"I spent so much time trying to find a rational explanation for this irrational place, but it seem another approach needs to be considered. I know I killed a lot of people, and even more that I probably don't remember anymore. It makes sense I was thrown here, if it is indeed hell. What about you?” The assassin asked, confidence returning to his voice after their long march through the dusty crag. The Turncloak had done all he could to explain what he knew of the Land to those he gad gathered, but even his knowledge was guesswork at best, and patchy throughout.
“I believe I was cast to this land because I renounced my King. I think…” he slowly replied, never looking up at the Life-Giver while he addressed him.
The Axe-Weilder, the sturdy woman who had reproached the assassin and the Turncloak with gusto, then took her moment to speak after a lengthy minute of silence between the four of them.
“Why did you ask us which King we serve, Sir?”
The Turncloak did not answer for a full half minute, but he did cock his head from it’s incessant gaze to the sand to look her in the face. Sad. Pale. Gaunt. Yet she was still a giant of a woman that could cleave most men in half; definitely not a force to be trifled with, not even by the Turncloak - especially as she had presented herself with humility and fair-handedness since their first meeting. He wanted to honour her with at least an answer to her questions.
“Because, milady,” he turned his body quickly so that they faced each other, “It is the only way I have found to determine who is sane… and who is empty. An empty soul will lie to you, they will tell you they serve no king, or that they serve themselves. Only a sane man or a sane woman has the capacity to admit that they, like everyone else, simply do not know.”
“And surely, if you got to the mountain, once, then you know it is at least possible? You just have to recall how, and with what? It may still come to you, eventually. We will just have to try to not die again and help one another? Yes?” she asked next, barely giving the Turncloak time to finish sharing his insight upon the Empty.
He shook his head, returning his gaze to the sand at his feet.
“I do not believe it is possible. Not now. I am missing something, and I cannot return without it. I have searched for so many long, lonely years for what I lost that day, but… nothing. I do not believe that my story has a happy ending. There is not necessarily an escape. But you - you may still have a chance at making it across. I was not meant for this world, but…” he looked out across the three haggard faces who were now paying him mind. “I believe that you may find yourselves there, and maybe together you can find the truth?”
Silence again. At least to the Turncloak. He delved back into his mind, to relive that last memory one more time in the vain hope that maybe this time he will spy a detail he had not noticed before. A highland plain. A falling cloak. A woman? A flash of gold. Nothing new. Just an empty, fading dream of a past life where he had maybe been important.
The Axe-Weilder talked, but he listened not, instead listening to the familiar voice of his memory. The Bell-Wearer seemed to respond to her, but the words were lost to him, muted by the vivid sounds of winter winds in the back of his mind. He only caught the last few words that he spoke in response to her:
“…Then all you guys showed up and here we are now, a happy little party of sorts.”
The Turncloak did not know the context of what the Bell-Wearer had said, but the thought actually forced a weak smile across his face, unbeknownst to the others. It had been so long since he had interaction like this. He missed it sorely, more than he would admit. It was then that the fool even began to sing - softly - to them. It had a cold, haunting beauty to it, his words were raw and heartfelt, even without music to harmonise with them. He spoke of a tale of birds flying onwards to horizons that he could not; perhaps a sentiment they could all learn from.
By the time he had finished his ditty, the four had once again returned to silence, to rest their weary legs by the sullen sunlight, with no fire to comfort them. There was not even wind to gently caress their tired faces. So when the Turncloak noticed a rustling in the foliage some ways up the valley walls, his head snapped to see what was happening. He was going to take no chances.
Odd. After all his time spent alone wandering the hellish wastes and ashen plains, one would think that the Prince would be exuberant to finally have found some other lively thing that didn't want to kill him immediately. Tomb didn't count; Prince felt no life from that automaton, or whatever it was. It was alien life at its nearest.
So why had the Prince hidden from them for nearly a day, possibly more, when before him was a growing party of sane beings that he knew, above all, were like him, lost but retaining a sense of sanity and rationale? Prince wasn't sure, himself. He was delighted when he had first seen them, but when they all started travelling together something made him hesitate. Was this some trick, some lie, from this hell itself? Was something obfuscating the Prince's very reality, causing him to see things that weren't there or were something else entirely? The thought had come to him before- he often pondered if he wasn't really here at all, but this hellscape was some odd figment of thought locked deep in his mind that he had suddenly become vividly aware of and trapped in. That haunted him the most, having lost his sense of who he was. It's not that he simply hadn't realized it, akin to adolescents reaching maturity, but rather it wasn't there at all. No matter how hard he thought of his vague memories, no matter how many questions he could ask Tomb, nothing was clear to him about who he was. The land itself had the Prince question the very meaning of "real".
But it wasn't this reason alone that he hesitated to join the group- they were all considerably more well armed and dangerous looking than he was, and it was clear that both the woman and the knight were trained in the use of their carried weapons. The same certainly couldn't be said of the Prince, who had relied more on quick wit and deception to survive. Perhaps 'Prince of Lies' was more fitting than he realized.
And thus he found himself in his current environment, hunched awkwardly in a shrub, fearing for his life and future while a party lie in front of him who afforded the comfort of safety, if only in numbers. Perhaps his reasoning for hesitation was more subconscious- perhaps the Prince secretly feared company and conversation and he was simply lying to himself. Clearly now certainly wasn't the time to reveal himself; he may startle them and get himself killed in the process. Plus, the armored one had mentioned that those who claim to serve no king were the empty souls, and if his memory proved anything at all, it's the the Prince didn't serve a king. At least, not anymore. Perhaps he was a king?
Regardless, he would have to approach the party carefully, when he finally decided to. He shifted his weight a bit in the bush to ease the strain on his ankles, but the shrub seemed to move with him and now covered his view of those in front of him. He gently used the back of his right hand to push away the the prickly-feeling leaves, but they were dry. A loud rustling emitted from the dead flora and it seemed the leaves were sticking to his hand. He quietly cussed to himself and started slowly retreating from his shrub-
-But felt a stony and cold presence behind him.
"You!" He said, startled that Tomb would choose to appear to him yet again. Twice within a week? That was rare. Perhaps Tomb had something to do with the Prince finding the party- perhaps it, in some way, led him there. Tomb certainly didn't have a knack for timing, by any means. The party nearby was certainly aware of his presence now, but there was nothing the Prince could do, at this point. Tomb had forced his hand. The Prince only hoped that the stone being chose not to speak to him as he glanced up at its mirror-like face. He thought about running but decided against it, doing such may not please the stone sentinel, and from what the Prince had gathered about the thing it would be able to chase and find him with ease.
Tomb's not-quite-mechanical voice croaked- "Prince of Lies," it certainly remembered the Prince, though he was unsure of if that was comforting or worrying, "the moon is full and the roses will bloom in 437 hours."
This was new. As far as the Prince had known, Tomb only asked odd questions, though here it seemed to be referencing their previous conversation. It stood silent, as if expecting an answer.
"What are you talking about?" The Prince queried. He wanted to be careful around Tomb but still feared the party nearby. Oh, how he wish he could run!
Tomb's silence was unbroken and it simply loomed above the Prince in the unsettling way it always did. Surely it was aware of the party nearby, perhaps Tomb was waiting for them?
Voices. Not one, but two. Rolling down the walls of the valley like an echo that has lost it's footing. One of a man, seemingly trying to hush his own and the voice of the second: something more... mechanical. Stony.
Inhuman. The flattering of faded purple robes through the sparse shrubbery confirmed the presence of somebody new. But how long had they been following?
The Turncloak stood with alarming force, and shouted to the top of the valley, hoping that his voice would carry far enough to be decipherable by whatever manner of man and beast shrouded themselves above.
"
Show yourself, stalker of the Valley!"
