Dead Seasons: The Red Autumn

Dead Seasons: The Red Autumn

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In the Kingdom of Nallan, the high king prepares to step down and appoint his eldest child in his place. But, just as the first red leaves prepare to fall, an ancient forgotten curse is released upon the unsuspecting kingdom. (reboot in consideration)

676 readers have visited Dead Seasons: The Red Autumn since Wake created it.

Introduction

(notice: Monday September tenth is the cut off date for joining, no new character submissions will be accepted after that point. If asked for a reservation I will extend the due date until Wednesday, but ONLY if asked before the eleventh.)

"If you are reading this, then I am likely dead or worse. My name is Servalack Doswend, and I am sorry to say that I am the cause of all this."

It was the autumn of 1203. My colleges and I had the good fortune of hearing that a recent earthquake had opened a previously undiscovered man-made cavern beneath the Wroclaw temple. I was intrigued, as the purpose behind the temples construction and who had been behind its building process, which had been a mystery to scholars, had been discovered. First chance I received, I gathered an expedition force and set out to explore the unearthed complex.

If I had known what we would have found, and unintentionally unleashed, I would have never have gone. I would have never allowed anyone to descend into that accursed tomb.

After setting up base camp in a local settlement, we entered the caverns below the ruins. Within a few hours of walking, we came across a shocking sight. Bones, entire skeletons, strewn about the floor. Many were broken, their limbs detached, individual bones cracked, skulls smashed in or in many cases removed from the bodies all together. Most perplexing of all was that many of the bodies wore armor, and one could clearly see weapons littering the ground or clutched in bony hands. This was no burial ground, and we quickly concluded that the complex had been the site of a battle field.

Upon further study of the remains, we found that the armor and their insignias matched that of the Rovalda Empire. An oddity, as the ruins didn't match their architecture nor did we know of any major conflicts within the region, as their borders were farther north. I would go into more detail of our study on the area, but I am currently running out of time. After making several other observations and exploring other rooms of the complex we eventually found the main chamber. And in that chamber we found it.

It was an orb, a glowing red crystalline orb, pulsing dully in the darkness. It was clenched firmly in the fleshless fingers of a body, it's skull pierced by a gladius sword, dressed in what would have once been a regal attire, had time not worn on it. Some of the guards of our expedition muttered about the orb being cursed. I passed their talk off as superstition from the uneducated. I might have been right that they were merely paranoid. But still I should have listened.

When I pulled the orb free, I'm not sure what happened. A sharp burning sensation went through my arm and images flashed in my mind that I could not make sense of. From what my companions told me, a dark red light filled the room and everyone was knocked from their feet. I had passed out during this and would not awake till my companions woke me moments later. While I lacked consciousness something happened to Overick, one of the younger scholars joining us. He had caught an Illness sometime during the trip but insisted that he follow us below. When the light that knocked me out of my senses Overick had apparently gone mad and attacked the others. He bit and scratched at them, tearing some skin and flesh off a few others. When they failed to restrain him the expedition guards resorted to caving his head in with a mace.

After the excitement ended my companions dragged me from the room, woke me, and we decided to leave the ruins for the time being. However on the way back out things got worse. Boris and Volkin, who both had been bitten in Overick's fit of madness, began showing signs of a strange affliction. Their veins became more pronounced, turning black. We tried to rush them both too the exit as the apparent infection spread quickly through their bodies, but we weren't fast enough. Before we could get them outside they fell into the same fit of insanity that overcame Overick.

I can't remember what happened next, I think our escorts killed them; I just recall running out of that accursed place as quickly as I could. When what was left of our group exited the catacombs we expected to find some respite back under the sun. Instead we found the village we placed out base camp in had descended into a battle ground. Whatever caused the initial insanity in Overick had apparently affected others in the village as well.

It has now been several days since then. I am not sure how far this "Disease" has spread. In hindsight I should have guessed that cursed orb back at the ruins was the source sooner, but at the time panic made it hard to think straight. My mind, I feel, has been growing increasingly cloudy since then. I've noticed the darkening of my own blood vessels. Whatever this illness it is it seems to have afflicted me as well, though why it has taken this long for me to start to feel the change I do not know. In the morning I plan to make another journey back to the ruins, though I doubt I will be able to reverse this. If I fail, or more likely change before I reach my destination, then I implore you, whoever it is that manages to find this journal, find the orb. Find it and destroy it somehow.

I fear for us all if you don't.



These were the final words written in the journal found in the remains of a village below the ancient ruins of Wroclaw.

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In the year 1203 of the new calendar the Kingdom Of Nallan had been at the height of its power. After repelling invasions from the southern Garlac republic, Nolan had entered a twenty year period of prosperity. Having achieved the peak of its military prowess after the southern war and having finally broken its land locked status Nallan had established itself as a major trading force, entering an economic golden age under the rule of king Heverac the 7th. It was in the autumn of that year that the king had officially planned to step down, appointing his oldest son Erdenth the new high king of Nallan.

However, on the day of the prince’s coronation a ripple of power swept through the kingdom, unleashing an ancient curse long forgotten in the passing of time. Anyone who had been sick or ill on the day the curse had been unleashed changed. They became mindless, flesh hungry beast whose very bite can cause others to join their ranks within hours after being bitten. The country is thrown into chaos as the plague sweeps across the land. The king, along with several of his heirs, killed in the initial outbreak, leaving his youngest daughter the only surviving member of the royal family and pressed into service as the new high queen. A position she neither wanted, nor was ready for.

In the turning of this new Dark Age, stories are written. Not of chivalrous knights and epic battles, but of survival and fear. Bonds and abilities are tested and death becomes constant. As autumn sets in the living will fall like leaves to stain the ground red. What few survive the red autumn must band together, scavenge and seek refuge. For the winter is coming, and the dead are restless.

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Hello and welcome to the first part of a three part series of roleplays I am planning called dead seasons, this part dealing with the season of autumn and the fall of society. I wanted to try something that wasn't two often done, in taking a zombie apocalypse story and placing in a medieval setting. The story itself is very character driven, their are a few roles that need to be filled but other survivors will eventually be joined into the main plot. The main goal is to survive, banding together to escape the dead and eventually fortify against the hordes. Standard sounding goal for most zombie roleplays that may seem, but in this case, especially in the later parts, certain elements will lead to the reveal of several mysteries behind the horde, the effect the out break has on a political level, and the increased dependance on the capable few to keep the population alive through the dark times if they want to have any chance at recovery.

In this world magic does exist, but it is not as prominent as it would be in other fantasy worlds. Magic is rare and not as powerful as it use to be, and as such practioners are few and far between. You won't be shooting fireballs with a wave of you're hand or summoning giant monsters by uttering a few words. Instead magic in this world takes much time and resources, and is applied by rituals that can take anywhere from minutes, to hours to even days to complete.

As for technology the world is set in a 12th century level, armor doesn't get much more advance beyond chainmail shirts (unless you're rich and have a specialized smith on hand) and guns have not been invented yet. If you're going out zombie slaying, then you better keep a good mace ready, unless you're damn good with a bow or crossbow.

There are a few roles I would like filled out, however I will not make the number of people limited to them and everyone is free to make there own unique character. We'll find a way to work them into the plot somehow. Positions that I need filled are as follows:

The princess: Soon to be the last surviving heir to the kingdom of Nallan, fleeing from the infested capital. (The Valkyrie has reserved this)
Captain of the royal guard: The princess's escort. (Saxious has reserved this)
A soldier from Garlac:
More may be added in time.

Below is a basic character sheet for the story. You don't have to use it, it's just there for your connivance, but I should say I do expect detail from you on you're characters.

Code: Select all
[left][size=150]Name[/size]
[img]Image_Is_Optional[/img][/left]
[b]Gender:[/b]
[b]Nickname(s):[/b]
[b]Age:[/b]

[b]Appearance:[/b]

[b]Height:[/b]
[b]Weight:[/b] (I am picky about size/weights ratios. Try to be realistic about a person's size. No 100 lb six footers.)
[b]Body build:[/b] (are you fit? Fat? Scrawny?)

[b]Personality:[/b]

[b]Likes:[/b]
[b]Dislikes:[/b]
[b]Hobbies:[/b]
[b]Phobia(s):[/b]

[b]Skills:[/b]

[b]Former Profession:[/b] What did you do before everything went to hell? This may become important later on.

[b]Personal History:[/b] What was life like for you up until right before the curse descended and the ghouls walked the land.

[b]Other:[/b]

Toggle Rules

1. Follow site rules on romance, no bumping uglies in you're post.
2. Try to be friendly with the others, and keep up in ooc sometimes.
3. While I won't be on your case about spelling and grammar (lord knows I am horrible with punctuation and typos) I will as that you keep you words eligible and your writing somewhat literate.
4. Have fun, I'm assuming thats why you came here for in the first place.

Anything else concerning characters, the world and what you can do in it I will go over in ooc or on the intro page.

The Story So Far... Write a Post » as written by 11 authors

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: The Horde

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#, as written by Wake
It was supposed to be a day of celebration in an age of prosperity.

The Autumn harvest was coming. Farmer rushing to get their crops picked before the cold came. Many of them didn't have much to worry about though. In the twenty years of peace the country had known, prosperity was common. The peasants were well fed and and the years harvest had been especially kind. Many had taken to preparation for festivals to commemorate the good year. And there was even more to celebrate about now as well, as news had reached every corner of the kingdom by now.

King Heverac the 7th, who had brought in this new era of wealth for the people, was retiring from his duties, and appointing his eldest son Erdenth the new high king of Nallan. Public parties were being funded in cites and towns across the kingdom by various nobles, and promise of a short tax break for the month were given in honor of the event. For many, life was now good, for there was little to hold worry over their heads, and plenty to look forward to in the near future.

It would be a shame that such times were not to last.

On that day, one had mearly to look up into the sky to see it. A pulse. A ripple of red, expanding across and over the world. The brief feeling of something, unclean, caressing those that stood below it. An uncomfortable, inexplicable unease became palpable. It was the eery silence before the storm as the faint red glow disappeared from the sky. Something, sleeping long since the age of old, was slowly roused from it slumber and it's groggy awakening could be felt even to those who had long forgotten it's existence. Felt, and dreaded.

It was supposed to be a day of celebration in an age of prosperity... so why was it that you could only hear screams of horror?

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Rodrick "One-Eye" Vheral

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The harsh coppery scent of blood and sweat-soaked steel still raged within Rodrick's nose, and like an acrid substance it burned a hole straight down to his stomach with hellish fury. That was where it festered in what felt like a gallon of bile, giving the constant feeling of a dry heave about to come on. His hands shook uncontrollably and heavy legs protested at every tired movement they were forced to make, while all the joints in his slightly aged body felt decades older, and screamed in protested agony. It was only by the grace of trees he could keep himself upright, using them as sturdy crutches. What had happened in what seemed like an instant was almost to much for a fogged mind to comprehend, but there was no way he could avoid trying to wrap around it.

It was just that morning that the forests around the capital where a beauty of a scene. Trees gently turning to Autumn with over-zealous leaves already forming a tentative blanket on the forest floor. Thick beams of light cutting through the thick canopies of the denser regions, spilling warmth ionto the valley-esque clearings' usually cold environment. Secluded, encircled by what felt like a solid mile in all directions of tightly clustered tree, with roots so prominent you could sleep under one comfortably. This was the little sweet-spot the Arklight Raiders' had set up their camp. It was sort of ironic that some of the dirtier, harsher, and most destructive breed of people would hold up in one of the more scenic and beautiful little hideaways to turn into a den of sin and a base of slaughter. But things just tend to work that way. Today was odd though. Violence was an odd thing, true violence at least. A bar brawl or offhand stabbing was just the way of life, but a true battle? That was kept away from their home. They didn't shit were they ate. But today they bled all over their little slice of the universe.

Entire patches of ground ran a deep ruddy-red where kicked up dirt had settled into loose sand, then flooded with blood. The gritty sound of steel grating on steel rang above all. The screams, the sickening wet thumps, cracked bones, the deranged howls of whatever man had become and the tear of flesh under tooth all gave way to sharp steel.

Chaos had ensued from the start, a single bandit's surprised yelp as he felt hard teeth bury into the skin of his neck, ripping him from a late sleep. No one knew exactly what was happening, especially not the scouting party that had returned just in time to see horrifyingly grotesque parades of friends ripping and tearing and even swallowing the flesh of other friends. There wasn't time to think, only act. And swords were drawn and rushed into the fray of battle. More than once did a live man kill another live man in panic and confusion. When the dusts cleared there was nothing but a ruin where the camp stood. Tattered messes of cloth, splintered chunks of wood, shattered glass, trees painted with smattering of blood tracing the arcs of heavy-handed blade. And of course the corpses, disfigured and covering the forest floor like a blanket of twisted flesh. Only seven had managed to survive, and none of them even wanted to question each other on how they managed that, let alone what had happened to bring on this hell. They didn't even bother to try to look each other in the eyes. They all knew they couldn't. With a silent vow they all split ways.

Which left Rodrick heavily wounded, bleeding, and ultimately alone.

A sigh escaped his lips, the thick stream of blood from his eyes sliding past them as he did so. His ears rang and his head was in a fit of dizziness. Blood loss was setting in, he could feel that. He was well aware that soon enough he'd die from that alone, making the search through his pockets all the more dire. With great strain he managed to command his body to both keep moving forward and fish through his pockets, eventually producing an old, oversized table cloth. “Good enough..” The silky fabric slipped in his blood-slicked fingers, making the task of tying it into a blindfold and then around his wounded eye nothing but a difficult and agonizing hell. He had to stop moving to do such, leaning against an old tree for support, and sliding down it once his task was finished.

It was to much to take in. Friends turned to monsters, slaughtered both live and..Whatever that state was. In the madness he'd taken a full sword slash to the face, craving from his lips to his hairline. Completely taking his eye in the process. And now here he sat, somewhere in a forest, slouched against the base of a tree. Tired, bleeding, quickly approaching the verge of death. And it's not like he wasn't debating keeling over from sheer shock.

“Oh I'll be damned..” His hoarse, gravelly voice had finally broke through the forests silence and the ringing in his ears. It was almost reliving to hear someone even if it was himself. “You know, I've thought about dying a good bit..” he sighed, talking to no one in specific due to the stark lack of life. “But in the middle of the forest, with no one around and no one to sing of my glorious, battle-filled death?” He chuckled as he pulled the flask from his belt, an act that was much more painful than he'd thought. Taking a look down at the little bit of metal frowned. “First time I've ever seen a flask'a booze and ain't been happy..” It was also the first time he'd only seen it through just one eye. As if to hammer the point home blood from his eye began to drip through the makeshift bandage and onto his flask.

“Lookie there, my bloods about as cheeky as I am...”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Rodrick "One-Eye" Vheral Character Portrait: Garren Adrian Runor

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Garren was running through the woods, his feet hitting the ground with soft thuds with every step he had took. His lungs heaved in pain and sweat dripped from his brow as he continued, he could taste blood in his mouth from the sheer exertion of breath his lungs took. What had happened? One moment he was playing his Harp with a young female performer form one of the Northern Kingdoms in a small tavern off the side of the road. Suddenly he had felt a sense of dread and about half an hour later something or someone broke down the Tavernkeep's door and began mauling a patron. And soon the room was filled with screams of horror, pain and odd snarls and moans. Garren didn't think twice, he gathered his things and slipped out a window with ease. Then now he was on the run, through the woods as fast as his nimble feet and legs could carry him.

His cloak fluttered behind him as he continued his dash, instruments making noise upon his back as the lute and harp rattled around in their leather bindings. He was terrified, as a man with little nerve that was horrible. The blood, oh the blood! And the screams, the horrible screams! Kept playing through his mind, driving him on further than he would normally go. All that he cared about at this damn moment was escape and hopefully to somewhere safe, guarded by mighty knights! If such a thing existed, though likely his mind was just fooling him in his state of shock and panic. Luckily so far he had come across none of those... Things in the woods. They seemed clear, safe, quite. Silence was heavy upon the area, only causing his nerves to wiggle more under his skin and bone.

Then noise. He suddenly stopped and slid up against a tree as silently as he could, peaking around looking for any of those creatures that had attacked the Blueberry Tavern on the roadside. But instead, it wasn't some deranged man-looking thing. It was an actual man, one limping along and covered in blood, an eye covered as he muttered to himself. Garren could tell he was no knight due the sack-crafted leather armor and the many scars across the person's face. But yet, this was the only chance Garren had and the man had both blade and bow. So he obviously knew a thing or two about the art of combat. With a resigned sigh he slinked out from beside the tree and waved over to the man. "Oi! You there! You must help me!" The bard called and stepped forward nervously, he was hoping the man was a hunter, or woodland dweller, though he was probably going to end up utterly wrong. But then again, it was the only chance of any aid at this point and the man looked hurt. Garren could help him, though not without an exchange for protection.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Micah Cheviot

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The cart had gotten stuck again. This time its back wheels had nested themselves in the mud under a thick tree root that entirely crossed the narrow forest path along which they had trundled for the past three days. Micah groaned and slipped around cart and donkey to see what the damage was this time.

"Damned mud," he muttered, readying himself to push the cart. Luckily for him, in preparation for the changing seasons, the cart was laden mostly with coats and capes, a staple of merchandise as winter approached, besides a few odd cloves of spices, a handful of jewelry, and a few decent-quality daggers. Not the heaviest load, but still-- it was a cart, and these blasted forest trails were not suited to it at all.

Micah heaved with all his strength, and to his relief, a squelching sound met his ears as the wheels were lifted from the mud. He quickly shoved the cart forward over the root so it didn't become lodged in there again. Horse, who stood latched to the front of the cart, let out a sort of indignant bray.

"Shut up, Horse," Micah snapped, "You're not helping." He grabbed one of the reins that dangled from Horse's bridle and pulled him forward. It seemed that lately, he had been doing more hauling than the donkey.

It came as a relief to him when he began to hear, ever so faintly, the sounds of people. He knew as well as anyone about the celebrations being held in major cities for, what was it? The coronation of someone or other? He didn't care, really. He was just happy to get some good food and make a few sales. Besides, three days with only Horse for company could take their toll out on anyone.

The cart lumbered along loudly behind him, snapping fallen twigs and catching brown dead leaves in its wheels. Still, as they progressed along the trail, the cart failed to drown out the distant shouts and screams from the city beyond. Micah cast Horse a grin. "Sounds like the party's in full swing, huh?" he said mildly. Horse responded with a snort.

They were not far from where the forest ended and the city began when Micah saw the dark splatters along the bases of several trees, and a thin, trickling stream running along the edge of the path. He sighed. How on earth was there so much mud in this forest? It hadn't rained here in weeks. He had just begun musing that with these conditions, he may have to invest in a stronger cart once he reached town, when he stopped short.

"Horse," he whispered, "Do you hear that?" For once the donkey remained silent. For Micah realized that there was something off about the sounds coming from the city just beyond the next wall of trees. He hadn't noticed before that the crowd noise was absent of any familiar festivity sounds, laughter and music. Some other sound, audible now that they were so near had taken its place. What was that? Groaning? Roaring? And still, those screams and shouts...

A horrible thought crossed his mind as he looked at Horse and noticed the plants beside him. They, too, were lightly splattered with what he had assumed to be mud. Micah leaned down to get a closer look, and his eyes widened as he realized what he was looking at. It wasn't mud at all.

It was blood.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Fiammetta Thorne Character Portrait: Joseph Luttwitz Character Portrait: Ristar

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"Crunch, Crunch, Crunch..." The crushing of leaves and snapping of twigs on that lonely forest road served as a great undertone for the battle that raged behind our sorry protagonist. It was a miracle that Joseph managed to escape such a disaster, but not without a cost. He was reminded of that every second he felt the arrow planted in his back wag back and forth, every time his knees buckled under him and his lungs screamed to give in.

It happened in seconds, you see. Before they could even blink, bandits came rushing out of the wood works, with weapons raised and murder in their eyes. There were so many of them, the guards didn't stand a chance, but that did not stop them from trying in vain to hold some ground. It was a bloodbath, the bandits took the caravan in minutes, taking nothing but lives and riches for themselves. They didn't even give those poor rich bastards a chance to surrender.

This was different than any normal raid though. They were more than ready, with almost all their numbers locked'n'loaded on a secluded trail in the middle of nowhere, knowing exactly where all the good loot was. It was needless to say it was a inside job. Maybe a worker got to big for his boots, and thought the bandits with give him a share of the score, rather than hang his gutted corpse from a tree like the rest. Or maybe they just picked a bad day to get out of town.

But then they came. They were hundreds of them, more than countable. They must of came out of the town, or maybe gathered up from smaller places and headed up to Grismor looking for food, but one thing was for sure; they were hungry. The bandits were given a taste of their own medicine, torn apart and butchered without prejudice or discrimination. Some tried to escape by foot or on horse, but few were successful. Joseph yet again took note of his unsurmountable luck as he stole another glance at what was left of the caravan, which had gone all but silent, opposed the wheezing and crunching that surrounded him.

From afar rising from over the trees and hills was a thick smog that blacked out a sliver of the sky all the while leaving a messages for travelers to stay away. Stopping to stoop against a tree and catch his breath, he couldn't help but take notice of the beauty the flanked all his sides. The sun was just setting over the tree line, with pale hues of yellow streaming through the thick forest canopy onto the dirt path. All around him the leaves ruffled in the wind, slowing withering into shades of red and orange before gracefully floating to the ground and being crushed into bits by passersby traveling to and fro Grismor. Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, opting him to turn his head painfully. His sight was of what appeared to be a squirrel, that stood still in fear of the trespasser for a split moment before scurrying up a tree.

It was just then that the direness of his situation sunk in. He had no supplies, with the only food and water readily available back at the caravan. He had no idea how to survive in the wild. He was miles away from any civilization, with no indication in which direction to head to reach there. All his companions are dead. Not to mention that he hadn't eaten or drunken in hours, he would probably dehydrate in a few more.

He poundered his state for a moment, before slumping at the root of the tree. He was done for. Good as dead. But as he sat there in his miserable state, he could hear aproaching hooves, the sound growing louder as the now fastly advancing blots on the distance moved toward him. He shot up and waved his arms in the air like a mad man, hoping to flag them down. As they came closer they slowed to a trod all the while turning from a blot to a figure.

Maybe he wasn't so unlucky after all.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Darren Brionir Drake

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#, as written by Fencer
The ocean was angry and mercilessly whipped the big pirate ship that stoic resisted the ravages of nature, in the higher mast the young watcher was smiling as if the ferocity of the sea and the storm with powerful winds were his true home, the drops beat his face but refused to close his eyes watching the scenario that for anyone would be scary, anyone who has not spent his entire life in those waters, to Darren was a wonderful sight especially the part where the ship leaves the storm and the calm sea beside the blue sky that stretches into infinity welcomes him with open arms.

The crew tried to say something but he couldn't hear them, he saw their lips moving but didn't hear any sound, swiftly descended the mast to where everyone were and then a thud, the carriage which transported him step over a bump that made it jump while taking out the young pirate from his wonderful dream to bring him to the horrible reality, had been weeks since he was captured in Port Dulton and for what could hear they were carrying him to a place called Grismor who knows what, The important thing is that was miles away from the sea and all he could see through the small openings that had the box with wheels was land and more land eventually lost the will to look out, he kept eating to keep his forces since to the first chance he had planned to flee.

The chance came but not in the way he expect, from inside the box could hear screams of terror, he was familiar with those but never had heard so many, one of his mothers speak him about monsters that roamed the earth and Darren wondered what kind of monstrosity could create so many screams, the carriage stopped suddenly and he peeked and what he saw was full of disgust scenes where humans attacked to each other, even women and children with tooth and nails "These things don't happen at sea", something seemed strange, a small crowd gathered around the carriage and started hitting it the two guards quickly fell victim of the crowd that was the chance he was waiting.

During the weeks he carefully look for the weakest area of ​​his cage and took care to weaken more and more in the course of time, the shackles that had in his hands served him for that purpose, using what you have on hand is the lifestyle of the pirates, thanked the seas that didn't had shackled on his legs while with his hands he smashed the weakened wood, climbed to the roof of the carriage and discovered that something was definitely wrong, everyone attacking each other and the small crowd around the carriage that was still trying to destroy don't seemed human anymore, Darren was officially terrified even the most outlandish of the stories he heard had something like this, all he knew was that had to get out of here, with a big jump landed on the hostile soil, he was barefoot, unarmed, had a plain pants and a shirt and also had shackled his hands and if that wasn't enough the small crowd noticed his escape and began chasing him.

Ran with all his forces to the south, his feet were bleeding and now his prisoner outfit had blood stains, a couple of those things crossed his path but at least thanks to the shackles he could smash their the skulls of a blow, something he realized was that they weren't the most intelligent bunch so he lost them in a relatively easily way, hiding in one of those werids thing that are attached to the floor only that instead of a ship, he kept avoid them and when he reached a place with many trees the young man was unable to contain the cry "What the hell's going on here!?".

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Rodrick "One-Eye" Vheral Character Portrait: Garren Adrian Runor

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A calm wind was steadily sweeping through the forest. Like the soft breath of some goddess it breathed life back into the area. Weaker tree's swayed in an eerie rhythmless dance while leaves shuddered and shook under it like scared children coward at their mother's skirt when the vicious dog next door got loose. Rodrick had craned his head back against the harsh bark of his tree to watch at a great deal of effort and pain. It was a rather peaceful event to just sit and watch, one that filled his head with pointless nonsense he needed to divert himself from his inevitable death. Though he lived every day in the very shadow of death, whether by a guardsman's sword or his best friends dagger. He'd always felt completely prepared to die at a moments notice. Something that was quickly being proved wrong as the pain in his eye reared up again, accented by the warm trail of blood slipping down the next of his shirt.

It was an interesting thing he'd thought. For near half a decade he'd pillaged, plundered, drank, and fucked in this very woodland yet he'd never once stopped to actually look at it. There was never any point to looking at it. Pretty yes, but not useful. It didn't put a coin in your pocket, or a meal in front of you. No warmth of a woman's legs around you on a cold morning and it certainly didn't kill the man in front of you, taking swings at you with some cheap iron bit. As he mused about the philosophical value's of beauty and how relative they were to a man's death he'd managed to detach himself from the scene at hand. Not even noting the little bard until he spoke up. And he'd been such an aware man just the day before..


"Oi! You there! You must help me!" His head snapped down and toward the noise, and act far more painful than he'd expected and it caused the tablecloth to fall off his head, exposing the raw wound of his eye. As soon as he saw the man he issued a low rumbling of a chuckle in between winces. The god's obviously had an ironic sense of humour, and a downright sadistic streak. One the bandit was well aware currently had him in it's sight. "You'll have to excuse me," he coughed as he clutched at his side, fingers tracing over what felt like a broken rib. "I'd stand up to offer you a proper greeting but I'm afraid the blood allocated for m' legs has gone missing rather recently..Might find it around here somewhere."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Rodrick "One-Eye" Vheral Character Portrait: Garren Adrian Runor

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Garren soon realized the man was downed and not fighting any time in his current condition, so the bard moved closer until he was standing near the Bandit. He nearly wreched at the raw, gored wound of the man's eye. The leather armor was covered over in blood and he now knew this man was no hunter considering the armor was composed of many different pieces including some guards' armor here and there.

He crouched near the man and began looking over the wounds across his body from a closer angle. Giving a wry smile and a shake of his head. "Like I said, I need help... And so do you... I 'ave bandages and spare water." Garren reached down and grabbed the table cloth that had been wrapped around the man's head and then held the blood stained article out toward him. "I... I believe this belongs to you..." This time he gagged as he felt the blood soak onto his fingers. He detested the feel, smell, taste, and even look of blood, there was something unnatural about it to him. Something that either disgusted or chilled him to the very core. But this was the one time that he had actually ever steeled his nerves. "And.... On that note... 'Ave you seen any monsters around 'ere...?" He uttered and then looked around slowly, checking both of his flanks for any lurching figures similar to those he had seen at the Blueberry Tavern and around it. None, currently atleast, thank the gods. He felt the wind kick up again, bringing a wanted and cooling breeze, it seemed like a clam before a deadly storm. And storms always came sooner than later.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Micah Cheviot Character Portrait: Rodrick "One-Eye" Vheral Character Portrait: Garren Adrian Runor

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Micah slowly stood up, his gaze still locked on the thin trickle of blood on the ground. "Dear God, Horse," he whispered, "You don't think this came all the way from the city, do you?" He stood back up and leaned up against the cart.

The screams and shouts continued in the distance. Micah tried to block the sound, closing his eyes as though that could possibly help. After a moment, they shot open again as a new sound reached him. A voice. He couldn't hear the words, but he could tell that the sound was close by.

"Keep quiet," he whispered to Horse. He reached back into the cart and rifled through the cloaks. If whoever, or whatever, had spoken had anything to do with the blood on the ground, he had no desire to face it unarmed. He finally found what he was looking for: a dagger. Its blade wasn't particularly long or sharp, but it was much better than having nothing at all.

He left the cart and slipped through the trees in the direction where he'd heard the voice. The dagger he held out in front of him. Micah realized that the hand holding the weapon was shaking. He shifted his hold on the dagger, trying to get a better grip on the unfamiliar weapon. Real great, Micah, he chided himself, If you meet up with whoever left the blood, you can just shiver him to death. That'll work brilliantly.

Micah had barely left sight of his cart when he spotted someone against the trees. No, not someone. Two someones. One was kneeling beside the other. The former looked to be about Micah's age, and was fairly tall and thin. His clothes made Micah think he resembled more of a court jester than a criminal.

It was the second man that made Micah catch his breath. This man was broad, muscled, and angry-looking, with a face that might have been made of stone were it not for one side bleeding profusely into some fabric. In fact, the man was soaked in blood, but Micah had the sick feeling it didn't all belong to him. The blade of the dagger hanging from this man's belt, at least twice as long as Micah's own, gleaned with a sheen of scarlet. The handle of another weapon, probably a sword, was visible on his other side, and the strap of a quiver cut diagonally across his chest.

Micah glanced down at his own dagger, which looked suddenly much smaller than it had moments ago. If this man, these men, were killers, as he now didn't doubt, he stood no chance at all.

His dagger still shaking in front of him, he slowly began to back away from the two men. He hadn't gone more than a few steps, however, when he felt a dead branch break in two beneath his feet. The first man, the one whom Micah had dubbed the jester, glanced up and met his eyes.

Micah didn't think twice. He turned to run back to his cart before the men could get a second look.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Fiammetta Thorne Character Portrait: Joseph Luttwitz Character Portrait: Ristar

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They had to flee by horseback. The ambush had been too much for her to handle, those poor excuses for guards hadn’t stood a chance. . . . They’d been too young, too inexperienced to handle it. She had been hired as an extra set of eyes and as an extra sword to protect and escort a caravan out of the city; that was to be her purpose. To travel alongside this group until they found themselves at their destination. But, from the get go, it’d felt as if she knew what it was she was getting herself into by accepting the offer. It wasn’t a great deal—these men who were called ‘guards’ by those they had been hired by, they didn’t have enough experience to be called as such, they looked as if they hadn’t much seen a real fight before, something that was really to the death. Maybe they had stopped petty thieves, kept people in check where this well-off family resided, but that seemed about it. . . .

Toward her they had shown no sort of respect or anything, they displayed only disdain for her presence. That, of course, was something she’d grown used to, most didn’t take well to the notion of a swordswoman.

Things had started out smoothly enough, there had been no problems. She’d done what it was she was suppose to do; act as an extra set of eyes and as an extra sword. So, when it had happened, she did what she was suppose to do; she fought. And she fought, she gave it her all, but it just wasn’t enough. No matter what it was she gave, it was never enough. What she could do alone with a sword was just not enough to have made a difference. Although, she wasn’t quite alone of course, her recently gained traveling companion had been there to aid in the counteroffensive made, but even with him there, it hadn’t been enough. And then, things had only gotten worse when those things made themselves known. How to describe them, whatever they were, that was a complete and total mystery to her. They were worse to combat than the bandits. Again, she and her companion had tried to hold their own against the hellions—but it had been to no avail, there had been too many and there were too few to hold them off long enough to get more than themselves to any semblance of safety.

She hadn’t of wanted for it go the way it did, even with adrenalin running through her veins, her senses poised for combat, for fighting to her death, her mind running on edge. . . . It had been time to run. Not knowing if there was anyone left alive from the caravan besides herself and her companion or not, she’d told him they needed to flee, or else they wouldn’t make it. Though the action was against everything Fia stood for, she’d begrudgingly cut free two of the horses from the caravan that had miraculously avoided injury, and had left behind what was supposed to be her duties. Unsure as to what it was she was even fleeing from, she still left it behind, because she’d seen enough horror in those moments to know that something was far from right then.

Those things looked as if they had once been human themselves, but had somehow formed into merciless fiends who hunted for living flesh, craved the untainted skin of humans. . . . It was a nightmare, to say the least, it was hellish. It really was like those things had ascended into the world from the mouth of Hell. . . . No matter the reason for their appearance, even being unsure of what they were, there was enough evidence to go by that running from them was justifiable, even if it meant breaking a personal oath to never fail a taken job. Yes, the failure would haunt her for some time to come, but there had not been another choice. In truth, she might have chosen to stay and combat those hellions had she been on her own still.

Though it was indeed a weakness, Fia had come to realize that her fate may’ve become a shared one in recent times due to the fact that she’d gained her traveling companion unwillingly. He went by Ristar, his last name was unknown to her, same for his age and where he hailed from—but she knew a bit of his background, he was a former slave. Though slavery was illegal in Nallan, transportation of slaves through the country was not, and it was during the time that Ristar was suppose to be taken North that Fia met him. The small group that was transporting him had come under attack, again due to rogues of sorts, his ‘masters’ was slain, while he was left alive. During the incident, Fia found herself intervening, acting without much thought, she broke him free of what kept him bound and from fighting for himself.

Following this, they wound up fighting together, and fended off the rogues . . . after which, Fia expected Ristar to simply go his own way, only for him to wind up following after her. Despite all the attempts she made to shake him, or to get him to leave her to herself again, he never did so. She didn’t question him on why, knowing it would be pointless, and after sometime and many failed attempts to get him to go, she came to accept his presence as a constant in her day to day life. Since then, she had also come to realize that whatever she underwent, he would as well since he refused to leave her be . . . which also meant that if her life came to be in danger, his would be as well.

This fact was truly the only reason Fia had allowed herself to flee the situation before, because her fate wasn’t just her own anymore. The notion of someone else dying because of her stubborn refusal to leave a lose-lose situation was . . . selfish. So, if not for her own sake, but for his, she’d left behind the scene from Hell, fleeing by horseback.

Things moved by in a blur, the world around her became nothing but a haze of warm colors as the horses galloped through the woods away from those hellion things and descended deeper into forests. The only thing she could hear was the hooves of the two horses moving at near full speed. The air was cool while it hit her face, her thoughts were racing entirely, as was her heart still, frantic from the battle she’d left behind her. Her mind was jumbled, confused as it tried to make sense of what she was leaving behind. . . . However, that may’ve well been impossible for her to even do. That situation might not have an answer that would possess any logic.

When it was that a visible figure could been seen ahead, seemingly aware of them as they flagged down herself and Ristar, Fia pulled on the reigns of her horse, and slowed the white creature to a canter, and eventually to a trot, though she knew to keep her guard up after what had happened just before, the scene behind her. . . . As the details and features of the person came to be clear as the sun above though, Fia found her sage-colored eyes widening as she knew the person, much to her complete shock. Doctor Luttwitz?! The expression of being stunned came over her young face as her horse came to a halt right near the man.

He’d been a part of the caravan. So, he managed to escape it before things became a total Hell did he? she realized. He was definitely one of the last people she expected to find after what had happened. In a way it was something of relieving to know that at least someone had made it through that nightmare alive, there was no denying that. With little hesitation or even thinking about it, Fia swung her leg over the side of her horse, and proceeded to dismount the creature, only to find herself wincing up as soon as her armor-clad feet touched the hard earth below. Pain had surged through her side at the action, pain from her unscarred side.

With a clear grimace still upon her face, one of Fia’s hands remained on the reigns of her horse as her eyes travelled down to her right side, just below her waistline where her armor did not cover. A huff slipped from the woman’s lips though at what she saw; staining the white of the uniformed dress she wore was a splotch of red, and a slit cut into fabric. Her hand slipped to the area, pressing against it for a moment before returning to her line of sight, and there on her fingers was indeed fresh blood. She must have taken a wound during the battle with the bandits and not known it. . . . Though, the wound seems to be of the trivial sort at the bare minimum, it will cause some discomfort, but I am able to move with it as of now. It should only be of concern when safety is a certainty. She nodded to herself, before turning her gaze back to the Doctor.

Setting a hand upon the sheathe of her sword, ready to draw it out in case there was any unknown dangers around, Fia left the side of her horse and proceeded toward him. Given the fact that the man’s family had hired her, this meant that she was technically still obliged by her agreement to do her duties as a mercenary to address him as if she were employed by him directly, which meant formality. . . . She bowed before him briefly, barely dipping her top half forward before him before standing back up straight. “Doctor Luttwitz, it is good to see that you managed to . . . survive the circumstances which unfolded around the caravan. I am sorry to say that I do not know if any others from the group were able to escape what it was that happened. . . .”

“Regardless of this, I believe I must urge the three of us onward, since it seems that bandits are from the least of our concerns as of now, remaining stationary could prove fatal.” She turned her gaze over to Ristar, “We two will do what we are able to in order to provide protection.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Eric Smilderbürg Character Portrait: Princess Kethyrian Caelum of Nallan

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#, as written by Saxious
"Hurry, get the Royal family. We need to save them," Eric bellowed, as the Royal Guard scrambled to get their uniforms and equipment on. It had been a complete nightmare, the realm had prospered from twenty years of peace, and now, on a day of celebration, all hell had suddenly broken loose, yet the worst of it all was that the soldiers had been caught off-guard and now a large portion of them were dead, and worse.
The Royal Guard ran from room to room, practically knocking the doors down as they fetched every nobleman in the castle, their excuse was typically, 'we're under attack', which motivated most nobles to get moving; assembling nobles was a slow progress, especially with the younger who could suddenly run off in the complete opposite direction.

"Captain," Johan called, "we can't find Princess Kethyrian or Prince Leric."
"Have you looked in the garden?" Eric asked.
"Ergh... No, captain."
"Quickly, I'll find Kethyrian," Eric ordered and then sped through the hallways and out across the yard towards the soldiers' barracks, his sword hitting against his hip while he could feel the leather straps from his armor digging down hard into his shoulders. Kethyrian had been (at least while Eric had been around) far from being an heir to the throne, so she enjoyed a certain degree of liberty compared to her siblings, plus Eric had never personally had to look after her during his service.

Eric barged through the door, "Princess Kethyrian!" he roared, jogging through the rows of beds. "Your highness!" he called again. Hadn't it been for the occasional tales of Kethyrian spending her time amongst soldiers in the barracks, Eric wouldn't have had any idea for where to look for her.
As he opened the door to the training grounds he found the princess, "Milady, please... We need to get you out of the capital. We're under attack," Eric urged, waving for the princess to come.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Eric Smilderbürg Character Portrait: Princess Kethyrian Caelum of Nallan

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The day of Erdenth’s coronation dawned clear and crisp, with the smell of autumn on the air. Kethyrian, who rose with the sun, had always been especially fond of the season of falling leaves and slowly-slumbering things, the richness of color an unintended giveaway to the most prosperous time of year for everyone, from the poorest farmer through the wealthiest nobleman (a designation which, incidentally, was about to belong to her oldest sibling).

None of this meant she was at all interested in attending the fete itself; indeed, she had told Erdenth and her father in no uncertain terms that she would not be present. Both knew her well enough to understand that this was no disrespect to them- she simply had no desire to be swathed in silk and paraded about at the pleasure of other people, like some particularly fine or entrancing trinket. She did not exist for people to gawk at, and she would prefer that everyone was aware of this fact. Her oldest sister Lillia had tutted disapprovingly, but Erdenth had simply extracted the promise of a nice practice match for some time later in the week, a boon she was only too happy to grant.

Presently, the Princess was seated in the equipment room of the barracks, alone for the moment, running a whetstone along the length of one of the regulation blades, the steady rasping sound a strange counterpoint to the irregular exclamations and music strains that carried from the celebration. Her own weapons were sheathed, crossed at her lower back, currently in need of no maintenance.

As she straightened slightly from where she’d been bent over her work, raising the polished steel to sight down its edge with one jade-colored eye, she registered the light clack of one of her beaded strands of hair hitting the leather of her shoulder-guard. Pale pink lips slanted upwards in a smile, and she flowed gracefully to her feet, taking up the naked sword’s scabbard and sliding the blade home with an easy surety. The whole assemblage went back on the wall with the others of its kind, and she brushed off her breeches and leather boots absently, freeing them of spare dust.

It was about then that she faltered in her motion, halting mid-sweep, a wave of nausea passing over her without discernible provocation. Her stomach, mercifully empty, heaved, and she wrapped both her arms around her abdomen, struggling to regain control of her gag reflex. For a long moment, she was painfully incapable of drawing breath, and when they did return to her, their form was scarcely greater than shallow pants, as though she’d exerted herself precipitously by the simple act of standing.

The feeling passed as quickly as it had come, and she stood, perplexed, dropping her arms to hang loosely at her sides. She hadn’t yet eaten today, but this was not so unusual, and certainly gave no cause for that series of sensations. Kethy considered that it might have been a reaction to some kind of magic being worked, but though she was normally perceptive of occasions like those, they had never caused her pain before. Usually, nearby magic was simply a small niggle at the back of her mind, and nothing to be bothered about. Perhaps she was falling ill, a thought which brought a furrow to her brows and a frown to her mouth. She resolved to put it from her mind for now.

Rolling her shoulders, she glanced out the nearest window, gauging the time to be just past midday, which meant that the actual crowning was well over with and the alcohol would soon be flowing in time with the bardsong, likely telling grand tales of her brother’s character. There hadn’t been a proper war in Nallan in quite some time, so most of the stories would probably revolve around the (rather romantic, though she personally didn’t like to admit to such things), courtship between Erdenth and his wife Amaranta. She imagined that both would blush a bit over the indiscretions of their youth, which would have been enjoyable to laugh at, but not worth the trouble of going.

Kethyrian herself was something of an enigmatic figure in court, a shadow-princess that at times seemed to exist only in rumor and by the words of her father and siblings. Her mother had been a different woman than she that birthed the first six of seven royal children, and though Keth’s matriarch had been no less a Queen by the time the girl was born, it was well-established that her family was not nobility to begin with. The scandal, irrelevant as she tended to think it was, still occasionally caused a stir whenever she bothered to put in a public appearance.

Hence the infrequency.

Having decided that she’d go visit the (undoubtedly busy) kitchens to scrounge some spare food from the cooks, Kethyrian was just headed out via the training grounds for the door to the barracks proper when the first of the joyous shouts turned into a frantic scream. The voice, high and feminine, ripped through the air with the force of a tangible arrow, and seemed to strike the Princess in her very soul, rendering her temporarily motionless, paused in the act of casually raising her arms to lace her fingers together behind her head. Lillia.

When her adrenaline caught up to her realizations and she regained the presence of mind to move, Kethy immediately drew both her sword and her dagger and padded noiselessly but quickly for the side-entrance to the palace. The door was ajar, and the sounds from beyond it were those unmistakably of battle, pitched and sudden. There was yelling, though she was too far away to make out the words, and a great deal of wailing, mostly on the part of court ladies, who were by dent of their upbringings almost entirely useless in situations like this.

The Princess strafed to the portcullis proper, reaching out cautiously to push it open, only to be greeted by a rasping, gurgling sound the like of which she had nothing to compare. The door arced outwards, revealing the culprit to be… well, she wasn’t sure exactly what, but the sharp intake of her gasp funneled to her olfactory receptors the scent of rot and death. Its visage reflected this, she supposed, facial features twisted in a terrifying caricature of ferocity, helped by the fact that its greying skin seemed to hang loose from its face, in places revealing putrid muscle or even starkly-colored bone.

It swung an empty hand for her, and she didn’t waste time thinking about it further, hurriedly ducking out of the way and to the side, thrusting forward with her blade. Her shock botched her aim, and she struck only a superficial wound to the side, but it did occur to her that it would be smarter to move the fight onto the grounds rather than out into the hall, since the clamor indicated multiple enemies. Backpedaling, she gained several feet of distance on the… creature, and sank back into a defensive stance, watching to see what it would to.

As the universe would have it, the thing took her rather obvious bait and sort of… shambled in after her, its feet shuffling at what amounted to a moderate walking pace. Could it not move faster than that? She wasn’t sure.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t very intelligent, and attacked in the same pattern a second time. In this instance, she was much more prepared, and caught the offending limb by the wrist on her poniard, lofting it high and out of the way, which opened the negligible guard it had entirely. Her longblade found the mark this time, sliding into the sagging flesh of the throat with a wet squelching sound that had bile rising in the back of her own. To be on the safe side, she removed the blade sideways, tearing through the flesh with less resistance than she would have expected there to be.

The creature collapsed at her feet, but Kethyrian, normally of sharp mind and able strategy, couldn’t really bring herself to shut the door or check to make sure it was actually dead or anything remotely intelligent, because she was consumed by the idea that she had just killed someone. Perhaps something, but she presently wasn’t convinced it made much of a difference. Though her grip remained firm enough, her hands were shaking, a small tremor that eventually ricocheted its way through the rest of her frame.

She might have stood like that for innumerable seconds, were she not roused once more to greater wakefulness by a shout. The man approaching her, she recognized as Eric Smilderbürg, captain of the guard and a figure much too in-demand to normally have anything to do with her. It was this and his words themselves combined that drove her once more to move, and she nodded succinctly, her head nearly swimming with inquiries about her family, the situation, that thing she’d just killed… but now was not the time to ask them, if the urgency in his immediate demeanor was anything to go by.

She followed the Captain to the stables, fortunately not located terribly far from the barracks, but it seemed that they may be too late. It looked as though someone- another guard, perhaps- had made it far enough to start preparing an escape, hitching two horses to a cart, but the corpses on the ground and the other shambling creatures moving about gave evidence to the fact that he had not succeeded. Kethyrian assessed the situation: six enemies, one half-hitched carriage, one horse saddled and bridled, several more still in their stalls and clearly panicking.

“Grab that horse and get on!” she said, pitching her voice with all the urgency of a proper order. From a nearby hook, she snatched a bridle and threw open the first stall she could reach, knowing she needed to be fast about this. It so happened to belong to Erdenth’s favorite stallion, a deeply-ebony animal with a stark-white slash of hair on his face.

“Forgive me, brother,” she muttered to herself, offering the horse the bit and sliding the bridle over its ears with trembling fingers. She could hear the creatures getting closer, and there was no time for a saddle, so she simply leaped astride the equine and urged it forward, past Eric and calling back at him to follow. She wasn’t about to leave him behind, but they needed to get going.

She could only hope that some others would make it as well, but her logical mentality already knew that chances were slim.

What the hell is going on?

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Eric Smilderbürg Character Portrait: Princess Kethyrian Caelum of Nallan

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#, as written by Wake

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Eric Smilderbürg Character Portrait: Princess Kethyrian Caelum of Nallan

0.00 INK

#, as written by Saxious
"We don't have the time!" called Eric as he got onto the horse, "I'll see to it that she's safe, and we'll meet everyone else at the nearest city." Eric called as the princess kicked the horse into gallop. Every Royal Guard had the escape plan drilled into their minds, and though the Crypts provided cover from the castle and through the streets, it would not help anyone travel any faster as long as they depended on their feet (plus, nobles weren't known for their ability to march).

"Left... Straight... Through there!" Eric ordered as the horse raced through the streets, easily outrunning the cadavers that populated the streets, occasionally they stood in the horse's way and would get kocked out of the way but they still came back on their feet nevertheless. "We're past the market... Head for the Eastern gates, then follow the roads," Eric instructed, he could see the horse's skin was getting slowly cut by the abominations' fingernails, though it didn't affect the noble animal's speed, Eric feared that there would be consequences from the marks.

Eric's hold on the princess tightened as they came nearer to the eastern gates. The body of dead people had become much worse, Eric found himself kicking the heads of monsters that came to close, while the horse whines and knocked away those who came too close. Eventually, he drew out his dagger and stabbed in a desperate craze, Eric certainly didn't want to die by the hands of these monsters, and at the moment, his mind told him to use iron against flesh to break free.

Then... Whether through sheer will or destiny, the horse whined loudly as it ran for freedom, through the gates and along the road. The force of the sudden acceleration almost made Eric fall off the horse, he grabbed Kethyrian in a foolish attempt to regain his balance but it was a last minute response from his legs that made him regain his balance. He gasped for breath as they rode down the road, avoiding getting too close to the few lone monsters that also walked the path.

"Hell's bells... I hope we won't have to do that again."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Fiammetta Thorne Character Portrait: Joseph Luttwitz Character Portrait: Ristar

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#, as written by Kuroe
Ristar's frown deepened. It was a mix of disgust at the smell that came from his and Fia's clothes and the images of the odd creatures that it brought up. They had reminded him of a man he had once fought, an man who had been locked up like an animal, whipped, and starved until his mind had cracked and he had become a stupid beast that knew nought of the world that surrounded him, and only of any man that stood within his sight. And even then, it was only to rip that unfortunate man's throat out.
The creatures had been the same... But they didn't seem to feel pain, nor anything else. He put a hand on one of the sword hilts on his back. The leather of the grip, now cool, made him feel more at ease, somehow.
Sitting on his horse uncomfortably, for though he had learned the basics of riding by watching Fia, he still didn't enjoy being on the animals, he watched Fia dismount and go nearer to the man that had appeared. Apparently he had escaped from the caravan as well, because Ristar recognized his face, though didn't recall names. Names meant nothing to him, though. He had simply chosen to call himself "Ristar" after Fia had asked who he was. He remembered from long ago that it was a type of small bird from where he had used to live. It was a custom to catch one on the eve of the new year, place it in an iron or silver cage, and to release it the following new year. If it did not survive, it meant that the remainder of the year would be a bad one, but while it lived, it's keeper or family would be blessed. Should they release it the following new year, they would be blessed doubly so during that next year, should they catch another one. And so he had chosen it as his name. Maybe he felt like he had been freed from the cage that had bound him, and now hoped to bring luck to the person who had freed him, Fia. Or maybe he had just thought it had seemed appropriate at the time. He liked it nonetheless.
Sliding down from his horse, his foot caught in the stirrup and he tumbled to the ground, rolling back to his feet as he hit it, making sure to not make a racket. Then he heard Fia saying that they should probably move. Sighing softly, he climbed back up the horse to sit upon it silently and await what Fia would say next.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Fiammetta Thorne Character Portrait: Joseph Luttwitz Character Portrait: Ristar

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As the figures slowly toddled toward him, he became more and more aware of the growing drowsiness overpowering him. He lowered his arm as it began to feel like a dead weight worth a million pounds and he leaned on a tree to catch his body from folding into the dust. His breath became shallower as the people(if they were people) wandered into the hundred yards distance and he began to huff through his now parched mouth.

His head began to swirl with pain and confusion, throbbing to a irregular and almost hypnotic beat that demanded his attention every second he existed. Closing his eyes, he tried to take his focus off the pain by thinking of a song he was taught when he was but a infant; he didn't quite remember the words, so he just hummed with the tune.

It didn't do much to bring him back to clarity, but it did remind him of a child. Yes, he remembered. The boy was from a very rich family, with relatives that spanned all over the empires of nallan and garlac. Joseph was brought in to treat him for a nasty cough and fever he had. Those were known symptoms for a deadly plague that was prominent in Nallan at the time. Had blues eyes and blond hair, just like his mother. Nothing stopped him him from talking though. Just talked and talked and talked, so much that he couldn't get any work done. Also couldn't hold still to save his life, litteraly. Squirmed around, always trying to dodge needles and anything else the doctor threw his way. Sung allot , with a songs about sheep and cows and such, a selection of them his private tutor taught him. Of course, he died... they always die.

He was brought back to reality by a sharp pain, this time in his shoulder. It was more than some dull pain from the arrow he took before; it knocked him over into a half kneeling position in the dirt and took away every wisp of air he had. He fought for another breath of fresh air, all the while struggling up from the dirt. The pain was becoming more than real, it would strike, retreat just to tease him, than strike again. It was if it was playing a game of catch and release with his nerves. Never quite dead set on ending it right there.

When he finally rose to his feet at last, he noticed the supposed human were upon him, within several paces of him. He brushed himself off before resuming his support on the tree, now even more dependant on the withered and twisted old trunk that was worn by both time and nature its self. His breathing was more labored than ever, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the sun that bombarded his very pupils. Sweat was starting to bead down his forehead, only to be whisked away by the afternoon shine that bore into his very soul.

The pain located on his shoulder was now as intense as they come, beating out the nasty migraine that has just struck him. Or maybe he had it for a while? Rembering things like that should be second nature to him, but currently, it seemed like he was surrounded in a thick fog, blocking out almost anything but pain and forlorn memories. Other bad thoughts plagued him, but with best interest he forced them out of his mind for the time being.

Looking up, he noticed that now the "so called humans" were now face to face with him. The odd thing was- their lips were moving, but he could hear no sound. Maybe it was just the mask he was wearing, but he did remember changing out of his work suit before he left the city. He glanced down to see that he was still in his work cloths, a thick veil of jet black robes augmented with some thick leather gloves to keep out badness and hopefully, death. But something was off.

A wave of crimson was overtaking the starkness of his outfit. He reached down and felt around with one of his glove clad hands to investigate. When he brought it back up to meet his eyesight, they were soaked in the rouge and slippery liquid that seemed strangely familiar. Attempting to wipe it off, he reached for a distant sliver of cloth, but it was also soaked. It was everywhere. On the ground, on his robe, everywhere! Hoping to find the cause of such a alarming thing, he turned his head to be met with a gruesome sight- a arrow protruding from his shoulder soaked in and spurting blood.

He gave in against the tree, sliding down into a half sitting, half lying position nestled into the root. Everything was now gone, the pain, the memories, everything. He was alone, nothing could change that. Nothing but him and himself. Yet the figures tryed to change that. He suddenly felt shaking, something that brought him from his dreamland, only for a moment though. He opened his eyes to be met with a face- a women, who seemed to be in a state of surprise.

Finally he gave in. His neck buckled, and his head loosened into a disfigured angle facing away from the women. The last thing he saw was Them- dozens of them, crawling and shambling from every direction. Faces twisted and mangled, with bodys that could put a hunchback to shame. Then, he passed into sleep.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Fiammetta Thorne Character Portrait: Joseph Luttwitz Character Portrait: Ristar

0.00 INK

Something was very wrong; he was in a daze, like his whole perception of reality was off. He had himself supported against a tree, he’d moved to do so as she had approached him, addressing him about the situation. . . . She didn’t think that was so very odd, it seemed to be normal enough—he was probably tired after escaping from the situation at the caravan before, he’d gotten away by foot it seemed. Any person would be worn out after that sort of endeavor. However, when he did not really seem to acknowledge her presence and Ristar’s beyond a vacant glance, she knew that something was definitely not right. The expression upon Fia’s face became that of uncertainty, one of caution.

His breathing had become strenuous, harsh. “Doctor . . . ?” she mumbled rather quietly, intending on taking a careful step toward the man.

It was then that her breath hitched, a sudden exhale of air left her lips as her eyes widened. The head of an arrow had come through the man’s shoulder, right through; and the wound it had caused was bleeding, profusely. “Damn,” Fia cursed moving toward the doctor as he slid down to the ground, the tree behind him. He seemed aware of his injury, but confused. He looked at her for a moment before he lost consciousness. “Doctor!” she started, trying to rouse the man back to reality, though her medical knowledge was limited, she did remember a bit back from the time she’d lived with her village’s medic, Fia remembered that it was not good for someone to pass out if they were injured and bleeding. The man didn’t respond to her call of course, but that was to be expected . . . he’d seemed to have lost a fair amount of blood since he’d gotten away from the caravan, and he was losing more now that the arrow had managed to work all the way through his shoulder. A sigh left her, as she knelt down in front of him, looking at the arrowhead.

The fact that it had broken through his shoulder completely was both good, and bad. The fact that the thing had managed to make it clean through meant that when it came time to remove the arrow, one end of it could be snapped off and it taken out without causing much more damage than it already had, that was good. Nevertheless, it was also bad because it was causing him to bleed much more. . . . These are not favorable circumstances, not only are their bandits and hellion monsters to be concerned with, but he is carrying with him a serious injury. . . . Fia’s eyes were on the blood-covered arrow protruding from the unconscious doctor’s shoulder, in truth, a small part of her was considering removing it now. The woman came to only shake her head though, as she realized that such an act would only prove to cause more problems than it would solve. There was nothing to treat the wound with here, and he might bleed more if that were done.

The sound of something cracking roused Fia from her visual examination of the Doctor’s wound, and the mercenary forced herself back into reality, quickly she craned her head to the side, looking for the source of the noise. “Damn it! They followed us so quickly?!” she shouted, quickly ascending up to her feet as those things were upon them again.

Fiends who looked to have been once human, flesh smelling of rot, presence exuding only the most foul of sentiments—their presence seeming so very out of place against the peaceful, glorious-autumn colored backdrop of the surrounding forest. There were many of them, more than Fia could count with a simple overarching glance. And, they almost had the three of them surrounded it seemed . . . indeed, the monsters moved faster than she would have thought them capable given their hobbling appearances. But, given some of her opponents in the past, she should’ve known better than to assume a thing about creatures she knew nothing of. “Ristar! Please, get the doctor onto a horse; I would not be able to lift him up when he has gone deadweight!” she called to her companion. Her left hand gripped onto the sheath of her sword tightly. “I shall do what I am able to in order to stave these . . . hellions off!"

Without a moment’s hesitation, Fia’s hand found the hilt of her longsword, and without missing a beat, the weapon found itself free of its sheathe, held firmly by its wielder, a sort of certainness about it. Fia’s feet found their way into the desired stance, one that was entirely offensive—the expression holding itself on the woman’s face was steeled, a serious one that had become entirely focused on what was at hand. I do not know how many of these things there are, but it matters not for the moment. . . .

Closer, they approached, making ungodly noises, and moving in ways that seemed to defy all sense. . . . And for but a moment, Fia’s whole form stilled, she didn’t even breathe. Without warning, the woman was moving, twisting on her feet as she spun with a cry and ran her sword through the forms of several of the monsters as cleanly as she was able to, quickly stepping back from them before she could take a counterblow. Damage had been done to those she’d struck, the seemingly rotting arm had fallen off one, there was a long slanting slash going across the torso of another while the jaw of a third had been half-removed from its head.

Fia’s eyes widened and a troubled expression formed over her face. A dark liquid seeped from the wounds she had managed to inflict on those few beasts, it almost looked black to her. Though she had indeed injured a few of the monsters, they were still moving as if not a thing had happened. “It matters not if injures are not a hindrance to these fiends. . . .” she huffed, quickly taking a step to the side when one of the beasts lunged at her, its arms coming out in front of it as it attempted to grab her. Taking the chance, Fia reared her sword into the air and brought it back down as the monster stumbled to the ground, where she’d been standing. A shout came from her lungs unintentionally as her sword met what she assumed was its neck. Her blade only managed to go halfway through before she found herself yanking it back up to swing at yet another mindless thing as it too, tried to dive for her. An arm came off this one. . . .

This continued for another few minutes, Fia dodging mindless lunges and her returning equally mindless swings and slashes of her sword in desperation as she did her best to keep the fiends at bay. A few times, the woman’s gaze slipped back to her traveling companion as he did what she’d requested of him; getting the unconscious and injured Doctor Luttwitz onto a horse, he too had to take a few swings at the hellions while trying to get the man onto a panicking horse.

When it was that Fia saw Ristar getting back onto his own horse, she took one more swing at another of the monsters before stepping back cautiously and turning and running for her horse, the doctor sort of thrown over the back of it. . . . Not the best way to treat an injured, but given the circumstances, it was better than him still being on the ground. Fia mounted the creature quickly, clutching onto the reigns with one hand, sword still in the other, “We go!” she called out, urging her horse on. It whinnied, nervous about all the monsters, yet it moved on, quickly speeding up into a gallop, simply barreling through the horde of rotting beasts without heeding.

Fia could hear the sound of second hooves hitting the hard earth below behind her; she knew that Ristar was following. . . . As a clear zone came into site, seemingly free of the creatures, a harsh breath escaped from Fia’s lips, followed by a deep intake of air. She kept her eyes open, her senses alert though. A sense of slight relief hit her, the forest passed by quickly. That was . . . that was not good. she started, a look of concern passed over her face, They did not at all slow when I managed to inflict injure upon them, not in the slightest. Even the one whose head I nearly severed, it still moved with little issue!

“What has happened . . . ?” she murmured, only to wince as a pain shot up her side. Her eyes glanced down for a moment, to the growing red spot at her side. Ah, yes, I received a minor injury before . . . the Doctor is not in the best of conditions himself, he needs treatment, or to at least be taken to a place where he can properly rest, somewhere safe. Being slung over the back of a horse is not a proper way for someone with an injury such as his to begin the healing process. . . . Fia kept a grip on her sword as the horse continued to quickly move, “The question that does take precedence in this, would be . . . where is ‘safe?’”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Fiammetta Thorne Character Portrait: Christopher Jamesone 'James' Orlow

0.00 INK

#, as written by Leli
The thunderous sound of twigs snapping under hindrances of weight so little you'd fail to notice was infuriating. Once even the accursed twigs had been cursed, shouted at and thrown against their forefathers; trees which did not quake under the breath of a mouse. The leaves that littered the ground were just as audible, though less infuriating as every gust of wind rustled enough as to guise even the heaviest of steps in the thick wood. It was in this boisterous landscape of trees, brush and thorns that James tried, and failed, to creep silently. Moments before he'd abandoned his cart, the stocks of flower, sugar, tools, wheat, spices and a multitude of other things for the irrelevant safety of the woods. He wasn't aware of what was happening; it was too frightful to consider a reality so his mind played a trick on him, ensuring it was nothing more than nightmare. But, the mind only has so much hold over the body before any apparitions it creates are falsified. The wake up, so to speak, to James was the hot sensation of blood spilling from his left forearm. He didn't know how he got it, nor when, where, why or what did it; only that it stung and spilled blood far easier than any of the other scrapes he'd carried before. In this absolute thicket of boisterous foliage James found a surprise grander than any he'd seen earlier in the day. He knew it wasn't a dream, but let his mind wander anyway at the appearance of a pretty dame atop a horse. The man slung over the ass of the steed was ignored and so too was the trolley of hooves behind the pretty girl.

Bursting out from his poor hiding place James shouted at the girl: "Hey! W-wait! Slow down!" His voice cracking as his throat loosened from the fear that gripped his body in a cool sweat.

Then he stopped, press his right hand over the gash across his forearm and attempted to appear as docile as possible. Why had he shouted out at her? She wasn't some unbelievable image of beauty. In all honesty his wife was more attractive, perhaps not prettier, but certainly more attractive than this girl. Then why was he compelled to slow her travel, ignore the men behind her and appear as though a farmer struck by nothing more than bad luck.

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Nallan

Nallan by Wake

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Character Portrait: The Horde
Character Portrait: Eric Smilderbürg
Character Portrait: Joseph Luttwitz
Character Portrait: Darren Brionir Drake
Character Portrait: Ristar

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Character Portrait: Micah Cheviot
2 sightings Micah Cheviot played by Lakeview24601
You look like you have a keen eye for merchandise. Care to take a glance at my wares?

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View All » Add Character » 13 Characters to follow in this universe

Character Portrait: The Horde
Character Portrait: Eric Smilderbürg
Character Portrait: Joseph Luttwitz
Character Portrait: Darren Brionir Drake
Character Portrait: Ristar

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Character Portrait: Ristar
Ristar

"Why has this happened? Why must we fight? Are we not all human?"

Character Portrait: Darren Brionir Drake
Darren Brionir Drake

"Arrr! That could mean a vastness of things"

Character Portrait: Joseph Luttwitz
Joseph Luttwitz

"This will only hurt a bit..."

Character Portrait: Eric Smilderbürg
Eric Smilderbürg

"Congratulations! You can make your own father weep with shame the way you las do this shit. Do it again."

Character Portrait: The Horde
The Horde

The mindless throng of abominations that once were human. Now they hunger for the flesh of the living.

Trending

Character Portrait: Eric Smilderbürg
Eric Smilderbürg

"Congratulations! You can make your own father weep with shame the way you las do this shit. Do it again."

Character Portrait: The Horde
The Horde

The mindless throng of abominations that once were human. Now they hunger for the flesh of the living.

Character Portrait: Joseph Luttwitz
Joseph Luttwitz

"This will only hurt a bit..."

Character Portrait: Darren Brionir Drake
Darren Brionir Drake

"Arrr! That could mean a vastness of things"

Character Portrait: Ristar
Ristar

"Why has this happened? Why must we fight? Are we not all human?"

Most Followed

Character Portrait: Ristar
Ristar

"Why has this happened? Why must we fight? Are we not all human?"

Character Portrait: Eric Smilderbürg
Eric Smilderbürg

"Congratulations! You can make your own father weep with shame the way you las do this shit. Do it again."

Character Portrait: Darren Brionir Drake
Darren Brionir Drake

"Arrr! That could mean a vastness of things"

Character Portrait: Joseph Luttwitz
Joseph Luttwitz

"This will only hurt a bit..."

Character Portrait: The Horde
The Horde

The mindless throng of abominations that once were human. Now they hunger for the flesh of the living.


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