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Kuthek lunges at the barker, the sound of celestial dice rattling in his skull, and attempts to sink his teeth into the man's leg and pull him to the ground. He then sets into him, weaving and striking, a vengeful serpent momentarily bound in fetchling flesh.
Kuthek smirks at the barker's attempt. Yes, those I frighten—that I truly frigthen, bringing my holy purpose to bear—are unworthy. Unworthy of their place in society, of the trust and opportunity granted by others. His eyes fix on the scampering fey, pupils shrinking to points. He crouches, fingertips splayed across the straw-strewn floor, then launches himself up into the fey's little warren.
Possibly uncomfortable teeth descriptions:
Kuthek's jaw twists and shivers, changes, and wicked fangs set their intent on this reality, dripping anew with saliva and malice. The revenant's maw yawns, flangs slick with torchlight, and encompasses the lesser being's head. With a terrible strength, the two longest teeth pierce the creature's skull, drive into its brain, and end its immortal existence. A moment, and Kuthek wipes blood from deep purple lips, dashing toward the barker's certain demise.
Ophidian musculature draws taut, and the winnower’s teeth lock between one another. Shreds of Kuthek’s foe come loose between them. With a single, brutal motion of neck and arms, he sends the little mouse careening through the air toward the barker. Kuthek breathes in. In this instant, that air is the only thing moving. It flows over the hot blood in his mouth, down his throat, and deep into the hidden corners of his spirit where his patron’s presence makes its home. Far below in a space beyond flesh, something uncoils. The ringing of steel and shout, the anguished cry of someone just moments from death. They assembl against the background hiss of umbral arrows, and something in that single instant of fluid air crystalized. A mayfly soundscape that is all the eerier for its transitory nature. ”Be afraid.” Kuthek’s mouth has not moved, but his eyes lock with the barker’s through the gloom and chaos. And then the moment shatters, and he is once again moving preternaturally quickly, slipping in behind the creature threatening Funmi. A strand of crimson slowly oozes down his now-humanoid jawline. All around him, tense with anticipation, is that slithering and coiling sensation, ready to lash out to help friend or harry foe.
But something else. Was she moving in that uncoiling moment? Head filled with holy purpose, he has trouble remembering. What did she say? "Tonight?" He resists the temptation to seek the Huntress's eyes once more, Kalekot's sibilant call temporarily muffling his curiosity. Reactions: Liberating Step [reaction] Trigger An enemy damages, Grabs, or Grapples your ally, and both are within 15 feet of you; Effect You free an ally from restraint. If the trigger was an ally taking damage, the ally gains resistance to all damage against the triggering damage equal to 2 + your level. The ally can attempt to break free of effects grabbing, restraining, immobilizing, or paralyzing them. They either attempt a new save against one such effect that allows a save, or attempt to Escape from one effect as a free action. If they can move, the ally can Step as a free action, even if they didn’t need to escape. If the triggering enemy was using any effects to make your ally grabbed, restrained, immobilized, or paralyzed when you used Liberating Step, that enemy takes persistent good damage equal to your Charisma modifier. If the ally doesn’t attempt to break free of an effect, you and all allies within 15 feet can Step, in addition to the triggering ally.
Though his attention is almost entirely fixed on the tension in his jaws, the feel of teeth on flesh, the Huntress's word manages to penetrate the saliva-slick sanguinity of Kuthek's mind. It plants itself in the soil of his curiosity.
Much like Silent Midnight, Kuthek is accustomed to working alone. He prowls the tent shadows while observing Chance’s gambit. He follows the roustabouts as they go to investigate, keeping his eyes and ears peeled for— Blood and dust, was that… The otherworldly predator’s scream kicks off a flurry of motion just visible through the torn tent flap. Well then, eave. You’re no stranger to wetwork—what are you waiting for? The stout man places a hand on the pendant at his neck then once again turns, slithering through unseen pathways of dust and musk, mind filled with enough preysense that it almost overwhelms him. But then he is no longer in the tent shadows, and instead appears directly behind a small, clawed figure. It staggers, one hand grasping at what looks like a truly horrible throat wound. ”Insult to injury, I’m afraid, little mouse.” A sibilant caress in the disoriented creature’s ear. The black skin of Kuthek’s face writhes and stretches. Bones creek and bend, pines in a midnight gale, and his jaws yawn impossibly wide. The teeth are too long, too sharp, too many. It all happens in the flash of an eye. Kuthek simply appears alongside dry wind and the sound of rustling leaves, and then his jaws are latched onto the creature's throat.
Reaction to Liberating Step, if applicable: Liberating Step [reaction] Trigger An enemy damages, Grabs, or Grapples your ally, and both are within 15 feet of you; Effect You free an ally from restraint. If the trigger was an ally taking damage, the ally gains resistance to all damage against the triggering damage equal to 2 + your level. The ally can attempt to break free of effects grabbing, restraining, immobilizing, or paralyzing them. They either attempt a new save against one such effect that allows a save, or attempt to Escape from one effect as a free action. If they can move, the ally can Step as a free action, even if they didn’t need to escape. —If the triggering enemy was using any effects to make your ally grabbed, restrained, immobilized, or paralyzed when you used Liberating Step, that enemy takes persistent good damage equal to your Charisma modifier. —If the ally doesn’t attempt to break free of an effect, you and all allies within 15 feet can Step, in addition to the triggering ally.
Always adds some mystery to the dance of violence.
Instead, scarlet blossoms on the cartographer’s floor. A bleeding heap of eyes and red robes materializes. ”Well done, lass!” crows Kuthek, whose chain instead seeks the sole survivor.
Reactions: One for AoO (if things don’t look too dangerous, which they don’t atm) One for:
Attempt to trip Red, athletics vs reflex dc
Kuthek is moving even before the boot is all the way through the door, spinning in while loosing the shining chain from its clasp. He weaves between companions and furniture, low to the ground, portions of him disappearing for a split second as they pass through shadow. A spiked chain rockets out from behind the bookshelf to Aphotos's left, followed immediately by the sprinting sneakpriest, bearing down on the nearest Gray Gardener.
His attention fixes on the many-eyed creature accompanying the masked figures.
Red must attempt a DC 34 Will save vs. reflavored litany against sloth:
Your litany rails against the sin of sloth, interfering with the target's ability to react. The target must attempt a Will save. A particularly slothful creature, such as a sloth demon, uses the outcome one degree of success worse than the result of its saving throw. The target becomes temporarily immune to all of your litanies for 1 minute. Critical Success The target is unaffected.
Reckless. Ridiculous. Kuthek’s worried forehead uncreases and a broad smile brightens his face. Brilliant.
"Let's see who's come calling, then." Kuthek closes his eyes and breathes deep, beginning the exercises that will slow his heart rate and help him stay hidden. The sensation of arcane invisibility slithers across his skin.
Oh, very sly. I've been underestimating her.
”You… weren’t supposed to hear that.” Kuthek mirrors the graceful young man’s sigh with his own. ”Purely inward-facing musings. I understand your frustrations, and I apologize for my response.” ”But yes, do wait your turn.” He nods toward Fiorré’s retreat and the shut door. ”I expect we could all use a relaxing bath and a bit of time for our thoughts, Fiorré in particular; let me make sure she gets it.” He drags the half-assembled bathtub into the adjacent room, finishes the construction, then goes to knock on Fiorré’s door. The sight of Funmi gives him some pause, but before he can ask anything, Fiorré steps out and offers assistance.
Task complete, he politely waves off the offer. ”Beauty before age, beauty before age. You don’t want to hear the sounds I make when my old bones start simmering. I’m happy to listen to Zintaya and wait my turn.”
Kuthek's affable expression, usually as unnoticeable as breathing, hardens into an affronted scowl. "Young man, do you realize how long I've had this?" He raises the bottomless sack and shakes it. "Squirrels forget where they've buried their winter stores, nobles forget what gilded frivolities lie under dusty sheets in unused wings. You seemed to have the situation well in hand, and a desire unvoiced is a desire unmet." He snorts and turns to Fiorré. "And yes, let's assemble this apparently now very popular bathtub." Something of his avuncular manner returns. "I would suggest we do so in the offices, but it seems you've as little concern for privacy as the average resident of a Pangolais shadowpen tenement." The man bundles the slats under an arm and carries them over to one of the warehouse's walls, muttering all the wall. Part way through the process, he heaves a deep sigh and runs a thick hand over his brow. "What was that all about, eave? Something about another surveillance state has you on edge, perhaps?" He sighs again and casts a chagrined glance at Aphotos. "No need to visit your insecurities on others."
Kuthek does his best to hide the slim smile that the two women's half-stumbling conversation elicits. Though he can't resist dissimulating a wink when he thinks Fiorré might see one out of the corner of a cat-like eye.
——— "One more batch of sinister creatures for the district," he says as he goes off to reconnoiter the warehouse. "I think I've even been called a revenant before. Maybe after that attempted drowning near Bloodcove." He checks every nook and cranny for hidden passages, magical meddling, and similar tools of the murderer's trade. He whistles jauntily as he does, the song sounding thin and hollow in the huge space. After a half hour or so, he returns to the group. "The place seems sound enough, and it appears free of divination and mundane weaknesses." He perks up at Fiorré's mention of a bath. "Well now, funny you should mention! When you get to my age, you start looking for ways to ease the indignities of the years' march." He starts pulling slats, about 4 feet long, out of a bag. Dozens emerge, followed by a carefully folded canvas and a lacquered gourd. He lifts the gourd to his lips, takes a drink, and wipes his mouth on the back of his arm.
He hooks a thumb over his shoulder toward the cluster of small rooms. "We've even got that rarest resource—privacy. So if it's a bath you want"—he waves a hand, the gesture leaving just enough ambiguity as to whether or not the pronoun includes a second party—"I believe you're in luck."
"Seems so! Kutheks shouts his response to Fiorré and once again wraps the fleeing woman in divine protection, then extends that deific predator's grace to those around him. He then grits his teeth and sprints into the roiling cloud, head low and chain spinning to deflect the flying stones, passing by Zintaya - one hand flashes out, and she is suddenly wrapped in the scent of humid night air - to punch his way through the other side.
He pivots on a heel, sending the meteor hammer back toward his foe.
Kuthek grits at the smack and crunch of rocks battering his companions. He extends a bit of the Winnower's predatory grace to Zintaya, blunting the worst of it. At least there's that. He then extends a part of himself into the gap between motions - rocks and people and dust and breath, all - and pulls. Like flying a kite, or drawing a knife through a body's softer spaces. Those around him feel a gentle tug, a reminder that shadows always wait behind light, and shadowed movement is easy as breath. His awareness snaps back into himself. Cords of muscle tense; the great whum of the chain begins again. Stout limbs interrupt the sin and redirect the ball into the elemental foe.
Kuthek savors the uncoiling of his god's predatory grace as he wraps it around Fiorré, then springs forward. The stout man's transmutation-quickened feet fly across the building's floor. He weaves in and among the lion-masked shadows and levitating stones, skids to a stop near Funmi, and uses the momentum to fling the meteor hammer into the murmurating earth.
"Keep her safe, you two!" shouts Kuthek over the din of rocks clattering against armor, wood, and flesh.
He then retreats from the—Elemental? A simple animation? What did this woman do to draw such ire?—...whatever it is, drawing closer to his companions so that he can extend to them Kalekot's eerie grace if needed.
Kuthek can barely hear Funmi over the clashing stones, but manages to snatch 'smash' from the din. Understood, Old-Mage.
He shouts at the swarm in a rough tongue.
Terran:
"Be ground to dust!" The chain lashes out, slithering and twitching like a snake shedding its skin. The umbral man almost lurches forward as the chain's tip becomes a heavy orb, pitted and gnarled like an ancient giant's bones.
Kuthek sprints toward the building's nearest window, closes his eyes, and -
A split second later, he reappears next to the amalgamate being and swings his spiked chain.
"Vigilance, competence, and discretion are the vigilant servant's lot, your Honor." Kuthek bows. "You can trust in our discretion, just as we respect yours. I shall deliver the news to the Lady; I'm sure she'll soon wish to send her own prosaicisms via your generous gift."
Kuthek slips into his servile mannerisms like an otter sliding into water: back straight, hands clasped behind back, detached and respectful expression.
"We are here on behalf of my mistress, the Lady Wintrelle of Iobaria, recently arrived in the city. You may have heard of her, as she is a performer of known small reknown." He raises his eyebrows ever-so-slightly, as if to say that surely a man of such good taste and societal standing as the Judge would be familiar with notable artists.
Possible rolls, hopefully Aphotos can help out too: If I [i]really[/] beef a roll then I'll use a hero point!
Standing at the back of the courtroom, Kuthek gently elbows his young friend. "Can you imagine receiving performing such a misdeed and receiving such a fine? Ah, how glad I am to have spent my life on the straight and narrow as a fine, upstanding citizen of the world." He shakes his head dolefully, all downcast eyes and heavy heart. "Perhaps once his slate is clear, the good judge will bend his ear to two fine fellows such as ourselves. Justice is ever in need of aid, after all." Kuthek keeps his white eyes and ears trained on the judge and his supplicants. What angers the man? What pleases him? Does he seem fair and just, if not kind?
Kuthek mulls over Funmi's words. He snorts, and a wisp of steam rolls out from his teacup. "And if not sahkils, I'm sure gardeners raise any number of toxic flora. Or sew invasive species on certain ancestral holdings. When you rule by fear, you get your hooks into people—I'm sure they could convince a member of the household guard to slowly poison the lord." No poisoned lords for you, though, eh young kayal? The razor was right there, after all. The stout man's faraway gaze snaps back to the present, and a smile creases his forehead and cheeks once more. "Master Nevarmo, much as I appreciate your inventory, I suspect we should be getting on. Regimes don't topple themselves."
Kuthek exchanges a sympathetic look with the herbalist. "Fear is a powerful thing, and it seems the Gardeners wield it well. I'm sorry that your fellows met such an end, and that it left you so uprooted." He turns to the others. "As to roots—seeing as we're in the middle of a harvest festival, why don't we check on the head of the Farmer's Association? Likely to be a bit less dour than the business at the church."
Kuthek gives Aphotos and Chance a quizzical look as he scoots past their stairtop hiding place. When he steps into the basement, he catches the last hint of that telltale smell of pure cold. The stout man surveys the scene, brows furrowed. "Thorns. Manacles. That," he touches an index finger to his nose before point at the dead sahkil, "and the two of you looking particularly grim. Assuming that's a sahkil, it looks like the psychopomps' priest can handle himself reasonably well. Locking up a fiend is no small task."
"And by the way—nice shot, Old-Mage Ozinichi."
Kuthek finishes his inventory of the various dagger sheathes, then stands. "Clearly more than just a scribe... Chance, you're more thaumaturgically talented—anything unusual about this eye or eyepatch?"
Kuthek blinks in surprise at Fiorré's kiss on the cheek. She's moved on by the time he recovers. He exhales a quiet puff out his nose, and his lips curve ever so slightly into a tiny smile.
He nods at her, brow furrowed, when she returns to report her findings and plans. "This all feels off. I'm sure Funmi can handle herself, but I'll be happy knowing someone quick with a blade has her back. We'll join you shortly." —— In the alcove, Kuthek crouches to examine the dead man. "Hrm. Ink stains, leather armor, and an eyepatch. Not the most common combination." He rocks back on his heels and taps a thick thumb against his chin. "I can see preserving him to avoid the stench, which would draw attention. But why leave him here?" He surveys the chamber for any signs of struggle or unusual haste—reasons someone would cast an embalming spell without bothering to dispose of a corpse.
possibly relevant skills:
Kuthek inclines his head toward the first floor's other chambers. "Let's the rest of us make sure there's nothing up here to plague the priest." He unfurls the spiked chain at his waist as he lopes across the uneven floor. "Wouldn't be surprised to find a few sahkil lurking about."
Kuthek scowls at the psychopomps' disregard for mortal welfare but keeps his mouth shut.
He angles a shoulder toward the young duelist and slips a packet from his sleeve. "Picked up a bit of this at the tea shop," he murmurs, shaking the waxed paper envelope of catnip. "Just in case. Been without necessary treatments myself, on occasion, and I'd prefer others avoid it." The avuncular warrior raises his eyebrows at her and gives her a lopsided smile. "I hope it's not presumptuous, but... you seem a bit anxious, is all."
Kuthek feels the morrigna's spell worm its way into his core, then explode in jagged shards of ice and searing flame. He almost cries out, but clenches his jaw.
As does the tension in his muscles when the psychopomps lower their weapons. He nods along with his companions' summation of events.
He hrms softly at Fiorré inquiry. "Probably the basement, presuming we want to stay someplace safe from prying eyes. Though maybe wait until we hear more from these two," he indicates the morrignas with a minute twitch of a stout index finger, "since they'd likely know if something was lurking down there."
Kuthek squares his shoulders and slowly approaches the newcomers. "Not that the rest of us have quarrel with the Lady of Graves. Our goals might even align, if you'd hold off on violence long enough for us to elaborate." His soothing smile hardens slightly as his hand moves to the spiked chain hanging at his waist. "If you don't, well... I sincerely hope that can be avoided."
Action 1: Intimidation to Coerce
Action 2: Recall Knowledge about these beings:
Dunno which is appropriate so rolling 'em all! Action 3: Move closer 20ft, just behind Funmi (45ft Stride, reduction from difficult terrain)
Kuthek picks his way carefully over the damaged, rubble-strewn floor. "Unsteady as a Caydenite funeral..." He approaches the small room opposite the side door, alert for any lurking shades or vermin.
It's a relief for Kuthek to drop his prim servant's facade and adopt the loose skulker's stance to which he's most accustomed.
Kuthek plays the dutiful servant, carrying any garments that Fiorré sets aside and elegantly commenting on his mistress's decisions. He bristles somewhat at the Madame's insinuation that Lady Wintrelle's sunsilk isn't appropriate for the event, but would never dream of doing something as gauche as directly addressing such a slight. Those are things for the Mistress to sort out as she sees fit.
Kuthek raises his eyebrows at Funmi's question, but merely drains the last of the pungent, musty brew from his teacup. "Yes, let's make sure we look the parts. To the Oval Mirror, and perhaps to the professor's site of interest afterwards."
Kuthek lifts the snakeskin pouch from the water and twists it to strain the remaining liquid into his cup. Even so, little flecks of gray-green float atop the brew. He shivers slightly at the first sip, like someone's just taken a shot of whiskey and forgot how strong it was. He nods at Aphotos's question, wiping his mouth to chip in. "My companion has the same line of thought as I do. Any ability to blend in with serving staff or other working-class folk is likely my best means of entry." He taps his chin with a thick thumb. "Or sneak in on my own during the night and wait somewhere 'til the event starts. But I expect there's more useful information to be gathered by mingling with the staff."
Kuthek grunts at a small packet in the tea chest, impressed. "Greenpetal asp scales - you do know your business. Not many folks who stock snakeskin teas." He wafts the aroma toward himself; grassy, astringent, musty. Lovely! The stocky man sits cross-legged on the floor and removes his own tea equipment to begin steeping the strange brew. He's content to let his companions ask their own questions, for the moment, as they've all got good heads on their shoulders. Though he can't help but slip in a comment about Funmi's manners. "She is apparently a diplomat, if you'd believe it." His entirely gray eyes drift lazily up from his work. "She's also entirely right about the subduing. But I think you know that, and aren't liable to find out anyways, being a friend of Miss Drannoch's." He says it with a slightly conciliatory air.
"Apologies, Lady. I should not be so concerned with your appearance that I neglect my own - it reflects poorly on the House." Kuthek seizes the opportunity of Fiorré's vest-brushing to murmur a rebuttal. "Yes, the mistress's garden. When harvesting some produce, it's best to go straight up the stem to the fruit at the top. Season permitting, of course." His chagrined servant's facade does not falter in the slightest. "If we're not tending to the gardens, maybe we'll have an opportunity to see to the master's forge. Snap this final blade and turn it to plowshares." He does take a moment while maintaining his act to pat Funmi or Fiorré's shoulder, or to give them a brief look that says I see you're struggling, and I appreciate that you're working through it as best you're able. "Masters'" outfits seen to, he steps next to the herbalist's door, standing straight and impassive, ready to open the door should others wish to enter.
Kuthek spends the morning attending to Fiorré in his 'disguise' as a servant. He's surprisingly good at the particulars, foreseeing most needs - or faux-needs, as is likely in this case - before they arise.
Once the group reconvenes, he shares what he's learned - quietly and discretely, given the obvious tension in the city.
A tiny crack appears in Kuthek's humorless facade. "The best lies contain a grain of truth, and some grains are larger than others." Once everyone is ready to cross back to the Material, he nods, closes his eyes, and draws in a deep, slow breath. His thin little shadow—much less active during the journey than in previous situations—draws in toward him. It slithers up and around his right arm to rest between the tips of his fingers. Kuthek raises his right hand. The shadow coagulates in a shimmering ball between thumb and forefinger. He snaps, and they are once more beneath moon and stars.
During the Journey:
His conversations with Funmi and small pleasure in watching those new to his second home traverse it so skillfully make the journey seem much shorter than it is. Outside Litran:
His eyes scan the landscape and settle on the strange building at the city’s heart. He raises his chin to indicate its clouded base. ”I imagine that’s Gray Gardeners’ haunt. Unlikely there’s something else so emotionally weighty that it would have a similar manifestation in the Shadow.” ”Let’s leave the boundary plane and step back into the real. We can camp out of sight of the walls . Once Sarenrae shows her face, we can enter in whatever manner we decide on.” He turns his gentle smile on Fiorré once more. ”I quite like sleeping beneath the stars. Something calls to me from the wild places of our worlds.”
"Pah! Shifting, yes," Kuthek waves a hand to good naturedly dismisses Aphotos's protest in the same manner with which it was made, "but I know what I'm about. I'll keep to the route so that younger folk can do as younger folk will." His smile falters when he turns away from his companions. Memories of families divided and lives cut short drift up from his past. Households in the shadow of bristling Kuthite temples. Whispered meetings during which bundles of food and other necessities were passed to those in need. The events that drew him to his current path. He sighs at the receding intimation of Isarn, and the specter of Litran yet to come. May others shoulder lighter burdens.
Kuthek cocks an eyebrow at Funmi. "The hard way?" He surveys the shadowy figure's muscle-heavy bulk and predatory stance. "And how many pounds of flesh did you lose to our young friend's hunting aspect?" Mist-gray eyes flicker toward Fiorré's masque. Proper and shy and containing multitudes. Not so different than myself, I suppose, in those first bloody nights. The stout man squares his shoulders and lopes forward, stopping toe-to-toe with the beastly shade. He tips his his head back. Twilit eyes and wicked antlers loom above him. "Alright. You," he chirps, waving a hand to encompass girl and beast alike, "clearly know at least some of what you're on about - I doubt Miss Drannoch would have contacted you if that weren't the case." He drops his avuncular gaze to Fiorré, lips curving in a gentle smile. "And I'm no stranger to, mmm... incongruous violence." Kuthek can feel the fang close against the skin of his chest. Its cold iron and static charge of dream-given potential are a comfort and a reminder. He steps back, dropping his shoulders and returning to his normal, easy-going stance, the very picture of a man headed to the town square to play riverland pawn and swap tall tales with the other commonfolk going to seed. "Direct your ferocity toward the right folk and you'll find no trouble with me. Or direct a different kind of ferocity at our gentleman dancer, if you prefer - he seems game!" His eyes twinkle at Aphotos. Kuthek's mirth is cut short by the sensation of the shadow shifting around him. He perks up at Chance's mention. "Drifting, just so! You've got good instincts. The boundary paths change even as you tread them. Nothing to worry about, just a bit disorienting at first." He raises a hand to his neck and strokes a thumb along the fang hidden beneath his tunic, considering Fiorré and Funmi one last time. Deeming it unnecessary to try chipping at the teacher's facade or risking further embarrassment for the young duelist, he simply turns to the southeast to get his bearings. Through and along blood-flecked fog to the gray gardens. The Shadow isn't subtle about some things.
Kuthek is very still when he notices Fiorré's appearance. He moves a hand to his neck, both to hold his chin pensively and to make it easier to unwrap his bladed scarf should need be. "Fiorré? You... seem yourself. But there's something... with you." He relaxes slightly at Funmi's calm demeanor and apparent familiarity. "So you two know each other, then? And you've worked together on this, ah," he surveys the dripping fluid and looming, monstrous figure, "condition?" He walks in a slow circle around the manifestation. "I don't mean to pry—we've all got our secrets, I'm sure. But what is it? A part of you? Some entity you've bonded with? Something else? I've never seen anything like it in my time in the Shadow."
Kuthek nodes at his diminutive comrade. "A good idea. Likely one or two of you are here on behalf of Miss Drannoch to secure her remedy. As established, I'm perfectly comfortable playing a servant. Hmm." He taps his chin, flicker-step-sliding his way through the gloom. "I suppose there's no particular reason we have to stay together. Doing so might even draw more suspicion..." The stout man shrugs and lifts his hands into the air, palms up. "Hard to say, not knowing the terrain. Perhaps we trickle into this herbalist's shop at first, then, once we've learned a bit more from him, we can settle on our ruse." At that moment, Aphotos materializes just in front of him. Kuthek snorts and puts on a bemused smile. "Young man, what are you doing? The Shadow bends strangely at the borders, but not strangely enough to consistently do... whatever it is you're up to."
”I suspect there’s rather a lot for us to discuss as regards professional use of darkness ,” Kuthek murmurs in response to Aphotos. He straightens and squares his shoulders. ”Very well then! If we’re all ready…?” Kuthek checks for his companions’ assent; once received, he begins working his magic. The stout man closes his eyes and furrows his brow. His shadow begins to quiver, then ripple, then [/i]flow[/i], slowly pooling around his feet like honey poured into a saucer. A long exhalation escapes his lips; the shadow extends fragile filaments toward those of his companions. Connection made, the space between fills with darkness, until everyone is standing in the same shimmering puddle of black. The entire process takes about a minute. Kuthek opens his eyes, now the same glossy tone as his shadow. He stares into the middle distance, concentration clear on his face, and speaks. ”It will be cold. A winter night’s swim. We'll do our best, Miss Drannoch.” Shadows erupts from the ground, as if someone dropped a boulder into a lake. Gloaming spray adheres to the party’s forms. In less than a second they are gone, shadow and persons both evaporating like mid-morning fog. ————— Kuthek surveys his surroundings. The light is faint and sourceless, here at the edge of Shadow and Material, a memory of a memory of dawn. Good—anything else likely meant unwelcome attention. Instead of the buildings and boulevards of Isarn, the party stands on a gently rolling heathered plain. He’s straight to business. He pulls out a compass while his shadow rummages in his pack and hands him a folded piece of parchment, which unfolds into a map of Galt. A chuckle burbles up out of his throat. ”Well, I suppose that was to be expected. See there,” he says, pointing a finger southward. What looks like a wall of wispy cloud shot, tall as a mountain and through with glittering burgundy flecks, seems to flow and bend toward the northwest. ”For those unfamiliar, the Shadow Plane is an… inaccurate reflection of the Material. That,” his hand sweeps to encompass the river of fog, ”is this plane’s version of the Stormflood River. See, Fiorré? Not so strange! I imagine your northern auroras are similar.” He turns his avuncular smile toward the young duelist. ”Let’s see…” He idly checks his top knot while he considers the map his shadow holds before him. ”Simple enough. Cross through the river, then keep it generally to our left. Litran being the seat of the Gray Gardeners, the source of so much blood and misery, I expect the Shadow will make it abundantly clear where it is. Even if there are no buildings or signs of settlement.” Kuthek turns, suddenly serious, and makes eye contact with his companions one by one. He holds their gaze for several seconds each while he speaks. It’s odd, seeing him so stern. Maybe they notice how broad his shoulders really are, how calloused his hands are, or the strands of muscle working beneath his exposed skin. ”Listen, and listen well. Yes, I am familiar with this realm. Yes, I can guide us to Lisarn. No, I am not particularly worried about dangers along the way. But this is a dangerous place, unless you can climb to Brightsorrow lands, and that isn’t in our itinerary.” ”We are slightly out of phase, not quite in either Material or Shadow, and movement is strange. Walking is part sliding, part dancing, and part balancing. Take a good minute to accustom yourself to the sensation.” Thick fingers unfurl as he counts off each point. ”Stay close to me. Speak softly. Do not kindle any lights.” His sternness dissolves like the shadows that brought them here, revealing a familiar and mischievous smile. ”Beyond that, enjoy the trip. At a solid pace we should arrive within a few hours, and I expect there will be quite the sights to see.”
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