Melfoil wilts in the ice cold water, turning a more translucent white than normal. He leaps out of the tub, his long, ungainly legs sliding through the soapy water on the floor. He takes a moment to compose himself, his big black eyes searching wildly around the room, before scooping up his belongings and his towel and balling them in front of his groin. He quickly follows Mad Maddy and the rest up to their quarters, all the while tightly clutching the scroll to his chest.
By the time Melfoil reaches the sleeping quarters, warmth has returned to his extremities and he enters with a more limber, albeit still unnatural, loping stride. He makes his way to an unclaimed bed and sits on the corner, dressing himself in no great hurry, stretching and yawning while the quaintness of the room enters into his mood. He notices a small cobweb by his bedhead and runs the tips of his fingers through the sticky silk. He smiles.
"This place reminds me of..." Melfoil pauses as his mind catches up to his mouth. Reminds him of what? He has never before been here, or in fact anywhere outside of his Toad prison. So what was this strong sense of belonging he now felt? Comfort soon dissolves into fear.
"...it reminds me of a place I might have known." Melfoil continues, covering his faltering with some vague mysticism.
Melfoil can't shake the feeling, however. Every motion he goes through plays parallel in some lost part of his memory. While he grinds and filters his concoctions through his alembic, while he boils an incense medley to perfume the room, even while he washes specks of reagent from his face in the cracked bathroom mirror, déjà vu haunts his every action. Right up until Melfoil closes his eyes and falls under the weight of sleep, Mad Maddy's cabin fills him with a sinister homeliness.
***
lvl 1:
Cure Light Wounds x2
Expeditious retreat x1
Reduce Person x2
Targeted Bomb Admixture x1
lvl2:
Alchemical Allocation x1
Invisibility x1
Enshroud Thoughts x1
Prepared Mutagen: Strength
Bombs p/day: 10
Morning comes and lifts Melfoil out of a dead sleep. He drowsily pushes himself out of bed, flips his pillow to turn a visible bloodstain face-down, and ambles downstairs to join Leon. Melfoil spies him sitting at the bar, staring at the other patrons in the usual personal-space-ignoring Leon way and moves to join him. Pushing past a largely disgusting creature and its disgustingly large friend, Melfoil slaps his hand on the bar and hails the barkeep.
"Barkeep, good sir, I'll have your strongest drink to kick off this morn'" Melfoil leans over to smile and wave at Leon while he awaits his drink order.
Sitting side-by-side at the bar, Melfoil and Leon are confronted by a reddish, bearded, black-haired, rotund frog-man as their barkeep. The man turns, each beady eye rotating independently, his two sets of arms each cleaning their own glass.
"Sir? SIR?"
"Oh here we go," mutters a woman to your left, who must be a regular.
Melfoil and Leon are thus viciously scolded by the loquacious, angry, very FEMALE frog-lady.
***
Freed, eventually, from the woman's ire, Leon turns, mug in hand, to survey the room. His eyes flit from one group to the next - for here, there were very few people not tied to at least one other - parsing through potential threats, filing them away in categories; dangerous threat, less-dangerous threat, and possibly not a danger, or not a threat (never both). Melfoil was doing much the same, though likely in regards to useful body-parts and the peculiarities of irregular anatomy and their functions.
Of note, there were only two groups worth mentioning. One had, emblazoned on clothes or bandanas or even tatooed on their bodies, the mark of ruined crown - burnt to a crumbling, ashy crisp. Those that bore the symbol seemed a quiet bunch, and made up, primarily, of Tiefling's and their ilk. They were left alone by the other patrons - not (at least solely) through fear, but a sort of timid respect, like one might give to a veteran past his prime.
The other, like the first, bore their symbols proudly. Two small swirls, like vortexes, held beneath a large, open eye. You realize that the swirls themselves resemble eyes in a way, and thus the open eye is not just any eye - it is the third eye. Despite the mystic emblem, the lot that bears it are a rowdy, eccentric bunch. They, too, are given a wide berth - though it is the one you might give a beloved dog in the throes of rabid madness. Sure, it meant no harm, but its intent could not be trusted whilst afflicted by such a disease. Whether through coincidence or prudence, the two groups sit as far apart as possible.
Together with the group of guards you had met earlier, that makes three distinguished, separate factions.
The big man's perceptive gaze was interrupted only by the sip of his beverage. The drink was brown as dishwater, and looking at the bottom you can see floating bits of what you can only assume is some kind of silt. Still, despite its earthen aroma and slightly sandy texture, the beer is as good as any one might have found back home. A pleasant surprise in this unpleasant world.
Clarice nudges Maldrek towards Mr. Golden Lance's direction. "G-Go on! Talk to him... I-I'm shy! Clarice stuttered, her face blushing.
L0: Ray of Frost, Acid Splash, Detect Magic, Mage hand
L1: 2x Shocking Grasp, 1x True Strike, 1x Vanish
L2: 2x Frigid Touch
Melfoil held his drink up to the light and tutted at the silt and debris. This will have to do. He plunged his left hand into his drink, gave it a dainty swirl, then began to work his finger-stump with a rag, cleaning and prepping the area. He then took out the Warden's finger from his belt-pouch and dropped it into his drink.
"Excuse me, gents." Melfoil addressed the creatures that he shared elbow space with at the bar (He had not yet reflected on the barkeeper's rant on assuming gender). "This might get a tad messy. I do hope you understand." He continued, attempting to give a charming wink while gagging himself with a leather strap. He then splayed his left hand on the bar, took out a small scalpel and, with all of the finesse - and none of the foresight - of a surgeon, cut a thin slice of flesh off the top of his finger stump.
Blood burst across the bar top. Melfoil bit into the leather strap, shouting muted expletives. He dropped the scalpel with a shaky hand and clumsily produced a needle and thread from his vest. He took the alcohol sodden finger from his glass and lined it up with his gushing stump. He sculled his drink, removing the leather strap from his mouth momentarily, before poising the needle and thread over his hand. He dug decisively into his and the warden's flesh, sewing his stump and the finger together. Each tug of the thread caused a pitiful whimper to trickle out of the saliva soaked leather gag.
But, after an excruciating moment, the surgery was complete. Melfoil looked down at his new finger; the seams bulged with pooling blood. His field of vision narrowed and his nerves berated him with messages of hot pain. Melfoil took a half step away from the bar. He thought briefly of the old tree in the courtyard and his eternal suffering. He smiled.
"Good as new." He muttered, turning quite pale.
Then he collapsed face first onto the bar in a pool of saliva, beer, and blood, becoming the fourth group in the bar that the patrons gave a wide, wide berth to.
Shaking his head at the unconscious Elf, Leon downs the last dregs of his drink and gets to his feet. Striding over to Melfoil, Leon leans over him and inspects the newly attached finger with a hint of admiration. “Nicely done Knife-Ears. Guess we both got something from that goon.” Lifting the Elf up by the collar of his newly soiled coat Leon drapes him over one shoulder and quickly surveys the room again. He sees an empty booth where Melfoil can recover his senses out of sight of most of the other patrons. Turning to the thing behind the bar Leon grunts. “Oi, we’ll have two more. On him.” Leon nods towards the comatose Elf, as he slips a few too many gold pieces from Melfoil’s purse and places it on the bar.
Arriving at the booth Leon puts down one mug a little too forcefully, its brown froth sloshing over the edges. He then takes a swig from the other as he throws Melfoil onto a seat. Taking up the spot next to the poor Elf a thought occurs to Leon. Taking one of the alchemist’s bony wrists, Leon looks for a pulse. After a few moments, he feels a beat. Oh good he’s still alive. Might’ve been awkward taking money from a dead man… Pondering on that for a moment calls to something in the fog cloud of his memories and Leon gets the feeling that he’s dealt with that awkwardness quite a bit and reached the point where he just got over it. With a shrug of broad and tired shoulders Leon takes up his mug and drinks heartily.
Putting the drink down, a burp erupts from his lips then turns into a dissatisfied sigh. “What do we do now Knife-Ears?” Leon asks of the laid-out Elf, not wanting an answer but more to use him as a sounding board. ”Every creature we’ve encountered has failed to escape this torturous place. They’ve become so broken they just accept their fate and made lives for themselves here. They even fall in love.” Leon shakes his head and lifts his mug again to take a deep draught. “Isn’t that such b!!$!&~~!” He spits, sending drops of earthy beer flying from his lips.
Leaning back in the booth lounge Leon takes a quiet drink and settles himself. “Thanks for this Mel. You’re a good listener when you’re knocked unconscious after a poorly thought out surgery.” The big man leans over and gives Melfoil a gentle pat on the back. “You gonna drink that buddy?” He waits a beat. “No? Well I’ll gladly take it off your hands.” Leon quickly snatches up the beer and takes a swig. “Now where’s the other - HIC - lot? Uhh Ohh. They better not be dead. HIC.” Trying to stifle his hiccups, Leon looks out over the patrons of Mad Maddy’s hoping to see his other companions before they get into any more trouble without him.
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The tiefling can't help but grin as he enters the main room in the middle of the frogwoman diatribe. Making his way to Leon and Merfoil he stops on his feet as the elf starts his sudden attpt at surgery and his acrobatic headbutt to the bar.
"Make it three drinks, and add some bacon and eggs if at all possible, milady." he says with a wink and a charming smile as he sits and claps the brobarian in the back.
"Been busy since you woke up, Leon? I know this place is confuwing, but you won't find answers in a glass' bottom... not that I won't try too." the tiefling scans the room > Maldrek raises an eyebrow as he studies the Ruined Crown one. "Interesting... might as well meet my kin and try to get some intel... they seem tough but nice."
The tiefling claps Leon's back once again "Wish mr luck." he says as he makes his way to the group and takes a seat, close yet separated from them until invited.
"Long days and pleasant nights." he says "My name's Maldrek Delisar... and to be honest me and my friends have just arrived. Mind to help a newcomer understand the ways of this land?"
Melfoil, moments before he plunges face-first into the bar, notices two things (though their importance is entirely subjective):
Firstly, his brand new finger has, quite by happy-little-accident, been sewn on the wrong way around. Despite this, the digit exhibits extreme elasticity and flexibility to the point that this is almost a non-issue.
Secondly, the elf seems to have... only partial control over his new pointer. At times it appears to have a mind of its own, twitching this way and that, poking his palm with its long nail and, most commonly, deliberately and frequently flipping off anyone who happened to give him a second look.
***
"Bacon...?" Before Maldrek can get a word in, the woman has already turned to yell something to the kitchen and moved past him. Before long, Maldrek is presented with a saucer, upon which lies a large... large grey egg, with not utensils and no further instruction... alongside his drink, of course.
The tiefling, thinking better than to bother the bartender any further, takes "meal" and drink over with him to the other table of tieflings.
Taking his greeting in silence, the group look back and forth among each other, sharing questioning looks. Finally, one speaks up.
"Greetings, Braz'myr." Braz'myr, Maldrek recognizes, is a word in infernal. It meant 'brother' literally, but was more accurately translated as 'brother of the blood', and could be applied equally amongst males and females. It was very old speech, like one's great, great, great grandmother might use when referring to friends from her own youth.
"Tmafqm uz wmipyw py za ivpuz, xe ip qdiv za wyy pary ao afr cul. Iz mfrzw ph wafd zmiz pary ao fw pfwz ky wfkbytzyv za zmuw Mydd kfz..."
His speech was much the same, in old, strange infernal. Noticing that Maldrek was having difficulty following, he switches to a rough, broken common.
"Ahh... you are young yet... yes? New here, yes. Have the old ways truly been lost then? Are we... forgotten? Hmm." He says something to his companions, too fast and unusual for Maldrek to follow, and grunts at their response. "It is dangerous world. Lonely world. The Atagahn-" he shakes his head, as if he used a word no longer relevant, "Ashen may help, yes? Come with us to see Lord of Ash, yes? Friends come too, of course. Friends too. We are nothing without those."
Atagahn, recalls Maldrek, means 'the rest' or 'the other's'.
When Maldrek sits down and starts talking to him, Leon can’t help but absent-mindedly, and probably quite rudely, stare at his horns. Mind foggy, Leon quickly gets lost in the Tiefling’s swirling horns and his words are unable to reach the lightweight barbarian. It’s not until Maldrek leaves the table and takes his horns with him that Leon snaps out of it.
Seeing Maldrek introduce himself to the gang, Leon shakes his stupor off and turns to the unconscious Elf beside him. “Melfoil, wake up you daft doctor! The Tiefling is about to start a fight or join a gang! Either way the fun is about to start and I’m not gonna babysit your arse!” The burly brute takes the Elf firmly by the slumped shoulders and punctuates every word with vigorous shaking. Stopping suddenly Leon lets Melfoil fall back onto the table as he turns to look around the room. “And where is that bloody Goblin!”
Leon rattled Melfoil's brain; he looked around the room with glazed eyes, his thoughts felt soggy. Melfoil tried to lift his head off the table, but he felt far too out of practice for moving. He was certain he must have been lying here, in this condition, for weeks. The boisterous patrons had slowed to a halt, the sounds of laughter and heckling sounded far in the distance. The whole scene appeared to him as a still life...
Then Mefloil's rogue ring-finger wormed its way into his view and flipped him off. Melfoil's senses rushed back to him and the bar sprang back into motion. His eyes sharpen to the direction of Maldrek's conversation.
"Lord of Ash? Lord of Ash..." Melfoil smiles, "It sounds like Maldrek has an in with someone of high, er, less dubious social standing than our current company."
Melfoil wobbles over to Maldrek, still uncertain on his legs, and begins to nod and smile along with their conversation in an imitation as close to real interaction as he can manage.
Clarice steps towards the group. Without saying much of a word, afraid to ruin this encounter with any more blunders... she gives a short "ehe~" as her mouth stretches into a hideous smile.
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"Thank you, Braz'Myr, I am in debt with you you for your kindness and help..." says the tiwfling, bowing slightly "The language you used, it had a familiar ring... yet it wasn't like anything I had ever heard. I reckon I am intrigued, also because I didn't expect to find bloodkin here. Well, whatever here means."
Maldrek excuses himself briefly and walks quickly to the others "They will help us." he says with a smile before his face turns more serious and the tiefling lowers hia voice to almost a whisper "I am inclined to trust them, gut feeling, but we can't forget that this place hasn't treat us well and we must be very cautious." he turns to Mel "Grafting demonic fingers to your hand with improvised surgery isn't cautious, for example. Keeping an eye to our surroundings and company is. I'll tell them we are ready."
Having said his part Maldrek returns to the tieflings "Please lead the way, Braz'Myr."
The tiefling nods at Maldrek's response, and dim smiles are mirrored among his compatriots.
"That pleases me, brother! Come, come, the Flaming Fields lie not far from here, should your convictions be true. The Lord of Ash awaits."
The group is gathered in short order, herded together like cattle. No few heads turn, noting the procession and, you quickly come to assume, your newly found company. Ultimately, though, you leave the inn as you found it - a bustle of diverse characters, all separated into their own cliques, the brooding, handsome man in the corner, the staff rushing about and yelling at customers.
As you go to step foot out, you hear a worried wailing. Mad Maddie comes rushing over, fussing with her apron and her hair. She reaches down and grabs Clarice, pulling her into a monstrous hug.
"Go have fun, I'll keep your rooms ready and waiting for you as long as you need them!" She grins, planting one last kiss on the goblin's cheek before letting go. Her expression becomes serious, if only for a moment, and she speaks more quietly. "Go and do what you must, help them if that's your heart's desire, but try not to get too involved. Politics are a deadlier game than I think you lot can handle. At least for now." She stands, smiling and waving with cloth in hand, and hurries back into the inn.
***
The group of tieflings lead you through the city,past sights and wonders the likes of which you've never seen and, honestly, may never see again. Strange things, and stranger people, all tickled by an underlying sense of familiarity. In time, the muted browns and greys of the city's buildings melt away, yet it disappears in such a way that you can never really pinpoint a moment in which you ever actually left. And yet before you stands a large, seemingly-barren field, criss-crossed by dancing flames.
The field stretches on to the horizon, with the walls of the city just barely visible at the end. At the center of the field, surrounded by its own small wall of dancing flames, you can make out what appears to be some kind of enormous camp, though its details are difficult to ascertain through the rising heat.
The tieflings smile and take in a deep breath, clearly pleased to be returning home. Without words, you are taken down the edge of the muddy hill you stand upon and into the inferno.
Though flames sometimes erupt randomly from the ground, spewing forth like dragon's breath, the tieflings remain unconcerned. Not that it stopped them from pulling their cloaks in close, of course. Soon, you come upon what must be the edges of the camp, for the flames here are taller and stronger and run in a line. The tieflings hush as the curtains of flame part and a figure steps out.
The man is enormous, close to eight foot. The tiefling, for tiefling he was, has skin the colour of ash, and is dressed in fitting gear which could belong at once to a king and a beggar. Though he wields the most enormous spear you may have thought possible, its most interesting characteristic is its wispy smoke-like appearance. It is as if he has conjured smoke itself into a weapon, which curls and dissipates and regenerates constantly. Upon his brow rests the charred, crumbling crown that you clearly recognize as the group's insignia.
Still, despite the gloomy attire, the man's face seems friendly, eyes bearing faded laugh lines and chin swallowed by an enormous beard. He looks at you all, assessing you with dark, sad eyes.
"Greetings, chained-ones. A little bird told me you were interested in meeting us. Even joining us, perhaps? The Atagahn was built upon helping the helpless... the weak are as welcomed as the strong. Yet..." He gestures to something you cannot see. "We do not tolerate those without use. You appear to be the adventurous type, so I've prepared an appropriate trial. Come to me when you are done, or be consumed by the flames." He waves a dismissive hand as he turns and walks back into the camp, and the flame wall pulls shut behind him.
Looking around, you realize your guides have abandoned you during the distraction, leaving you alone in the heated wasteland. Silence descends... and then out from the fire bursts a gigantic bull. It stands as tall as Leon at the shoulder, and its grand charred-black horns sweep forward majestically. Flames dance along the beasts hide, clustering around its hooves, shoulders, and tail. It scratches at the ground, snorting out pure flame as it studies you. The beast bellows, then is upon you!
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Maldrek remaind eerily silent during the journey. He couldn't remember the last time he met one of his kind, least one that truthfully wanted to aid him.
As the humongous tiefling speaks, Maldrek smiles "I would have perished years ago, cold and hungry, if I didn't have an use. What I yearn for is purpose. Purpose and freedom to choose." he saydñs, mostly to himself, and awaits the huge tiefling's answer... yet he didn't expect the trial to happen so soon.
Not one to react poorly to the unexpected, Maldrek quickly dashes as he draws his blade, and crouching as he slashes upwards, he tries to behead the bull.
Melfoil frowned at the hot wastes. His feet hurt from the walk and his clothes dripped with sweat. This place was far, far below the level of opulence he expected of a 'Lord'. When the fiery bull exploded onto the scene, enshrouded in flamed resplendence, Melfoil sighed loudly. Another day, another unpaid job.
Reluctantly, Melfoil uncrossed his arms and pulled a tube of bubbling brown liquid from his brace.
"This should do it." He murmured, then took a swig.
Hiking his pants above the knee, Melfoil placed his feet deliberately, putting his weight on his forefoot, and held his hands out in front of his chest.
"I'd wager we just need to get a good, hard grasp on the beasts ho-OOOORGHRGHG." Melfoil's body exploded outward in layers of muscled flesh. His frame nearly doubled in size as he transformed into a bulging, barrel-chested brute; probably about the size of Leon. Melfoil's eyes, two bloodshot pinpricks under his thick forehead, stared down the bull as it was making its charge toward the group.
"You wanna tussle? We can tussle, beast." Brown foam dripped from the sides of Melfoil's mouth as he spoke.
When the blazing bull bursts onto the scene Leon grins. “Another glorious beast! Perhaps this one will join us if we show it our strength!” Roaring this through the blistering air, Leon shifts his axe to its original state and begins to beat a rhythm on his chest. He runs at the beast. With every agonising step he becomes more and more monstrous until finally his demonic visage is complete. He towers over the battlefield, dark red skin visible through the tears in his clothing from where swollen muscles burst the seams.
Stopping just short of the creature , Leon swings his axe into the bull’s flank.
"That may have shown too much strength." Leon mutters with a grimace. "Sorry, friend."
Maldrek is first into the fray. He draws sword and wit and sprints into the bull's path as it charges. Expecting a counter-attack, he brings his sword up to slash along its neck. The creature surprisingly ignores him, however, forcing the tiefling to dive feet-first between its legs as it barrels over him, scoring a wicked slash along its underbelly as it goes past.
Maldrek, a little rattled at being run over, quickly checks for injuries before standing up and shouting warning to the bull's unerring target: Leon.
Leon approaches slowly at first, but builds up speed as he transforms until he is as one with bull. At the last second he plants his feet, in a display of frightening calm beneath the fury, lodging himself firmly within the beast's path. Unstoppable Force, meet the Immovable Object. The entire world seems to quiet, the entirety of existence compressed into the one, small moment.
The beast blasts past Leon, thundering on a few more steps before it slows, and stands still. Leon, like a statue, stands with greataxe held aloft. There is a pause... then the bull explodes. No stumbling, no baying, no collapsing - it quite simply, literally, explodes. Leon returns his weapon to where it belongs.
A section of the flaming boundary six feet wide shimmers, then is gone, revealing the people and buildings within.
With a deep regretful sigh, the hulking Gadran slumps to his knees letting the demonic rage slip away. Returned to normal but exhausted and covered in gore, Leon turns to his slightly bewildered companions with a strained grin. “Looks like I’ll be hogging the bathroom when we get back to Maddy's.”
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Maldrek turned after his attack and dodge. He knew quickness and fast strikes were prime against such a mighty beast.
But then Leon happened and Maldrek let his sword escape his hand, clinking as it hit the ground.
"Holy f&%&ing s!+&." he said, yet his inner thoughts were a tad different
The bull's explosion subsides, revealing in its wake a small, pearly-white coalescence. The mist bubbles, pulsing with the thoughts and emotions of those around it, before surging forth and enveloping Maldrek's head.
The memory surges into you like a shock of electricity. It brings back bits and pieces of your past... no, not your past, your peoples past. An ancestral memory, of sorts.
The Ashen ran by a different name, once, long ago. Known as the Atagahn (the "others", in Classic Infernal), they were a short-lived but widely renowned nomadic nation that was prominent over a thousand years ago. The Atagahn began as a small group of Tieflings, led by the tenacious and kindhearted King Bastillax the Flame, but grew quickly to encompass all of the down-trodden, mistrusted, or "unusual" races that were made to feel outcast in other cultures - orcs, lizardmen, goblins, and the like.
The Atagahn, as a nomadic nation, made a few very unfortunate enemies during their short forty year stint. One such enemy nation, a young Necronia, was to be the cause of their downfall. The Atagahn found themselves pinned between the Necronian army and the Iceblood Mountains. The result of the battle is something historians still claim as a mystery. Every last Tiefling simply vanished, with the majority of the remaining nation fleeing into the mountains. Without its King and central tiefling population, the Atagahn were no more.
Necronia claimed the battle was a landslide victory and that they had the bodies cremated, to explain the lack of remains and, no doubt, to send a message to other nations. Archaeologists claim there was zero evidence of a mass cremation, and only the remains of a relatively small battle.
Despite King Bastillax and the Atagahn's long disappearance, many young tieflings are reminded of their existence - of what had been, and what could be again.
[Dice=Rollan] 1d20;
Flicking the bull gore from his hands, Leon reaches out for the creature’s soul.
Arms still locked in place, Melfoil stands a fair distance from the exploded bull, muscles twitching. He froths awkwardly, not fully comprehending what happened to the bull or what to do with himself now. But then he sees the soul. His thoughts abandon him and the hunger returns, pushing Melfoil forward.
A look of consternation furrows Melfoil's meaty brow as the soul is consumed by Leon, who admittedly deserved the prize. Loud, nasal breaths rumble out of Melfoil while he watches, standing there in the boiling sands. Sweat begins to pool in his clavicle, running in streams off the tips of his fingers. The corners of his mouth bubble slightly.
"WE SHOULD MOVE." Melfoil barks through his engorged larynx. "IT'S HOT AND BORING HERE."
Melfoil watches his slack-jawed partners scrutinise the barren desert and suspects that the party's spirit for exploration will trump his sound reasoning. A stream of sweat worms itself into his left eye, causing him to shut it tightly before he speaks again.
"FINE. LET'S LOOK AT SAND."
Pouting, Melfoil kicks the sand around the outskirts of the arena. He halfheartedly looks for anything of interest in the wasteland.
He stops, however, when he feels the sting of heat against his cheek. One of the dancing flames had strayed playfully, and painfully, close to him. Tongues of fire lick at him, causing brief, but intense, rushes of pain. It feels invigorating. It feels powerful. Melfoil grins as he takes an empty vial from his brace, his eyes alight with the reflection of the flame.
The elf studies the flames, watching them dance and play around the edges of his natural reach. They seem to respond to him... in a way, backing away from his touch before darting back in when he appears to be focused elsewhere. Melfoil makes use of one such opportunity, feigning disinterest just so he can snag a vial of flame before it can retreat. With deft fingers he stoppers the bottle, observing the frantic, desperate flame dancing within. The wild fire gives him Melfoil a wide berth after that...
In time, the group advances, stepping past the barrier. The flames fall shut like a curtain behind you, letting you know that you are now fully within the domain of the Ashen.
The buildings here are as much a hodgepodge as those in the city proper, yet they lean towards a somewhat tribal aesthetic. There are many large tents and low-to-the-ground dome-like buildings dug into the sun-baked dirt, in fact the majority of living quarters are dug into the strata of the earth.
Standing apart from the rest of it all was an exceptionally large tent, standing high upon a hill, ringed by a smaller flames. You see a trail of dissipating smoke leading into its entrance and thus you can only assume it must be the War Tent, and your ultimate destination. Along the way, however, you are forced to stop as poor Clarice walks obliviously into the hind legs of mud-horse, the six-legged kind you remember from the front of Mad Maddy's.
A middle aged orc male, stoop-shouldered and grey of skin, is busy grooming and saddling the horses with provisions and the like. He has long, dark hair down to his shoulders, and somewhat gentle looking hands... for an orc, of course. He hobbles over to soothe the startled horse before giving giving you all a single, raised eyebrow.
"Newbies? You've picked a busy time to join. The chief meeting's in session..." He grunts, unimpressed. "Name's Targ..." The follow up question remains unspoken, but implied. Who are you?
Leon furrows his brow as he gives the Orc a look-over. Seeing the gentle touch he has with the beast, Leon gives an approving nod and grunts back; “Name’s Leon. These are the other ones, who have longer, more annoying names.” He waves a hand towards the other three and then moves over to the mud-horse. Reaching into one of the saddle bags filled with provisions he pulls out an apple and offers it to the creature, reaching his other hand out to pat it.
Following Leon's lead, Melfoil steps forward to address Targ. As he does, his body starts to deflate until, with a rubbery snap, his frame constricts back to its regular gauntness.
"And I am Melfoil." He announces, beaming, blood running steadily from both nostrils as his body struggles to re-knit itself after the sudden trauma. Melfoil continues, "Tell me Orcman, is there anywhere nearby where we might escape this damnable heat? Perhaps, given the level of civilisation around here, some sort of pleasure-tent where one might indulge one's self?"
Melfoil looks to the dug in domes and shrugs, "I suppose any mirthy hole will do me. Just need somewhere to compose myself before meeting the Lord of Ash."
Targ nods his head glumly at each of you in turn. "Aye, there's a few places you might like to visit... but you'd do well to heed my advice. Go check in with the Lord of Ash, he's a... complicated man. lot's of ups, lots of downs - one of them being he doesn't like to be kept waiting..." The orc coughs and scratches at his stubble, shaking his head at an unshared memory. "My wife will be there too, and she's twice as impatient as he. Trust me, you don't want to get on her bad side." He smiles slightly, the first sense of mirth you've managed to garner from him so far. "You'll know her when you see her... They haven't announced it yet, but I'm fairly certain they'll be sending out a scouting party soon, that's why I'm saddling up this sorry lot. Anyway, go get up there... I'll see you guys around again soon, I bet." The orc raises a hand in a lazy goodbye and sends you off on your way.
***
As you ascend the hill to where the War tent sits, you find yourselves blocked by its own protective ring of flames. Two guards stand at attention on the other side, barely a metre away from you. They look at each other, and one grins cheekily. "Good luck in there. Keep your heads down and try not to stand out..." He makes a motion with his hands, and you are let through.
The tent is much larger on the inside than you had anticipated - impossibly large, in fact. The place is crammed full of bookcases, tables, maps, files and other such important documents. At its center, dug into the earth, is an oval shaped divot, around which sit a number large pillows which serve as seats for the low table.
You find yourselves barely five steps into the massive tent when some kind of book or register is flung past your heads - a projectile dodged smoothly by the Lord of Ash that stands before you.
"You're late. Again! This is a council meeting, not some silly lunch for your lords and ladies of the court! Are we so beneath his lordship?" The woman who shrieks is a tall tiefling covered in crimson scales, with a veritable forest of short, darkened horns upon her head. Though she is not excessively large, her body is that of a warrior, lean and muscled - a profession that her scarred and blinded left eye attests to.
"Sila," says the Lord, holding his hands up in a sign of non-aggression (and likely as a means to catch anything else that might be thrown at him), "You know I value the contributions of the council and I treat these meetings with the utmost seriousness. I was merely delayed by the appearance of new arrivals." He gestures at you, bringing every eye at the table to rest upon the group. Some appraise you, others glare with hostility.
"Don't you Sila me, you buffoon. Sit down, before I make you."
The Lord of Ash acquiesces, taking his seat at the table closest to you, while Sila sits back down at her end. Afterwards, the council meeting goes as council meetings do... slowly and without much of interest. It is almost as if you are forgotten, left to stand around awkwardly, unable to participate, unable to leave...
...
..
.
..
...
Finally...
"We've gotten reports of increased shadowbeast agitation along the Wavering Edge. No one's been able to get a clear reason why, but multiple reports have noted some large shape stalking along the border, spooking the beasts around it... We need to send out a reconnaissance team, one that can eliminate the issue if possible. And-"
The Lord of Ash, listening intently, suddenly interjects.
"I've the perfect solution." He half turns, drawing attention once more to the group - though perhaps this isn't the attention you were looking for... "This lot, while new, have impressed me with how quickly they have taken down the Guardian. In fact, they took it down so swiftly that I was almost beaten here..." He grumbles, but continues. "This would be an excellent opportunity to prove themselves as reliable, and since they have already proven to be capable in combat..."
"Absolutely not!" Sila stands up, animated, her voice raised. "You would trust something so important to complete strangers?" Sila drags the Lord into another heated argument, one of the many you've already experienced so far. In the end, she sits down with a harrumph, declaring that if it must be so, then she herself will lead the party, accompanied by her husband. The Lord of Ash grins, happy with his small victory, and turns once more to you all.
"You will be provided with a Sunbomb, in case of emergency. Prepare yourselves swiftly, for you ride within the hour, while the sun is still high. Any questions?"
Ignoring the Lord, Leon strides forward and begins to lounge in one of the large cushions around the table with little worry of how much room he takes up. Taking a handful of sheets from the table and a glass of water from one of the nearby Atagahn, Leon begins to wash off the remains of the poor bull that still cling to him. Having cleaned up enough of the dried blood Leon scrunches up the paper and drops it into the glass. He hands it back to the Atagahn with a smile. “Thanks for that. Gotta get those blood stains out before they settle.”
Leaning back into the carved pit, Leon brings his feet up to rest on the edge of the table. Looking straight into Sila’s eyes, Leon calls back to Maldrek. “Tell me again Mal, why are we here with the Atagahn? They don’t seem all that important. I mean the only things we’ve seen them do so far is; have us kill an innocent flame bull and yell at each other.” Leon doesn’t break eye contact with Sila as he speaks waiting to see her reaction, preparing to dodge any incoming projectiles.
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Maldrek remains silent as usual as the events unfold, visibly smiling as the one named Sila puts the others in their place.
The tiefling listens intently at the council's report, mentally noting down some questions to ask when they finish speaking.... and then the Lord interrupted them with a job offer.
But before he is able to speak, Leon puts another feet inside his mouth and speaks. If Maldrek wasn't used to being in peril and ashamed, he would be sweating buckets right now.
"Well, Leon, for starters I've never heard flame bull and innocent in the same sentence before. Yelling, on the other hand, sure is strange but not every chain of command is as rigid as the others. And most importantly, we are with the Atagahn both because we are new and completely oblivious to the reality we are in and because they seem to care about the bad stuff happening." he says in an almost Melfoil like voice.
"Like the shadowbeasts roaming wildly. I can't speak for the rest, because we are as ordered and single-minded as you, Council and Lord of Ash, are... but I intend to help. I would need some more information as I must confess I'm not as great a warrior as Leon is or Lady Sila seems to be."
"If the shadowbeasts are the creatures that accosted us on our way to the city, they are dangerous. That isn't a problem by itself, if we can learn easier, quickier and probably funnier ways to kill them. That's where you can help us, I'm sure. As we are newcomers we would also need to know everything we can about the Wavering Edge, something tell me the name isn't fortuitous. If we can help falling into enviromental death-traps or the hands of hostile inhabitants, all the better. And last but not least, anything capable of scaring whole herds of shadowbeasts sure isn't a simple target... for that I would be so bold as to ask for means of healing ourselves, all geared to beat his ass back to Hell... double Hell? Underhell? Whatever this plane's version of Hell is called."
Having finished talking bussiness, Maldrek returns to his usually silent being. "Pretty please?"
The heavy looking tiefling that Leon sits next to almost jumps out of his skin at the brute's sudden appearance. He looks at leon, then the Lord of Ash, then Sila, then back at Leon, questioning, confused, and more than a little nervous. He shuffles over as much as his cushion allows.
Regardless of Leon's impertinence, the Lord of Ash pays heed to Maldrek's questioning and addresses each concern in order.
"You see, Sila, not just all muscles." He looks at the woman, winking, before continuing on.
"Do not feel too much for the creature you defeated earlier. It is but a soulless construct of the flames, a guardian, nothing more."
"Aye, you have the right of it. The shadowbeasts are the worst thing you are like to face in this desolate place.. depending on what you value, but their strength can be overcome. They have limited intelligence, driven primarily by their hunger, and they have one huge weakness - the light of day. They simply can not exist within it - they evaporate, like mist. Do not get yourselves caught outside at night, and you have nothing to worry about!"
"You will be given a sun bomb, our best weapon against the Endless Night. They are highly expensive, however, so only use it in an emergency... And since this is only a reconnaissance mission, I do not expect you to have to fight at all, yet your plea has convinced me. I shall also give you a white soulstone, which you can use to undo some of the damage the shadowbeasts do to your essence. Just in case." Some of the council members gasp, but Sila merely shakes her head. Clearly the soulstone was not something to be handed out like candy.
"Ask Targ to explain the Wavering edge to you, we've wasted enough time here as it is. If there isn't anything else..." If you didn't know any better you may have thought you were being dismissed!
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Maldrek nods as he makes his way out of the place "Thank you, we won't use the Sun Bomb for nothing. he says before whispering "I think... I hope."
Outside he examines the Cracked White Soulstone before putting it in one of his pockets. When the others come out he open his arms with a smile "That went just nice, am I right? We know better about the beasts, we got a job and the Ashen seem like they might help us."
"We should probably do as the Lord of Ash said and ask Tarj about the Wavering Edges, I'd rather not die stupidly."
Seeing his companions begin to leave Leon sighs, disappointed that he was unable to get a rise out of anyone. Before exiting the tent, Leon turns to address the room. “By the Gods I hate this place and soon I’ll never have to see any of you ever again. Have a nice day.”
***
“Yes, I'm so glad we get to risk our lives to help these strangers fight off a pack of beasts that have nearly killed us twice.” Leon grumbles as he begins to walk ahead. “Oh and Maldrek - everyone dies stupidly. That’s just one of those fun truths of life. But I agree, let’s go talk to the Orc. I want to feed the horses again.”
Stepping out of the tent, you find the mischievous guard from before trying to stifle his chortle, and the stern guards whacking a gauntleted fist into his forearm. "Well that went better than expected, huh?"
***
Targ, having finished saddling the horses and what-not, is found resting on the front steps of an inn enjoying a chilled ale. He looks up, acknowledges you all with a sigh, and sculls the rest of his drink. The orc gives a half-hearted wave in greeting, and uses that same hand to deflect your questions and queries, grunting dismissively.
"If you're here, then it's time to go. I'll answer what I can along the way. Get on, it's time to ride."
Targ helps any who need to in mounting the six-legged mudhorses; Clarice he stuffs between Leon's legs, telling him to keep a hand ready to catch her. The beasts are placid, simply blinking their many eyes at the party's eccentricities, and they carry you with surprising stability. Targ, confident that no one is in too much danger of death by trampling, hops up onto his own beast and takes the reins of one spare. He leads the way...
***
At the edges of town, Targ pulls up alongside a lonely looking shed. out from behind its shadow, Sila walks up to greet him, bedecked in leather armour and carrying two huge, curved swords hanging from her waist - looking every bit the confident, scowling badass. They share some words, ending with the orc planting a small kiss upon her forehead. She glares murderous eyes at the party, daring them to say a single damn thing, before hopping into her saddle and setting off.
The journey is long and quiet. You leave civilization within the hour, and are led into an endless, barren wasteland. Every few hours something pops up; a cactus, a large rock, a dead tree - well, hey, at least it breaks the monotony...
Targ falls back from the front, where he was riding by Sila's side.
"Purgatorium," he begins abruptly, not bothering with preamble or tact, "stretches infinitely... until it doesn't. And that is where we head - to the end of the world. It goes by many names; the Wavering Edge, the Endless Night, the End of Hope... you get the idea... Hmm, lots of "E's"..." He scratches at his beard, muttering as he was wont to do. "Thankfully, travel works differently down here - one of the perks of dying, I guess. You don't really notice it - in fact, focusing on it tends to make it not work - but where you go is determined by your thoughts. Pick any direction and think of Home, and you'll get there... eventually. Those with exceptional determination, or very clear concepts of their destination, will get there faster. Don't know where you're going, and forget where you came from? Well, you'll probably be lost forever."
Targ takes a breath and closes his eyes, thinking of how to explain what is simply his existence.
"The End of Hope - it is simply that, the End. The true end of your soul." He glances at your faces, noting Leon and Maldrek's confusion, and Melfoil's obviously feigned understanding. He grumbles something about "scrubs" before thrusting his arm out, open-palmed, with his sleeve pulled up to his bicep.
"You've spent at least one night here, yes? You would have felt it then - a burning, and then a mark left somewhere on your body?" He exhales, and is spontaneously covered in hundreds upon hundreds of little marks all over his body. The largest one - the first - begins begins at the center of his palm, and the others, much smaller, swirl around and away from it.
"This is your 'Tally', everyone has them. It's a record of your days here. You can will it to disappear, with some effort." He exhales again, demonstrating such. "Once you have enough... off you go, dragged down to Hell, to be looked over by He Who Judges. The only problem is... no one knows their end date. It's different for everybody, and there seems to be no rhyme-or-reason behind it. Everyone has their theories, but eh..." He shrugs. "Some have been here for millenia, some poor saps only a week at best... Death down here isn't quite as, uhh... lethal, as it was when you were alive. You die, and you'll wake up again a few hours later, somewhere else, with a new whole or two in your body. But what it does do is add to your Tally, each death adds more and more to your count - like a fast track to Hell. Which makes suicide a pretty awful option, I'm sure you'd agree - which leads me to End of Hope. Y'see, it's generally accepted that once your soul has had it's time down below, it gets sent back up to who-knows-where to start again. Of course, there's more theories here," he shrugs again, "but that's the gist of it. It's a cycle... however, there is one way to break it. The shadowbeasts... none alive know how or why, by they feed upon the very essence of the soul - what makes you, you. Dying to the shadows is the only way to achieve the True Death, an eternal ending of your soul's existence. It's scary stuff... There are some - the truly mad, the endlessly curious, or the woefully wretched - who willingly seek out such a fate. Whatever makes them snap drives them here, to take their final walk into the Endless Night."
Targ pauses for what you can only assume is dramatic effect. He finally snorts, slapping Melfoil on the shoulder as he rides on ahead to rejoin with Sila. "And that's where we're headed!"
...where you go is determined by your thoughts.
As Targ rode ahead, those words hung in the air with Melfoil. Could that really be true? Could he really just will himself away from this arid hellscape, perhaps even to somewhere pleasant? He was wary to believe such a thing; it reeked of the same mystical idealism that had kept his dimwitted elvish brethren devoted to the forest. Nourish the mind with fantasy and you'll stunt your reason. Still, Melfoil had seen enough to assume that order had lost the battle to chaos on this plane. Also, he was apparently dead despite all of the contrary living he thought he was doing, so that had made him a little less sure of himself of late. Melfoil closed his eyes and tried, with a great deal of effort, to think of a safe, comfortable place. His mind went completely blank. He opened his eyes again to see the endless expanse of nothing before him. Melfoil cocked his head, unsure of whether he had learnt anything from the exercise. He leaned back into his saddle and addresses the others.
"Well, this is terrible. And thoroughly unstimulating." Melfoil lowered his voice, "You know, we have these horses now. We don't have to play counselor to Sila and Targ and their dysfunctional relationship. I mean, you don't go to the 'End of Hope' if you're happily married, do you? This is their problem, I say we let them work it out themselves. We already helped them with their flaming bull problem, anyway. Plus, as I recall, you've had a less than pleasant experience with these shadowbeasts, Leon."
Leon chuckles as he recalls their first meeting with a shadowbeast. “Yes, that did not go well at all.”
Surveying the wasteland without end that they ride through and the two warriors that ride ahead, Leon nods to himself. “If you want to run Elf, I am with you but you’ll have a hard time convincing Mal I’m sure. And a harder time convincing those two to let us ride off on their beasts. When it devolves into combat as it most assuredly will, I don’t know whose side Maldrek would fight on and I wouldn’t blame him either way.” Leon says matter-of-factly and without trying lowering his voice certain that the Ataghan couple are thinking the exact same thing. “And if we succeed in killing them, which would be the only way of making sure they don’t go back to their people and turn them against us, we would have to navigate the wastes without a guide. Thus our choices are; kill our only allies in this lonely place; or go and fight with them against beasts of literal shadow and try not to become dinner. Honestly both sound like a lot of fun.” The smile that curls Leon’s lips tells the others that he is not joking.
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"I might be a backstabbing bastard, a thief, a consumated compulsive liar, once I worked as a boy-for-rent.. I think and I sure as hell value my integrity well above a lot of things to be considered a righteous fellow..." starts whispering Mal with a smile that quickly turns into a toothful grin and even quicker into a serious face. "...But I am not a traitor to my friends, and as far as I am concerned I escaped the Watcher with them. Whatever you choose I'll be with you, angrily complaining or smiling, but I'll be there till the grim end."
His face returning to a joyful smile, he speaks loud enough this time, eyeing the Ataghans from time to time "That said, I am partial to not backstabbing any prospective allies. Less so when we are, as Leon lyrically explained, we would be thoroughly screwed without them. Plus they seem good people, and I always value nice moral compasses."
The tiefling winks at Targ with a playful smile before silently resuming the travel.
Finally, you are brought from the depths of your reflections by Targ's call.
"Calm your frantic thoughts. You must focus. We are here."
It seems to come upon you all at once. In one moment you are trudging along through the same barren land you've been traversing for hours, and in the next the sun's light dims, your soul grows cold, and before you stretches an infinity of nothing.
A shadowy curtain lines the edge of the world, quivering here and there like the ripples in a pond, giving credence to the moniker "The Wavering Edge". You recall the unending horde of shadowbeasts that you encountered when you first arrived to this Hell-before-Hell. Comparatively, it was a drop of water in this black ocean.
Like before, a million million stars stare at you, a deep, unceasing hunger burning within them. The beasts closest to you stir, jostling each other and lunging uselessly. They let out meek, piteous moans, unable to cross the barrier that is the edge of the sun's light. Looking further into the abyss, you can make out the faint silhouettes of mountains, dead trees, and caves, similar to those you have passed on your way here. At the very limits of your vision, as deep into the blackness as you can possibly see, stands some large, squarish structure, though you cannot tell more beyond that.
Sila gathers your attention.
"Steel your resolves. Listen not to that insidious, tempting voice that niggles at you from the depths of your brain. There is nothing here for you but oblivion. Keep your eyes peeled for any especially jittery sections of shadowbeasts." The tiefling turns her back to you, and ties her horse to a nearby tree alongside Targ's, since it refuses to step any closer to the wall. She says something curt to her husband before stepping up for a more thorough investigation.
Taking in the scene before him, Leon shakes his head. “Should’ve listened to the Elf.” He mutters to himself forgetting that Clarice sits below his eyeline. When he proceeds to slide off his mount, Leon quickly recalls Clarice’s existence as the two of them tumble to the hard ground. Without a word of acknowledgement, the big man turns on the Goblin grasps her by her oversized head and seats her back on the strange beast they rode in on. “Stay.”
Brushing off the coat of dust and sand, Leon wanders over to Sila. “So Sila… It’s Sila right? Just wanted to bring up a hypothetical situation. Let’s say we find this creature that we’re hunting or even get into a brawl with the shadowbeasts. If you and the Orc die in there, that’s it for you right? So if that happens, Gods forbid, are we still allowed back at the Ataghan camp? And do we get to keep the horse-things?” says Leon, initially meaning it as a joke but as he looked upon the horrors that lay before them he considered it a reasonable line of thought.
The party's fascination with the writhing darkness is soon disturbed by the distant sound of hooves thundering across dirt. Everyone spins around at once, weapons drawn, scanning the horizon from whence they came. In the distance, riding like a demon unleashed, she appears...
A human woman, her hair and cloak billowing behind her, rides with her head close to the horse's neck. She holds aloft a shining stone, whose light points lazily to the groups position. She holds the air of mysticism about her - the real kind, the kind that holds power with one hand and demands respect with the other.
Sila relaxes, somewhat, upon noticing the shining light in the rider's hand. She explains, "That light she holds - it's a rare item we Atagahn possess that leads the wielder to the one that is attuned with it. I would be the one it's attuned with... which means that idiot King of ours has given it to her... probably. Just what I need - more amateurs to baby sit."
Finally, she comes close, slowing her mount to a stop. Silence once again returns - until Melfoil speaks up.
"Uhh... greetings?"
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"Greetings. Hail. Hi. She speaks quickly as she hastily and clumsily dismounts from her horse, almost falling over. Quickly, she regains her balance and regal poise, standing up straight to look at the party. Diana has long black hair, pristine skin, and a noble bearing. Her gaze slides over everyone quickly, taking in their weapons and weary stances. It lingers on Leon as she strides forwards.
She begins loudly whispering to herself as she walks. "I cannot understand you people. Here? Are you trying to get yourselves killed? After everything I did? This is what I get? Unbelievable. Simply ludicrous. You could've gone anywhere, done anything, and this? And him. What is it about him? Thrice damn me, this is a trick." Diana strides into the centre of the group, ignoring the various weapons pointed at her. She stands before Sila and displays her glowing object, speaking much louder this time. "Here. Proof your king sent me. I'm with you now. You, and these..." Diana pauses for a moment to think of a none offensive way to refer to the group. "These... souls. Yes, souls. That's a good way to put it. I should remember that one." Diana turns to Leon and opens her mouth as if to continue her rant. "I..." She pauses, and sighs. A thought had struck Diana, one which terrified her: Was I speaking out loud earlier? I've been alone for too long, I can't tell anymore. Oops. She decides to pocket the anger for a later date.
With practised ease, an expression of calm comes onto her face, and she properly introduces herself to the crowd. "I apologize. I have spent too long tracking you. I am tired, and uncertainty makes me nervous. My name is Diana, and I come offering aid. What plans do you have thus far for hunting the beast and how may I assist?"
The look this interloper gives to Leon as she strides towards the group immediately sets him on edge. The way she carries herself as she crosses the wastes stirs memories of blurry figures that held themselves the same way, figures that thought themselves better than the brute they stood before. They were right but that didn’t change the fact that Leon held the axe that would separate their noble head from their body.
Drawing his axe and extending its wicked blade, Leon stands ready for anything this stranger tries. Her talk of friendship and plans makes him shake his head and bellow a laugh void of any humour. “Who are you Woman, to ride into our midst and claim to be with us? You are a stranger who rambles like a madwoman but walks like we should fall to our knees before you. I will need more than a shiny rock to trust you…” Leon steps closer to the woman and growls, “For it could be a thrice damned trick.”
Diana smiles grimly as Leon talks, looking every part the wise woman who knows all. She is aware of the effect her noble blood and trained confidence has on others, and tries to channel that now. She is also aware that these first moments are important. They need to accept her. To that end, she begins by laughing back at Leon, a laugh that says something has amused her greatly.
"Hahaha. Mad? Mad? Of course I am mad." She raises her hands in a 'what-can-you-do sort of shrug, before snapping out one finger to point at Leon. "So tell me human. Tell me what it is like to be blind. To stumble through the day never knowing what happens next. What's around the corner. I am mad because unlike you, I can see." Diana makes a gesture and red lights dance around her hands, rising to rotate around her head. Gently, she pushes Leon's axe down with one finger so it points at the ground. "Fighting fate only works if you know what to fight. You need me because I can see the future, and you will trust me because I've already seen that you will. The proof is in the stars."
She grins. Leon seems vaguely superstitious to her, and this should scare him into trusting her a little. Fear and trust are just two sides of the same coin. She's done this before. To gain the trust of the superstitious, apply fear first and then offer help. They'll be scared into letting her prove herself, and then she demonstrate her usefullness. "Of course since you can't read the stars, I come bearing useful magics as well. I can heal, hurt, and twist minds and bodies."
When Diana finishes her spiel, Leon smiles revealing a maw of crooked teeth and nods his head. Nobles and their penchant for theatrics. He would usually have the show-stopper in hand, cutting them off before they got too annoying. Axe in hand, Leon looks to the faces of his silent cohorts and the Ataghan couple before returning to the newcomer. Unfortunately, that probably wouldn't swing with this lot. We'll make our own fun then.
Closing his eyes, Leon steps away from Diana and turns his back to her.“By the Gods, your wondrous powers would truly benefit us All-Seer, in this - our time of need. We have stumbled through the dark far too long. We are but blind fools who need guidance through these dangerous lands.” Leon croons as he turns and hefts his axe, arcing it through the dancing lights, and embeds its blade in the ground leaving it standing. “I will gladly accept you into our merry band and humbly apologise to you. If…” He approaches Diana with his eyes closed and hands outstretched burdening them on her shoulders. “You tell this blind fool how a warrior that can stand against fate ended up here. In Purgatorium. Surrounded by murderers and madmen. At the edge of light and shadow.” Leon’s voice loses any aspect of wonder with which he played with before. It becomes as cold and unnerving as his now open eyes, endless voids of pitch black that stare into Diana. “Because that sounds like a hell of a story.”
As Leon speaks, Diana folds her arms around her fragile body and smiles with relief. This sounds promising. Unused to physical contact, Diana flinches when Leon places his hands upon her shoulders. As if to signal the shock to her system, the lights around her head go out. She manages to keep a confidant expression on her face until Leon's last line, which freezes her. Diana stares into Leon's eyes, and feels the most primal fear. This man would kill her if she gave him a reason. He would kill her and no one would care.
Glancing around, Diana searches for an ally and only sees faces curious to know if Leon would murder her or if she could talk her way out of it. Her unnaturally bright green eyes go back to Leon. "Um". Swallowing, she rapidly becomes more jittery and nervous. Only one thought runs through her mind repeatedly 'I've made a terrible mistake'. Raising one shaking hand to point at Leon, Diana speaks. "I'm not...", she gulps, "I'm not a warrior that can stand against fate. It's.." she pauses. "Well, I'm here because you can stand against fate". She stresses the 'you' in that sentence, to make sure she's understood. Stuttering from fear, she tries to quickly explain. "Fate d-doesn't, it's n-n-not, it doesn't quite work the way you think it does. It's d-d-different for each person. S-s-some people have fates, and s-some are unimportant. You have fate dripping off you." She gets more confident as she goes. "Being a s-seer isn't about s-seeing the whole future, it's about seeing where to s-see the future. Finding the right place and waiting for the right time."
Pausing to breath, Diana looks at Leon with a fierce expression. "How did I end up in this dimension of torture?" Pushing Leon's hands off her shoulders, she stands tall, matching him for height. Any intimidation is lost by the difference in their builds. Where Leon is strong, Diana is slim and looks as if the wind could blow her over. "I. Don't. Know." She punctuates every word with a grimace. "Same as you. I don't know. Anything relating to what this place is, how I got here, or how long I have is beyond my scrying abilities. The only thing of relevance I've seen since I got here is you. Specifically, the four of you. A human with something more in his blood who fights like a demon, a brilliant elf with a penchant for inventing strange alchemical devices, a skillful and mysterious devilchild, and a goblin warrior and her sentient blade." Diana gestures at the people she talks about in turn. "I asked the universe how I escape this realm, and I saw you. I don't know what it means. I don't know why I'm here. I don't know how to get out." Diana pauses, and shivers. Eyes suddenly filled with tears gaze at Leon. "You're my only clue. I don't know where else to go. Please Leon." Finally, the proof that she has some kind of advance knowledge comes as Leon's name slips out despite never having been given to Diana. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry". With this final apology, Diana collapses against Leon sobbing.
Leon becomes visibly worried when this strange woman falls upon him wracked with tears. Though his memory has left him in this place he is certain nothing like this has happened. She knows my name. Did I tell her my name? He looks to the others that stand around them seeking advice but gets none. With a deep sigh Leon carefully raises a hand and goes to place it on Diana’s shoulder, but at the last minute decides not to touch the emotionally distraught stranger he just terrified. Instead he says quietly “Alright lady. Enough with the water works. I ain’t gonna hurt ya. If the universe sent you to us, you have too many problems to deal with already.”