For several weeks, excitement has been building in Kenabres—Armasse is coming! Traditionally an opportunity for scholars and priests to come together to study the lessons of history from wars past, since Aroden’s death, this holy day has become more about training commoners in weaponry, choosing squires, and ordaining new priests. Over time, Armasse has grown to encompass jousting competitions, mock duels, battle reenactments, and other festival events. In Kenabres, the festival (which takes place on 16 Arodus) is eagerly anticipated, for it provides distractions from the horrors of being on the front line of the war. Smiles on faces normally marred by downcast eyes and furrowed brows do wonders for city morale in the weeks leading up to the event. Armasse is a citywide celebration, but the majority of the event, including its jousting matches and other entertainments, takes place at Clydwell Plaza, just west of the cathedral.
The Cathedral of Saint Clydwell sits right in the heart of Old Kenabres, right in the heart of a city of crusaders. The Plaza throngs with people, be they peasants, soldiers, holy warriors, clerics, tradesmen, or other people, and the majority of them have a wide smile on their faces.
Lord Hulrun is scheduled to make a speech to commemorate the event soon, but for now, what's scheduled is mostly just various celebrations of arms.
As much as Mulluq'Tar would like to be a part of the festivities, he knows that he would not be welcome. So he does what he always does, and tries to shrink into the dark of a nearby alleyway, with his cloak pulled as far up and over his hideous features as he can get it. Despite the cloak he wears fitting a little large, it does very little to hide the swaying of his tail and the lumpy wings poorly hidden beneath its folds. Even though the wings are incapable of holding him aloft in their small state, to him they feel like they stand out as if he had run out to the middle of the plaza and extended them fully. Then there was the tail. He had never understood how or why it acts the way it does, considering it is thick and muscled, he has no control over it. It always moves with his emotions, but at times it has actually manipulated things he was thinking about almost as if acting in accordance to his will, just not his wishes.
A small group of celebrants pass, and he ducks back deeper into the dark alley, facing away from them so his solid red do not stand out against the darkness. He hopes to appear as just a filthy, misshapen beggar, nothing near as vile and despicable as he really is.
Lysbeth did not understand how, after so many years of nearly constant battle, Kenabres could still find cause the celebrate the impending return to it. This was the first time she had attended, and only at the urging of Brother Magnus.
Despite having a hood to hide her features, keeping her mouth closed to hide her fangs, and far too much makeup on her porcelain skin, she still felt as though she were being stared at, as if she were suspected of being a demon in their mist. She shuddered at the thought, trying not to remember the interrupted ritual from her youth.
A child smiled up at her, being dragged off by its mother, and Lysbeth grinned back, close-mouthed. 'I suppose,' she considered, 'The festival could do everyone some good. Forget about the battle for a while, about the demons and countless deaths. About how there are fewer of us and more of them every year. What's that Human expression?'
She saw a middle-aged man with a flagon of ale in his hand collapse in a fit of laughter, already enjoying the celebration far too much for how early it was. 'That's it' she remembered. 'Drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.'
|
Isilma's head hurts. It has been many weeks since she had left the eaves of the Fierani Forest behind, but she still has not gotten used to how the sun beats down here, unobstructed by the canopy. She looks to the left and the right, the shade of the alleys in between buildings cool and inviting, but she resists the temptation. Instead, defiant, she throws off her midnight blue hood and smiles a proud, confident smile even as she blinks furiously to stop her eyes from watering.
It is Isilma's first time attending an Armasse celebration. In Iadara, the holiday passes quietly and unremarked. The god of humanity was never venerated there, and is remembered, if at all, as a passing curiosity. So it is with curiosity that Isilma takes in the sights and sounds of the people preparing for the festival. She is determined to fit in, to prove that she belongs here among righteous people. At the edge of the crowd, she spots a mother urgently leading her child toward the front of the plaza. Isilma tries to follow, but she quickly loses sight of them. So she turns, hoping one of the people they passed will know where they were going. Most seem occupied with their friends, but Isilma spots a thin, pale woman standing alone, wrapped in a cloak that in cut and color is much like her own.
"Good morning!" she says, projecting her voice to be heard against the background noise of the crowd and enunciating the Taldane words as precisely as possible. The language does not come easily to her. She spreads her arms wide in a gesture of greeting as she approaches the woman. She's about a head taller than Isilma. "I wish to know what everyone is doing, and what purpose these..." she pauses for a moment, thinking of the correct word, "...activities serve! Can you tell me?"
Lysbeth almost jumps out of her skin as she's directly addressed by the Elf. Her panic begins to subside as she sees the girl demonstrate that she approaches with arms open. It takes her a second to figure out how to respond. "Right, yes, well. It's a celebration of war." Lysbeth gestures over to a joust, to some peasants being trained with swords. "The humans say that if we don't learn from our mistakes, we're doomed to repeat them."
She tries to hide her own confusion about the festival, but it's clear that she doesn't think war is something that should be celebrated. After a second she realises how strange it is that the girl hasn't heard of it before. "Don't suppose you're from around here. Come to join the war effort?"
|
|
"But of course!" says Isilma, surprised. She knows deep in her bones that she has a purpose here. Can not this woman see that? Then again, Isilma's robe, cloak, and stick are a far cry from the gear of the jousters and trainees, and Landë and her friends hadn't known at first either. "Is that not clear?"
Speaking of not being clear, Isilma finds it odd that the woman had spoken of humans as if she too is not one of them. She is tempted to peer up into the woman's hood to see for herself, but locks her eyes on the woman's mouth instead. She can't use the powers she had gained that terrible night, not for curiosity's sake. That would cheapen the cost of it all, and if thinking of people as cheap isn't a mistake from which to learn, what is?
She returns to the topic of the festival. "Learning from mistakes is good," she says simply, "but how does one learn that from these games?"
There's a knock on the wall of the alley behind Mulluq's turned back. Metal on brick. Turning around, Mulluq sees a tall, handsome human in resplendent breastplate armor. A golden sword of Iomedae hangs around his neck, and a long blade rests at his hip.
He shakes his blonde hangs out of his eyes before asking, "Going to join the festivities, friend? Surely you want a flank of meat or something, or perhaps to join in a duel. No one can just let Armasse pass by nowadays!"
"I had hoped otherwise," Lysbeth said simply. "If it's to be anything like the last Crusade, we need all the help we can get. Yet, you look so young." Lysbeth tried not to imagine children's corpses littering the battlefield, and had to swallow hard before speaking again.
"It's not all games," she says, "There are talks, as well. Things like 'how to spot a demon'. We... had to learn a different way that they can hide quite effectively, not revealing themselves until it's too late."
She shook her head, then, remembering herself, flashed a smile at the Elven girl. "Still, if you're here to help, I suppose that makes us friends. My name is Lysbeth."
Mulluq'Tar starts at the sudden appearance of the holy man, he tries to keep his face and form low, cursing his imposing physique. "Oh, no Revered Brother of Her Holy Divinity, I am but a lowly worthless penitent. I could not dare to intrude on the festivities that belong to those so far above me. I am merely warming my heart in watching the good citizens of this noble city find joy in this respite from the demonic torment of the Worldwound's proximity. I feel for them and the very real threat of their ever-present neighbor, and would like to just remain a silent observer."
|
|
"I ask that you call me Isilma, fair Lysbeth." She smiles warmly at her new friend. Tinwë would be proud. As she thinks about what Lysbeth has had to say, however, her face falls. The people in charge, at least, know how to spot demons. Do they also know the signs of possession? Can they see that in her eyes? Lysbeth doesn't seem to. But she also sees Isilma as a child, and part of her resents that.
"Do not fear for my safety," she says, solemn now. "House Edasseril does not send its daughters abroad lightly, or unprepared."
The crusader looks at Mulluq, a bemused look on his face, silently for a few moments as he speaks. His eyes flash a golden color for a few seconds. Then he simply nods, knowing that there's only so much he can do to push somebody who has such a worldview. "Well, friend, make sure you enjoy at least something of the festivities before they're over." He ducks away from the alley.
"House Edasseril?" Lysbeth repeats, impressed. "I'm surprised they let you come at all." Noticing that Isilma seems to be traveling without any companions impresses Lysbeth even further, knowing that the journey from Kyonin may not have been easy.
'How strange,' she thinks, 'That a young Elven girl has seen so much more than I have.' A tinge of regret sweeps through her, wondering what it would have been like to live in the capital, to be able to play with other children, to have a different life. And here Isilma was willing to throw all that away. Whatever her reasons, Lysbeth respected her for it.
"I fear for everyone's safety," she replies softly.
Cruroar sees these celebrations as pointless. "Why celebrate when there are demons that need to be judged by the Arm of Torag?" He thinks to himself. Nevertheless he realizes that he needs to at the very least blend into the festivities. He takes this opportunity to walk around the city and make note of things that will help him in his fight against the demons of the Worldwound.
Lysbeth opens her mouth to respond, but finds that her throat has gone dry. She simply nods, visible fear in her eyes. She swallows before trying again to form words. "I served a bit in the last crusade, from the sidelines. Healing the few who returned home from the war."
"Not sure I'll be much good in battle." She seems to go pale, which one might not have even though possible from her how light her skin already is. "I feel like I have to do something, yeah?"
Even as Isilma and Lysbeth ingratiate themselves with each other, and Mulluq crouches alone in an alleyway, and Cruroar scans the area for possible threats, some hidden tension is building. Below the carousing is a steady building rumble, but as Lord Hulrun, the leader of the city's crusaders takes the stage, everything is interrupted by a flash of white and then blackness.
Each of you awakes on your backs, lying in pitch blackness. The aches of bones and skin, and the difficulty breathing the dusty air betray the fact that by and large, your bodies are uninjured, and the presence of the occasional cough or moan of pain reveals that you aren't the only one present.
Looking about in the pitch blackness (as each of you can see just fine in the dark) each of you sees six other individuals. In addition to each other, there are three other people. A wide-shouldered human woman, still unconscious but alive and underneath some rubble, a just-waking, uninjured, and bullish-looking nobleman, and a facedown elf wearing regal clothing, with a incredibly ornate walking staff shattered below him.
Now and then small collections of gravel and small stones tumble down from above. You've found yourselves in a rather large stone cave.
|
|
as each of you can see just fine in the dark
Isilma awakens, but keeps her eyes shut. The ache of the unshaded sun from before is replaced by a more distant, but also more intense pain. Purple and yellow splotches pop into existence inside her eyelids. And she can feel dust caking her lashes, waiting to sting when she opens her eyes. Navigating by feel, Isilma finds her waterskin, uncorks the top, and splashes a little water over her face. She rolls onto her side, wipes her eyes, and opens them.
Seeing that she's underground, she immediately closes them again. She shouldn't know that. She should have to light a torch. But it's too late now. Slowly, she looks around, blinking at the persistent afterimages of some great and powerful light and at the gritty dust swirling through the air. She inhales, and fights back a cough, putting the waterskin to her lips and drinking deep of it. Through the splotches and dust, Isilma can see the outline of the room. It's ovoid, with rough, unworked walls. The ceiling's too high up for her to see, but every so often some pebbles work their way loose and clatter to the floor. It can't be stable. A great pile of fallen stone sits against one of the walls. It probably fell from the ceiling, but Isilma doesn't want to get close enough to check. It smells of wet blood.
Anxious now, Isilma turns away from the rubble, looking for others who might have survived the fall. She smiles when she sees six others have been thrown clear. "Lysbeth?" she whispers, hopefully loud enough to carry but quiet enough not to disturb the ceiling. "Shh," she implores, pointing up and hoping she - and any of the others who can hear her - will get the message. "It is I, Isilma. How have you fared?"
"Not dead yet," Lysbeth mutters, trying not to cough. "What happened?" she hisses. "The last thing I remember, Lord Hulrun was about to speak."
Lysbeth quietly checks herself for wounds as she gets up. It seems a miracle that she's unharmed, especially sinc- she sees the others on the floor, one with a broken staff and the other under rubble. "There are others here, Isilma." She whispers. "Maybe wounded."
The image of the staff sticks with her. 'Well made. Ornate. And completely shattered. As though he fell.' Lysbeth looks up but it stretches into darkness. She swallows hard.
She nods to the bullish nobleman, pleased to see someone else getting up unharmed. Moving quietly across the room, she crouches by the two who seem unconscious. The one under rubble first, then the one with the broken staff.
Investigating the two injured folks requires some prodding and flipping the elf over, and they slowly stir as you do this. It seems as though the human's woman has been pretty thoroughly crushed by rubble, and she still lies trapped beneath some of it. She has some cuts and bruises as well, and also what appears to be a claw mark marring her shoulder.
The elven man hasn't been punctured by any of his staff shards, which is a miracle, but flipping him over reveals quite a fantastic sight - a line on his face, from his forehead to his nose and traveling all the way across, is red and burned in the way that ground in the Worldwould has been blasted into blackness. His eyes and much of his eyelids are gone, and he has several other injuries.
Waking up in the darkness, with others all around, Mulluq'Tar begins to fear. His fear is not for himself, or for the others, as much as he fears that he may have had been involved in causing it somehow. He fears, also, that his hideous nature has been exposed, so he turns quickly over into a kneel and pulls his cloak over himself. Facing the floor he calls out, his deep rumbling baritone sounding like the edge of a feral growl, "Is anyone hurt or in need of any assistance?"
As he waits for answers, or movement, he looks around at all those that are down here with him and wonders if perhaps he has finally been pulled down into the Abyss where he belongs. He can't help but wonder who is an agent of the lords of evil, and in response he pleads for Iomedae to show him who his enemies are.
The deep growl startles Lysbeth and she jumps, before realising what it said and that it's probably not malevolent. "These two are hurt. Badly," Lysbeth answers quietly, "I can help them, but... perhaps you could give me a hand with moving some of the rubble off her first?"
Inspiration for the voice of Mulluq'Tar
Mulluq is abashed by his own self-centerdness, focusing on his own fears instead of helping others. What a truly miserable being he is, "I will help the best I can as one so beneath notice, but I cannot guarantee I have much to offer." After his standard self-deprecation, he scurries over to the one trapped under the rubble as best he can, hunched to help keep most of his demonic visage hidden. Once there he moves to lift the larger stones, hoping that he has what it takes to move some of them. Unwittingly, his tail and his lack of control over it, tries to help with leveraging as a powerful extra limb. With it acting so against his will, he is hindered more by trying to keep it hidden, that he is helped by its movements.
|
|
"I do not know what happened," murmurs Isilma thoughtfully. She could remember the sight of Lord Hulrun against the backdrop of St. Clydwell's façade, and the sight of an enormously bright light behind him. Which she guesses explains the afterimages. She massages her temple. "I hope we did not miss anything," she says, then looks to the wounded.
She ought to be able to tell the nobleman by his livery. Isilma had studied Mendev's table of ranks from Queen Galfrey on down, and while no one could keep a list in her head like Tinwë, she had been confident in her knowledge before she left. Yet this man doesn't quite seem to register. Had she hit her head on the way down?
Probing discreetly at the back of her head for any bumps or bleeding, Isilma kneels down next to the unconscious people. "Tell me what to do," she says to Lysbeth, swallowing hard. She's never done triage before; she'd never had to. She nods and follows along as the woman tells her to grab her fellow elf's hips and help her log roll him onto his back. She follows Lysbeth to the woman and tries to shove some of the larger cobbles off her. She can't move them. She tries shoveling some of the gravel aside in the hopes of loosening the larger stones, but draws a stern look from the dark-skinned, guttural man who offers his assistance. She looks back at him imperiously. "We must remain quiet," she reminds him, her eyes flicking upward, but she lets him take over helping with the woman, and returns to her countryman.
Immediately she wishes she hadn't. The man has taken a terrible wound across his face, his skin flayed from his flesh and his flesh burned, in places, down to the bone. His eyes are empty, and Isilma finds her own gaze drawn inexorably to the pits in his head. She can't help but think they've drained into the ground. The gorge rises in her throat, and her eyes begin to water. She forces herself to think about something else. If Lysbeth and her—Isilma can now see—betailed helper manage to revive these people, they'll need to know they're among friends. Does she know who they are?
Does the nobleman? Isilma can see he's disoriented, feeling around with his hands. He's close to brushing up against a wall. She pulls out a torch out of her bag, lights it, and presses it into his outstretched hand. It's far bigger than hers, but almost as soft. "Shh," she says soothingly. "You're safe. You fell, along with me, my friend Lysbeth, and a few others. We're deep underground and…" she swallows, "…some of us are very badly hurt. Can you help?" She gestures towards the unconscious man and woman and pauses a moment, waiting for a response. When none is forthcoming, she realizes she's forgotten something important. "I'm Isilma Edasseril. What should I call you?"
Lysbeth quietly thanks the two of them for helping with the rocks and turning them over. She'd seen a lot of wounds during the crusades, but that man's face. She swallows. 'Can't think about it now.' She's about to tell Isilma to hush so she can concentrate, before deciding that the girl must be scared and could use something to focus on. Besides, there are many ways of healing the wounded, and here, lost in the darkness, even small comforts could mean the world.
Reaching into her bag, Lysbeth pulls out a small statue of a winged woman with light emanating from her head. "Cover your eyes a moment," she instructs, "It's about to get bright."
As she chants a small prayer, light bursts outward from Lysbeth, illuminating the chamber momentarily and lingering on everyone's skin before darkness resumed control.
Cruroar awakes wondering to himself what happened. As he gets up and brushes the dirt and debris off of him and grabs his waterskin from his waist and takes a drink. Afterwards he looks around and notices people tending to some wounded. He calls over to them "Do any of you require assistance?". While calling out to the others in the cave he starts to try and get a better idea of what happened and where they are. While searching Cruroar reaches for his Holy Symbol and casts a spell to assist in his endeavor.
As the dwarf calls out, Mulluq responds, "There are some here who need aid, probably divine and otherwise, sadly though I am uninjured while these others suffer. Would that I could have taken their injuries instead of them, I would feel redeemed. Alas, I am well and they require aid. Why am I so cursed?"
As you fumble about in the darkness and regain your senses, what happened to you starts to come back, and how you're down here becomes more and more clear as the memories knit themselves back.
As the ground continued to shake and disgorge demons into the streets, the dragon and the balor lord clashed above. The fight was over in a few harrowing moments, as the balor cut deep into Terendelev’s body, swooping down to strike the dragon and arresting her charge. A few more blows, and the titanic duo spiraled downward toward the crowd. The sight of the dragon smashing into the facade of the Cathedral of St. Clydwell is one no witness would ever forget. At that moment, a titanic demon erupted at the far end of the plaza, reducing several buildings to ruins as it smashed into this world. The rift it created shot across the plaza, and this time there was no escape—it opened below your feet, angling away into darkness. Even as you fell, the dragon noticed your plight. Though she saw death standing over her, she seized this final chance to save a few more souls. After she uttered a few arcane words and stretched out a bleeding talon, you felt her magic take hold of you, slowing your plummet into the darkness as if you were feathers falling into a pit. Yet the fall remained as inexorable, and as you drifted downward into the depths, the last thing you saw was the Storm King standing before the ancient silver dragon, his sword lashing out and cleaving full through her neck. As her severed head fell, the rift above you slammed shut, and the light of the world above was gone.
With some determined pushing and lifting, Mulluq (along with some noteworthy if probably unhelpful aid from Isilma) get the rocks off of the unconscious human woman. Both her and the stricken elf begin to stir, although only cursorily and still not to full consciousness.
The nobleman almost snatches the torch out of the hand of the little elven girl. "Where the f@!$ are we and who are you?" he snaps irritably.
Cruroar responds back to the enshrouded fellow. "Cursed you say? What kind of curse do you have?"
He takes a deep breath, "I am cursed to live a miserable existence, given a life that I am not worthy of bearing. I am cursed by the sins of my fathers to be tormented for as long as I draw breath with being a creature beyond despicable. I am cursed to live on, unfazed by years the same way men much greater than I are, when the ages comes to weaken their bodies. I am cursed to be unwanted by the very goddess I only wish to serve both honorably and courageously. I am cursed to be me."
Lysbeth glares at the nobleman. "She's one of the few reasons you're alive. Do not forget or make her regret that."
The memories began to flood over Lysbeth and she realised the true horror of what had happened above. "Oh goddess." She muttered. She turned towards the Dwarf and other creature, who seemed insistent on keeping his face hidden, who seemed the most alert and aware. "Do either of you remember what happened? The flash of light had blinded me slightly." She admits. "But I remember seeing Terendelev..." She swallowed hard before finishing softly. "..die."
"It's coming back in flashes. I remember the horrific advance of the spawn of the eternally-damned Abyss. I remember the foul denizens spewing fear, chaos and destruction across good people, who deserve much more than anything delivered at the hands of demons." he spits in disgust after the last word. "Lastly, I remember the fall of a true and noble creature, whose last act of righteousness was to do what she could to save some of us from falling. If only she had known I was beneath saving, someone more worthy could have survived the fall. It's my fault that another is dead. If I hadn't been here, she would have saved someone else."
The nobleman grimaces in distaste. "Oh really now? Somehow I doubt that any of you are capable of doing me such a favor, and here, he glances around his surroundings, illuminated as they are by the torch ...such as it is. If you were were gonna do me a favor, you'd get me out of here, and fast."
Lysbeth's flash of healing light seems to have had an effect on both of the unconscious people, and here they stir.
The elf, under Lysbeth's hand, shows no signs of waking until surprisingly he remarks in a calm and clear tone, "Strange. I can't open my eyes. Can anybody explain this?"
As soon as the rocks are off of the human woman's leg, she reaches with one hand to grasp her thigh and with the other to rub some dust off of her face. "Ooof." she says as she tries to stand. Unfortunately, her face (although not her voice) betrays pain as she struggles to find an appropriate angle from which to rise without bending the leg that was most recently trapped.
|
|
"Are you having trouble remembering things?" says Isilma, sympathetic and a little fearful. She can't remember the moments before their fall either; would she ever? She looks up into the man's eyes. "I am Isilma Edasseril," she repeats, slowly and carefully. "Do you remember who you are? What year it is? What the Queen's name is?" As she asks, to her relief, her own memories begin seeping back. There had been light, the light that still burns the backs of her eyes, bright as if the sun had come to settle on Golarion. The ground had shaken, and its roaring had been joined by the bellows of friend and foe: the great silver dragon and the creature that seemed birthed from the grounded sun. A rift had opened beneath her, and the shock of the dragon's fall had knocked her in. She remembers the comforting embrace of the dragon's magic.
Isilma hears the others discussing their own memories behind her. "I do not think so, good sir," she says, turning to look at the man helping Lysbeth with the unconscious woman. She takes a moment to make sure she gets the draconic name right. "...Terendelev could not have saved just anyone. Her magic needed everyone to be close together." Close to herself, she thinks. She had to live or the demon's prophecy would not come true. He, and the nobleman, should be grateful for being so lucky! Isilma swallows and turns back to the nobleman, guiltily pushing that last thought away. "T'was a happy accident we were the largest group she saw. Hantanyes ar mandë," she intones. Thanks be to her and to fate. "And I will get you out of here...when everyone is ready to move. Depend upon it."
Speaking of being ready to move, Isilma hears the older elf stirring behind her. She swallows again, and shuts her eyes, glad he cannot see her to judge her reaction. "Nát uihendu panta, Atya," she murmurs sadly. There is no pair of eyes to open.
Cruroar addresses the cloaked figure again. "Why do you insist on hiding yourself?" Cruroar ends his conversation rather quick because his attention is diverted toward the nobleman. "Watch your tongue! You will get out of here when and if Torag sees fit. Now can you do anything for the wounded?"
"I cover myself, because my appearance is a hideous sight. It causes many to have ill feelings toward me to the point of violence. I would rather they ignore my disturbing looks and focus on the destruction of the truly vile that embrace their inner darkness." he explains.
Back to the offensive man, he adds, "Do not worry, we will get everyone out of here. I will not stand idly by when others need me to rise above my own nature for their safety." As he says this he helps the injured woman to rise, offering her both hands for support, and a uncontrollable tail deciding to offer a third steadying limb.
Warily, between Cruroar's castigation and Isilma and Mulluq's reassurance that "everything would be fine", the grumpy nobleman simply nods. "Okay, I suppose company is safer. And no, I don't have the skills to help them."
On the ground, the elf reaches up to his face, touching it cursorily. He grimaces. "Ah." he says. "Would someone mind helping me up? And perhaps get me some sort of...cloth. I'm sure it's an ugly sight."
The woman grunts in a grateful fashion as Mulluq helps her up onto one leg. The leg's bones seem to have shifted in a positive fashion after Lysbeth's flash of healing, and with Mulluq's support she gingerly tests the leg. "Oof. I gotta say, this hurts. Thanks for the hand, man." she looks to her side to see the man that's helping her. Catching a glimpse of his face through the hood, her face freezes for the briefest of moments before she flashes a smile at him. "I appreciate it! What's your name, anyhow? Mine's Anevia."
Getting a closer look at the three other people trapped down here is simpler now that they're all conscious and somewhat upright. The woman has cropped black hair and a peaked nose, high cheekbones and wide shoulders. She wears battered leather armor and keeps many pouches and containers of equipment on her body. A sheathed sword hangs from her belt.
The elf was obviously once an attractive man, although in a somewhat distant and imperious way, although that's obviously changed now that much of his face is so scarred. Long white-blonde hair hangs from his head down below his shoulders, and the robes he wears are well-made and comfortable looking, if a bit dirty now. Scroll tubes and vials hang from bandoliers and belts, and he's clearly used to walking with the broken staff at his feet.
The nobleman is a middle-aged and balding human wearing fine clothing as well as several pieces of gold jewelery around his neck, and on his fingers and wrists. Stubble grows on his round and solid face, and you can probably guess that most of his round, solid body is covered in similar amounts of ungroomed hair.
|
|
"Fie!" blurts Isilma loudly at the Lysbeth's helper's comment about embracing darkness. Immediately she gasps and covers her mouth with her hands. Coarse sand can be heard falling in some shadowed corner. "Apologies," she peeps. Stupid. Shouldn't have said anything.
Finding herself all but ignored by the nobleman, and determined to help, Isilma walks gingerly behind the elf. She undoes the sash around her waist. "Lannelya, Atya,"* she says. Here is your cloth. She drapes it over the older elf's face, doing her best not to look at it, and ties it snugly behind his head. Getting an idea, she darts to where she had fallen and picks up her staff. Unlike the older elf's, it is whole. She lays it across his lap. "Lertalyë vandilnya qui merlyë" You may use my stick if you wish. "I would like it back, however," she adds.
Finally, she looks up at the woman, her arm around Lysbeth's helper's shoulders, standing awkwardly on one leg. "Charmed, Anevia." It's the first name she's learned since waking up. That makes it special.
The elf smiles, gingerly, at Isilma, although he isn't quite looking at her, but rather slightly to her right. When the staff is laid across his legs he grasps it with a hand and, turning it, tests it against the ground.
"And you," Anevia says, with something between a grin and a painful grimace. "Isilma, right? Good to meet you. You know, knowing names around here might be a good thing. You know?"
The elf nods in agreement, adding, "Yes, I concur. You may call me Aravashnial."
The nobleman practically grunts, arms crossed. "Gwerm. Horgus Gwerm."
"Let's see if I can do something more with that leg." Lysbeth offers, approaching Anevia. Before crouching down, she happens to catch a glimpse of Mulluq and she freezes, her heart racing. Convincing herself to calm down, she suddenly feels overwhelming pity for him. Despite her own heritage, she had often been able to hide in plain sight. But him. She shook her head. There wasn't enough makeup in the world for that.
Lysbeth inspected the damage to the woman's leg, asking her to try putting weight on it. "Please, keep her from falling." She said quietly to Mulluq. As the other's introduce themselves, she speaks up. "I'm Lysbeth"
Mulluq turns away from the stares, but it doesn't seem out of shame as much as how people from some countries do not look at other people's faces out of respect. "As I was called by the man who raised me, I am Mulluq'Tar Sheptat. I fight for Iomedae in her benevolent glory, and wish to some day pay off the debt of sin that is borne by my heritage."
"I am Cruraor, Arm of Torag. I am here to bring justice down upon the demons of the Worldwound as well as any who oppose the might of Torag. That is my sole mission."
At Lysbeth's touch, Anevia's leg glows lightly for a few moments before appearing to realign itself, just a little bit. Nodding gratefully, she attempts to put weight on it again before grimacing and lifting the leg up again. "It's better, but it still looks like I'll at least need a crutch or a splint."
Aravashnial stands, throws his head back, and places the staff's end on the ground, leaning on it and testing the ground in front of him with it. "Good to meet all of you. Hopefully between myself and all of you, we have the strength to get back to the surface."
Lysbeth frowns. "I'm afraid your leg is more broken than I had thought. We'll need to get you up above before I can care for it properly." She looks to Mulluq. "I can help her if you wouldn't mind terribly trying to lead the way?"
Noting that Isilma is helping the recently-blinded man, Lysbeth feels confident that the two of them can assist the more civilian members of the group, so long as the Dwarf and Demon-Spawn are as capable as they look. Despite her heart hammering in her chest, she forces a smile at Isilma. 'We can do this.' she chants to herself over and over, hoping that after enough times she might start to believe it.
Mulluq draws and readies his shield, as he tries to take stock of their surroundings. He's really trying to get an idea about the size of the cavern they are in, and where they may find any openings. "I will do the best I can to get you all to safety, even if it is fated to be the end of me."
There is a pretty large and obvious opening in the cavern - this apparently was a cave before the collapse - and it continues away into darkness. The cavern is quite large, extending more than sight's range upwards and about a hundred feet in diameter.
Along the sides and floor of the cavern, Mulluq notices a few curious things - glittering in the torchlight are a few flat, diamond-shaped silver objects.
Certain that there's nothing to worry about where they currently are after having detected no evil, Mulluq points to the odd silver things. He moves toward them until he can get a better look at what they may be.