart of the desolate mountain, The Maestro lay bound in chains. Its ancient and powerful form is bound by enchanted restraints. The cavernous chamber echoed with a low hum, the very essence of the mountain pulsating with latent magic. The air was thick with the weight of centuries, and the only light emanated from the glow of mystical runes etched into the walls. Various golden strands of fate wove their way up and across the metal of the chains that bound The Maestro, and these golden strands had begun to dull in intensity.

As another tremor shook the cavern, The Maestro stirred from his seemingly eternal slumber. His eyes flickered with renewed vitality. The chains that bound him rattled with an echoing resonance as the mountain itself seemed to respond to his awakening. The Maestro shifted his vision to one chain in particular, and a rumbling laugh shook the area as a rock had fallen and broken a link. Without the enchantments of the fates, The Maestro was able to free the hand from its containment and he stretched it out in front of his face. A smile equal parts wicked and alluring spread across his face. He began to slowly raise the hand, palm open to the roof, and as he did The Maestros' music began to play once again. It was a silent symphony, with the music beyond the ability of our collective understanding but the power behind the composition was felt as the mountain rocked with another quake. It was a fraction of his power, but it was enough for him to begin his plot for freedom.

The Maestro raised his hand further, causing a red glow to fill the area around him revealing seven statues kneeling in front of his form. As he raised his hand even further, several tendrils formed in his palm and they shot out across the cavern and impacted the stone figures, burrowing deep as they hit. The red glow that emanated from The Maestro raced down the tendrils and began to fill the stone figures from the inside out. In a moment, the figures began to move. The stone cracked, letting arms and legs move freely of their prison, and within a minute the seven figures stood up, each with a wicked smile on their face.

“My most vocal heralds,” The Maestro spoke. His voice was somewhere between a thousand individual whispers and a full choir singing. “It is time to spread my music once more, you must return,” he paused as he raised his hand even higher, bringing the unheard music to a level that vibrated the entire area, shaking even more rocks free from above. As it reached its crescendo, two portals opened up behind the heralds. “Igai, Agor, venture forth. The realm yearns for our music, play it for them once more. Spread my influence, my whispers on the wind," The Maestro commanded, his voice a sinister lullaby. "Let the Fates know that I have awoken."

With that, the two heralds got up and vanished through the portal, leaving The Maestro and the remaining five heralds in his dark chamber. The echoes of their departure lingered, and as the last portal closed, The Maestro began to hum an eerie tune – a haunting melody that resonated within the very essence of the shadows. The cavern responded to his song, the stones humming in harmony with The Maestro's malevolent melody as he began to envision a world under his rule, a world where everyone listened to his symphony and a world where the fates were forced to. The remaining five heralds began to swing their weapons at the thousands of chains that bound him. Their magic was weakened by the broken link, and they weakened further with each subsequent blow.

“Mom, I saw something I swear,” a young girl pleaded as she cuddled up next to her mother.

“Honey, you can stay in bed with us tonight,” the mother smiled. This was a nightly occurrence for the small five year old child. The parents would put her to bed, they would turn out the lights, they would lay down, and then fifteen minutes later the child would come in because they saw a monster in the dark. “Eventually you will never see these monsters again, they are remnants of an old terror called Malakith,” the mother paused as she looked over to the husband and winked. The husband smiled, shook his head, and rolled over in the bed.

“Malakith?”

“The Maestro,” The mother responded.

“What’s a maestro?” The child asked.

The mother frowned as she thought for a second. Maybe she chose the wrong story to tell this night. “It’s a guy who composes music,” the mother guessed, “anyway, the maestro was an evil force that came to our world many years ago. His music was evil, and it filled the children with a fear of the darkness, made them see monsters in it that weren’t there. The monster was defeated, by a group of hero’s known as the five fated, and his monsters were banished from our world forever.”

“In the shadows deep, where darkness creeps,
Lurks Malakith, where the blackness seeps.
But fear not, dear child, for he's not all bad,
In the darkest corners, there's light to be had.
He may wear a cloak of night so cold,
But even evil has stories untold.
For in the end, even darkness can spark,
A glimmer of hope in the deepest dark.”

The mother looked over to the father, who had decided to chime in with a rhyme. Everyone in this village knew the story of the maestro, though what they did not know was just how off they were. To the children, this story was meant to show them that the dark held no monsters while they were safe behind their walls, inside their homes, even though the story and rhyme were originally meant to tell the heroic tale of the fated five. Time has a funny way of changing things.

“So, there’s no monsters in the dark?”

“None,” the parents responded in unison.

*knock*

The sound of a fist delivering a singular knock at the door. The parents looked at each other, and the father reached down and grabbed his sword.

*knock*

The sound of an individual waiting for them outside. The father stood up and walked to the main room of the house. The mother looked at the daughter and smiled, though her eyes betrayed her worry.

*creak*

The sound of the front door opening, with the father asking who’s there. A quiet followed, but a low hum soon filled it. It was jovial, it was happy, but for some reason it was a sound that defied definition. Then the sound of footsteps approaching from the door. A second later the father returned, black tendrils of corruption snaking across his face. His smile was wide, pained but excited, and he motioned for an unseen guest to join them.

“You have to hear this music, dears,” he said, before the screams of his wife and child filled the air for a moment before it was replaced by all three humming together, and the sound of footsteps back towards the door.

The fates huddled together in their realms. Around them was a frozen forest, with broken trees and snow-covered fields surrounding them. In the distance, a wolf howls at the moon. Throughout the area golden strands of fated thread run over and across the landscape. These fated threads represented much to the fates. Where they converged represented the centers of life, cities and forests and places of the sort, and where they did not cover was the deserts, the tundras, and the volcanic fields where life did not thrive.

The three fates jerked their heads at once to the side. Two convergence points, one in the Empire of Man and a second in the Silvermoor realm, began to shift in color. The golden stands began to adopt a red hue. The fates scurried together and ran from one point to the next. The heralds had started their conquests, and the fates needed their champions to counter. Veidia reached out and began snatching the threads off to their sides before she channeled her magic into the threads. All across Eldoria people, creatures, and events began to make subtle changes.

“The fated are ready,” Veidia spoke as she grabbed several fated stands and held them up to view.

“They will face much trouble,” Chrona responded as she grabbed the fated stands, examining them closely.

“The Maestro has been busy,” Eclipsis responded as she grabbed hold of the fated stands.

“Several heralds have been sent,” Veidia spoke as she began to look over the stands of fate that dotted the path ahead of the new fated warriors.

“Corruption spreads in their wake,” Chrona said as she examined them closely. The fate strands that she looked at were different than the ones away from the heralds. Instead of a pristine, golden glow, they had a more reddish hue. The Maestero's corruption ran deep, not only corrupting the victims' minds and bodies it also corrupting their fate.

“His music,” Veidia said with a hiss.

“His melodies,” Chrona said with a growl

“His corruption,” Eclipsis spoke softly. Eclipsis used her fated magic to lift the fated strands into the air, and then used the magic as she started twisting the various strands together into a single rope. The end of the rope remained imperfect, with each fated strand still sticking out in its own, however from this point on the fated fellowship would be drawn to each other. Whether through luck, outside interference, or the actions of the fated they would be together before long.

“They will fight,” Veidia said as she examined the corruption in the fate strands.

“They will save,” Chrona responded as she examined them closer.

“And they will purge this corruption,” Eclipsis said as she tried to cut the blighted strand, yet her blade could not cut through.

“We need them together,” Veidia spoke with excitement.

“After some time apart,” Chrona said with a neutral tone.

“And after they meet,” Eclipsis responded with sadness.

“They must finish what they started,” Veidia spoke with sadness

“Our Fated Five,” Chrona continued with her neutral tone

“Our departed friends,” Eclipsis finished sharply.

Veidia resumed the process of pulling together various other threads of fate and began to use her magic to influence the world outside. Winds would blow, factions would fight, and despair would befall the lands. This plight will be like beacons in the dark for the new fated champions. They will be drawn to these areas of fated energy, and they will have many decisions to make as they traverse them. Will they save those in trouble, and begin the process of etching their names onto the legend of this reality? Or will they ignore it and simply try and face the heralds of Malakith on their terms? Regardless of how they go about these next few weeks, they will be drawn to two towns, Dalvinwood in the west, and Nightingale Thicket in the east. As each day passes, the Fates know that more monstrous creatures will await them as the Maestro's music spreads unchecked.

[NoriWasHere]

“What a strange land,” Lys spoke to no one in particular as she watched a singular yellow leaf fall in front of her. This was her first time in the Empire of Man before winter hit, and it was her first time seeing the sea of colors all around the road. From the red, yellow, and orange leaves that dotted the canopy in the forest above, to the snow-capped mountains that filled the horizon, there was much that filled her with a wonder that she had never experienced. And thus far, she was enjoying what she was seeing. They did not have trees like this back in the Frost Tribes, no theirs were tall and prickly and always the same shade of green year-round. As well, she rarely got to see the mountain peaks back home as they were always in the clouds, and she was neither brave nor foolish enough to attempt that climb.

As she admired the scenery around her, movement ahead on the cobblestone road caught her eye. In a quick motion, she had a hand on her weapon and her face towards the unseen threat. A second later, she relaxed her grip and her expression softened as she watched a few small children running up the road towards her. The sound of laughter could be heard even from the distance she was at, and it brought a small smile to her face. These lands were much different from her own. While she thought that it was entirely too warm out, she loved the sights, the scents, and even the sounds of children feeling safe enough to run down the road even as a stranger walked them. As she continued her walk she noticed the children catch sight of her for the first time. It appeared as if the two children discussed what to do next before they turned away from Lys and began sprinting down the road.

“That is trouble,” Lys said with a frown. She knew that there was a village nearby. She knew this because she had led a small raiding party into it the previous winter. And she knew she may have stolen quite a bit of their needed food. While she was not dressed with the sigil nor the colors of her tribe today, she was still overdressed for this area and looked very much like one of the pale raiders. She knew the children would alert the local garrison, and they would come looking for her. Her eyes darted from side to side. She knew she had to keep traveling south, however, she would need to find a new path that would take her in that direction. As she thought, the wind carried a burnt piece of paper into her face, covering her vision completely. “The fuck,” she whispered as she ripped it from her face and looked at the writing on it. “Darmor,” she once again scanned the area around her, “is Darmor where I am meant to go,” she asked as she awaited an answer from The Fates. Silence was her only response. Silence, and then the ringing of a bell ahead of her.

“Shit,” she muttered as she took off to the side and into the woods. She held onto the burnt parchment like it was the most important piece of paper she had ever held. And she ran, running faster than she had in recent years, and trying to push through her own limits to run faster some more.

“Shit,” Grove muttered as she jumped over a fallen tree that blocked the path in front of her. She held onto the fated stick she was given like it was the most important sick she had ever held. And she ran, she ran faster than she thought she could but she knew she needed to run faster than even this.

Behind her, she could hear the shouts, the cries, and the frustration brewing in her pursuers. They were close. Much closer than they had been the past few days and much closer than Grove ever dared to fear. She could smell their anger, their desperation, and Grove needed to get away from it. Her eyes darted across the woods ahead, and she searched for whatever path would take her away from her pursuers. Eventually, she spotted it. There was a windy path that led towards a canyon, and Groves intuition and spirit birds told her that was the only way she’d get away. She turned her run towards that direction and set off down the windy trail.

Grove knew that there was something off about these woods. The leaves lacked the same vibrant warmth of her home, the trees looked old and sick, and there were as many dead trees still standing as alive ones. Everywhere she looked she felt like there were hungry eyes locked onto her, like she was the next meal to walk into their dinner plate. This was a place of danger. This was what the stories warned her about. This was a place where she could die. But yet, her smile never grew smaller. This chase, these woods, and these spooky sights were all new to her, and she was ready to face these new challenges.

Grove danced through the windy trail, avoiding every snag, every branch, and every fallen tree. Eventually, she had made her way to the edge of the canyon and was about to look for the trail when she heard a voice from being shout to her. “GROVE NO.” Her head turned slightly, trying to see who it was and only caught a glimpse of the scout Amara before she suddenly began to fall. The trail did not continue down a hill, or snake its way down the cliff side. Instead, the trail ended at the edge of the canyon before it gave way to a steep decline. It wasn’t a straight drop but it was a very steep slope filled with rocky outcrops and other sharp and dangerous objects.

Grove began to tumble down the side of the mountain. Her descent began to speed up only to be slowed down by collisions with the rocky structures that dotted the hillside. Again and again, she would tumble, fall, slip, and try to catch herself before she once again slammed into another rock. She curled herself into the tightest ball she could, protecting both her head and the fated stick with everything she had.

Eventually, the descent slowed and Grove found herself near the bottom of the canyon. She was bloodied, her bones were broken, and she would be crying in pain if it were not for the sheer adrenaline rushing through her veins. Grove attempted to stand up and the pain nearly pushed her back down. She tested each leg in turn and sighed as none appeared to have been broken in the fall. She had numerous broken ribs, that much she could tell, but her legs were the most important thing. She checked her bag and whispered “fuck” as she realized all her healing potions and jars were broken, however. She coughed, and with the cough, she winced in pain.

“STAY THERE GROVE,” Amaras faint voice shouted. Grove looked up and her eyes went wide with shock. She had fallen a great distance. The scout up top looked like little more than a baby deer in the distance as opposed to a roll-grown member of her species. “WE’LL GO TO TOWN TO SEE IF THERE’S A SAFE WAY DOWN. WE CAN HELP YOU,” Amara started.

“Leave me alone,” was all grove could shout back before the pain took her words. She scanned the area around, looking for healing medicines and plants. She knew that she had been given a blessing with this fall, and it was up to her to make the most of it. “What a strange land,” Grove finished with a smile.

[NoriWasHere]

"KEEP MOVING," Captain Roth shouted to his soldiers, "WE DO NOT STOP UNTIL THE MOUNT."

Captain Roth led his soldiers down the relatively narrow cobblestone path towards the Mount. The path was flanked on both sides by an old forest, while there was still some life in their branches there was more dead growth than new. While the leaves that did dot the canopy above started to show the first color of the autumn season, it was, by in large, a dead section. This dead section would stretch for the last leg of their journey, and this made Captain Roth nervous. His eyes darted from side to side, scanning the tree's and the canopy itself for signs of a thief. There had been a few attempts made by various groups already on their treasure, and he did not want to lose his prize this close to home. He did not want to lose his prize this close to fame.

"HURRY, HURRY, WE'RE ALMOST THERE."

Captain Roth had reason to worry more. This was the perfect spot for an ambush. The trees could be felled, stoping their advance, the branches could be dropped, crushing his soldiers, and the narrow path meant they could get blocked in easily. While his cavalry could maneuver still, the carriage couldn't. Captain Roth shifted his eyes back to the carriage. It was a metal monstrosity of locks, chains, and chained-up locks. It would take thirteen keys to fully unlock the door, and another one to get to their stolen goods. He knew that if an ambush were to happen, it would take longer for a would be thief to open the door and get the artifact than it would for reinforcements to arrive. He knew that he had completed his mission, but a single thought still lingered.

What if the thief was good?



An eerie calm falls over Ordan and his traveling crew despite the sight of bodies littering the roadside and strewn across the village around them. These corpses were in a fight, they all wore some facet of armor and a litany of weapons littered the area around them. Their blood painted the road, the houses, and even the grass and it was evident that they did not die without a fight. Yet, despite the chaos and despite this bloodshed, there was one thing missing that Orban could easily tell. The villagers. The only bodies were the soldiers, and there were footsteps in the blood-stained mud that suggest that whoever once called this place home was led away from it towards the nearby forest. What’s more, there are several canine tracks unlike anything seen before in the mortal realm. These footprints were big, bigger than any dog or wolf and even bigger than some of the monsters that Ordan would have faced.

There is also something off about the air. It is as if something powerful lingers within it. Some unspoken word, some unseen threat, or some unknown presence. If they look carefully they may even see an eye peeking at them from the windows, from the forest, and every direction and yet there is nothing there.



A most peculiar sight awaits Taiji. As he travels down the road a small caravan of wealthy-looking, but upset, businessmen will begin to pass them. They are dressed in fine linen, and carry expensive-looking crates and chests however they struggle to take each step. It is as if none of these people have actually worked a day in their lives, and this little effort of labor is too challenging for them. They all have the same look of sadness mixed with anger in their eyes, and Taiji may hear a few curses whispered under their breath at their misfortune.

“You, you look like you are up for a challenge,” one of the men shouted as she walked up to Tiji. He was tall, fat, and looked like he was used to commanding an aura of respect. He wore no jewelry however the tan lines on his finger suggest that he typically does. His eyes carried a look of contentment.

“What if I could promise you riches beyond measure,” he asked Tiji, “the name is Kaito, and I run the village of Hurrin,” he paused as he sighed with anger, “or should I say ran. A musical demon entered our village last week, and he has fought and killed his way through our militia until he forced us out. We called him,” he paused as he shifted his eyes from side-to-side, “the singing demon, the maestro of our misfortune. Will you help us?”



“GET AWAY FROM MY MOTHER,” a young boy screams as he charges towards Bren.

He is young, maybe seven or so years of age. He has a small dagger in his hand but it looks like it might as well be a sword. He has small cuts and scrapes across his face but is otherwise okay. Behind him, a younger girl is holding onto his clothes. Fear is present in both their eyes, a fear that is directed to the sight of Bren.

“I WILL STAB YOU, MONSTER,” the boy will scream again but as he continues his charge he will trip over a branch that had suddenly blown in with the wind, falling to the ground and sending the knife sliding across the pavement towards Bren. The boy is not hurt, at least badly, but he still screams. The boy scoots backward, trying to now put distance between Bren and himself, but also keep himself in between Bren and his family. Bren would notice that there is a woman in the ditch on the side of the road who is hurt badly. She has been attacked by a sword and a long laceration is seen across her chest. Her eyes flicker open, but they don’t stay open for long and she drifts back to sleep.

The family sits on the side of the road at a crossroads. The post has three signs on it. The first points towards a nearby village. Smoke fills the air coming from that direction and Bren would smell the blood that was spilled there. The second points towards a nearby city called Goldrun. It was a larger city, and they would have healers and possible help for the young family. The third pointed towards another village, and Bren may notice a familiar track in the mud heading towards it. A gnoll footprint.



“So, you must be why I am waiting here,” a well-dressed man whispered from behind Eve and his group.

From seemingly nowhere this well-dressed man appeared and began to walk towards the fated one. He was well dressed, with an expensive robe that was covered in fine trims and details that would make even the vainest nobleman blush. Despite the robe being closed the trio could easily tell that the man was strong. The longer they looked at the well-dressed man, the more a sense of unease would fall over them. There was something off, something wrong, with the person walking towards them. And if sight alone was not enough, the air began to carry with it the faint hint of sulfur.

“I was told that I could expect someone of great power to face the coming darkness on this road, but even I could not have guessed that would be the Citadel’s first love,” a slight grin fell across the face of the well-dressed man as he sized up Eve’s traveling companions, “don’t worry, I don’t bite,” his voice a mix of sultry and sweet, “I am here to join up on your merry escapade,” he paused as he leaned in, “on your fated quest.”

The well-dressed man’s smile only grew larger, warmer, and more inviting. His eyes seemed kind, gentle, and compassionate.



“Wait,” a single voice cut across a sea of bodies.

“Wait, don’t,” the man coughed and blood followed, “don’t go you must help them.”

All around Iveus was death. A battle was had recently, and it was a battle that this human patrol lost. A hundred bodies dotted the landscape, all in some different state of destruction. Some were cleaved in two, some were thrown into the rocky landscape breaking their bodies, and others found a merciful death with a stab through the heart. However, there was no sign of whomever or whatever attacked them. The only bodies that dotted the landscape were this human faction, and they died fighting something other than themselves.

“I feel myself fading,” the man whispered. He had a look in his eye, a determined look. “I don’t know what it was but it cut through us, it was humming some twisted song as it swung…” The man gasped for air for a brief second, “it’s heading towards the village of Koi, it’s heading..” the man leaned his head back as a few more pained breathes filled the air. “It’s heading…” his voice grew weak. “It’s…” He grew silent as his chest ceased movement, and his head slumped to the side.

Iveus would notice that the air hung heavy with a strange energy. It was not magic, but it held a power he never felt before. Whatever cut through these soldiers was strong, and it was heading towards a village that would not be able to protect itself.



“Are you a paladin, please tell me you’re a paladin,” a man shouted from ahead of Zarathia. He was bloodied, and as he ran he held his hand over his right shoulder. He did not give her a moment to respond.

“My village, my village was attacked,” he paused as he used his bloody hand to point down the road. The man was shaking, and it was clear that he had been through an ordeal unlike any other. “A necromancer, it was a necromancer. It killed everyone and then raised their corpses, please you have to save them, please save them,” the man begged and pleaded.

Zarathia would feel a change in the air. Something was calling to her from up ahead and it was a sensation of power different than any she would have felt, but at the same time, it was oddly familiar. This necromancer must be carrying a powerful relic or tome on them, and this powerful item could be theirs for the taking.

[The Irish Tree]

"How had it come to this?"

A simple question crossed the gnoll's mind as he stared not at the boy baring his miniature fangs, but at the deep cut the woman behind him had suffered. Suffering enough to drive a human child to attack a full-grown gnoll, with stumbling steps, shaking hands, and a knife he believed was a sword of legend. All the while the word "monster" was spat. A cursory glance of the scene to his side, of the crossroads, of his options, of his very future, Bren spied a gnoll footprint.

"Had one of his own brought this suffering?"

A deep, low growl escaped Bren as he considered the possibility, before returning to the present situation. The boy and girl were scared to death, and their mother was fading fast. He had seen this sight many a time in his home, of families soon to be rent asunder. And this time, Bren had the power to deny this parting. Without missing a beat, Bren would pick up the boy's dagger and slash it across his own palm by grabbing it, the tough hide ensuring it was as shallow a cut as a knife could manage, but still show that blood had been drawn.

"Child is strong. Bested me. Bren bound by honor to save. Brave child, raise head," Bren said, before suddenly scooping the two up with a swift motion, holding them in one arm, while effortlessly picking the mother up in the other, keeping her head level as he started to run. Run, with all his bestial might, to reach Goldrun before the mother lost her life. He had sufficient coin for a healer, he thought, and wouldn't take no for an answer from the children. Pressed once more against the boy's hand was the dagger that Bren had harmed himself with, the gnoll's blood on the blade. Run and run, Bren would fly until dirt became cobbled road, and until he caught the scent of a healer's herbs ground into powder.

[Thunder999999]

Was hardly going to just keep walking Iveus thinks to himself at the soldier's cry, a massacre like this is not something you just ignore, and this road wasn't meant to be particularly dangerous. It all makes sense when the soldier mentions the twisted song, the Maestro's minions are active already, he'd known it was only a matter of time of course, he wouldn't have The Tome if it wasn't.

"Don't you worry about Koi, I'll handle it." He doubts the poor fellow actually heard, but no harm in offering a little hope. Iveus right hand goes to the large belt pouch with the Tome within, pulling it out even as he starts walking down the road to Koi and a brisk walk.

Koi won't fall like these soldiers did, because he'll be there.

[Enkryption]

ATTN: @NoriWasHere (Captain Roth)

---

Three things went into a proper heist:

Time.

Planning.

Effort.

Of those three, the thief that Captain Roth feared had enough to execute her plan. Under the cloud of dread and haste, the caravan rushed through the shaded wood in a diamond formation of cavalrymen, pursuing of a single goal: the safety of The Mount, their fortress, impregnable to all but Gods and Men selfsame. However, the last stretch of road would be the last stretch for half of the ten men that rode their weary horse, and the same would be true of the horse that carried them and their precious artifact:

Thundral's Cornucopia.

It was calculated to the smallest detail with the information gathered from the infamous information broker, Grandma Musilene, and materials stolen over the course of a week's preplanning. Suspended above them, within the decrepit canopy, a thunderstorm of steel caltrop awaited the pressure of a carriage passing over a weighted trap set under a small rise of the dirt road. A carriage had a more calculable ride trajectory than horses, and that made the trap simple to set.

...and, easy to release.

The held tree branches cracked like thunder, and a net split apart under pressure, allowing hell to rain down. Chaos erupted, as the wheels of carriage cracked, and the shoed hooves of ten horses caught the spiked metal that littered the road. Immediately, the carriage lurched and wrenched on the twin horses that pulled it forward; the sudden cessation of movement caused the hitches to yank, and the right-side horse collapsed - its leg snapping from the angle, bleeding profusely - while the left-side horse tumbled over the caltrops, and fell into the spikes, landing on its abdomen.

As the carriage was disabled, smoke fell from the sky, and obscured the forest for the trees - as well as the hell that fired out of the treeline.

Bolts fired from the trees en masse, and impaled the caravan escort from both sides. Captain Roth could heard his men screaming in confusion and death screams, horses panicking and hitting the ground, yet there was nothing that he could do, as bolts rammed into his abdomen from left and right, and his horse as well, as the war-trained beast raised his hindquarters, and tossed his rider. Looking back, Captain Roth could see his steed felled by a series of serrated bolts that punctured his side, much like the one digging into his abdominal muscle - aching to tear his stomach and right kidney wide.

Behind him, another soldier fell as a bolt tore through his femoral artery, and the blood gushed over his horse; the crimson stream flowing over the bolt that dropped his mount to its own knee. The scene was much the same, as he struggled to his feet to attempt and access the damage, as the rain of arrows slowly ceased.

Death and Injury in equal measure was all his found, as he made his way from the front to the back; their Rear Guard, lightest armored of them all, lay in a pool of his blood and his speedy mare's blood, as bolt tore open his bicep, and his sword was plunge into his mare's neck. His death the result of hers, as she lay in a heap upon his crushed chest; his head bent in a twisted angle.

"Poetic in a way, isn't it," asked a nonchalant voice, as something landed on the carriage, "They died together, from the same cause. Necks are shockingly fragile under pressure."

Captain Roth could barely make out the intruder he'd feared so, as he caught sight of her and those glowing eyes going down at him haughtily.

The daughter of the Midnight Thief and Mistress of Misfortune...

Kuroneko, the Shadowless Thief.

"I'd love to stay and chat, but we both have things to do, so..." Captain Roth would witness the rumored might of the Shadowless Thief firsthand, as she placed her hands on the roof of the carriage, and her glowing eyes closed, before she and the carriage disappeared in plain sight in a swirl of smoky shadow...

Just under a mile off, the carriage would reappear on the edge of a cliffside, and without support, plunge into the depths of the forest below. If anyone was alive and inside, they wouldn't make it much longer... if all at judging by the crash before.

However, she wouldn't know for a while, as the thief crawled up into a flourishing tree, and groaned, as her eyes shut and she fell asleep...

[vietmyke]

Odran Stormweaver
Marching Music

---

When it came to Iron Dwarf companies, not even their scouts were particularly subtle. While they were not going out of their way to be noisy, when dwarves in plated armor came marching, it was hard to be quiet about it. Unlike their regular army units however, at least the Ironborn's Ranger crews marched relatively light. In place of a two-score platoon fitted a full baggage train of wagons, cargo and support crew, Odran and his crew numbered a bit over a dozen warriors and shield dwarves, and a quartet of laden mules. Still, it was hard to mask the subtle shake of the ground as some 18 dwarves marched through the village. The main component of unit itself was made up of 10 dwarven rangers and a pair of war-goat riders of varying ages, though all experienced in their own right, heads on a constant swivel as they scanned their surroundings. The remaining 6 dwarves made up the unit's small complement of shield dwarves, attendants to the older, more experienced rangers in the column. The column slowed down as they entered the village proper, hands on blade, rifle and shield as one of the shield dwarves, a young woman, approached her adoptive father at the front.

"Flint and fell... Da', what do you think's happened here?" Alfira asked, her normally bright alto voice low and subdued, her face more than a little pale given the sight. The orange light of her runelantern on the back of her pack pulled long shadows on her father's face as he glanced back at her.

"Well, that's what we're here to find out." Odran murmured in reply as he knelt down, checking one of the corpses and the accompanying beast prints. The poor man had been torn apart by the beast, whether by teeth or claw, it was hard to tell due to the severity, but whatever it was, the beast was massive. Removing a gauntlet, Odran ran his fingers against the edge of one of the footprints, feeling for textures, as his eyes and hands looked for something that might clue him in to what it was they might be marching into- be it stray furs or claw marks. Whatever it was, Odran hadn't seen anything like it, but it was smart- at least smart enough to keep the village people alive after slaughtering its defenders. Either men had control of the beasts and had taken villagers prisoner, or the beasts themselves were capable of taking folk prisoner.

"Callan!" Odran barked as he stood, there was an attendant grunt as one of the goat-riders rode up to him. "Return to the company and tell em what's happened 'ere. Request for reinforcements." The dwarf named Callan gave Odran a sharp nod before kicking his spurs into his goat, sending the two careening back the way they came. "Mulloch! Oryl!" Odran barked at two of the veteran rangers. There was the rapid shuffle and crunching of steel and sod as the responding dwarves marched up to him. "Take the mules and the lads and hold here. Hopefully flare rounds will make it through the treeline if we need ya."

"But Captain!" One of the shield dwarves protested, "How are we s'posed to learn if we're stuck here on camp duty?" To Odran's chagrin, Alfira nodded in agreement, speaking up as well. "I'm not stayin' back either Da, I'm coming with you."

"This un's no learning matter." Odran grunted, "We've stumbled onto something big here."

"All the more reason for me to come with you." Alfira argued, several of the other shield dwarves nodding in agreement, "You'll need every axe you can, right?" Odran eyed his daughter down for a moment, his vision flitting over to the other shield dwarves for a moment before he sighed. "Fine. Arek, the goat's no good in the woods. Stay here. Alfira, Tonben, form up." The two mentioned shield dwarves' faces lit up as they began to fall into formation with the rest of the rangers. A few of the remaining shield dwarves began to protest before Odran cut them off.

"I'm sorry- I think you lot are under the impression that this was a discussion." Odran barked, "I didn't say, 'Hey laddies, would you all like to stay in the village or come with me?', I said 'Mulloch, Oryl, take the mules and the lads, and Hold. Here.' Understood?"

With the riders gone, and two of their number staying back with the remaining shield dwarves to set up a small base camp, Odran's unit now numbered 8 Rangers and 2 Shield dwarves as they prepared to enter the woods- seeking whatever it was that had torn through the village. With any luck, they'd be able to find the remaining villagers and bring them home. If not that, then at least put an end to whatever was tearing this countryside apart.

"Stick close to me loddy, don't rush in looking for a fight." Odran murmured to Alfira, cradling the starmetal rifle in his hands as the dwarves glanced at the woods ahead of them, necks craning as the short dwarves looked up at the towering treetops above them. There was a silent breath before Odran led the march into the forest, the stomping of steel muffled in the thick underbrush. Now about half their original number and without the mules, they could at least try to travel more quietly- especially given the unknown they were heading into. The darkness of the night and trees soon enveloped the dwarves, their runelanterns like willow-wisps in the dark woods.

"Stop worrying Da, I'm not a child anymore." Alfira replied to him quietly, a plated elbow nudging his side reassuringly.

"That's why I'm worried."

[Abstract Proxy]

---

Zarathia

Necromancer.

The word cut Thia deeply with unintended and unknown accusation. The halberd resting lazily against her chest, burned in right hand, her fingers squeezing the cold metal until her knuckles turned a pale white. Gazing into the distance, from where the sobbing stranger had come, she saw smoke slowly beginning to rise on the horizon. There had been no small amount of violence committed, but there could always be more.

Too late, she thought, her anger fading as she drank slowly from the waterskin she held in her left hand. Her deliberations shifting to the doom that the villager was mournfully recollecting.

Who was there to save? The dead were dead. The undead were undead. The unfortunate souls ensnared by the foul magic of a necromancer could not be saved, they could only be freed, delivered to their deserved rest.

She could have kept going. She had no need to follow the road. She had not particular place to go. She did not believe in any destiny save that of the grave. She sighed and remained on the rock on which she was perched, studying the wretched, bloodied man in front of her with a look that revealed moderate irritation. She felt no pity, merely anger. It was always the same. Begging. Wailing. Desperate calls for help. The horror no longer moved her. It no longer touched her. She saw little more than weakness, cast in a painfully common pattern. Everyone expected to be saved. Everyone was waiting for a hero.

There was a hum, the rhythmic pulsing of power, a infernal orchestra that seemed to echo through the air. It pulled at her. It called to her. The feeling was familiar, a sensation that tugged at her buried memories, and filled her with a most unwelcome feeling. Longing colored by hatred, most desperately invoked, sent a shiver rising up her neck. She had no interest in encountering any reminders of her past. The Lady of Death had been right about one thing, the dead had no place in the world of the living, not even as specters.

Replacing the stopper in her waterskin and tying it to her belt, Thia rose from the moss covered stone, shifting her halberd until it loomed in front of her, ready to strike with the smallest of motions. With her free hand she brushed the dust off her robes, faded gray reappearing from underneath shades of brownish dirt with each motion. Her armor offered welcome resistance beneath the thick cloth. And her helm clattered mutely from where it hung slung over her shoulder.

The corner of her lips shifted into a lazy smile that never traveled close to her eyes, "Coin. How much? How much are you willing to pay? How much can you pay?"

The words tasted wrong, sharp barbs that cut the inside of her mouth, leaving her mouth swirling with a metallic flavor, like blood. And still she swallowed, accepting the bitterness, heedless anger driving her forwards. The Fates might have trapped her. The three witches might have ensnared her with their dark magic, but she would not work for free. She was no servant. She was no guileless believer. And she was no hero. Not by any measure.