[IC] Strangeland | Legends Never Die

[Blu]

The quiet weeping of the white-clad woman brought Aglovale out of his apathetic state. He stood near her in this strange, dream-like field of white roses that seems to go on forever. In fact, he's been wandering this somber place for a very long time now. He can't even recall exactly how long it's been. But, no matter how much he walked, he'd always end up at the exact same spot - next to this mysterious woman with blood-bathed hands covering her face. "Enough already..." he spoke weakly to the woman in white. Aglovale is fed up with her weeping but no matter what he says the woman remains unaware of his presence. Exhausted, Aglovale collapsed onto the bed of roses beneath. He stares at the featureless white sky with heavy eyes.

"Is this... all there is to Hell...? What a strange land..." Aglovale's words trailed off as he gradually falls unconscious.

It felt like not a second later when Aglovale abruptly wakes. Panting heavily, he sits up and feverishly scans the area around him. He was no longer in the field of white roses but, rather, a graveyard at dusk. "Where..." Something stops him. A frightening feeling: the beating of his heart. Grabbing his chest, Aglovale felt something he hadn't felt in a long time: fear - bitter, paralyzing fear. "I-I'm... alive!? No, I can't be. I remember my death clearly." he reminded himself, bewildered by his situation. Suddenly, Aglovale noticed something under his clothes. When he removed his shirt to check, he saw a strange marking on the left side of his chest. "What is this accursed mark?" he wondered. Finally regaining his composure, Aglovale redressed his shirt and proceeded to wander the graveyard.

He attempted to search for anyone that could be of assistance but to no avail. Soon, he stumbled upon the exit and, then, the road. A wooden sign pointed in the directions of several nearby settlements; one of which Aglovale happens to recognize. "Oldenstead..." Aglovale said with quiet nostalgia. "Perhaps I may still find solace there." Suddenly, a sound drew Aglovale's attention away from his thoughts: the snarling sound of wolves. Out in the distance prowled a pack of wolves with fur as dark as the night and eyes like stars. They seem unafraid of a human presence suggesting that they've hunted humans before. Upon seeing the pack of five, an alarming sensation overcame Aglovale. His blood is boiling and, in the back of his mind, a sly voice suggests that he kills the wolves; Aglovale feels compelled to comply with the voice.

Blood spatters onto the grass and dirt, and harrowing cries fill the air. The wolves lie dead upon one another, exsanguinated and covered in their own bloody shroud. Aglovale, with blood-stained hands, stood hunched over and panting heavily; an almost sadistic grin framed his face. "That felt... satisfying..." he mused, concerning the wolves he had just slaughtered. Aglovale stood upright again and looked to the direction of Oldenstead. "If I truly am alive, then I best not waste this opportunity. Morgan, I'm coming to see you." he tells himself before setting off towards his destination.

[Pendragahst, Capital of Astoria]

Castle Pendragahst - the mighty fortress that lies at the center of Astoria's massive capital. With walls of dragonstone and an army of soldiers patrolling day and night, this impenetrable stronghold represents the domain of the man who ended an age and founded a kingdom: Lord Galant of the First Sword. Unfortunately, the castle serves more than just a throne to rule from, it also serves as the king's prison. A court room full of advisers and dignitaries wait patiently for their king but are greeted by nothing but an empty throne. In the king's chambers - a room dimly lit by candles with a fairly-sized bed as its centerpiece - a soldier arrives and bows respectfully to his king and queen. "My Lord, a representative of the Holy Church requests an audience." he informed.

Lord Galant - hidden behind crimson curtains of silk - gave not but a harsh cough in reply. His silhouette shows the figure of a sickly man. The once almighty Lord Galant is now a mere husk of the man he once was; stricken ill by an indeterminable disease. "As you can see, Lord Galant is not in a state in which he can have audience with anyone, Church or not. Tell this representative to seek the king at at later date." Queen Andora, standing beside the king's bed, told the soldier.

"My Queen, the representative states the matter is of great urgency. It's in regards to the Blood Plague."

"Send him in..." Lord Galant finally spoke albeit weakly.

"My Lord-" Queen Andora attempts to protest but Lord Galant interrupts her.

"If it concerns this unnatural blight my kingdom is plagued by, then I wish to know of any and all news the Church seeks to share with me." he tells the room. "Send him in." Lord Galant repeated.

[WilsonTurner]

Zaelios was dimly aware of himself being shattered- an aching pain for a moment before the spells fizzled out of existence. Only the very most powerful- the ones holding his 'consciousness' together- centered in the massive, untapped reservoir of energy in the diamond resisted the other spells being torn apart. Normally, so many spells bound together would, naturally, tear the neighboring ones apart and so on, just like a collapsing castle. The diamond he fell to the ground in a dozen fragments, each large and sharp enough to cut apart anyone who happen to fall on them.

And then he was whole again. He fell to the ground with a soft thud, in the middle of a meadow. Absently, dreamily, he cast a spell to restore his sight. Nothing happened. Panic arose, and suddenly he could see again. It was as if- well. He was back in his mortal form, armored in his... armor. He looked around, wondering what happened, and saw a woman. White, an unfamiliar color in such a pure form. He could sense a massive presence of magic- a cripplingly size, for a creature that lives and feeds off of it.

So he turned to where the presence was weakest, and started running, unable to form his powered form. It felt like he ran a century, and yet when he turned back, looking at the white woman, it was as if a moment had passed. He tried to run in a different direction, and suddenly it felt like he was falling, falling, falling down and then smack! He smashed into the ground with what would've been a painful break of a leg. Instead, his leg bent sideways at an awkward angle, before slowly realigning. He shook it off, and looked around, taking note of his surroundings.

Nothing he should be should exist right now. He shattered. His entire form- of entirely spells- were torn apart. His diamond shattered- the crystal that he was anchored to.

Then when he REALLY looked around, he saw that not only he was on a barren hill in the middle of a foresty area, he was standing inside a circle- a 12-point circle- where lines show that something were dragged to the middle, where he now stood. At the end of each point stood a man, clad in dark blue robes, patched, torn, and badly dyed. Homemade. He was alive again, and he could feel the collectively-powerful magicians around him. Fools that didn't know what they were doing.

The bright sunny sky disappeared in an instant, great rolling thunderclouds appeared and lightning flicked through the clouds. Thunder rolled with every bolt, clinging to the mood of its maker as Zaelios threw out tendrils of power to the sorcerers, using their own spells against them. As they chanted, he grew more powerful; more spells layered on the originals, trying to bind him to them.

Instead, they started screaming as he batted aside their individually-weak defenses, and sucked their bodies dry of the power they contained. Necromancy in the purest form. All that was left was ash.

[Zamokra41]

Twas a good end, it didn’t happen the way he would have preferred but a good end nonetheless, after all he fell to the blade of a once close friend and a now superior warrior…at least that’s what he was telling himself right before the world darken before his eyes. Oddly enough he felt at peace, the kind of peace one probably expected of death maybe, or in his case, SHOULD expect. The transition was instantaneous, one moment he was on all fours, coughing blood to rival the stream flowing from his chest, surrounded by a grassy meadow on a cobblestone street and in the blink of an eye he was in the same position yet a vastly different place. A soft gasp escaped his lips as he gazed at the ground, a large blanket of pure white roses sprouted all around, their thin tulips escaping through the gaps between his fingers. Curious enough, he was no longer in pain. He slowly stood up, a baffled expression plastered on his face as he was inspecting his person and then his surroundings. He appeared to be perfectly fine, no wounds, no pain, nothing, and he was in the middle of an apparent endless ocean of white roses stretching as far as the eye could see in the horizon and, as he suspected, beyond that. He uttered a fain “Wha..” before turning around, feeling a presence behind him. His muscles tensed and he instinctively reached for his weapon expecting an opponent, yet he was surprised to find that he was grasping at nothing, his sword no longer by his side and before him stood not an armed foe but a woman, dressed in a long dress of a white so immaculate one could easily confuse it with the roses surrounding her, making it look like she was part of this place. Her face was the only thing hidden, obscured by the palms of her hands, stained so heavily with blood that they stood out from the environment like a sore thumb. Just who is this person?

Sairasu sheepishly approached her, it was rare for him to be THIS cautious when dealing with an unarmed person, “What…what is this..place?” he uttered, his words apparently falling on deaf ears as the woman gave no answer. He walked closer, repeating his question yet still no answer. Only then did he notice that his whole body was numb, looking around and even at the dress of the woman one could clearly tell that a light breeze was sweeping through the meadow yet Sairasu did not feel its chilling caress or anything else for that matter. “Is this…” he muttered stretching an arm, gingerly, towards the woman, strands from her long, jet-black hair brushing lightly against his fingers as the breeze blew, he didn’t feel that either. Only mere inches from touching her crimson colored hands did he stop, clenching his outstretched palm into a fist as he completed his unfinished previous sentence “Is this…Hell?”. He retracted his hand, still no answer, the woman was simply standing there right in front of him yet apparently ignoring him. Sairasu closed his one good eye, taking a deep breath. What now?

Without any alternatives he started to wander, aimlessly, through the field. He had no sense of direction where he was going, there were absolutely no changes in the environment no matter which way he went or how far, not that he could tell exactly HOW far he was going anyway. He gazed up, trying to see if he could get a vague idea of direction by observing the clouds yet the sky was an immense, monotone canvas of grey, he couldn’t even see the sun…he couldn’t even tell if there WAS any sun to begin with. He kept wandering, on and on for what seemed like an ungodly amount of time. He felt the minutes stretching out to hours and the hours to days, yet no matter how far or how long he was wandering he always seemed to somehow come back to the place where he started, where this mysterious woman in white stood, patiently waiting for him with her bloody hands cupping her face. Sairasu was lost. Utterly and completely lost. He sighed deeply and proceeded to sit himself down among the roses, next to where the woman was standing. “If this is Hell, is this my punishment?” he asked yet not expecting an answer. He thought about it. IF this is indeed his punishment, for a warrior who only knew battle and did nothing but seek out more and more opponents in life, to wander around a ‘barren’ field for all eternity with nothing to fight, that sort of punishment would actually be…”Fitting…” he muttered, a sad grin crossing his face as if he was coming to terms with his fate. This still didn’t explain the woman though… What is her presence here supposed to….

His train of thoughts were interrupted as he turned his gaze towards here only to see that the woman in white had suddenly vanished from sight. Now he was all alone… a mix of emotions started to fill him, angst, fear, confusion, curiosity and dread all rolled into one. He heard something. A distant sound echoing all around him… a familiar sound…it sounded like….a heartbeat.

In a mere, unperceivable instant all was dark again. However, it did not remain for long. The darkness slowly crumbled away, giving way to a messy blur as his vision was slowly recovering. He was hearing more sounds…the sounds of dirt being tossed aside by shovels, the sounds of stitches stretching out on leathery clothing…and voices…he heard voices yet couldn’t make out what they were saying. It took several moments for both his vision and hearing to clarify until he could figure out what was going on. He was gazing at the sky….yet this sky was not the same grey slab from before…this one was shrouded by dark stormclouds and obscured by the bony branches of a lifeless tree. What he heard were a pair of guttural voices, bickering about something….Sairasu listened closely… “Oi, hurry tha’ feck up woud’ja ? See them clouds up’a bove? Moveit !” the second voice which answered had a sharper tone “Shut’it ye git’! Me thinks we got’ourelves a good haul..Look a’ this ‘ere !” Sairasu’s curiosity made him slightly lift his head and turn his gaze to see what those two voices were talking about…that’s when he saw Meiyaku, his weapon, his most prized possession, still sheathed in its scabbard, lifted just above him in the raggedy grips of a stranger. “Look’a tha’t… How much ye’reckon’ this ‘ere be worth, ei?” the guttural voice answered in a more aggressive tone than before “I onl’y reckon’ it be belongin’ to me!” That’s when a second heavily clothed pair of hands stretched out and grabbed at his weapon, trying to pry it away from the first pair of hands. “Oi, bugge’r tha’ feck off, mate! Finder’s keeper’s, that’s how we work !” the sharper voice protested and was meet only with a series of insults from the guttural one as the two pairs of hands were apparently fighting for the katana just above Sairasu’s head.

He didn’t understand COMPLETELY what was happening…yet he did understand that someone was trying to steal his treasured Meiyaku and he wasn’t about to just let it happen. Suddenly, his body no longer felt numb or stiff, his muscled tensed and he could feel burning life coursing through it as he promptly pushed himself up, parting away the thin layer of dirt that still remained over his lap. His hand was outstretched and he suddenly gripped the katana by the middle, claiming it back where it rightfully belonged.

“Mine…”

In a few seconds after he said that, the two grave-robbers jumped back, screeching in sheer terror at what happened. One of them tripped over the shovel planted in the ground behind him and fell on his hind while the other in a fumbled in sheer panic under his raggedy thick coat before pulling out a large knife. “Wh…wh…wh..a…What tha’ feck is’a that!? Who…who tha’ feck…WHAT tha’feck are ye?!” he stuttered and shouted, fear present in his voice as Sairasu stood up and walked out of his shallow grave. He proceeded to grip the handle of his katana and slowly draw the blade out from its scabbard, the sound of metal ringing through the air as the other man was gathering himself up from the ground, so dazed and scarred that he nearly toppled all over again while trying to regain his balance. The one with the knife kept cursing, over and over, while cold fear run down his spine, the second grave-robber quickly grabbed the shovel behind him to defend himself with before shouting “Feck! It’s one o’ them Blood Plagued bugger’s ! “ his affirmation was met with yet another panicked question from his associate “Blood Plagued? What tha’ feck’ ar’e we s’possed tha’ do now?!” the question was answered with a rushed “How tha’ bloody ‘ell am I s’possed tha’ feckin’ know?!” Sairasu couldn’t help but grin manically as he lifted the katana, its naked blade pointing at the sky. “I have an idea…” he muttered, his tone sounding more grim than he probably intended. He let the scabbard fall to the ground as he proceeded to a fighting stance “..How about you die?” he uttered and then the air of the small grove was filled with the short and loud screams of terror of the two grave-robbers as Sairasu sliced them limb from limb, the sprouting blood showering the dead grass and staining their raggedy clothes as their lifeless bodies fell motionless to the ground.

It was only after his head cleared of the bloodlust that had suddenly got a hold of him, that Sairasu began to process and realize his current situation. “I…I’m alive…” he muttered in complete disbelief, falling to his knees, his katana sliding trough his opened palm as he simply stared at nothing into the horizon. How is this possible? He asked himself. He remembered how he died, the memory of his battle with Binshentsu was still fresh as if it happened earlier today, so was the memory of the great field of white roses and the woman in the white dress with the blood stained hands. He was supposed to be DEAD ! Yet here he is…feeling the cold of wind of dusk as a storm was slowly approaching, the slight aches in his joints from the stiffness of body were all to real, it was all….true. Sairasu rose his gaze once again to the sky placing his palms over his face as he simply started to laugh manically while shouting “What in the fuck is happening to me?!”

After a few solid minutes of getting to grips with the situation, Sairasu grabbed his katana, stood up, proceeded to walk back to where his former grave was, walking past the severed and bloody limbs of his would-be robbers, picked the scabbard from the ground and sheathed Meiyaku in it. He took a deep breath doing his best to calm his nerves and his still fumbled mind. He has absolutely no idea what his happening to him…yet…wait a moment? He recalled…what was that one grave-robber saying as he unsheathed his katana? “Blood Plagued…” he muttered under his breath. Maybe that is a clue to what is currently happening to him. With renewed resolve, Sairasu walked eagerly out of the small grove, leaving the opened make-shift grave and the bloody corpses behind. He still had no clue about anything that was happening yet for the moment, his best bet was to reach the nearest populated settlement and find out as much as he could about this Blood Plague.

[Argetlam350]

He cursed his death. Damned the beast that shattered him, angered that he had failed after all the years waiting and searching for the wretched monster only to be killed by it. Ultimately he could not change what had happened and it frustrated him to no end unable to escape the field of roses. Te last moments had been quick, the beast was swift, and despite all of his training, he could not keep up with the beast's erratic movement. He remembered feeling his body suddenly crushed by immense pressure, then there had been a crack and numbness. How long he had been stuck in the field of flowers he could not say, nothing changed in this realm and time seemed nonexistent. He wandered on end nothing stopping him until some point he came across someone weeping it. The sound broke him from his thoughts and curses. He had not seen anyone else here upon his arrival. He at first could not see who was weeping, and believed it was all in his head, finally succumbing to some form of madness until he finally could make out a shape of a woman who's clothes matched the same color of the roses in the realm. He wandered closer to the woman who seem oblivious to him even being there. She continued to weep and as he got closer, he noticed the crimson blood staining her, the only color in the sea of white all around. The closer he got the more encumbered he felt, the more his limbs felt numb.

"Perhaps rest will clear my mind," he mumbled before toppling over, drifting in and out of consciousness only the sound of the woman's weeping came to his ears until he lost consciousness.

He felt cold, cold that was enough to numb a man to his bone. His mind slowly awoke not sure where he was. He did not remember feeling cold in the realm of white roses yet something told him that he was far from that place now. Where he was not sure until he finally sat up. He saw around him snow but his mind couldn't comprehend why? He was dead, he knew that he had been yet here was snow. The scenery was not much different from the sea of white roses but it was the cold that made him certain he was alive, the warmth of blood running through his veins keeping him only slightly warm along with his gear, gear that seemed to of been untouched. Had this been his place of death that final day? It was the only thing he could think of why he was alone in the middle of wilderness. No one knew where he had been, he had always worked alone in his hunts and lived mostly in the wilderness. Being back to life brought him a sense of new vigor and strength as he stood up. He was alive and he could continue his task but first he had to find the nearest city. Something internally said to move south and so he did, beginning his long journey south to the nearest city, trudging through the snow one foot at a time.

[Saarebas]

What would you expect to be someone's final thought as they left this world? Would they ponder if they lead a good life, feel woe for the people they are leaving behind, wish that they made up for past mistakes, or maybe even they would feel the fear that comes with the mysterious phenomenon that is death. Not one of those thoughts made their way through the once mighty dragon Nighith's head as he laid on the ground broken, a man's steel boots firmly placed on his chest. All Nighith could think of was that this was a good fight, the best fight he had had in lifetimes. He had fought with all his might, burning the land around him and countless men and women along with it. He had fought for hours, or was it days, he could no longer tell. Waves upon waves of knights had set upon him, firing arrows into his hide or attempting to the foolish task of facing him up close with mere blades. But much like how snowflakes pile upon each other to form an avalanche the knights' numbers eventually overwhelmed Nighith. Now he laid upon the ground bested by the numbers of humans and the planning of one man, the one that stood upon his chest in victory. Daud, a knight that sought to right the wrongs of this world, was the one who bested Nighith and now the man seemed ready to finish his job. "This is for all the families you have torn asunder. For all the villages you have burned away from this world. For your monstrous greed. AND FOR ALL OF MY BROTHER AND SISTERS IN ARMS THAT YOU SENT TO THEIR EARLY GRAVES! Daud bellowed as he raised his blade above his head. The knight then quickly and with out hesitation plunged his sword through both Nighith's chest and heart.

The scene began to fade for Nighith as Daud began to remove his sword, bringing the dragon's heart along with it. The sounds of knights cheering and crackling fires went silent, the smells of spilt blood and charred flesh washed away, and the sight of the beautiful night sky faded as the lights of Nighith's eyes were extinguished. But as one vision faded another came into view. A sea of white blinded Nighith for a moment, his eyes taking a moment to adjust and recognize that he was standing in a field of never ending snow colored roses. Nighith couldn't help but wonder, he walked the field for minutes, then hours, then days, then months, then time stopped to matter and all Nighith could do was merely ponder his own thoughts. The most frequent of which was about the place he was now confined to. If this was eternal damnation it was not what Nighith was expecting. He was expecting a world of fire and brimstone, full of the screams of the wicked and foul, a place of unrelenting pain and misery. Then again maybe this was fitting for him, he did spend the majority of his life turning the world of the living into such a land of fire and misery. It was during a time when Nighith was lost among these thoughts that he saw her. The woman dawning a dress that blended into the field of roses in which she stood. Her face was covered by her hands which were in turn covered by blood, something Nighith as quite familiar with. The woman wept softly, but her crying was the only sound in the whole world it seemed. Nighith approached her with suspicion, was she another soul cursed to wander this field, was she one of his past victims, all these questions raced through Nighith's head until the world went dark.

Nighith's eyes were open he was sure of it there shouldn't of been darkness, it took him a moment to realize his view was being obstructed by something. It was solid and cold, two things he had nearly forgotten about in the field of white. It was a large stone, more accurately it was many stones as Nighith was surrounded by them. From out side his little stone keeping Nighith could hear low voices, as if they were chanting, but there was another voice. It was masculine and full of pride. Who ever the man was he believed wholeheartedly in what he was saying, which was along the lines of "From his breath came fires so intense they burned for decades!." Nighith pressed his hand against the stone that was directly above him, he was laid down as if at rest, but it removed to budge. He let out a slight sigh of annoyance before trying to use a bit more force, nothing. Finally Nighith let out a low growl and punched the stone with all his might, it cracked and quickly went sailing through the air landing somewhere with a loud crash. As he sat up, the dust from the stone settling on him, the voices that were chanting stopped. It took Nighith a moment to register what he was seeing. He had just broken himself out of a tomb of some sorts, it had markings that depicted a large dragon breathing fire upon a field of warriors carved into each of its sides. The room he had entered appeared to be in some sort of cave judging by the rock walls, though similar markings like the ones on the tomb decorated the walls along with torches that illuminated the cave. As for the occupants of the cave, the ones that were the source of the chanting, they were men and women of varying ages, from young children to the elderly, dressed in deep crimson robes. They all stared at Nighith in shocked silence, including the man who stood in front of the group closest to Nighith. "Y-You..." The man stammered, revealing that he was the masculine voice from earlier. "You a-are Nighith. The man managed to finish.

Nighith narrowed his eyes as he stepped over the side of the tomb, he had yet to notice his bare human form but it would be little concern to him at the moment even if he did, as he walked towards the man. Nighith towered over the man, literally, as he peered down at him. "How do you know this human?" Nighith said to the man, his cold voice dripping with venom. The man almost immediately fell to his knees in praise. "OHH great one!" He exclaimed, the rest of the room's occupants soon fallowing suit. After his bewilderment and the man rose to his feet Nighith had him explain what exactly was going on. It turns out this was a cult that formed soon after Nighith's death to praise the dragon's might and strength. "So great one you can see why your return is such a honor for us to witness." The man said with his head bowed. Nighith was about to nod when the corner of his eye caught glimpse of something. It was a throne that was clearly made of the bones of a large creature and lined with velvet. "What is that?" Nighith asked in his cold voice, prompting a croak from the man, who had told Nighith that he was the high priest of the cult. "That oh great one is the Rushing Jaw throne it is made of Nighith's-" Before he could finish Nighith had grabbed the high priest by the throat and effortlessly lifted the man into the air. "You used my bones to make a chair?" Nighith said, his voice a growl that could shake grown men to their core. The high priest tried to respond but his voice only came out as a choked gag, Nighith already knew the answer. The dragon's eyes glowed a deeper red as he squeezed his grip around the priest's neck tighter. It as maybe a moment later until the grotesque wet pop filled the cave and the priest was dropped to the floor, lifeless and limp. Nighith turned to the other cultists, crimson blood dripping down his arm. They all looked upon him in a mixture of fear and awe. Nighith's eyes returned to their normal color as he looked over the group. "Now... someone bring me a robe." He said simply. Nighith was back, he didn't know how or why, but he was back and he planned on making the most of it.

[Blu]

A little more than two hours after his confrontation with the wolves, Aglovale finally arrived at his destination: Oldenstead. He now sported a tattered beige cloak with a hood worn over his head. It was his attempt to remain inconspicuous. Aglovale also managed to find a stream earlier in which to wash away the blood that caked his hands. The small village of Oldenstead was quiet; everyone was locked up in their homes. It puzzled Aglovale to see the village in such a state but, at the moment, he had other things on his mind. Soon, he approached the edge of the village where a tavern stood. The Dawn Maiden - an establishment that has been in operation for the last couple of decades and was founded by none other than the Bright Lord himself: Aglovale. The same Aglovale that stands before it now.

Inside the Dawn Maiden, a man in his mid-sixties stands behind the bar cleaning various silver mugs with a wet cloth. The wooden doors of the tavern suddenly opens and in comes Aglovale. "We're closed for the night. Come back in the morning." the barkeep instinctively said right as he heard someone coming in. "Since when is this town so empty in the evening?" Aglovale asked as he approached the bar counter. The barkeep stopped and looked at him suspiciously. "Surely you jest. Ever since the dead started coming back to life, everyone's been cooped up in their homes at night." As he explained, the barkeep stealthily reached for a knife underneath the counter. "You're not trying to kill an old friend are you, Balin?" Aglovale asked much to the barkeep's surprise.

"Who are you? You're not nearly old enough to be a friend of mine's." Balin said as he placed his knife on the counter while still gripping it. "On the contrary, I've a few years on you if I recall correctly. Now, do you still keep the Caliburn in the back office?" Aglovale asked to which Balin finally realized who he was speaking to. "Y-You can't- Aglovale...?" Balin asked hesitantly. After some time, Balin was finally convinced that the person he is speaking to is actually Aglovale of legend and his old friend. "You're one of them..." Balin said gravely. "A 'risen', you said?" Aglovale asked. Balin simply nodded in affirmation. "Have you... felt the desire to kill yet?" Balin asked. Aglovale was quiet at first. "Yes, I have. I've killed several wolves on the way here. Rest assured, Balin. They seem to have quench my bloodlust thus far."

"Is that so? Usually, it requires the death of a human to satisfy a risen's bloodlust." Balin replied in suspicion to Aglovale's statement. "I know you can't trust me but you have no other choice. I need to know where I can go to learn more about this 'Blood Plague'." Aglovale stated. Balin sighs. "Regardless, I am powerless to stop you. If you really do wish to learn more about the Blood Plague, seek out the cathedral in Pendragahst. Aside from the archpriests of the Morning Palace itself, the archpriests of Pendragahst will have the most information regarding the Blood Plague."

"Thank you." Aglovale says as he gets up. "I need the Caliburn."

"Do I have a choice in the matter?" Balin asked.

"Not really." Aglovale replied.

A while later, Aglovale retrieved the Caliburn from Balin as well as a change of clothes. "And Wrathbone. What of that sword now?"

"Sold to the Brotherhood of Arms as you requested before you left on your mission for the Church and to your abrupt death. Tell me: why did you go after the Five Heavenly Kings?"

"Honestly, I don't recall. The only memory I have before I died was the moment I was slain by them. That and my regret of not being able to say farewell to Morgan. How is she lately? I can't imagine her working here any longer."

"You're right. She's not here anymore. After you died, Morgan left on a journey to who knows where. I tried to stop her but... Well, you can figure out the rest. In any case, I've been working here for the last fifteen years and there hasn't been a shred of news about her."

"I see..." Aglovale replied before approaching the door to leave.

"You realize that I have to report you to the Church, right?"

"You do as you need to, Balin. I don't blame you for your caution. However, you may be sending those priests to their deaths if you do so. Goodbye, my old friend. I hope you'll never hear from me again." Those were Aglovale's last words before he left. As he exited the village, he stared into the distance and contemplated his new purpose: to find the truth about the Blood Plague.

[IcePezz]

Isabeau blinked a few times, regaining her focus. She had slipped into a daze ... or at least she thought. Though it had felt like an eternity since her body was put into the ground. Everything after that was a blur, until now. How long have I been out? she thought. A quick turn of her head to assess her location had her doubled over in pain. Events flashed through her mind, memories, her body ached all over as she began to relive what had happened that last night.

Flashback

She had been quietly working to uncover a traitor within their organization. Their numbers had been rapidly diminishing the past few months, and with no explanation. Sure it was natural for her brethren to take extended leave, to be gone for months at at time, but something didn't feel right. No ... there was nothing right about what was going on.

Walking through the gardens always calmed her mind. But she couldn't shake the unsettling feeling she had that night. She felt someone behind her. She reached for the dagger at her waist and quickly pivoted. No one was there. But when she turned once more to continue through the gardens, she saw him.

Some might ponder that it was who he was to her that she let her guard down in that moment. To others, the sheer thought of being betrayed by the one you love that shattered her resolve within those final moments of their battle. Whatever the case, it all ended with his dagger through her chest.

She shook her head, letting the memories pass from her sight. When she opened her eyes once more, she stared up an endless sea of white. She had been sitting in a large field of white roses, stretched beyond what her eyes could see, blending seamlessly into a dingy grey sky, dusted with dingy white clouds. She chuckled softly and thought to herself Is this hell, or did I find my way to some other forgotten place among the stars?

A strange sound had tore her from her thoughts. It was so foreign at first, until it began to seep into her very core. She turned to see what had been making the sound, and was startled to see a woman sitting right next to her. Where in this hell did she come from?! She cocked her head to the side, examining the strange woman. Her dress blended in with the never ending sea of roses. A thought quickly crossed her mind and she was grateful for the lack of aroma from the field. for if they -had- smelled, it would truly be hell she was sitting in. Either that or her own funeral service. As her gaze moved up, she noticed the woman's blood soaked hands cradling her face. Though they muffled her sobbing, the noise seemed to be everywhere now, growing louder and more intense.

A small chuckle escaped her, slowly growing louder and fuller. She couldn't help herself. If there was any meaning to this, oh the irony behind it all. She buried her face in the soft petals as she laid down in the field of flowers, her laugh melting into bitter tears. She laid there sobbing, unconsolable, her cries matching the woman next to her until she fell asleep.

Her eyes flew open in a panic, she grasped at her chest and tried desperately to catch her breath. She must've had had a nightmare for her heart was .... her body froze, her gaze darted around her, the tension in her hand released as she laid her palm flat on her chest. It was beating! Racing rather, and the more she thought on it, the faster it beat. She was surrounded completely by darkness and had very little space to move around in. Am I trapped in my own grave? This is impossible, I must be dreaming or ... she lifted her tunic slightly, ran her fingers over her wounds, searching for the scar. There it was! But this couldn't be real, could it? Bringing her fists to the wood above her head, she pounded them against the hard surface until she felt it splinter and crack under the pressure of her knuckles. Dirt started to the crumble in as she made her way through. Soon even the moonlight poured into her little ditch and she was free. Free. That word seemed so odd to her. It took her dying just to achieve it. But how? She brushed the dirt from her clothes, and noticed the blood on her hands. "I really am alive, aren't I" she said, reveling at the tint of blood that sparkled in the moonlight. "But how?" And with that she made her way out of the alcove under the tree, she trudged through the woods until she found a road. If she truly was alive, there were so many things she wanted to do. But first on her list, she needed to find out what happened to her and why she found herself alive and here.

[WilsonTurner]

Feeling revitalized from his short duel with the dozen-ish mages of medium power, he debated whether or not traveling by foot, mist, or flight. By foot, he would stay undetected longer but make the slowest time, and using two feet was something he always sort of looked down upon. The mist depends far too heavily on the wind- but then again, the wind was picking up with his storm, and he could use that to travel. Herm- he hadn't thought of that before.

Lastly, he could leap his way towards the nearest city in his most powerful, natural form, but hunters of not-so-friendly Legends might see him and take the opportunity. He suspected the shards of his heart, mind, and soul would be quite valuable for jewelry or as a trophy.

As he just decided on mist form, he detected something- a hint of magic, behind him. He turned in time to see a cloaked figure step out from the shadows of several trees, and release an arrow.

Arrows don't bother him- they only 'hurt' in his mortal form, and even then, they are easily shrugged off and discarded. But this arrow was very much different- magic swirled around it. He felt his spellwork reach other to it, draining the arrow so quickly and so peacefully that the arrow didn't even waver in its flight. The impact of the arrow, however, was more than he expected.

The shaft was as long as his arm- so it was likely from a longbow, a bit one. He stumbled to the side as it impact the side of his chest, probably just outside a mortal's heart. Him? His mist form began leaking from it, pretending to be a sort of legendary blood. The more that leaked out- quite slowly, it did- the more it appeared he was weakening. Indeed, three more arrows hit him in quick succession, faster than Zaelios believed possible. And yet, he still did not fall. Instead, his hands reached out and grabbed etheral swords, glowing and swimming with purple and blue energy and light.

With swords in both hands, he rushed to the enemy bowman's position- he could save his other form for later. Six more arrows hit him before he managed to reach him- or her, based on the length of the hair as they turned to run- and he simply threw his sword as the lithe archer turned tail. The sword changed to a knife before it left his hand, and the archer wasn't looking to see what came at her. A thud, a gasp at the icy coldness of the magical weapon, and then she fell.

Zaelios, meanwhile, looked at the arrows sticking out of his chest, aggravated. One had even pierced his helmet, sticking through where his right eye should have been. Oddly, it hurt, though not nearly as much as a human might feel- a human would be dead. He reached up with one of his gauntleted fists, and yanked it out, staring curiously at the steel broadhead, which once held magic. It was covered with blood- but it was clean when it hit him. What had happened to him?

The archer moved weakly as he pulled out the rest of the arrows, laying them in a neat pile next to the archer. He felt himself, feeling the multiple holes where his armor was pierced, and slowly covering itself back up, repairing itself. He tried to consciously repair it, as he had been able to before, and instead, the armor fell away, like he had simply taken it off. It dissipated into his mist, coating the ground around him, as he looked down at a human body.

Sure, the right eye was bloody, and he could see the blood dripping from it, but it didn't hurt much. His chest was covered by a light green tunic, hiding a muscled chest, and he was wearing brown cloth pants. Odd, indeed, since he had never had a human form. Did the mages use a sacrifice? Perhaps they had to use one of their own to give him his life back. Did they bring him back? It looked like it. He raised his rough, weathered hands, and stared at the back of them for a moment, then flipped them over to see the palm. And on both palms, there was a blood-red marking of a wingless drake, arcing from his thumb to his pinkie, with little bolts of red lightning shooting down the inside of his fingers.

And suddenly he felt a bolt of guilt shoot through him. He stared past his hands at the elf, staring up at him with fearful, confused eyes, and the ethereal dagger in her back disappeared. Tears ran silently, as he bent down and started helping her- despite his wounds very slowly closing themselves up, leaving bloody, ragged holes in his tunic.