K N I G H T
The hum of their voices riddled her ears, and she listened vigilantly to their prattle beyond the billet. These were to be her companions? A nefarious crimson mage, an abhorrent devil-may-care warrior, a sinister white which of Auril, a salacious drow of the Underdark, a cordial monk of the Sun, a reclusive druid of the High Moor, a conservative scout of the High Forest, an elusive assassin without heritage, a vivacious lyrical moon-elf, and a – her thoughts quieted. The barbarian…She considered him for a moment, cinching Tymora’s Stiletto and Hallowed Redeemer to her waist. The knight had only seen him twice; the barbarian was as any could judge – infinitely dangerous. He was berserker, impudent and rash and impossibly towering, even for her. He had kept his distance during the entirety of their sitting-spell, and had not showed himself to even dine on the cooking pot. What was his name…? She could not recall.
Caleb sifted through one of her totes and unravelled a clean roll of linen dressing. She gingerly bandaged her seared palms, deciding she would deal with the issue later. The majority of her possessions had been heedfully packed and her bed tethered and rolled, yet despite her concerns of weight distribution, the burden of the road was a welcomed sense of nostalgia. By the time dawn had formally crept over the canopies, she had nearly concluded her rituals -until she felt a cool whisper against her nape. The lythari was as silent and intangible as a shadow upon entry, but she had felt his latency before she saw him. In a fraction of a second, her instincts sprung for her dagger and abdicated the blade from its sheath. The stiletto sliced through the air as she spun on her heel, and her arm swooped down in an ark to strike her stalker. The shade countered with haste that far surpassed her own, and deflected her blow without sound. An unseen force warded off her dagger, and her arm recoiled violently. Barrier…?
“A perilous thing it is - attacking one’s employer…” the figure said. Her eyes deciphered the contour of the male and her ears defined his voice. Zedek…She realized her err and swiftly sheathed her weapon. “That is a dangerous arm you possess, my knight. I dare say – my head could be naught but décor upon the ground.” It was a compliment to him, but a grim sentiment to her. Not many warriors could sever one’s skull from their spine with a dagger– the lythari liked her. Caleb, however, was increasingly wary of her leader. She had traversed the realms from Comyr to the Moonshaes, and met many creatures and souls in her time – but none like him. Even his name was an obvious fabrication. He himself was elven, but Zacchaeus was not. The man could seemingly exist and then seize to exist. Though many would find his talents and enigma, she knew how he accomplished his feats. The Shadow Plane.
“My apologies…” she retorted. Caleb pivoted for her pack, but the elf’s deftly digits seized her wrist. Even though she dwarfed him in stature and build, he was strikingly strong.
“And what do we have here…?” he mused. The lycan wrenched her wrist, but she did not stir. He inspected the bandages with a wry smile, then relinquished her. “Bad dreams?” he questioned. Before she could answer, he dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand, and then tossed her a tiny blue tote. She caught the item, glancing at him wordlessly. “A bag of holding, Caleb. You will need such things.” The sound of her name on his tongue oddly riddled her spine with an unpleasant shiver – he had never done so in the past. “I will herd the flock – be ready.” With those words, he was gone.
C R O W
When the sun’s fire graced the horizon and stroked the awning, Zacchaeus emerged and paced for the cabal. “Good morning, my intrepid friends!” he hailed cheerfully, stepping into the light of the camp. When shadow fell, his true visage was revealed; haggard, unkempt, and pallid. The lythari’s mane was thick, wiry, and black as crow feathers, and his obsidian eyes gleamed with a red tint beyond the cowl of his hair. He was lithe for a male, barely reaching five-foot-seven, and his build was limber and slender. One would never guess his elven lineage, for even his ears were veiled. “As always, your patience is MUCH appreciated…” he grinned broadly. Everything about him was off; his odd appearance, his wolfish smiles, his shadowy aura – even the affects he wore and carried. Black. “I trust you are all ready to depart?”
The hum of their voices riddled her ears, and she listened vigilantly to their prattle beyond the billet. These were to be her companions? A nefarious crimson mage, an abhorrent devil-may-care warrior, a sinister white which of Auril, a salacious drow of the Underdark, a cordial monk of the Sun, a reclusive druid of the High Moor, a conservative scout of the High Forest, an elusive assassin without heritage, a vivacious lyrical moon-elf, and a – her thoughts quieted. The barbarian…She considered him for a moment, cinching Tymora’s Stiletto and Hallowed Redeemer to her waist. The knight had only seen him twice; the barbarian was as any could judge – infinitely dangerous. He was berserker, impudent and rash and impossibly towering, even for her. He had kept his distance during the entirety of their sitting-spell, and had not showed himself to even dine on the cooking pot. What was his name…? She could not recall.
Caleb sifted through one of her totes and unravelled a clean roll of linen dressing. She gingerly bandaged her seared palms, deciding she would deal with the issue later. The majority of her possessions had been heedfully packed and her bed tethered and rolled, yet despite her concerns of weight distribution, the burden of the road was a welcomed sense of nostalgia. By the time dawn had formally crept over the canopies, she had nearly concluded her rituals -until she felt a cool whisper against her nape. The lythari was as silent and intangible as a shadow upon entry, but she had felt his latency before she saw him. In a fraction of a second, her instincts sprung for her dagger and abdicated the blade from its sheath. The stiletto sliced through the air as she spun on her heel, and her arm swooped down in an ark to strike her stalker. The shade countered with haste that far surpassed her own, and deflected her blow without sound. An unseen force warded off her dagger, and her arm recoiled violently. Barrier…?
“A perilous thing it is - attacking one’s employer…” the figure said. Her eyes deciphered the contour of the male and her ears defined his voice. Zedek…She realized her err and swiftly sheathed her weapon. “That is a dangerous arm you possess, my knight. I dare say – my head could be naught but décor upon the ground.” It was a compliment to him, but a grim sentiment to her. Not many warriors could sever one’s skull from their spine with a dagger– the lythari liked her. Caleb, however, was increasingly wary of her leader. She had traversed the realms from Comyr to the Moonshaes, and met many creatures and souls in her time – but none like him. Even his name was an obvious fabrication. He himself was elven, but Zacchaeus was not. The man could seemingly exist and then seize to exist. Though many would find his talents and enigma, she knew how he accomplished his feats. The Shadow Plane.
“My apologies…” she retorted. Caleb pivoted for her pack, but the elf’s deftly digits seized her wrist. Even though she dwarfed him in stature and build, he was strikingly strong.
“And what do we have here…?” he mused. The lycan wrenched her wrist, but she did not stir. He inspected the bandages with a wry smile, then relinquished her. “Bad dreams?” he questioned. Before she could answer, he dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand, and then tossed her a tiny blue tote. She caught the item, glancing at him wordlessly. “A bag of holding, Caleb. You will need such things.” The sound of her name on his tongue oddly riddled her spine with an unpleasant shiver – he had never done so in the past. “I will herd the flock – be ready.” With those words, he was gone.
C R O W
When the sun’s fire graced the horizon and stroked the awning, Zacchaeus emerged and paced for the cabal. “Good morning, my intrepid friends!” he hailed cheerfully, stepping into the light of the camp. When shadow fell, his true visage was revealed; haggard, unkempt, and pallid. The lythari’s mane was thick, wiry, and black as crow feathers, and his obsidian eyes gleamed with a red tint beyond the cowl of his hair. He was lithe for a male, barely reaching five-foot-seven, and his build was limber and slender. One would never guess his elven lineage, for even his ears were veiled. “As always, your patience is MUCH appreciated…” he grinned broadly. Everything about him was off; his odd appearance, his wolfish smiles, his shadowy aura – even the affects he wore and carried. Black. “I trust you are all ready to depart?”