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[Shootandrun]

A monastery… A monastery would be useful. They sold supplies, and they were unlikely to try to capture a Kasar for the slave markets. Besides, if the place was for pilgrims, there was a slim chance that there would be supplies for non-humans, which might mean a mount for him. Going there would rely on luck a bit too much for his liking, but then again, he felt as if travelling supplies would be mightily needed in the coming weeks…

"I think we'll be visiting that monastery, Caellach. It will be risky, but we've done worse things before."

That, they had. At least, this time, the worse thing they could face was priests.

"If they serve chaos, best not to let them know what we're doing. Even if they serve order… I'd rather keep quiet if possible. Go in, get supplies, go out. The usual."

It really was the usual. They never stayed long in any city; in fact, it was rare that they visited a city at all. When they did, Rankar would generally send Caellach alone to buy whatever was needed, and had only started coming with him once they were far up north. Hopefully, this would go well. A monastery could hardly be compared to one of the great cities. Hardly.

"Let's stay here for tonight. If we leave tomorrow, early, we shouldn't waste too much time getting there, and any loss will be offset if we can get you a horse. At last, I'll be able to walk at my regular stride."

He had said that mostly jokingly. Mostly. Caellach walked quickly for a human, but the fact of the matter was that Rankar simply had a much, much larger leg span. He simply went further with less effort. If the human was mounted, the situation would be reversed. And if they were both mounted, they could cover a lot more ground every day…

Those thoughts were for tomorrow, though.

Go to the monastery

[filiusenox]

Solbryn sighs, frowning, keeping the dagger in hand as she followed the Kasar. She put the other in the satchel, near, but not too near, the fruits that would probably be her only way out if the creature tried to capture or kill her.

She had heard rumors of the creatures being man-eaters, yet, she was tired, and perhaps that was dulling her better senses, the ones that told her to run, run as fast as she could into the forest. But...she was so close to Spearmount, and doing that would result in her getting lost again, most likely, knowing her own luck.

So she put one foot in front of the other and followed behind the minotaur, brushing some sweat laden hair from her forehead. She was tired, but she kept good pace with the Kasar.

Follow, warily.

[adwarf]

"That's much preferable to out right death, just don't go eating my body sooner then my mind, I'm sure it looks so tasty and all but learn to savor your food my dear Dragon. Tell Albrecht he owes me ... bastard gets a nice cozy battle, and I getta risk my life. Well whatever ... let us see what is in the mind of a Dragon, perhaps its dreams of hunting dear ..."

Ramus said as he slunk over and sat against the wall of temple, damn he was getting tired, a nap would be nice. Yes a nice long nap ...

[Digital Hellhound]

Chaos

Wendell Madryt

Wendell runs.

The mage's first Binding comes only seconds later. The goblin can feel it more than see it, hungry coils of magic reaching for his back. This time, he reaction is pure instinct, grasping for the spell he first used moments ago. [1] He realizes a fraction of a second later there's a reason most mages need to study at length before they can master even the simplest spells - his Dispel pattern floats out of reach like a half-remembered dream.

The Binding brings Wendell down at the edge of the clearing, sending him face-first into the mud again. The mage appears at his side before he can refocus. He speaks, but Wendell ignores it, [2] desperately seeking his only spell. Still nothing happens, save for his mind beginning to throb with pain again. Wendell roars soundlessly and gathers his resolve for a third attempt. He pictures a shroud of Avaritia, descending on the spell holding him, dissolving his chains, letting him free...

[6] His magic rushes out from him and shatters the mage's spell for a second time. Wendell is immediately on his feet, not stopping to look back, his nimble steps taking him into the shade of the trees in seconds. He hears cursing, close running steps, weapons being drawn and redoubles his pace, pushing his body as far as he can. 

The last thing he hears is the young noble's voice; 'Wait! Goblin, we're not going to hurt you!'

The forest blurs together as he does what he knows best, running through the twisting underbrush, darting past twisting, black trees. He moves quickly on grey, dead soil, his feet pounding a steady rhythm against the silence now bearing down on him with more force than ever before, the sound of his own breathing and heartbeat filling his senses. The air grows stale and still, suffocating. Wendell realizes he can barely recognize his surroundings. He slows his pace, and stops.

This is not the Vadenne he knows. This forest is dead, corrupted, drained of life and growth. The sun's light seems far away, an unnatural cold creeping into his bones. Wendell realizes with a start he can see humans - dead, their bodies perfectly preserved. A few look like villagers, another a traveller from somewhere south. With a start Wendell notices a suit of armor, engraved with strange runes, lying still against a dead tree, surrounded by inert - he moves closer to make sure - maggots.

Fear grips Wendell, but is soon drowned out by hate that surprises him. This place feels anathema to him for reasons he cannot explain.

The silence is absolute - but is then broken by an eagle's cry. Wendell takes a step back under the trees, making sure he is not seen. The eagle begins circling abovehead, but its movements seem strangely erratic. The goblin considers ways to get away unseen, but is cut short by a thunderclap sound of displaced air. The eagle stops short, as if hit, and goes into an uncontrolled dive, spinning in the air.

It slams into the ground across from Wendell with a crack of bone. Nothing happens for a moment, Wendell already moving away - and then the eagle transforms. In a few, grotesque moments, the eagle has disappeared - and is replaced by the mage, sprawled on the ground and writhing in pain. His eyes are wide with fear, and he is vulnerable and utterly alone, for interrogation – or revenge. The mage's shattered staff and amulet are scattered on the ground around him. Despite the wrongness of his surroundings, Wendell can appreciate the switch of positions.

Spoiler: Wendell Madryt, Chosen of Chaos (click to show/hide)

Tier I
HP: 30/30
Combat: 1 die
Action: 1 die
Magic: 1 die
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
   *Old Crossbow (1d6+1 damage)
   *Boning Knife (1d6-1 damage)
   *Pouch of Coin
Known Spells:
   *Dispel [Avaritia/Difficulty: 6]

Anathema

Wary, sticking to what shadows he can, Anathema advances toward the source of the unearthly light. The soft blue-white glow seems to wash over the ruins. It is soothing, but fills him with strange melancholy. The memory catches him by surprise, this time;

Melody stares back with unseeing eyes, her mouth twisted into a grotesque, mad grin. Dried blood paints her skin below her slit throat.

Anathema stops. The name gives him pause. This was... a long time ago.

Shaking off the memory, Anathema looks to his artifacts, keen to gain any edge - or illusion of one - if whatever is producing the singing turns out to be hostile. The amulet slips on without problem. With a tiny touch of magic it tells him that the night sky is being slowly overtaken by dark clouds - something he could've deduced with a simple look.

The strange gauntlet, made up of several interlocking parts, two brass blades sticking out from the top and continuing over the user's fingers, takes him a bit more. He supposes you could stab someone with the blades, but they seem too fragile for that purpose. He notes that it leaves his fingers mostly free as well as most of the sides of his hand. There are a few too many sharp edges for comfort, and Anathema has to take his time to put it on properly in the darkness.

The half-gauntlet settles into place. It feels tight against his hand, perhaps designed for someone smaller - but then it begins to move, the segments widening and moving, molding them to him. For a moment, the gauntlet seems to seek something else - Anathema wonders if it's just part of a larger suit of armor - but then it settles down.

For a moment.

Anathema is beginning to move when the gauntlet whirrs back into life. He only has time to look down at it before sharp, striking pain erupts all over his hand. He sees the plating move, feels tiny blades beneath draw across his skin. The pain grows as they sink deeper, but he keeps himself from screaming, reaching to remove the thing. But almost as soon as he touches it, the blades stop moving and begin to draw back. The gauntlet reshifts again, and the falcon engraving, just moments ago a dull bronze, begins to fill with red. Anathema doesn't have to guess twice why.

He stares at the half-gauntlet for a while, feeling a blossoming awareness of tiny minds distant in the jungle and the skies above. Blood magic, then. No wonder he couldn't make sense of the patterns of magic - Anathema has never used anything like that.

The singing, growing closer, snaps him out of his reverie. It seems to echo unnaturally through the ruins, but if he had to guess, he'd say the source is close, behind a ruined garden ahead of him. The glow does not seem to have grown any stronger or weaker. The melody and the indistinct words are getting to him, threatening to draw him into yet another memory.

Spoiler: Anathema, Chosen of Chaos (click to show/hide)

Tier III
HP: 45/50
Combat: 3 dice
Action: 3 dice
Magic: 3 dice
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
   *Obsidian Flute
   *Ancient Gauntlet
   *Stormfinder Amulet
Known Spells:
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 5]
   *Pain [Avaritia/Difficulty: 6]
   *Wards [Superbia & Invidia/Difficulty: 6]
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 7]
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 10]

[IamanElfCollaborator]

Wendell stared at the mage, thinking whether to finish him off, leave him to die, or take him away.

At the same time, he looked at the armor to his right. He wanted a look at it.


The mage attempted to capture him twice, yet, for all his anger, Wendell could not bring himself to kill or abandon him. Not when he looked so pathetically weak and helpless.

He decided.
"Mage. You're coming with me. Don't try any magic tricks, or else I'll finish you off."

Wendell picked up the mage, slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of wheat, without protest -the mage was still weakened by whatever hit him, and the fall- before picking up the armor, shaking the maggots off. He didn't know what it was or did, but it was heavy, so Wendell decided to drag it off behind him, while trying to keep up a fast pace.

With the mage on his shoulders and dragging the armor behind him, Wendell runs away from this strange, corrupted place, preferably to a safer, nearby village.

[monk12]

Anathema bites his tongue as the gauntlet slices into his flesh, writhing like a live thing. Dropping to one knee, he fights back panic and anger, grabbing at the gauntlet to tear it free before it cuts off his whole hand. Even as he grabs the artifact, however, he can feel the blades withdraw, the gauntlet stretching on his hand like a satisfied cat. Anathema snarls at the soaring falcon engraved on the gauntlet, now red with his stolen blood. Take what you want, then pay for it, boy.

Anathema rubs his hand over the gauntlet, not trying to remove it, merely feeling the flesh beneath. The intense pain has subsided, leaving a dull ache behind. Flexing his hand causes only a little discomfort; whoever designed this gauntlet did not intend the price to be debilitating. Blood magic. Dicey business, dabbling in blood magic. Unpleasant, dirty business. Fit for godless heathens, maybe, but not the likes of you or me! Now then, about that brandy...

Anathema shook his head, the swelling music recalling him to the present. The gauntlet is quiescent; it has exacted its price, and given its reward. Put together with his incomplete identification, and the awareness of distant, tiny minds must be some connection to the local birdlife. Not the most useful asset on a dark jungle night, but better than nothing. Besides, he already paid for it, and lucky it didn't cost more than some pain and blood loss to boot.

The music tugs at the corners of Anathema's mind, pulling at distant memories. Anathema picks up a gilded harp, gently strumming the strings. He yearns to gather those memories in, but can't afford to become lost in time while dealing with potential enemies. Music is the language of the soul, my friend. Once again, Anathema crafts Superbia and Luxuria to protect his mind. No mistakes. No distractions. No illusions.

[Dwarmin]

Order

Rankar makes tracks alongside Caellach toward what they hope is a monastery of Order...the terrain is rough, and treacherous, the further they move on-and Rankar sniffs the wind tentatively, smelling a frigid tinge that can only be an oncoming blizzard.

Caellach notices a reaction from you. He smiles, shaking his head.

"...oh, great. You only look like that, when some bad luck is about to swoop down upon us if I don't walk faster. Please tell me, it's not more winged Hydras? We must have cut off two dozen heads that day..."

Rankar did not consciously change his expression, but he supposes Humans are much more adept at reading facial expressions than his own kind would be.

Also, he remembers it was more like three dozen heads, which he comments on, leaving out mention of a possible blizzard.

Caellach walks a bit faster, all the same.

...

There is a subtle shift in the land and air, and Rankar knows they have somehow gotten closer-the old stonework, usually crumbling and unrecognizable, becomes clearer and clearer-their forgotten splendor undimmed by the passing generations. He sees many races, even a mighty Kasar statue, in a small divot-though he does recognize the figure on it, for a heavy helmet shaped like a wolf covers her face.

The trees grow at consistent heights and intervals, as if carefully planted and tended. They are thick with red and brown, the colors of an Autumn that will never end.

The grass is soft and sweet smelling, as grass should be-the crunching leaves sound crisp, almost explosive in the brisk evening air. A small stream floats perfectly west, crested by black sand where small crab-like creatures scuttle. Even the clouds are...perfect. He feels this is a place of the element of Order, and sure enough, a straight and well maintained path appears before them, over a red plank bridge.

Caellach runs his hand over the edge of the rail, as you cross the bridge-the boards do not so much as creak at your passing.

"...this is a strange place. Everything is so...perfect. Really, perfect."

And yet, does Rankar detect only the slightest note of discord in his friends voice?

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

...

Sure enough, the paths lead them inexorably onward-to the Monastery. It is a simple, spartan construction-it's color matches the land it inhabits, providing no discord or disharmony. Each of the four walls are exactly the same length, tipped by exactly the same amount of timbers. As the buildings itself, is mathematically perfect on all sides-with red tiles on the roof. There is no singing, or laughter to be heard inside-the Monks do not speak unless necessary, and they do not devote themselves to anything aside from the contemplation of Order and the temples defense. A sharp bell rings twice each day, to indicate waking and sleeping. Every moment of every day is planned. It is not artistic, nor beautiful in any way-though not ugly, either. It is merely useful, functional.

Even the graves are in neat rows.

It is this, that is what is in store for the world on a grander scale, if Order should one day break free.

...

Caellach and Rankar stand before double stout oaken doors. They seem thick and strong enough to take a battering ram to, and not have much effect. They can see no defenders on the walls.

"Um, shall I knock?" Caellach asks carefully.

----

Solbryn follows the Kasar youth, though carefully and and at a distance.

He treads carefully through the paths, his size and hooves surprisingly nimble in the jungle. Occasionally, he stops to check the earth or sniff the wind.

Your little harpy friend jumps back in her bag in terror, probably thinking she's about to be eaten alongside you.

...

With the Kasars urging, you make good time-hardly twenty minutes pass before you find the outskirts of their camp.

To your shock, dozens and dozens of hairy monsters begin materializing from the gloom, axes, maces and super sized swords at the ready. They are all wearing the same colors he is-red stripes, though the older ones have more scars and more intricate patterns. Your new 'friend' calms them down with a few words, and the group parts, though wary. You cannot help but think many of them look hostile toward you..

You are led deeper and deeper in, past lines of stakes and anti-cavalry ditches. This seems more like a military camp then a nomads sanctuary, you ponder. In the center, you are brought before a large, red leather tent. Two guards, the largest Kasar you've ever seen, march forward-and one of them speaks in rough Midlish.

"You meet Brunhi. So you drop weapon...s, and I returning them today. I hold until you meet Brunhi." He states, pointing to your tiny dagger and you notched blade. Though the beastman is smiling while he says this, knowing it's more or less a meaningless gesture. He probably uses a sword your size as a toothpick.

----

Ramus lets sleep-and more than sleep-take him without a fight.

He hears the deep throated chuckling of the Dragon as he fades, and feels his body being lifted, lifted...and then it's all dark.

...

Ramus comes to, sitting at the breakfast table.

Huh.

It's in fact, his own table-from his family home. Everything is the same. The chairs, the counters, the wallpaper, even bag of fruit hanging over the stove. Rycia liked to cook, and...he looks across from him...it's...that woman he once knew. He dated her, once back when everything made sense. Rycia...is that her?

No.

It looks like her, but it's not. There's a certain casual playfulness, she never had in her own airs. Rycia was serious and studious-and the eyes are not the same.

They are the Dragons eyes. With no whites, only orbs of color. It's...a disturbing revelation.

'Rycia' speaks, her voice sounding both like the woman she is not, and behind that the faint echo of the Dragons voice. They merge perfectly, the only binding meaning being they are both unmistakably feminine.

"...well, you woke up faster than I thought you would. " She says with an easy smile. "Would you like some breakfast? I have some oranges, toast, bacon, cheese...whatever you like, Ramus."

Hearing her say your name so intimately is both intriguing and horrifying.

[adwarf]

"I know I'm an attractive man and all, but I didn't think even you Kingfisher an oh so mighty and noble dragon would find my person that intriguing. Of course who I am I to disregard a being's feelings, that said while I'm intrigued by you its an entirely different kind then the one you're trying to use now to distract me from my goal, and I have to admit this might be an actually effective strategy if I couldn't catch the faint hint of your voice behind Rycia's.

Now why don't we dispense with the distraction, and get down to working my way through this mind of yours so I can get that power you promised, I have frog creatures I'd like to help kill."

With that said Ramus leans back in the chair with a smug look on his face as he looks at Kingfisher, or Kingfisher in Rycia's body, he thinks,

'Ah Rycia a beauty, if only things hadn't screwed up ... or maybe if this dream didn't have my life depending on it, things could have been so good. Well now I'm stuck with this dragon in a woman's body, not to bad except for the entire she's aiming to eat me part of course.'

[Dwarmin]

'Rycia' smiles like you remember, in a shy way, those cute little dimples on the sides of her mouth.

"...are you really sure you wouldn't like some breakfast, darling?

I promise, just a bite, and you'll forget all your worries. It's going to be a long day...

It'll be so much easier if you don't fight me on this."

Her last line contains the barest hint of a threat...or maybe a promise.

[adwarf]

Sitting the chair back on all fours Ramus runs a hand through his hair, and replies,

"As my brother used to say 'Never refuse a beautiful woman it leads to bad things.', so fine I'll have some to remind me of the days when things were simple. I'ma assume for now you're gonna refrain from eating my body since I'm quite attached to it, and either eat something with me or give me the giant twist about what I have to find in here. Let's continue shall we, this charade of yours isn't to bad after all I might fall for it if I'm not careful, but ya know some memories are sharp as knives so I must be careful where I tread shouldn't I?"

The last words were phrased as a question, but a tiny bit of malice seeped in as he spoke, and for a second something that sounded almost like pity.

[Dwarmin]

With no delay, it is no longer Rycia...now, it is your brother. Though his eyes are not the same.

He grins, twirling a shiny dagger on the bar-for now you are in the Thundering Stallion, the place where you and siblings shared many a drink. Your brother worked here, as a bartender.

"Well, I also said once spurned a gift, is never offered twice...you always were a sort of an idiot.

The question is, do you really want to go deeper?

This here where we are now, is the foam at the top of the mug, to put it in a way you can understand. We're in your house, right now. Your memories intertwined with my own. I'm only a guest.

Heh. I know I usually don't drink on the job, but circumstances and all." He says, raising a glass and draining it.

He emits a practiced belch, and grins good naturedly.

"...if you stay here, you can live the span of a long life in your own perception. Everyone will be here-Mother, Father, me, Rycia...even our darling Sister. It'll be like nothing ever went bad...eventually, you won't even remember all the horrible things that happened. You'll be happy. And most importantly, you will remain you. No one has to eat anyone.

So, in a way, I'm offering you a slice of Heaven brother. At least as close as you'll get this side of life. You'd be a fool to turn that down-to go back to...what? Pain? Misery? You wanna stab our sister in the heart for 'justice'? Think that will bring you any peace, or happiness in life?

See, if you go deeper...and I can't stop you from trying...but the unconscious mind is a merciless thing. A heart keeps on beating regardless of it's owners wishes-lest he stop it physically. It fights an infection if you want it to, or not. It'll fight you, as if you were a germ. And it won't be nice. Or quick.

Perception can go both ways. To you, a thousand years in Hell could pass before you escape. Though it might be a month or so on the outside. As much as I admire your fortitude, Bro...your eggs will be pretty much scrambled then. To put it lightly."

He reaches behind the bars and pours a tap of golden ale for you, sliding it over with practiced bravado.

"I promise, you taste that, you'll like it. Senses are keys to memory...in this case, your memory. It's Golden Ale. We figured the recipe together, remember? I was so proud of you...

We can still look around, if you like. Like I said, your house. You're safe here-mostly. Maybe something you want to remember? To get back?

Or you can do something drastic and shatter this pretty little world we've made together like a pane of window glass. A pity really.

It's all really up to you, Ramus."

[adwarf]

"If your desire was to convince me to stay here you messed up, Elanora is no sister of mine she's an evil beast, I have no sister left nor any family. All I have left to me is revenge, my greed for power, and the desire to protect the people of this world from things like Elanora and the frog creatures that seek to destroy that village. Let my heart struggle if it wishes, but its a vile thing eaten away by hatred and greed, a fickle thing more fitting for a dead man than a living one.

Whatever awaits me shall come, and I'll keep moving on for I have a goal I wish to accomplish, Ramus the Shadow King quite a nice ring to it don't ya think?"

With that Ramus picked up the mug of ale and begin to chug it down in one go, whatever awaited him let it be come.

[Dwarmin]

Your 'brother' shakes his head.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why couldn't you be smart for once.

I guess you'll burn down the world if you get a torch, right. Still such a kid.

You better be careful, bro, there's always going to be a worse monster than you try to be...so honestly...you're gonna protect the people, right? Whose gonna protect the world from you?" His statement declamatory.

The world begins to grow in a hazy fuzz of green and gold.

Falling..

Falling...

.....

[adwarf]

Ramus laughed as the world grew fuzzy around him, he managed to reply before he began to fall,

"Sometimes the only way to protect people is to become the monster they hate and fear, what better way for a man to sell his soul then for peace even a forced one? And for who will protect the world from me, I'm unsure maybe it'll be you Kingfisher, a random person, or perhaps even someone willing to step up and become the monster the people need as well."

And then he was falling, and falling, yet for a moment before the house became completely indistinguishable he felt a few tears roll down his cheeks, some things just had to be done ...

[Shootandrun]

The world was strange. It seemed to him, as he walked towards the monastery, that there was something powerful at work here. Something influencing the very fabric of the space he stood in. Everything was orderly, arranged in a logical fashion for logical reasons. There was nothing unexpected here. Silence and stagnation ruled over the monastery.

His companion's words left him thoughtful. Perfect. It really was perfect, in a way - in the way a carpenter's work could be perfect. It was functional, efficient. But it was not perfect in the way a work of art could be. He supposed that was to be expected - life took with one hand if it gave with the other. One could not create an orderly world without sacrificing some of what made that world what it was. Those were his thoughts as he stepped before the oak gate.

He had doubts. He had had doubts since he had started following the path of steel, but now, as he saw all this, they were multiplying. He knew without hesitation was better than free chaos - chaos was what had torn him away from his old life. Chaos was what had brought his kind down to his knees. Chaos was death, disease, war, hatred, fire. However, if chaos was fire, then order was stone. Silent, unmoving, unchanging. Stone did not end life - but stone did not father life, either.

Clearing his mind, he spoke.

"Perfection is a question of perspective, Caellach. Step warily here - I do not know what awaits us inside this temple."

With that, he knocked. He put all of his strength into it, and the arm of a Kasar - a Kasar smith, nonetheless - was strong indeed. The sound resonated, powerful and low, throughout the monastery. Three times his fist met the doors, before he brought his hand back down, and awaited for the gates to be opened.

Knock.