You hear a squabble from the front of the pack of spearmen. Talk of roads, paths, quotas, and security.
Violent words are spoken, and you hear mention of ‘the urgency of this haul’, and ‘the other way is not without its’ own terrors!’.
The fork in the road comes, and the left path is taken. After what seems like days, you find yourself among the herd, trudging along, in aching famine.
The cold gravel beneath your feet begins to turn to white chunks of rocks, with the grains growing larger as time passes.
These eventually become bones, and farther along you find yourself walking inside of what seems to be a gigantic hollow femur.
Miles below you you hear a low droning groan, inescapably sad.
Your nostrils are filled with the scent of curdled blood and humid, meaty air, and at once you find yourself walking on warm, wet flesh.
Ahead of you you perceive a widening of the tunnel, and you see rampant ponds of hazy waters. As you near them, all begins to smell like vomit.
As Kran trudged along, he refused to complain, but would occasionally test his bonds, as if preparing for when the time came.
His stomach, however, did it's complaining for him, growling like a cornered beast on occasion.
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Merek walked along with the group, blending in. He was one of those not in bonds, as he joined up voluntarily to see where this group of slaves, refugees, and prisoners were being herded.
Those with a keen eye could see several people following him. One was a young lad with eagerness and pride in his eyes. Unlike most here, he refused to be beaten - neither physically, mentally, or spiritually. It was in opposition to the man he followed, who looked physically drained, as if someone literally sapped the strength out of him. What gave it away was his stature; he walked like a man of great strength and pride, but his countenance did not match his appearance. His shoulders were the set of someone well used to wearing heavy plate armor, and his sway was that of a man with a sword at his side. And to match the sway to reality, there was the hilt of a sword occasionally peeking out of his cloak.
Behind the teenager were two children, a boy and a girl, perhaps around ten. The young man seemed to constantly be looking back and forth with between the children behind him and the man leading the way.
The children are grey in skin and naked. Their frail bodies are slightly shriveled; prune-like. They seem to be a able to weave about without anyone noticing them, and certainly those with weapons or power ignore them.
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Given how his jailers seemed intent on stressing no talking, Kran simply observed the people around him when his captors weren't looking. He continued to test his bonds for weakness, and during their infrequent breaks he went out of his way to try and find a rock or two, even a small one, to start trying to forge into a makeshift weapon.
Throughout it all, however, worry creased his brow when he was left to his own devices to rest: What happened to Citadel Deathsteel? Did they rally or am I the last Deathsteel in this or any other world?
The new man was interesting He appears to be one of the genie-blooded, if I'm not mistaken. Kran thought as he watched the man. I wonder what sort of mercenary he is to be able to walk about freely.
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Roscoe heard the warning and abruptly stopped his tail movement. They were obviously on their toes, so he wasn't about to try to pull a fast one and try to escape.
Not yet..
Instead he nodded slowly.
A surge of a combination of anger rushed through Roscoe as they took his possessions from him, but he let it all happen with resigned indignation. The anger changed to panic as soon as they took hold of the weathered brown leather grimoire. To his relief they let him keep it.
Maybe they weren't so barbaric after all, but maybe they didn't value books and writing at all.. Whatever it was, he was thankful for it.
His mind was racing. If they wanted him dead, he would be.. They must have other plans.. How the hell did he get here?
Roscoe shook the last question from his mind, and again focussed to try be in the moment. Thats when he saw them.
Others..
Roscoe spied over the other group to see if anyone of them could give him a hint of where he was. As focussed as Roscoe was: The flesh tortoise didn't register as such with Roscoe. He'd seen it, but it got framed away in his mind as background noise. As part of the strange wall-paper of this place. If he'd have to deal with acknowledging the tortoise into his reality he'd likely break.
Baby steps.. Careful baby steps..
Within that musty murk, the tunnel you’ve traversed stretches, and another fork in the path appears, a large, wide way. An open mouth hellish, whose ugly breath berates your senses.
Perhaps you see the scourge creeping along the vault above, but it was far too late by then.
SILENTLY, A PREDATOR DESCENDS THROUGH THE AIR, WITH HORRID GRACE.
You hear a weighty thud behind you, followed by squalid screeching.
A gigantic flying bass-like abomination has engulfed the blobby beast of burden whole,
Cramming it into its’ mouth. You see four elongated arms as that of a primate reaching greedily for anything it may snatch.
The spearmen at once command their fey to muzzle the monster, and they in turn try to surround it. Only two of them remain to tend to you, their flock.
Behind you lay the debacle, with the lonely road of bone before
Ahead there stand two spears glaring, and a harrowed unknown path.
To your east the chasm of flesh creeps upward in a round slope, covered in small pools of musty liquids festering, bony shards intermixed.
To your west lay a more open frontier, wild, hilly, comprised of organs, darkness, smoke, and terror.
The lot of you are bound together by this foul green strand, and your adrenaline summons you to action.
WHAT ACTION DOST THOU TAKE?
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Merek loudly whispers back to his squire; See if you can unlock any of the chains on these people. If you can't, then get the siblings ready to run - and make for it as soon as the two remaining guards are down.
With that, Merek sets his eyes on the two spearmen. He draws his sword, his arm raising until the entire blade was free of the scabbard - except, there was no blade. This sword is broken! It was nothing but muscle memory that kept his arm moving the way it does.
Merek advanced to the spearmen, slashing with the broken sword.
As he strikes, the fire within him flows outwards to the other spearman.
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As the Outsider drew is fragile blade Poor craftsmanship right there! Kran hummed quietly, the song of Earth's Endurance, and felt the strength of the Earth flow into his veins. He then tried quietly to move to the nearest guard and slip his bonds over the guard to grapple him.
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Mixed among the rest of the prisoners is a hooded figure who seems to radiate an aura of lethargy. It is dressed in a raggedy cloak and it's only possession lies unknown in a shoulder sash. This figure has been in the train since you've joined this haunted parade. Often you see and hear this figure mumbling and shaking its head as if it had water in its ear. Whenever anything of note happens, something that causes a reaction from all, the figure seemed oblivious. Always the same regardless. A creepy figure to say the least.
As most act, diving to the ground as to protect themselves, the figure remains, as seemingly oblivious as usual. There it stands in the midst of a twitch, mumbling incoherently.
Some can make out the mumbles, "no, no, no, no.............."
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They probably wouldn't get a better opportunity than this, right here. As the chaos erupted around Roscoe and some of the captives seemed intent on seizing the moment, he too sprang into action.
Roscoe whispers dark words, staring intently into the distance as he does it. At the same time he puts his hands together and his fingers make different arcane symbols in quick succession.
Then, in the blink of an eye, the space Roscoe occupied with his body is filled with a thick dark grey smoke. The smoke holds on to Roscoes form for a while, but then slowly starts dissipating and wafting away.
Roscoe is gone.
From behind the two spearman however, another incantation is now being cast. Roscoe has stepped through the mists and teleported himself with his back now to the harrowed unknown path, and he is facing all the mayhem. Their backs to him, he aims a blast of hellish energy to one of the guards. The guard in question was occupied, fending off a man attacking him with a broken sword so Roscoe hoped he wouldn't notice too bad that he was behind him now.
The energy blast has a dull red hue, but was seemingly absorbing light making it look dark and eventually pitch black the longer you look at it. Not that there was much time to study it however, because it shot with the speed of a heavy crossbow bolt.
The whole ordeal of being captive in this hell-scape for a while had shaken Roscoe more than he cared to admit, and his hands weren't as steady as he wanted them to be. With baited breath he waited the moment following his blast to see if it struck true.
The djinn barks orders to his attendant; and he flees towards the inclined slope which built up toward the eastward wall of the tunnel.
The greychildren were standing somewhere perhaps forty yards off said wall, perpendicular and perfect to the floor which the debacle took place upon.
As the young lad found them, he reluctantly tried stepping on the wall- WITH EASE, he found himself venturing toward them.
they point at the silvery pools of gross water. The girl takes a cup of it into her hands, carefully pouring the stuff between the lad's hands.
As she does, the boy yelps, visibly in pain. Then his hands are free.
Then, the djinn assaults the sentinels dual, his edge deflected by roundshield.
To the spearmens' dismay, ruby flames shoot out from the strike, and buffet the unflanked white warrior.
In his failing jaunt to berid himself from the fire's bite, he stumbles into a stout scoundrel, and they clamor into eachother, almost falling.
Shouting erupts from the standing guard flanked.
"SPRITES! MUSTER!" You hear buzzing wings nearing from the wreckage.
Concurrently, behind the eastward sentinel there appears a devilish son, enacting dark rites of blood.
The energy of the force unleashed chooses its own way, skewing far, towards the main skirmish, scorching a troopman in the foot.
...
Between here and there, a couple of the white guards race through the shackled prisoners caught unawares and fearful.
They sprint toward the rest of their kin, to retrieve the goods seemingly at any cost. One such guard bumps against the wrong garbed prisoner, and finds himself thrown into several others, by means of fear manifested. .
They then emit hollerings dire, but soon
cease.
...
The scene surrounding the rest of the white band is gruesome.
The aquatic monstrosity wrestles with three whitewights in its' primal arms, mouth wide, struggling to wrap its' lips around the fleshy turtle whole.
The troop does all it can, piercing and disturbing the hide, dodging the furry arms...
End of Round 1
Group Initiative = 8
A pair of bright wings zips toward the lot of you, seeing aggressors surrounding its pacters. After an abrupt assessment, the fae whips around to the backside of the standing alabaster, releasing its aura upon the red infernal.
Succeed: 7 Psych Damage, stand thine ground.
Gritting its' fangful mouth, the white warrior whips his tail around, to strike the mystic behind him. In the same motion, he moves with brightspear to confound the djinn swordsman.
Beside these, the jarred pair, whiteguard and dwarf dance with each other and gravity, looking for an opening. The white one's spear drops to the mushy ground, and the disgruntled warrior bashes his shield into his gruff assailant's face.
...
Seeing the clamoring of Graiel's rightside reaction gone awry, he then takes more intent notice of the pools surrounding.
Three treacherous lay between his feet and the war with the fishbeast.
Two hazardous between himself and the motley gang behind.
The rest of the way seems safe of foot, barring steaming residue of the abhorrent puddles' splashings...
...
The phalanx of the white thrust their shards deep into the belly and gills of the beast as one.
The swath is deadly, the scourge, immovable.
The beast of burden is halfway gone, lost to maw of strange fish.
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Roscoe saw his blast go wide and didn't have much time to contemplate his errors. He spotted a fast flying fae creature moving in and the moment he locked eyes with it a searing and nauseating headache washed over him.
Roscoe grabbed his head with both hands and forced the terror out. He met scarier things and managed to dig deep into his personal resolve to shake off the effects. Still, the pain dulled his senses and trickles of blood worked their way out of his ears, nose and eyes.
As a reaction to the winged creatures dirty work, Roscoe pointed at the fae and used the pain as a catalyst for a particular nasty invocation. No blast could be made out this time, but the dirty magic makes flames erupt in and around the fae. He was boiling it using his infernal blood, through pain.
Just after the retaliation, Roscoe's index finger goes down and his middlefinger goes up. It was a hollow statement of defiance more than anything else, because he was on his last legs now.
Unfortunately being occupied with the fae meant that he wasn't prepared for the spinning tailwhip headed his way. The tip clipped him, and slashed his throat in a mean way.
Roscoe was running out of tricks to pull out of his hat and aimed his eldrich blast at the winged fae, desperate to kill one of the dangerous assailants.
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The brightspear flies past Merek's face as he moves his torso to the side; his warriors reflexes kicking in.
The fire within him still yearns to be fully released. He wants it to fly free, but he hasn't the strength to let it go. Not fully. He dips in, like a toe into the water to test the temperature, and as he does, a small bit of fire is release with the thrust of his broken blade.
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The guard and Kran slammed into each other and both tumbled to the ground, a ball of limbs and fists flailing at each other.
As he tussles with the guard, his head is tilted in such a way that he sees something that makes him shudder, but does not deter him from his assault.
Remaining focused on the task at hand, Kran sings a song of the rumbling earth, and as he does so his fists begin to vibrate. Turning this to his advantage, he will try and punch the guard that he is grappling with.
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After being bumped, the cloaked figure crumples to the ground and clutches at its hooded head. With mouth open in some silent scream it begins clawing at the cloth as if to desperately remove something. "..no.no.no.no.No!NO!NO!" a voice rambles and yells in the minds of those surrounding.
The quietest whispers grow in the mind of the white warrior. Some of laughter, some of words in a strange language, and yet others screaming in horror or pain.
The momentous skirmish carries on.
At the notice of the fly and it's piercing assault, the diabolist reacts, summoning bitter flames to engulf it. The sprite evades however, buzzing ever wildly. Roscoe is able to use this moment to re-center himself, and compose his pointed ire yet again.
With malefic finger, he sends wrath to the insect, and though it's wit caught on to the bolt's direction, it could not evade the crushing blast.
At once, it became no more.
Below the bursting gleam, the mettle of larger men was put to the test.
The djinn advanced again, this time making his meager mark, cutting into flesh of exposed shoulder. The flame of his blood erupted then, sated in the small bite of victory, scrambling the two warriors once firm, further into disarray.
This same second spearman, disarmed, already had enough problems to deal with.
Falling beside this problem, the dwarf had sung words of power, and thence unleashed it upon the man.
Striking the ground, a loud was heard all throughout the open tunnel, and the spearless sod was thrown several yards behind the ardent djinn.
Resounding gradually in your inner mind there manifests a call of fear and panicked remorse. No! No! NO! NO!
...
A gaunt elder, some seven feete tall, carefully walks toward you.
He sports a garish moustache, and has an atrocious second face protruding from the left side of his neck.
You identify him as a prisoner from the pack, with the same green rope binding his hands.
"Son... Let us run, and go far from these cursed athelings"
...
The darkness and chaos begin to persecute the senses of all present, and the environ becomes harder to see, harder to discern.
The monstrous fish has begun to engulf the human turtle, and it has almost swallowed its prey whole. Because this is so, its' ability to move has become decidedly hindered. The spearmen have begun to flank it on the right side, using their spears to try and flop it over into the nearmost steam pool. Hearing the blast from the short one's craft, a couple of fae begin to wander near to the twin guards lone.
The hooded figure has has stopped clawing at its hooded head and now clutches it with white knuckles. Its fingers and hands are so thin, it is as if only skin spearates its bones from the environment. Curled into a ball, resting on knees and feet, the figured now rocks vigorously.
[Dice=Insight 1]17
You notice a cloaked prisoner on the ground, being approached by another tall prisoner of long age. Something instinctual inside of you tells you the shouting voice is his.
You saw the dwarf jump him with his bonds, and the two were tussling next to you and your engaged foe on the ground.
Then the dwarf sung and in an act of power CRASHED his fist into his nose, sending him sprawled on the ground, behind you about ten feet.
His spear lay on the gurgling ground between you and the dwarf.
In spite of this, you know not of his condition empirically.
Anything could happen, and your adrenaline reminds you of this fact in spades.
Your enemy looks upon the lot of you with a mixture of vengeance and pain. He calls to him behind you in desperation.
"EMERALD-EN-WINE! Forget not the poverty of your children! BROTHER, YOU MUST STAND!!"
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Taking the briefest of moment to catch his breath and clamor to his feet, Kran looks around for the first time to see what can be seen.
Seeing the Djinn enter the fray against his captors, Kran began speaking in the language of elements, although his accent was clearly of an earthen tone.
"Are we to be enemies, or can we work together to free ourselves and others from bondage?"
You see these same prisoners run amok, to lands afar, hands freed.
You also notice a hole in the ceiling of the tunnel, around 50 yards behind you. From this hole emerge two beasts of ulven form, each with heads covered in the eyes of an insect.
They drift from their hole,
floating mid-air, descending with grace towards several fallen prisoners between yourself and the fiasco beyond.
Group Initiative = 7
.
.
The stench of blood, bile, and death violates your nostrils.
With every breath you choke on, you realize that there is no quick path to salvation.
Is salvation even on the table anymore? Nothing is certain...
Your adrenaline summons you back to the fray.
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Merek responds back to the dwarf,
Merek holds his hand out to the dwarf to assist him to his feet.
With his other hand, he sets fire to the guard on the ground, the one looking at him with fury his eyes.
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Kran listens intently to what the man has to say, then responds in kind:
"Nice to meet you Ser Montague. My name is Kran, and I may well be the last member of clan Deathsteel in existence. I am a Stonesinger. Do you know where we are? I'm pretty sure that I'm not on Ondath anymore."
The hooded figure's rocking slows to a stop. With one hand still clutching its head it uses the other hand to shakily raise itself back to its feet.
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Merek continues to speak with Kran,
May I see your bonds?
If Kran agrees to let Merek touch his bonds, Merek will attempt to grab a link and heat it until it softens enough so that Kran can rip it apart. (Assuming it's a chain).
"I tried breaking it earlier, but I think it's sentient. Not sure though, so if you think you can break it, go for it."
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Roscoe crouched down and put his left hand on the ground beneath him for stability. He immediately regretted it, because it felt really nasty somehow. He repressed the shiver that crept up his spine and looked around.
He quickly scanned the immediate area behind him, then around him, and then he surveyed the chaos and battlefield before him.
He sees the white warriors taking on the beast, and gathers that theres a distinct possibility that it won't be long before they can turn their attention back on the prisoners.
If this escape attempt had any hope of succeeding, they needed to act fast.
He closed his eyes intensely for but a moment. When he opened them his eyes had no white, and the pupils were gone. Instead, a dark liquid-like smoke had filled his eyes completely.
Roscoe looked down, and seeing now the smoking form of a scabbard hanging around his waist, he pulled free the longsword that was waiting in the scabbard for him.
Others that might be looking, see just Roscoe's eyes go smokey, and him pulling the smokey form of the longsword from seemingly nowhere.
As the wisps of smoke dissipate and his eyes slowly regain their natural hellish-red hue, Roscoe was holding a pitch black and very sharp looking weapon.
He ran towards the two before him. the dwarf and the brass knight, and anxiously started taking to them in loud whispers. Ready for anything however, he kept his blade between them and him, and he kept a couple of feet between them.
He spoke in common, and hoped by Avacyn's grace that they could understand him, and were agreeable folk. There had been too many nasty surprises the last couple of days so Roscoe was ready for anything, but as he wiped the ground-slurry from his hand he decided he'd take a chance on these strangers.
"We need to get the hell out of here. They'll be done with that beast soon."
Noticing the Warrior standing next to him, Kran will unleash his fist into the warrior's face.
Noticing the Warrior standing next to him, Kran will unleash his fist into the warrior's face.
With booming fist, you pummel the brigand, and he flies backward, beyond the bounds of even the red inquisitor.
From where he stands, he pauses, surveying the scenes ahead of him.Growling, he spits at the lot of you.
"May you fare horribly, tricked by the lands to death upon death."
He turns around, deserting his phalanx, into the tunnel entrance far forward.
Your bonds are broken by heated blade. As the severing takes place, a wicked hiss screeches into your eardrums, soaring high above the drone of the psychic mourner's pleading.
Roscoe crouched down and put his left hand on the ground beneath him for stability. He immediately regretted it, because it felt really nasty somehow. He repressed the shiver that crept up his spine and looked around.
He quickly scanned the immediate area behind him, then around him, and then he surveyed the chaos and battlefield before him.
Perception: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (14) + 4 = 18
Behind you lay several menial pools of the same liquid strewn about, large hills that look like organs piled upon each other, and beyond that, the entrance to the tunnel your recent captors were bounding towards.
To your left, the meaty ground slopes at a gradient upwards, into a concave surface, leading into the ceiling of the cave. There you see several holes in the surface which remind you of gopher caves, and in other places, several clusters of bone jutting around, which appear as some sort of crude fencing.
To your right, you see a quivering, hilly frontier made of the same flesh and gore as what your senses have become far too intimate with. Several prisoners have gone forth there, largely in solitude, but you also see a couple bands of three or more roaming together.
Ahead of you are your newfound companions. There is a brightspear on the ground near them, and behind them lay the other white warrior, struggling to crawl away slowly.
Beyond them you see a tall elder crouched over a cloaked figure.
You also see three monstrous wolf creatures floating down towards them, without sound or warning.
Beyond, even that, you see the white phalanx stabbing the fishbeast, a grand spectacle of war. That warband you once knew has since been whittled in half.
Group Initiative = 11.25
Suddenly, several growling mouths appear.
Two of them strike at Graiel, trying to bind him down,
minimizing his chances of escape.
Graiel:
Your tall companion is also felled by one such mouth, and you hear his weak cry of pain as he falls to the ground by your side.
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Merek moves forward, dancing around the odd puddles.
Once clear, he raises one hand up and allows the fire within to escape. The flames billow forth, extending out five fathoms and engulfing the wolves.
= 12
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Kran will trudge forward, moving like inevitability.
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With misplaced bites around him, Graiel's eyes begin to glow a deep purple. His head jerks as his eyes lock on to one of the wolves.
Whispers can be heard around once more. Whispers of power and pain, of love and loss, and plenty of terror and fear.
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As the horrors of the landscape unfold, Roscoe takes in the information at face value, but he still has a hard time really processing it.
The Brass Knight and the dwarf had turned without a word, almost directly after he had adressed them. However, Roscoe understood their intention as he looked at the wolves descending upon one of their fellow prisoners.
These folks couldn't be all that bad if they'd risk their hides to rescue that poor fellow. He'd have to find a way to communicate with them later, but first they'd need to get out of here somehow.
Feeling apprehensive, Roscoe sighed deeply. He'd rather run.. but he couldn't leave good people to their fates. He looked at the white warrior that was trying to crawl away, and he felt regret for what he was about to do.
With determined steps, walking fast, he came up behind the warrior. Under his breath Roscoe had started muttering.
"By the name of my father, who's name I curse but who's blood I share, I damn you."
Roscoe spit the words out, angry with himself that he chose to invoke this specific curse. It was something he swore he'd never use once, a long time ago, but in time he had found himself drawing upon this specific hex in dire situations.
He was conflicted about it.
Roscoe put his right foot on the warriors ankle and put a mean amount of pressure on it, stopping him from getting away. He raised the longsword above his head and had every intention of plunging the tip of the longsword hard in the back of the the neck just beneath the warriors skull.
The muttering had turned to a shameful whisper.
"Whether Tibalt the Fiend-blooded wreaks havoc on your soul, or Avacyn the Purifier takes mercy on it is beyond me now."
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As Kran moves to follow the Djinn, he turns to the red-skinned man and says "Don't dilly-dally now. We should try and find our way outta here."
The wolves, seeing with their numerous eyes that they have become outnumbered, jump up into the air and float off together, seeking more docile prey.
Behind the lot of you, the red shade-warrior dispatches the last white spearman.
Between the chaos of the initial debacle, and the wretched frontier encompassing you on every side, the uneasiness doesn't leave you.
The ghost of your adrenaline haunts incessantly as you begin to realize that this isn't all just a dream, and that you truly are so far gone in this hellish place, far estranged and misplaced from your beloved.
The bitten man lay on the ground, wound not too severe for anyone of stouter stature, but this man's composition was that of a river reed; tall, thin, whittled.
As he speaks to you, you notice his obtuse moustache and the second face protruding from his neck.
"D-do any of you fellows have a bandage upon your person?"
The hooded figure slumps to the ground after the imminent danger subsides, the otherworldly strength leaving with the danger it seems. The whispers seem to fade as well.
After several moments, the figure slowly rights itself and looks around, seeming slightly confused. Once it notices the 'stached man it rushes over and begins to tear cloth from the bottom of its ragged robe to bandage the man's wounds.
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As the person beneath his boot stopped his final dead-spasms and with a chortle gave up his last breath, Roscoe felt slightly invigorated. He took a deep breath, enjoying the powerful feeling, and then slowly exhaled. Looking down at the limp body, he felt only shame.
It was Kran who jolted him from his dark study. Roscoe looked up and hurried after Kran to join the others.
"Roscoe". He said to everyone, before kneeling down at the man on the ground. The two faces would have given Roscoe ample reason for being suspicious of the man back in Innistrad, but in this environment he was part of the status quo. Bleeding and helpless, Roscoe could only feel sorry for the man.
He looked him over.
"I am no physician." Roscoe said to the hooded figure, apologising ahead of time for any clumsiness. As the hooded figure applied bandages, roscoe applied pressure where necessary and helped out.
"Here." He told the two faced man. "Try and keep pressure on it at all times."
He turned to the others again. "I do know that if we leave him behind, his fate will not be favourable."
If the group took as good care of the man as possible then Roscoe would put one of his arms over the mans shoulder, help him up, and support him during their escape.
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"I don't think anyone should be left here if we can help it. I don't know where this place is, but Ser Montague and I were just discussing this. My name is Kran of clan Deathsteel, perhaps the last one in existence. We should gather up whatever and anyone we can carry and find a new place to hide while we discuss our next moves."
With that, Kran will scoop up the brightspear and then help Graiel to his feet, saying "Come now, we can't stay here. We'll get him moved someplace safe."
Turning to the Elemental, Kran will say in Primordial
"I don't know if you can speak common or not, but we're going to move. You should get your followers together along with anyone still floating around and have them follow us. I should add that I would very much like the answers you have promised."
As Kran speaks, the waves of vibration that were coming off his hands subside. Kran kneels and gives thanks in the form of a silent prayer.
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Graiel flinches when being grabbed, his head snapping to focus on Kran. Fear mixed with concern shows on his face as the same feelings seem to emanate as well through some unknown mental connection. Along with the feelings of concern and fear, Kran also hears the faint multitude of whispers. A dim purple glow begins in Graiel's eyes and then all at once he begins shaking his head vigorously as he also clutches it with his bony hands.
Likely these actions and things break Graiel from Kran's grasp at which time the whispers immediately stop (though if not, the whispers will persist and grow to a solidly distracting level).
Yes, I can speak you tongue, Merek says with a thick accent. And I thank you for doing me the honor of speaking mine.
Merek looks back towards whoever else is around and calls out, Lad! Get the children and collect any equipment you can find.
Turning back and facing his mis-matched allies, he says, I am Merek Montague, disgraced knight of the City of Brass. The lad back there is me squire. The siblings follow us, and I do my best to ensure they're taken care of.
Come. Let us leave this place. Let us find shelter and we can discuss what we all know.
Now that they have a moment, and Kran and Merek have identified themselves, Roscoe also introduces himself.
"Well met Kran of Clan Deathsteel, and you too Merek Montague. I'm Roscoe Vines, disciple of Avacyn the Purifier."
He hadn't used his name in combination with his self imposed title for a long time, but this place just sort of seemed to make him want to say it out loud.
"I suggest we don't go where they were planning to take us." He said, indicating the entrance to the tunnel. *We might do well to avoid the quivering, hilly frontier made of flesh and gore where some prisoners are drifting towards."
He pointed up and to the left. "I suggest there, where the meaty ground slopes at a gradient upwards, into a concave surface, leading into the ceiling of the cave. There seem to be several holes in the surface along with several clusters of bone jutting around. We might be able to hide in one of the caves, or at least use the bone fence to our advantage should they follow us."
Merek's trio of servants walk down from the same wall Roscoe is pointing towards to come to him.
They are about 30 yards away, stepping carefully towards you.
The hume lad bears in his arms two shields, wrought of some lacquered wood, and some other implements you cannot discern from this length.
"Let us go anywhere away from this lot. My name is Norman. Thank you f-for your assistance..."
The old man tries to stand, and is able, with some solid effort.
Your subconscious flashes into your synapses for a second, wondering whether or not this two-faced man has what it takes to survive... out here.
As he hears the whispers in his brain when touching Graiel, Kran removes his hand and says instead "Can you understand what I'm saying?"
Graiel nods
"Good, we're leaving now. Please come with us and we'll do our best to keep you safe. Do you know how to write?"
Graiel nods again.
"Okay, if you need to tell me something, write it on the ground. Do you know any languages besides Common?"
bringing Graiel along, Kran moves to the turtle and begins securing his belongings: He puts a shield and pack on his back, then secures a few weapons to his belt, before reverently picking up what appears to be a club, but upon closer inspection was probably a single-headed battle axe at one point. There is about an inch of metal the extends from one end, as well as the band that goes around it. On the band, runes written in the language of magic flow around it, and one can see the hint of where those same runes would have gone up the blade, but the blade has been sheared off, as if by a giant blade.
Kran sings briefly to this club, then kisses it, before storing it on his belt.
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Merek find some gear to pick up and carry; hopefully it is something one of his new companions needs or wants.
As he does so, he can be heard speaking to his squire, Never ask someone to do something you would not do yourself. As you have done as I requested, so have I performed the same task.