Description

"Why would I want pearls, when I've got a diamond right here? Ha! No?"

"I'm a man, I'm a twisted fool."
"I dry my wounds, and I ain't dying."
"I can take a beating, I'll rise again."
"The seeds I've sown, my flesh and bone."

[General Information]
Nickname(s): Gare, Ros, Mouse.
Gender: Male
Age: 26
Race: Orc / Elf
Origin: Burgûn
Occupation: Sellsword of the Hooded Company

Hair: Black.
Eyes: Black sclera's, amber-gold pupils.
Complexion: Swarthy-blue, almost gray.
Height: 6'0"
Build: Toned.
Weight: 165lbs
Body Markings: Garos wears splotches of dust, dirt, scratches, and small scars that tell at least a hundred stories of adventuring the wilderness, and through the dirty streets he chooses to dally in, but the majority of them are covered by the leathery bulk of his armor. Most notable, is an arc of scar tissue that starts in his hairline and slashes through his right eyebrow, ending just above his lip, rippled like a bolt of lightning. Another prominent scar is banded across his throat. A thin, white line. At times, he covers it with a red handkerchief. Other cuts and marks litter his body here and there; the product of many years of fighting and a few of them he can actually give you a story for.

[APPEARANCE]
A swarthy, swaggering fella’. All bluster, no bite. Mostly. Unless there’s an invitation attached, quipped with a coquettish smile. Garos cuts an intimidating figure, looming less like a gangly tree, and more like someone who’s built to bust heads and eschew taking names—that is, until he opens his bowed lips, perpetually lifted into something just seconds away from a toothy grin. A chest-guttural laugh is never far behind, breaking whatever impression of savage fortitude he might have been trying to illicit. If he keeps his jabbering maw firmly closed… there’s a chance his countenance is enough to make someone wary, or at least convince someone otherwise inclined to raise a sword in his direction. It’s clear that his hands aren’t baby-smooth, unfettered by labor. He’s forged from tougher stuff. Broad-shouldered and rife with a musculature only a hard-working man could achieve, either from the mundane, or from shadier endeavors. A farm-boy. Or an ale-totting mercenary with a stupidly big axe.

Hawkish features form sharp, cutting angles, cheekbones seated high; clearly of Elven lineage, though his complexion is enough to give anyone pause. His skin is a dusky shade of blue, nearly gray in certain areas. Compared to the fair-skinned lads in the woods; he’s all wrong. The wrong palette of monochrome, too bulky, too crude. A poor assembly. Dirty-blooded. A taint to their pristine, unsullied line. Of course, there is an opinion that he might be a “mixed breed” due to his tilted and softly narrowed ear tips. Though he’s never said for certain. Savagery with a dollop of grace, as he’d liked to say. Best of both worlds… because he’s able to grow facial hair, whereas the forest-children with their bare, baby-faces cannot.

As is common to most Orcs, Garos’s hair is black as midnight. The colour of thick ink. Narry a hair out of place, he’d say. Quite wrong. It’s a mess in the best of circumstances, as if he’d just roused himself from a bedroll. If it’s not a bird’s nest perched across his head or pushed backwards, in a warrior’s fashion, he tends to tie it into a small tail. Bound with a leather piece, or whatever pretty ribbon he gets his hands on. Green is his favorite, to date. The sides of his head is shaved close to his skull. His eyes are particularly peculiar. No doubt, another deplorable, Orc-afflicted trait. His pupils are a soft ember, like melted, homespun gold, striking a contrast against the blacks of his sclera’s. Slightly slanted and continuously squinted. As if he’d heard a joke and wished to share the punchline. He stares, unashamedly. Quite a lot.

Garos is used to wearing light and loose fabrics from his time in the Orcish Empire, in which he lived quite close to the perpetual heat of the tropical coastline. Often enough, he’ll choose to go shirtless if the day is particularly sunny. Intentionally so. Probably. More commonly, he’s decked in a full array of leathers, tightly fitted to his frame. From his dark brown trousers, tucked neatly into black, calf-high boots to his black, sleeveless tunic, bound closed by some sort of canine’s teeth, riddled and laced up the front. Over that is a brown leather jacket with a high collar, grizzled with white fur on the inside. Iron-wrought pauldrons seat his shoulders and his forearms are tightly wrapped. Garb fit for a mercenary. He tends to think he cuts a rather tough figure, like a squabbling sheep in wolves clothing.

No one’s without their imperfections… even Garos, as he’s so resistant to admit. Orc’s have rather long bottom teeth. Snaggle-teeth. Tusks. A source of pride, and strength in their little community. His are pathetically small. Largely ignored if his mouth is closed. An inch long and only noticeable once he speaks, barely bumping up against the front of his lips. Just as short as an Orc-woman’s. Despite his cheery, lackadaisical view on things, this humiliating fact sticks close to the heart. It’s a sore spot he’s like to deflect with a sardonic, whittled grin. All forced, unamused.

[D E M E A N O R]
If only Garos’s outward personality carried its weight in pure, unadulterated strength, he’d be a giant of a man. Not so. Wiles are wind and wit isn’t nearly sharp enough for every occasion. While he exudes confidence in almost everything he does, he can be a blustering fool. Riddled with eccentricities and certainly not enough talent to back it all up. Even so, he’s rarely dissuaded once he sets his mind to something, coming off as pushy in situations that he feels he has superior knowledge and experience. At times, he tends towards bossiness even when he’s lacking both of those qualities. The desire to be heard radiates from him in spades: an audience, and he, the smarmy actor with grandiose tales of his misadventures. Some are true, most are baldfaced lies. The pretense to an insecure, inconsistent wanderer.

Outgoing and personable with nearly everyone he bumbles into, he is often loud and the first to laugh at even the worst joke offered to him. Because, he damn well laughs at his own. Friendly to a fault when not eliciting his services or soft-serving his tough guy act, he has made easy friends of both ruddy clients and wayward travelers at the various circles he has visited. As outgoing as he is, there are things about Garos he rarely lets anyone see. While he is quick to deflect all seriousness with smirk-tendered quips, when things affect him in more negative ways, his gates close. The walls fling up, and he shuts down tight. Some would say he turns to stone when presented with unpleasantness, and can come off cool where others would be devastated. There’s a cynical disposition hidden there, swept under a metaphorical rug. Sealed with a smile.

Why hasn’t anyone sung songs about him yet? Course, he yearns for much more than his station has provided him with. A commoner, while free from duties and responsibilities, can only go so far. Trekking on grandiose adventures, filled with undiscovered treasures ripe for the taking and monsters to be valiantly slayed; that is what he desperately wishes for. Braving the seas as a courageous sailor or graceless pirate sounds absolutely magical in his opinion. So does scrambling through the mouth of a dragon or weathering frightening storms in order to ambush an advancing army. Storming castles and wielding weapons far larger than himself, as well. Fairy tales, folklore and stories have been his bread-and-butter since he was a wee lad. He's always been engrossed in the fantastical. Paired with an unquenchable thirst for adventure and knowledge. It's difficult to turn him away.

Oi, laddie. Garos is a man of many identities and many voices in his arsenal, choosing identities which are specific to the person he is responding to. No role is too great or too difficult to shimmy himself into. He’s capable of changing his outlooks, his beliefs and his personality to better blend in with the people he’s communicating with—quickly, and with little preparation. He’s also somewhat of a self-entitled brat (though he's never truly had anything to make him this way). Certain traits still shine through regardless of the persona he's chosen to don. Effortlessly friendly and avidly keen to make others laugh. He usually comes across, at first, as being very air-headed or naive, though he tends to use this to his advantage. What better man is one who’s underestimated? Sassy and sarcastic, he prefers light conversation over gloomy awkwardness, though he still manages to steer through those murky waters with impressive gentility. He can be a warm blanket on a chilly day or a refreshing breeze when tempers are running hot.

Heroics? Ah yes, that. He clearly suffers from a “Lancelot-complex.” Unsuccessfully batting down the insatiable urge to save women from danger, even if he's putting his own neck on the line. Half the time he's aware that what he's doing is stupid, and the other half, he's not thinking at all. He's a knight in (not-so) shining armour; one who prefers scampering around on his own two feet than galloping towards damsels on a horse. Perhaps most prevalent of all is his ability to bring light to the bleakest situations. It definitely puts others at ease, and it may be one of his greatest strengths and characteristics: he cares about people, and he empathizes. He tends to make friends easily, regardless if they share any common ground with him and once he truly befriends someone: he's a friend for life. This, in particular, makes him susceptible to betrayal.

In a world where most people are mouth-breathing warriors, or steely-eyed rogues, hugging is not well-received. He can be unusually affectionate with companions, acquaintances, or even strangers. At times, it can cross the line of appropriateness. Because people have issues with personal space, and he has none to speak of. But, Garos is only trying to flatter you. There's no nefarious reason for his flowery words and waggling eyebrows. He's protective of his companions, and slightly possessive, especially towards the ones closest to him. If they're in danger, he won't hesitate to stand up for them, even if he's quaking in his boots. Some might consider him a little too touchy-feely with his affections and a little too loose with his words… though he doesn’t seem to mind at all. After all, any attention is good attention.

[FEARS]

Irrelevance –
Rejection –
Unfullfillment –
Monotony –

[QUIRKS]

Selfless – Trouble is, Garos forgets that he’s got blood pumping in his veins, capable of spilling from his arteries. He’s not invincible, no matter how much he acts like it. He has a softness and tenderness of the heart that often leads him into trouble; very susceptible to pity and other kindly affections. He cannot resist helping someone he sees in trouble, suffering or in need, and hardly thinks of the repercussions until everything has already been said or done.
Cold Climates – Brr. He prefers warmer climates; becomes drowsy, slower and grumpier when cold. Seriously, if you wanna irk Garos without wasting any expenses: dump him somewhere cold and he'll crumble into a weeping ball of misery. He hates, hates, hates the cold. Have you ever seen a grown man cry? It's pathetic, and really, really sad.
Identities – Garos is a man of many shades; that is to say, he's startlingly good at donning other people's clothes and fancies himself a decent actor. Whether or not this is true, is up for debate. So far, he's only been arrested a couple times (for only a handful of crimes, when his number is far beyond that). How does he evade? He becomes someone else. For a time.
Snark, snark – Conversation reveals a very to-the-point, startlingly honest, and frequently snarky attitude. His comments are sprinkled with sarcasm and casual mockery, which warrants a colorful array of reactions. It’s always, always unintentional. A knee-jerk reaction to deflect seriousness; otherwise, he wouldn’t know what to say and silence, it just makes him squirm.

[LIKES]

Women, and men, of all shapes and sizes; they're all beautiful to him.
Conversations; short, lengthy, brief, it doesn't matter.
Singing and dancing and merry-making.
Being looked up to.
Spicy foods; the spicier, the better.

[DISLIKES]

Be-little’ers and bullies.
Disloyalty; and intentionally cruel people.
Racism of any flavor.
Uptight people, as well as pompousness.
Inaction, indecisiveness.

Death panting at the neckline? Not if you’re quick enough to strafe around it—not today. Garos likes to think he spits in Lady Death’s face, relying on nimbleness and a relentless, often clumsy, strength he’s yet to harness. Relying mostly on athleticism and a horseshoe that seems lodged… somewhere, he’s quick on his feet and quicker to bank on his instincts. He likes to think he’s been given the best of both worlds: Orc and Elf. Brawn and grace. It isn’t always true, but he likes to think so. He’s tactical in combat, with no qualms about resorting to “dishonorable” dirty fighting methods to get the job done. Knee to the grown? Yes. Sand thrown into eyes? Of course. He doesn’t care. War isn’t about honor. Shite on it. It’s always been about coming out alive. Garos is willing to dirty his hands in any way to make sure that his throat is whole, uncut. Tongue still capable of wagging.

Lacking technique or any real guidance, it’s obvious that he learned a lot by watching others and trying to adapt it to his own style. Wild. Feral movements; relying mostly on brutish strength and a tenacity that rankles people’s expectations. What you see, is often not what you’re getting when facing off against Garos’ stupid, bared-teeth grin. He’s the type of person who has needed to be prepared for a variety of potential situations, which may explain his lack of concern about stopping to plan things in advance. He assumes himself to be prepared for anything. If nothing else, he's quite suited for survival on his own. Despite his inability to take much seriously, Garos follows a strict training regime that constantly evolves to suit his needs. He’s also fond of watching others fight, in order to see if he’s able to replicate their movements and techniques.

His fighting style? Embarrassing to those nuanced in tempered techniques, but other than that, Garos is a capable tracker and hunter. It’s in his blood. Footprints, depths, the wind brushing against your cheek—he’s had to learn the signs to survive on the Line between both of his parent’s territory. They’d be hard-pressed to find any help from either of them. Whether it’s skinning a rabbit or finagling a stick and a little bit of rope into a fishing rod, Garos can do it. Get him to cook though… and there’s a good chance he might accidentally poison someone. He’s also a bit of a living compass; able to direct himself with little more than his hand pressed up towards the sky and a little bit of moss on the underbelly of a stone.

[Weaknesses]

Blindness – That neat little stripe across his left eye isn’t all for show. It’s a detriment. A wee more than a flesh wound with a puckered scar. He’s lost most of his vision out of that eye, so if anyone’s coming from that direction… there’s a good chance he can’t see what’s coming. Be that blades or a teasing, wriggling hand slipping over his face. For this reason, he likes to keep people in front of him at all times, or at least walking alongside his working eye.
Reckless – Ever seen a yowling beast charge straight over a cliff? Garos is a little like that. He gets carried away, easy peasy. Whether it’s the thrill of a challenge or the blood pumping to his head, he lives for thrills. Gets off on it, probably. He’s not one to think of the consequences of such actions. It takes a lot for him to still his own hands. Unsurprisingly, this is probably the reason he has so many bruises and scars.
Deception – The kinds of things that would make a normal person shake their head would have Garos scrambling up in arms; for a conman of his own creation, he’s damned easy to trick into things. That look like an obvious trap? Nope. He sees what he wants to see.

"That's the wrong question to the only real answer, innit?"
[ARMOR]
Leathers and leathers and more leathers. &&

[CLOTHING]
Simple clothes in loose styling. Sailor’s jib. Fluttery tunics with little in the means of decorations—all worn for the ease of movement because who knows if he’s gonna have to hop out a window or vault over a fence. Subdued greys to deep blues; mostly monochrome colors, unless he’s feeling particularly cheeky.

[ITEMS]
Garos keeps most of his gear in bandolier pouches and belt loops strapped around his waist and thighs. This allowas him relative freedom of nobility, and still enables him to keep hidden weapons on his person in hidey-holes when things get cagey; a necessity of his vocation. His gear includes: a hidden dagger for close-combat. The hilt itself is decorative in nature, possibly pilfered from a nobleman. The blade itself is curved with one serrated edge; a well-used addition for opening throats. A set of caltrops. Loaded die. A lock-picking kit and a small, leather pouch of various coin that seem questionably genuine.

[Primary Weapon:]
Weapon Name: Bludger
Weapon Type: Two-handed Axe
Length: 4 ft
Weight: 15lbs
Origin: Gifted (Ogrin Koor)

[Other weapons:]
Weapon Type: Dagger
Length: 4 inches
Weight: 2lbs
Origin: Acquired off a corpse

[RELATIONS]

[Family]

[list]| >>Batul Ul’vish<< |
mommy

[list]| >>Verion Vanviel<< |
daddy

[OCCUPATION]
Currently life finds him as a sword for hire. For whom? The Hooded Company. A grimy, slum-living group of men and women peppered across the kingdom, squatting in less-than-savory establishments. Their recruitment methods are mysterious and only spoken about in whispers. Somehow, he’s managed to rub elbows with them. They’re a hardy bunch. Need a right hand for a risky job, someone brave to march into an infested cavern, or in need of something looked into without dirtying your own hands? Garos is your man; if the wagging tongue and lewd winks are easy enough to forgive.

[Outlook on life]
“Savage? Barbarian? Civilized? Grace? All titles. What do they mean, collectively? Shite, that’s what.”

[HISTORY]
Garos was no stranger to war, nor strife. It came with the package—an unfortunate birth born of an interracial relationship that made most people spit at their heels. The people’s in question never really got along either, which only fed the fuel. Stoked the fire. A mutt cannot become a thoroughbred no matter how hard it tries. It was something that dogged his steps for as long as he remembered. His youth, however, was unburdened, if not a little lonely. His mother was a born-and-bred warpup; an Orcish woman with a penchant for pushing against regulations. From the norm. A fiery-tempered rule-breaker. And his father, a wily, smarmy-mouthed Elven scout who scrounged the area on his lonesome, chasing out those who dared to scamper too close.

His mother had wandered too close. Blade pressed against her throat. Nonplussed. Angry, even, that he’d been so bold. It was a story he’d been told a thousand times over. Each time, they’d laugh. As if it was a normal way to meet someone that would eventually become your partner. A mate in life, even if their worlds only ended in blood. He’d never questioned their union before. How could he? It was all he knew. All he loved. Conceived between the lands of ash and Elvish tropics, he’d always been exposed to a part-way culture. World’s he couldn’t quite wrap his head around. One’s that he did not quite fit into. In Ogrin Koor, he was treated with a mild neglect. Like a stray, unwanted hound who’d somehow wandered in. And Raes Ulin… it had never been an option. He was Garos of the Ul’vish Tribe, Son of Batul. He was Garos Vanviel, Son of Verion.

At times, he was neither. Safer that way. Even if his face is enough to give someone pause.

Despite his hardiness and unwavering knack for trouble-making... Garos always wanted more than he was given; life was rife with adventure, and he'd take advantage of everything that fell into his lap, whatever the cost. He always had a penchant for bad luck. Things gone awry. He's not a good man; never professed to being one. Sellswords are opportunistic people; and he's one to look after his own skin, unless the opportunity arises to do differently. It's not an easy way to live, but it's one he's adapted himself to. His hands are far from clean, though he's always been upfront about this. An honest man, is what he is. Whatever his experiences, however sour they might have been, it’s certainly not enough to stay his blade.

&&& will elaborate more

So begins...

Garos Sharad's Story

Seen 45 Times • Page 3 of 3 • 1, 2, 3

Setting

The World of Ambar

Characters Present

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

#2018-08-22 17:58:27, as written by Quakernuts

Time was always somewhat of a problem for Callion. Considering he would slip in and out of consciousness at the drop of the hat and sometimes never know it, he couldn't tell if they had been riding for days or simply a couple of hours. They had set up camp a few times, during which he had scoured the landscape to find any kind of alchemical reagents he might be able to use for potions or healing salves later on. The nights passed as they usually did, either incredibly slowly or with what appeared to be a snapshot to sunrise. His hallucinations and dreams weren't always elaborate affairs, sometimes he would fall asleep into nothing and simply wake up with an unknown amount of time having passed. Still, for whatever it was worth, the group seemed to meld together well enough that there weren't any outbursts or arguments during the few...days worth of riding? Regardless, Callion had been relying on his horse to simply stay with the group as his hands combed over one of his books again. With the threat of death and undeath surrounding their target location, he had taken the time to look through his spell list to deal with such afflictions. Granted, there were more powerful options at his disposal, but if he had the choice he wouldn't use them. He didn't bother to look up from his notes until he had taken notice that his horse had stopped of its own accord. Were they setting up camp again? Looking up, he saw that Ragnar was talking with a villager of sorts who appeared to be gathering a herb. Blane's Tongue? Made a decent tea, minor medicinal properties. Had Callion more time, he would have grabbed a few for himself, but it seemed like they had gotten whatever information was worth getting out of the man and were moving on.

Now that his head wasn't stuck in his book, Callion's eyes drifted upwards and forwards, towards their destination and the sky which had slight billows of smoke protruding through it. The temperature seemed to drop, and for Callion, he could feel the slight twinge of magical essence. Of what, he couldn't discern, but it was clear something unnatural had happened here. Callion closed his book and placed it into his satchel as his eyes scanned the horizon for any hint or sign of what this could possibly be.

A short time later and they arrived at a literal crossroads. As the Soldier hooked his horse to the post, Callion did the same, peering towards the village. As Ragnar spoke, indicating he would be taking the middle road with one other person and they should split up to cover more ground, Callion agreed as he started walking towards the left most street. "A solid enough start." Callion stated before walking towards the left road, his staff in hand. "Be sure to take in whatever information you can, but be cautious." Callion looked to the others for a moment. "Magic lingers in the air, potentially a curse but I can't be certain. If you do notice anything unusual happening to you, be sure to find me immediately, I'll want to take notes as whatever the spell is slowly overtakes your body." Callion turned towards the left road once more, taking confident strides in that direction. "If anyone wishes to join me, they are more than welcome." Without waiting for any kind of response, Callion continued walking until he had hit the outskirts of the village proper.

The buildings were partially burned, the road (if it could be called that) was little more than a mud pile fit only for a pig's bath. Smoke rose absentmindedly from a couple of the hovels as a number of bodies appeared to litter the area ahead of him. He couldn't tell what had killed them from this distance, but he was noticing that blood seemed to be absent from much of his surroundings. If it had been as violent as the decor would suggest, he had been expecting a veritable river of crimson to be flowing. Instead he was left with a mystery. That was perfect, after so many days...one day of travelling? Bah, after so much time spent on a horse with only his books he had read a dozen times to keep his mind preoccupied, he was excited for the chance to stretch his mental muscles. It was then that a presence was felt behind him, and he turned to notice a meek little Mara standing there as if she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "What are you doing all the way back there child? Come, let us walk the road once travelled together.". Child? He was not that much older, hell to many other priests and wizards, he was practically a child himself. Old habits from his days as a priest die hard he supposed.

Mara seemed to move even more slowly than usual.

It was clear she had heard Callion as she gave him a strangely wide-eyed expression and nodded at his voice. Yet, she still trailed behind. She had never seen a village this destroyed before. As if walking through a graveyard (and possibly she was, as surely corpses rested here, trapped beneath rubble.) Mara gingerly walked after Callion. Cautious of footing. Ears straining for any sounds of life. She too had heard the elder on the road, explaining that this would be what they would find. Still, she had never thought it would be...quite this awful.

There was a smell about the air she couldn't place. Mara sniffed deeply, almost like an animal might, as she tried to pinpoint the scent. She knew the smell of death, as she had often helped her father slaughter animals for dinner..but somehow this was different.

"Callion...do you smell that?" She asked softly. "It's death..but...something else too...something...strange..." anxiously Mara picked at her apron. "Also...do you suppose that smoke is from the blue fires we were told about?"

"Magical essence lingers on the wind." Callion answered as his hand scraped up against a burnt piece of wood, feeling the brittle nature of it and noticing a lack of heat. The flames that had burned it had long since died, yet the smoke remained. The ash died his skin a dark grey as he rubbed his fingers, bringing it up to his nose and sniffing it. He could apply a scrying spell, but there was no telling what kind of magical interference was happening in this village. He would prefer not to use his abilities until he had a clearer picture as to what was going on. Remembering that Mara had asked a secondary question, he swiped his hand in the air to get rid of the ash still clinging to his skin. "It's possible. It's also possible a normal fire caused this damage as there are no indications of magical tampering yet...well aside from the aforementioned essence." Callion continued forward, and was almost drawn into a trance of figuring out a puzzle before stopping and looking behind him once more. "I realize I'm no muscle bound soldier clad in white armor, but I require you to walk closer to myself Mara. There were reports of the walking dead, and I would hate for one of them to grab you while I was otherwise preoccupied."

Mara's expression was something between frightened and harassed. She was well aware of reports, she had heard the king as well. But it seemed imprudent to hurry across the wreckage. She didn't want to trip over something..or worse..someone..

"Yes..but..the footing is a little unst--"

As she began to lean across a burnt out board, her fear seemed to come to life. There was a snapping sound and some of the rubble that had smoldered nearby collapsed beneath her. Mara threw out her arms to steady herself, hobbling backwards to avoid the new gaping hole, some burned out cellar..it seemed. She stepped unsteadily backwards and felt something soft and fleshy under her boots. She yelped, falling backwards onto her rear in her surprise and scrambled backwards away from whatever had tripped her. What was it?! The undead? A corpse?

To some relief, she realized it was an arm...an arm still gracefully attached to a woman. She was mostly covered by rubble, but it seemed somehow she was not crushed. A small, unstable cave, of sorts, had been formed over the woman. Cautiously, Mara inched forward, slowly reaching out a finger. Was she dead? She poked the womans hand, trembling, expecting the hard coldness of death to greet her touch. Instead, it was warm and still soft. Mara's eyes went wide and she crawled closer.

"Callion....?" She called out to the wizard. "I..I think this woman is still living..."

Mara leaned over the woman's face, noting the obvious bump on her head. A bit of blood. Quickly, the girl's eyes scanned the woman's body, seeking any other obvious wounds..but could see none. She also could not feel breath though or see her chest rising and falling..as one asleep would do.

"M..miss? Hello?" Mara said softly to the woman. Hoping she would stir. She did not.

Mara sat on her knees beside the woman, putting her head to her chest, listening. It was a little tougher than she expected though as the woman's..ample bosom...made Mara have to shift awkwardly..they were practically smothering her. Ah! But there. Yes, there was a heart beat. Slow. Very slow. And breathing..very shallow. She may be near death.

She lifted her head to call the wizard again.

"She's breathing! She's got a bump on her head, but she's still alive...but her heart is slow.."

Mara fumbled in her satchel, pulling out some herbs and bandages. Gingerly, she squeezed the herbs til the juices ran, smelling strongly of the earth, and began to tend to the woman's head wound. She had only ever done this on herself before...and she knew if it was not gently done, then it would sting.

It would have almost been comical if the situation weren't nearly as serious as it had the potential to be. On cue, there was some sort of snapping followed by a yelp, and Callion looked back to see Mara fall over something. Callion paused in his forward stride to keep watch long enough to make certain that there wasn't something more sinister waiting for the nearly prone form of Mara, before she seemed to get curious and call out to the wizard. A survivor? That would make things so much easier towards figuring out exactly what had happened here. He strolled forward as Mara did her best nurse impression and went about seeing to the woman's health. As he got closer, and managed to get a better look at the wounded party, he was pleased to see that she didn't appear to be too severely injured. In fact, comparable to the building that threatened to squish her, she was relatively unharmed. Why was she out cold then? Did whatever magical entity that had passed through this place cause this? It was at this point that Callion was really regretting his internal promise to not overtly use magic here in case there were other factors in play. Regardless, he stood over Mara, either like a cold teacher or domineering statue depending on your point of view before a slight twitch of his nose broke the facade. "Good, she appears to be well...relatively speaking. We should be able to get the story as to what happened here in short order."

Mara gently tied off the bandage around the woman's forehead, not too tightly and in a neat bow beside her left ear. She nodded to Callion's suggestion.

"I suppose she may have answers...maybe.."

Mara said softly, still focused on the woman. Mara knelt behind the woman's head, pulling the unconscious lady's head into her lap, like a pillow. She griped the woman's sleeve and tugged at her arm, bringing it in closer to her body so she wouldn't be overly sore when she woke. That was when she noticed her wrist..

"Oh...she's like us..." Mara murmured softly staring at the marking on the lady's wrist in surprise. "Look, Callion. It's the same, isn't it?" Mara said putting her mark beside the one she found on the woman.

"It would seem that way..." Callion noted absentmindedly as he bent down to get a closer look. Grabbing the unconscious woman's hand, he turned it over as if he was inspecting some kind of dangerous vial filled with something that might explode. He rubbed a finger against it, confirming that it was indeed some form of tattoo or marking. "Doesn't appear to be painted or drawn on... I believe it's safe to assume that she is as we are." Callion nodded as he spoke, standing to look at the town once more. "If that's the case...and we're supposedly the heralds of the apocalypse..." Callion let the thought slip as he peered through the devastation that was most likely wrought by magical means on a scale that was not small. His eyes narrowed as he started pouring through his own mind, attempting to collect his thoughts into a coherent picture for him to start working from.

It was only a moment later that he heard what sounded like scraping, and peered over to see an arm reaching out from the hole in the ground. Callion stared at it for a moment, noticing the skin was peeling off in places, replaced with a dull white sheen of bone and murkey red of rotting meat. "I was wondering how long it would take for them to notice our presence." Callion stated, as if he had expected this from the very beginning. True, he was told that the dead walked this village sized graveyard, but he had no idea of telling where they were. Callion wandered closer as the zombie managed to pull its severely burned and rotting head past the lip of the hole leading to...what Callion could only assume was some sort of basement or cellar. It chomped slightly, its entire jawline a mixture of bone and dried blood, with empty eyeball sockets and seared flesh where applicable. "Interesting." He knelt down just out of arm's reach of the zombie, which continued its slow climb upwards, snarling at the wizard as he took his staff and poked at the flesh. "Decay, flesh was cooked...burn marks on the bone...the heat must have been intense or it was burning far longer than we believed." Callion seemed to lose himself in his thoughts once more, forgetting that Mara and the woman were right behind him. "Standard fare really, shame. I was hoping for something slightly more interesting than your typical corpse monkey." Callion stated as he took the bottom of his staff and tapped the deadman on the forhead. There was a slight pause filled by a 'pop' as the back of the zombie's head burst outwards and it fell back into the hole. Standing up and peering over the metaphorical abyss, Callion looked down to see that was only the first of what appeared to be several deadmen peering up at him, each one without eyes and missing flesh in several different places. "Must have gotten trapped, turned the cellar into a steamhouse."

Callion turned back towards Mara and the woman, pausing for a moment before remembering they had been there the entire time. He wanted to push forward and investigate, but now they had a wounded party and the best course of action would be to take her out of the village, but he couldn't send Mara alone in case there were more of those creatures hiding just out of view. A compromise would be to take the woman with them to the center, meet with the rest after having gathered whatever clues they could get. "Are you capable of carrying her?"

Mara had taken on the frozen rabbit form again. Clutching the prone woman tightly,her mouth slightly a gape with fear, she was aware only of the small, high pitched rasping that was inexplicably escaping her mouth. Not really a scream. More like a trapped scream.

Until Callion directed a question at her, she thought she may be stuck that way forever until these..walking corpses got her...

Watching the wizard easily take one of the creatures out brought feeling back into her legs. She nodded vigorously at his words and with a strength born of back-breaking labor, hauling wood and stone, she hefted the unconscious woman onto her back, as if the woman were no heavier than a sack of grain.

"I...I can carry her..." she croaked, her voice dry with fright. "But I can't fight this way.." or at all, she thought...but did not voice.

She imagined that she might look astounding with this woman riding piggyback. Easily, Mara was half this woman's size. Like watching a grown adult ride a miniature pony.

"W..what do we do?"

"We can't take her back, because no one is there to take care of her and I'm not giving up the opportunity to investigate the potential of this place. We can't leave her here, because it was already a miracle that the dead hadn't found her, so the only option left is to take her with us and hope she wakes up along the way." Callion stated, not bothering to address the portion of her being able to fight, mainly because she had made it evident several times prior that she was simply not a fighter. He understood and in some ways was sympathetic, but he was caught at a crossroad of understanding a moral obligation and the intense urge of his professional curiosity. With Mara carrying a body through the streets, there would be no option for remaining somewhat stealthy and avoiding unnecessary conflict. Callion gave a sigh and flicked his fingers. A small red orb appeared hovering in his hands. "Come, we'll need to make our way to the village center, where we'll meet the others." Callion tossed the orange ball into the cellar, walking back towards Mara before snapping his fingers and turning back towards Mara.

At the same moment, the cellar exploded, heaving slight flames and debris into the air. "Oh, and I mean it this time now Mara...stay close." Callion stated, taking his staff and tapping it into the ground. With a slight glow from the orbs inside the staff, a white translucent dome surrounded the two of them, and as Callion started to walk, the dome moved with him.

Phaedra was in a lethargic haze as the murmurs of movement and talking seemed far in the distance, coming back to her like reliving the moments of unconsciousness before she woke. Were people approaching? Should she hide? She tried to will her body to move. Get up. Get out of sight, she told herself, but her body did not cooperate. Maybe it was a dream? Or was she paralyzed? Her mind felt conscious but her eyelids were lead.

At one moment she felt a weight on her chest, not heavy like it was trying to suffocate her, but gentle. The sent of feint roses, travel and sweat softly overwhelmed her senses. Something about it was comforting and innocent. A woman? Then there was a grasp of her wrist. Callused fingers touched the soft skin where Phaedra remembered the strange mark appearing. And then her head was cradled, resting upon a soft surface that made her wonder if this was the kind of comfort a mother would give their child. It was a foreign feeling that made her nostalgic for something she never experienced.

Then Phaedra had an odd sensation of weightlessness. Was she dead? Something carried her but she couldn’t tell if it was to death or beyond, or someone moved her body while her mind was away. She felt a breeze sweep rose scented hair across her face. As a reflex she wanted to brush it away, yet her body did not listen… Though a finger twitched. Then a loud explosion startled her awake, jolting her body as her mind and consciousness coincided.

Sensory overload washed over her in a tidal wave. Where was she? Who was this woman carrying Phaedra on her back? And who was the wizard? She raised her head from the brunette’s shoulder, her eyes wide as she took in her environment. Her gaze fixated on the surrounding ruins and it all came back to her, knocking the wind out of her in an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. At the shock, Phaedra sat herself up from the woman’s back, yanking up her sleeve to stair down at the fresh mark that plagued her skin. It wasn’t a dream?

Phaedra’s body was thrown off balance at her sudden movements. Her legs were still held in the woman’s grasp but her body tipped backwards until her back slammed into the ground with a slight thud.

Mara suddenly felt the weight on her back shift. The muscles of the woman that had before been limp like a sleeping child, went stiff. Then the weight pulled backwards, knocking her into the now struggling woman. Mara yelped in fright, tightening her grip in fear they would flounder into the cellar or the living dead.

"Wait! Wait!" Mara rasped.

Still in slight disbelief, Phae tugged the sleeve over the mark and closed her eyes for a long moment. She pulled back the fabric again to see it still staring back at her. ”Fuck,” she cursed under her breath as her left hand quickly covered the damned mark.

Images of everything before her blackout flashed through Phaedra’s mind until it all came back to the strange tablet she found. She had questions… Too many to count between the mark, the village and the convenient people who just happened to find her. But if she wanted to be any closer to some semblance of answers she needed that damned thing. Phaedra quickly tore into her satchel, sifting her hand through the contents but it wasn’t there. She slipped her feet from the woman’s hold, trying to be quick but gentle enough not to hurt her.

Mara felt the woman tugging her feet from her grip. She didn't fight her. And Mara watched in vague horror as she fled.

"C..callion?! She's awake..and running away..." Mara said to the wizard as she scrambled to her feet. Still, she minded his words. Freed from her burden, she inched closer to Callion. A trembling hand gingerly gripping the back of his robe, like a lost child.

"It's dangerous...shouldn't we go help her? I didn't feel any weapons on her..." Mara whispered, looking anxiously in the direction the woman fled. "Please?" Mara asked turning round eyes to Callion. She knew he could probably feel her trembling, but with her other hand, she fished an arrow from her satchel. She was too shaken to fire it...but she could still hold it and strike. Her eyes flashed with a small determination. Callion looked back, seeing the pleading Mara and the makeshift weapon she had in her hand. With a calm movement, he lightly brushed her weapon hand down and made a slight swat at the hand that gripped the robe, momentarily forgetting about the woman currently running from them.

"It will be fine...and don't touch the robes, I would prefer to keep them as clean as possible...despite our current predicament."

Mara winced away from Callion's swatting hand as if she'd been burned. She drew both hands together, gripping the arrow that had also been pushed aside and looked down. She should know better than to touch someone unbidden.

"Y..yes...sorry...I didn't intend to offend you..."
She suddenly felt smaller.

Phaedra hopped and skipped through the rubble trying to keep her footing light. Every few steps, she’d lose her balance as she grew dizzy from her head wound. Whenever she stumbled over, Phaedra would flounder back to her feet. She didn’t spare a glance backwards toward the other two to see if they were chasing after her, watching or leaving her behind. And honestly, she didn’t care.

When Phaedra saw the scorched shoe she lent Rebekka, she skid onto the ground. Her hands quickly started to sift through the debris. She froze where she was when she heard rustling in the rubble near by. As quietly as she could manage, Phae continued to search until she found the tablet and slid it into her sack. Regardless of the other two helping her, she didn’t know them and something made her apprehensive about sharing the weird tablet that gave her her mark. So to quickly cover up why she went back, she picked up the burnt shoe in her hand and stood up. The head rush made her sway before gaining some bit of control over her balance and started back toward the others.

With the new strangers in view, Phaedra adjusted her satchel on her shoulder, stepping through the remnants of the village. They both seemed quite on edge, which she didn’t understand. The place looked like hell but so far she hadn’t seen anything to warrant so much caution as a barrier and whatever the woman was holding. She moved passed the smoked cellar, paying it no mind. That was until there was a shifting noise behind her and before she could turn around something grabbed a hold of her ankle, pulling her to the ground.

Phaedra extended her hands to catch her weight as she fell. She rolled onto her back and became frozen in shock as… well, a dead man began to climb on top of her making grotesque guttural noises. She kicked and tried to break free but nothing made the thing budge. Her left forearm pressed against the undead’s chest, pushing back against it to keep their chomping teeth away from her face. Her right hand grabbed a hold of a small knife tucked in her corset and slammed it up through its jaw. And while that would stop any man, it was unfazed coming at her crazed and stronger.

a bolt of what appeared to be fire slammed into the creature's head, causing bits of bone, rotted flesh and what was left of the creature's brain to spray out the other side as it went limp on the stranger's body. Callion lowered his hand, a small red sigil disappearing as he did so, walking closer to the woman and making sure Mara was keeping in step with him. Eventually the barrier encompassed all of them, roughly ten feet in diameter as Callion knelt down to the woman. "Well if she's strong enough to struggle, then maybe she's strong enough to tell us what happened here..." Callion semi-asked, as if he was both talking to the women around him and himself at the same time while one of his hands reached towards hers and pointed at the mark that she had tried to cover up. "And why she's marked like us."

Mara followed Callion like a birdish shadow. Shyly, she began to offer a hand to the woman to assist her, but thinking better of it, she slowly withdrew it again. Instead, she clutched the arrow, looking meekly at her shoes.

"Are you ok, miss?" She murmured softly, though couldn't bring herself to look up from her feet again.

Setting

The World of Ambar

Characters Present

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

#2018-09-14 13:08:01, as written by iCakez

The first to step forward was Callion. He was quick to offer his advice, which Ragnar appreciated. He was sure everyone else did. Eccentric as he might be, he would be valuable in a situation like this. He wasn't sure about the magical affinity of the other members of the group. Almost unnoticed, Mara crept along behind him as quiet as she usually was. His eyes lingered on her for a second. He briefly wondered why he found himself having a soft spot for this young woman.

Looking back to the rest of the group, he raised his arms slightly to either side, indicating that he was waiting for someone to step forward and join him. The wind rustled through the burnt trees, as if they were aware of their presence. As if they spoke their own language and warned each other of intruders. It didn't help alleviate the eerie feeling this place gave off. Silently, Ragnar reminded himself to not let his imagination get the best of him, but use his soldier's brain to be rational and remain wary.

Garos, too, seemed to watch as Callion and Mara disappeared down one of the cobblestone pathways. A strange smile played on his face, eyebrow flagged. Nearly all three directions looked the same, rubble and disarray. The smell of death lingered in the air, uncomfortable. It hung heavy around their shoulders. A sense of being watched seemed to hang there, as well. As if someone were studying them from afar. Though the feeling had no apparent source, from what they could tell, there was no one looking at them. At least, no one they could spot from their vantage point. It took him a moment before he seemed to remember himself, shaking his head and hooking his thumbs into the loops of his belt.

He made a humming sound in the back of his throat and joined Ragnar at his side, grin slipping into somewhat of a frown. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said softly, huffing against the breeze snaking its way through the trees, bent over the remains of houses and the pathway itself. It might’ve been pretty if it weren’t so… empty. A ghost-town of a place; lacking any heartbeat villages usually had. The familiarity, the dirt-smudged faces. All gone. Burnt to cinders. Blinking up at the smolder, his expression tightened before he cleared his throat, indicating that Ragnar take lead. His discomfort was clear to see, through the tension of his shoulders, to the glassiness of his unusual eyes.

“Place gives me the willies.”

He tapped Garos lightly on the shoulder and turned, starting down the middle road. Though not before he had given Cecilia and Thomas a nod and a glance toward the road on the right. It was the only remaining option and therefore their choice was already made for them. Personally, Ragnar was pleased with his partner but he couldn't help wondering if their strengths could have been allocated more efficiently. But that was too late now. They might as well get the task over with.

It was a conscious decision to wait with giving Garos a reply. Ragnar didn't want to say what he felt and thought in front of the others as it might discourage them. Some of them, at least. He looked around. As they headed into town, the scenery changed slightly. No less destruction around them though, no, on the contrary. Houses were collapsed and some still smoking. And those that still stood seemed about to follow suit. He sniffed and grimaced, flexing his hand. When they were out of earshot of the rest of the group, Ragnar grumbled.

"You're not the only one who's... unsettled by this place." Ragnar said. "The smell is thick but it's not the smell of a battlefield. It's death and.... Something else." And it was precisely that which sent a shiver up his spine. Precisely that which he couldn't put his finger on that was so terrifying. And still, that was the very nature of their task it seemed. None of them knew what to expect.

Abruptly, Ragnar stopped and looked down to his left. He took a few steps, close to the rubble of an almost burnt out building. Smoke still rose into the air, but it was something at his feet that had caught his attention. Ragnar kneeled down and turned over a fragment of wood. It was still smoking, but the embers in it weren't red or orange or yellow as one might expect. They were blue. Bright blue. Careful not to touch it, he dared still to hold his hand above it but felt no heat on his skin.

"Hmm..." He let out. "The wizard would be helpful here."

Garos’ countenance was unhurried, as if he’d seen things like this before, and wasn’t quite as affected. Though, at Ragnar’s touch, he quickly turned and followed along the path, joining him at his side, thumbs still stuck into his belt. Although his appearance appeared suave and slick… perhaps, of one who’s tongue was far more used to wagging in the streets, and far more with someone who was frequently involved. His outward nature appeared deceiving. He’d seen things like this before; that’s how it seemed. He regarded the scene with lidded eyes; absorbing. Taking it in not as one who’d never seen atrocities before, but as one who was used to violence, and tragedy.

He was patient with Ragnar’s response. He hadn’t interrupted nor added anymore reflection beyond what had been stated before. Maybe, he was used to waiting. Perhaps, he was used to this sort of companionship. Or else, none at all. Garos seemed to represent a mysterious type; all smiles, and laughs, but a roughness beneath the skin that was telling to those who knew where to look. Most likely, Ragnar had seen that sort before. Someone who’d witnessed the darkest parts of people; perhaps, partook in those dark things, as well. It was hard to say when someone had eyes as dark as night. When he smiled wide, and laughed as hard as he did, it was hard to tell.

“Something else,” he echoed softly. There was a puzzled look on his face, before it smoothed itself out. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased. For someone who had his thumbs hooked into his belt, it looked as if he’d snatch the large axe from his back in any moment. He cleared his throat once more, and gave his head a shake, “I’ve never seen anything like this. Ain’t no raid, that’s for sure.” How he knew that was anyone’s guess. His history, much like everyone else Ragnar had just met, was anyone’s guess. A pause, before he added, “Didn’t wanna say it back there, but don’t think anyone survive this.”

Garos almost walked into Ragnar’s back when he abruptly stopped. Though, he’d managed to hop out of the way and peek to his side, trying to see what it was exactly that he had seen. The rubble at their sides looked as if it held nothing of particular interest. Wreckage. Bereft of life. Smothering them with smoke that smelt like burning rubble and flesh alike; something else, too. Something that they couldn’t quite put their finger on. He joined him at his side, watching as he knelt down and held his hand aloft. Just above a peculiar piece of wood.

A laugh sounded, soft and frank. “You think this involves strange magics?” He scratched at his jawline, “Not sure what we’re looking for here, but I don’t think it’s anything we’re used to seeing.” Straightening his shoulders, he regarded Ragnar once more, smoothing his fingers through his hair, “You think we'll find anyone here?” It was clear that he didn't.

He stood back up, leaving the piece of charred, blue-glowing wood alone. He dared not touch it. Usually it was not fear but common sense that bid him avoid things like this, but this was different. It wasn't fear now either though, no, it was a deep sense of unease. So Ragnar let it be, but let his eyes linger for a moment as he stood at full height next to Garos again. The great orc had been mumbling as they went. Or maybe not mumbling, maybe Ragnar's attention had just been elsewhere.

"I would guess, yes. I have certainly never seen blue fire before." He sighed. The road took a slow turn left ahead, and even more than before, Ragnar felt like drawing his sword. There was no telling what they could encounter. His eyes met Garos' dark ones. Ragnar seemed to think for a moment before he shrugged. "Not likely." He said grimly, nodding toward the road ahead.

He began moving, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Garos eyed the piece of wood curiously, though he, too, maintained his distance. His eyes reflected the blueish light, crackling embers in the twisted knots of the wood. Unlike the peculiar wizard in their midst, it didn’t appear as if the tusked mercenary had any inkling towards magic—didn’t seem as if anyone else did, either. Though, it was clear that they didn’t know much about each other. Callion was, at least, very outspoken of his capabilities. He hadn’t been shy about using his skills in front of them, either. Besides, he looked the part. Slim as he was, decked in robes. What else could he be?

He tore his eyes away from the smoldering bits of the house, and dropped his hands from his sides. He made another soft sound in the back of his throat as he surveyed the area ahead. Halfway between a sigh and a grunt. The road twisted and led into something that resembled a square. As much of one as a small village like this would have anyhow. Most likely, there’d be a small, comfy inn at its core. A homey tavern. No longer, if this was anything to go by. He met Ragnar’s eyes and held his gaze for a moment before his mouth straightened into a line, eyebrows drawn together. "I'll be glad to set this place behind us."

If anyone had survived whatever this was… it was doubtful they’d stuck around long.

Garos began cautiously retracing his steps over the rubble. One of his hands reached back over his shoulder, unstrapping the leather fastenings that kept his axe properly strapped to his back. Once it slipped free, and he brought it to the forefront, he gave it a bounce between both hands and squinted ahead of them. He, at least, looked far more comfortable with the ridiculously large weapon in hand then he did before. He only continued moving when Ragnar joined him at his side.

Ragnar unsheathed his sword as well. The black, rippled steel seemed at home in this burnt down village. From time to time, it sounded like something shifted in the rubble. Ragnar couldn't make out if it was just debris crumbling or if it was movement caused by something alive.

...blue fire and the walking dead.

The words rang out in his head. It was like a prophecy. They had seen the blue fire, so one of the things had come true. He breathed deeply and let it out in a single, solid breath. They followed the road as it slowly turned into the town square. Here there were corpses. Charred ones that lay strewn out across the cobblestone. The stench made him grimace. It was as if the air was thicker here. But that was because of them. The dead. He had smelled it before.

He slowly approached and stopped next to what looked to be the remains of a woman. Her jaw was twisted wide open and her limbs seemed impossibly thin. He let her be and moved on, carefully letting his eyes move over each of them. In the center of the square there was a large well. As he approached this, he noticed that some of the corpses here were not burnt to a crisp.

"Garos." He called out and pointed with his sword to the pale, blueish corpse at his feet. "Unburnt." He added. "I don't know what to make of it." Ragnar went to the well and looked down. He didn't seem to know what he was looking for, but he thought he might as well.

"The-" As he turned around and spoke, an explosion ripped through the air and made him snap his head in its direction. A few seconds of silence passed. Then several corpses began to move. All unburnt.

Garos’ expression had soured upon seeing the charred remains. Blackened fingers clutching the air, frozen in place. Some looked as if they had tried to defend themselves from something… others were little more than torsos, husks of people who were gnawed at by flame. How had the fire even started? There were no indications; it even seemed as if someone in the village may have been the cause, if the lack of evidence was anything to go by. Raiders normally left something or someone behind in their wake. There’d been no battle here, certainly none that were left so clean.

Those scenes were made of grislier things; blood would paint the walls, not ash. Only fire remained. Kindling. Little more than ash blowing in the wind. The sickly sweet smell lingered in the air, unfamiliar but growing stronger as they walked through the rubble. The mercenary slowed in his steps and lingered a few paces at Ragnar’s back. Whether or not he’d seen anything was anyone’s guess, but he certainly seemed to feel on edge. He hefted the axe in his hands and caught it once more, ringing his fingers around the haft. It didn’t appear as if he was nervous. Anticipation, more like.

He hadn’t stopped to look at the woman like Ragnar had. Instead, he continued forward into the widening square. It might’ve been pretty once, under better circumstances. If it hadn’t been reduced to little more than skeletal remains of buildings; it’s trees razed to crooked spines, cracking off branches when the breeze proved too strong to bear its weight. Garos’ eyebrows drew together once more, as he raked his gaze over the nearby buildings; the corpses and ashen remains.

Garos’ head swung in Ragnar’s direction when he named was called. His gaze dropped down to the odd-looking corpse laying at his feet. Unburnt, as he said. Far different from those they’d come across so far. It’s pallor, veined and splotchy; skin papery and threaded like a leaf. From the look on his face, he certainly had never seen anything like that before. His lips pulled into a hard line as he stepped over a fallen posts that might’ve once been a fence, closing the distance between them.

He hadn’t made it far, before the explosion cracked in the distance. He, too, jerked towards the sound like a dog, halting his advance. The silence was overwhelming. Uncomfortable. Much like the stench that hung in the air. It didn’t take long for it to be interrupted. A low, drawn out moan came from one of the houses. Wooden slats shook and were pushed aside by ragged arms and legs. Pushing. Crawling. Lumbering up onto sickly legs. “T-those ain’t human,” it sputtered from his lips, as if he couldn’t quite believe his own words. Even so, his reaction was one of survival. Of facing something grotesque, and answering with violence.

Breaking into a forward lunge that quickly closed the distance between he and Ragnar, Garos howled something unintelligible. Watch out, maybe. Difficult to tell with all of the gargling mewls joining the eerie moaning of the corpses rising around them. His axe whipped through the air, swinging over his head in an arc, before it slammed into the neck of the closest corpse; it’s jaw snapping towards Ragnar’s ankle. Teeth clacking. The head rolled off to the side, a few feet away. He exhaled sharply and swung around, eyeing the ambling foes. "Blue fire and walking dead. Gulfin's arse, the King wasn't kiddin'."

Initially stunned by the speed at which the orc swung the axe, Ragnar did regain his composure. His sword flew from its sheath and he was ready as well. He studied the head of the creature as it rolled away. He stood at Garos' side and looked around them as more and more of the dead staggered toward them.

"Aim for the head?"

Setting

The World of Ambar

Characters Present

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

#2018-10-23 00:42:43, as written by Yonbibuns

Sweat beaded Garos’s brow, trickling down the back of his neck. Dripping from his chin onto the dirt. The sheer number of zombies clambering out from beneath the rubble was surprising—was the whole damn village under there, shambling out to greet them? Though he’d never seen the like before, he supposed he didn’t feel that surprised. The King had warned them about this, after all. The undead, rising. Blue fire. Stuff he couldn’t quite wrap his head around. His fingers gripped tighter around the heft of his axe, biting into the leather strapping. He was thankful Ragnar was at his side, swinging with practiced precision: disciplined to the core.

A soldier, through and through. He’d seen his type before. Fought them, too. Damned good folk to have at your side, should you find yourself facing the sharp edge of a blade. Didn’t fight alongside them often, for obvious reasons. He’d never been considered all that good, even though he was friendly. Some probably considered him scum. Mercenaries. His like, feeding off coin and little else. He swung his axe in upward arc, and felt it slide through a collarbone, halting at the corpse’s clattering teeth. It crumbled and he kicked his foot off the fleshy things’ chest, pulling his axe free. But here he was. Life was funny that way.

Corpses’ littered the grounds they’d danced over, where they'd backed away from the squall to prevent themselves from being overcrowded. Those they'd felled remained unmoving this time. Truly dead. Whatever that meant in this instance. His head swam with questions; how? These were obviously the remnants of the village, of whatever had happened before they’d arrived. The smolder of flames hadn’t licked this far, that much was clear. They were in varying states of decay. Some lacked limbs, where they’d forcibly torn free from beneath homes. Others almost looked human. But their eyes, they were anything but. Soulless. Empty. He made a noise, a grunt, as he backed closer to Ragnar. “Think the other’s are okay?” He was worried, even if he believed them capable.

While he was in constant motion, fighting the onslaught of the living dead, Ragnar quickened his pace. In the distance, there were more coming. They came out of alleys and from around corners. They came from wherever they could. The two of them had only startled the ones in the square. Fortunately, it seemed as if his experience served him well in this situation. Garos could tell that he'd found a place in his mind that was absolute focus and balanced movement. His movements, concise. No wasted slashes or stabs with his sword and no distractions in his mind. See all. Expect all. It had taken years to perfect. A soldier's way of fighting.

He drew his sword from the throat of a dead creature. It gargled on semi-coagulated blood and other fluids of decay, but went limp on his sword and then fell at his feet. By the way Ragnar danced around the undead, it seemed as if he had discovered that if they severed the spine, or damaged the head sufficiently, it was a surefire way of felling the monsters; cutting off the head entirely, the beasts would die. He seemed to ponder in the brief respite between a flurry of blades and scrabbling, crooked fingers, then turned to face Garos. The large orc wasn't the worst ally to have in a situation like this. He was strong and his axe did much damage to their foes. They were two very different fighters, but you couldn't say one was more efficient than the other. Judging by the bodies surrounding Garos, the orc had slain most so far. Ragnar smirked and nodded, seemingly to himself. He rolled his shoulders and tightened his grip on his sword. The dark steel glinted hungrily.

"Well..." Ragnar began, placing his hand on Garos's shoulder, to let the big orc know he was there, before he would back into him. "The explosion came from the direction of Callion and Mara. Odd as he is, I don't think it wise to underestimate the wizard's power. He can take care of her." One of the undead approached and Ragnar made quick work of it. He cut its arm off, stepped far to the side and kicked its leg behind the knee before taking of its head. Returning to Garos' side he spoke again. "We're all capable enough to fight these slow, walking caracasses. It's their numbers that might become the problem."

Bracing for the next enemy, Ragnar looked to the skies, studying something that Garos could only guess at. Perhaps, he was searching for a means to somehow let their friends know they were there. Alive. Most likely, he was counting on them to come toward their position, though the danger would most likely not be lessened.

The blunt side of Garos’ axe slammed into the face of a nearby corpse, caving into its cheekbone, exploding splinters of bone and flesh into the air. Blood sprayed onto the charred ground at their feet and the body soon followed, tumbling onto its ruined face. His gaze roved across the grounds, toppled buildings and groaning creatures. He was right. They were damnably slow. Stumbling in their direction at a grueling pace. Mouths gaping open, tongues lolling over blackened lips, mewling a droning noise that made his skin crawl. He bet they could even walk around them if they were mindful of their steps; falling down here was a death sentence, with all of the hidden nooks and crannies these thingscould be hiding in. Hidey holes, basements. It wasn’t something he wanted to experience. A worthless, dishonorable death. One without meaning.

He pushed sweaty bangs from his face, and huffed a deep breath from his nose. Another. This time, focused from his mouth. A calm inhale, exhale. He studied their position and the remaining ambling corpses; dead-eyed and solely focused on the two that’d stumbled onto them. There were too many to fight here, and he wasn’t even sure if they were making any progress. How large had this village been? Slaughtering every single one seemed a chore; besides, it didn’t get them any closer to figuring out what had happened. They’d get tired. Sloppy. With no end to them, it wasn’t the smartest move he could think of. But he wasn’t a soldier, and he never had been… Ragnar, on the other hand.

Garos shoved a corpse who’d wandered too close and watched as its legs tangled like a clumsy colt. It fell onto its backside in the rubble, and somehow managed to trap itself onto a piece of wood sticking out like stake, slipped clear through its thigh. These things, whatever they were, weren’t intelligent enough to disentangle itself. Let alone do anything but clack their teeth and try to get at them. To do what? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to find out, either. A hand settled on his shoulder just before he would have accidentally backed into him. He flashed him a grin. One he wasn’t able to temper in time, though in this instance, he supposed he shouldn’t care. “Might be right,” he noted with a nod, “Maybe we should make our way towards them?”

He followed Ragnar’s gaze to the sky. A soft hm sifted past his lips. Calculating. Slippery as he was, staying in the thick of battle with so many variables made him itch in all the wrong ways. “Think our best bet is to find them. Make some distance, ‘til we know what this is.” A thick eyebrow raised as he swung his gaze to the approaching corpses, growing ever closer. The same, droning moan beat at their sides. “What say you?”

In the midst of it all, Ragnar seemed too focused to process what Garos was saying. He was fending off the undead, keeping himself in the right position all the time while also remaining aware of their surroundings. He did not look like a man who was about to be surprised by one of these creatures. But a sharp glint and a nod was enough to let Garos know that he had heard him. It was obvious that he was considering his suggestion, seemingly running through all the options for their next move in his head. Apparently, he couldn't find one, but before he could give his answer, he was attacked. The bloated corpse of someone that once been a fat butcher, by the looks of him, had taken a swing at Ragnar. The soldier had in turn managed to block the attack with his sword, resulting in a couple of lost fingers for the corpse. This apparently confused Ragnar as he stood and looked at the undead man, who did not seem to notice that his fingers had been cut off. With a shrug and a sigh, he cut the man's arm just below the elbow in a parry that he continued in a fluid motion upwards, only to bring the edge of the sword into the skull of the former butcher. All movement and gargling seized and he fell. Blackfyre came free with a slick, sticky noise.

Taking his place back beside Garos, Ragnar pointed with his sword in the direction of Thomas and Cecilia. "I agree." He lowered his sword again. "If we can cut a path through them that way, we should meet Cecilia and Thomas. Then we can go get Callion and Mara?" He whirled the sword around, the edge catching the wind and making it sing slightly. "And then get the hell out of here."

Garos swung his attention back towards the nearest corpse, its crooked fingers already wagging in the air, inches from his sleeve, moan drawn into a feverish whine. It looked as if it were trying to bumble into him, but he wasn’t particularly sure. Arms held wide, as if to embrace. He hadn’t taken long to step out of its grasp and land a square kick to its sternum, watching as it stumbled backwards and toppled onto its back. He wasted no time swinging his axe in a wide arc, planting the sharp end into its face, nearly cleaving its head from what remained of its neck. It. He couldn’t really tell whether or not it’d been a woman or a man; what with the decay. He tried not to think of who it might have been.

He pursed his lips and saw from his peripherals Ragnar felling a much bulkier corpse, decked in a butcher’s apron. A harsh thud later, and Garos joined him at his side, keeping a close watch on the approaching undead. It would do them no good if they were backed into a corner. He huffed another breath, harsher this time. The dead were relentless in their approach, undaunted seeing their fellows struck down so viciously. So unlike people; those who actually cared. Strip that away from someone, and what did you have left? A monster. Little else but an empty vessel. These things… whatever they were. Pleased with Ragnar’s answer, he thumped his chest with his fist, fingers twined. A sign that was hardly recognized, lest the person knew of the Hooded Company. His eyes flashed as brightly as the peeping tusks at his lips, “Lead on, I have your back.”

The soldier took a brief moment before he moved. He seemed to wonder what the gesture meant. Garos’ smile was anything but revealing. He might not have told the trust enough if he was asked outright. The Hooded Company wasn’t the tidiest of organizations to exist. Maybe, Ragnar had even bumped into them in less than savory circumstances. He didn’t want to risk painting himself with their dirty brush, not when they were getting along so well. His ilk had the tendency of souring things, after all. Instead of asking, Ragnar started moving in the direction they had agreed upon. While his spear would have been good to have in a situation like this, managed with his blade. He swung it left and right, cutting limbs off and severing hamstrings to slow the movement of his enemies even further. He seemed more interested in incapacitating than killing them outright. Both males fought efficiently through the horde of the dead, rapidly approaching the edge of their surrounding enemies.

Garos, too, focused on hobbling the creature’s encroaching at their sides, rather than killing them. Not because he didn’t want to. He did. Their constant moaning and crackling teeth set his own on edge. Who knew what damage they’d cause to anyone unfortunate to stumble into this village? ‘Course, protecting passerbyers wasn’t why they were sent here, and besides, they didn’t know or understand what they were up against. This would have to do, at least until they rounded everyone up. No doubt, Callion would have a few choice words about these… things.

If they could keep up their tempo they would be out very soon and hopefully able to meet up with Cecilia and Thomas.

Besides, Garos was beginning to tire, and there seemed to be no end to these undead things. Relentless as they were, fingers splayed into the air, ever reaching. He peered out into the empty streets ahead as he swung his axe, slicing through an arm. It ripped free from its elbow, and bounced on the ground. Seemed as if the horde dwindled further up, but he couldn’t be sure. In the distance, he thought he could see two figures, facing away from them. Familiar, but too far to tell.

Hopefully it was them.

Setting

The World of Ambar

Characters Present

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

#2018-11-25 02:07:44, as written by SpiritDancer

As they moved through the streets of the village, with Thomas following close behind her, Cecilia was quickly beginning to realize that the undead were approaching faster than she could fell them. She gritted her teeth as she brought her blade down, piercing through the head of one creature that had scratched at her feet. It died for a second time then. She didn't know how long they had to go before they reached the town center, her vision blocked by the wave of undead that ceased to let up. "Damn it!" Cecilia was beginning to grow tired of this nonsense.

With a sudden flash of blinding white light, a wave of lighting shot out in front of her, flattening rows of undead. A deafening thunder sounded throughout the village as a result, surely drawing more monsters to their location. Wiping droplets of sweat from her brow, Cecilia cared little for whatever commotion she caused now. Let them come if they wished. With another, weaker flash of light, Cecilia touched a finger to her rapier, flames sprouting from its hilt as they rushed to cover the blade in full. She snapped her heard towards Thomas, "Keep up the pace! We shouldn't be too far from the others at this rate." She quickly refocused on the enemies in front of her, cutting down those that came too close with an arc of fire.

It was obvious to her that she couldn't keep casting spell after spell. Eventually, she'd grow fatigued, and it'd be easy for anything to overpower her then. In an ideal situation, they'd make it out of the village before that ever became a possibility. If not, well... she tried not to think about the alternatives. Behind her, she could hear the distinct sound of an arrow let loose from a bow, and peering over, watched as it planted itself dead center in the creature's head. Thomas looked like he wasn't giving too much of an effort to the entire situation. He had speed to his actions, but it somehow held a distinct lack of pressure or alertness. Thomas moved to keep up with Cecilia, but he would aim for far longer than any other archer in recent memory, letting loose an arrow only after several seconds more than necessary. Even though each arrow found its mark, center of the forehead, it was simply not enough to stem the tide. The only moments Thomas seemed to move with some sense of urgency would be when a creature got too close to him, resulting in his pulling a dagger from his sheath and quickly planting it in the zombie's temple.

He didn't say a thing either, not even grunts of effort or exertion. He was completely silent, but at the very least appeared to be moving with her as she continued towards the center of town. A large crash from the building directly to her right sounded the alarm that more undead were coming upon them, and only then did she finally hear Thomas actually mutter any words. "Cal Tsu", Elvish words, roughly translating to 'Arrow of Fire'. On cue, Thomas's bow lit up like a blaze and sent an arrow flying towards the several undead trying to scramble out of the building, creating a small explosion as the entire area was lit up in a blaze.

A smirk found its way onto Cecilia's face. At least Thomas had more to offer than a few loose arrows and daggers. She didn't acknowledge that he had spoken elven words, though she did briefly ponder where he would've learned such a technique as she pierced through a handful of undead in her path. Perhaps the situation wasn't as hopeless as it was quickly beginning to feel, but there were still many monsters that stood between them and the others, and she had the sinking feeling that they'd need more than a few explosive arrows. It was hard to tell how far they were from the others, and at this point, she was more concerned about whether she and Thomas would be overwhelmed.

As another creature drew close, Cecilia quickly plunged her rapier into its skull, watching as it clawed at the blade until it fell limp, some of the flames beginning to catch on the decayed flesh. With a swift movement, she kicked it off the blade's end and quickly arced a blade through another one of the undead. Thunder sounded once more as she recast the spell she used only moments before, giving them time to breathe as the other undead clambered over the numerous corpses that had just been laid flat."If you really had to, hypothetically, about how many more of those arrows could you shoot?"

Thomas glanced at his quiver attached to his back with an almost slow and deliberate motion. It seemed like everything he did appeared both lazy and with deliberate purpose. "Ten." Thomas answered, his hand pulling another arrow and nocked it into his bow. Drawing it, and aiming once again with an extended period, he let loose and sent it directly into the forehead of yet another undead creature. "It won't matter if we can't get to the center. We need to regroup with the others and leave." Thomas stated, stepping closer to the elf as he prepared yet another arrow.

Cecilia let out a harsh huff as she gazed at the path in front of them. "I suppose you have a point." As she continued cutting down the rotten corpses, she was becoming increasingly aware of the fact that she was ill-equipped to deal with such overwhelming numbers. These undead were different from foes she'd face during her travels. While the common group of bandits could be sent scurrying away with the simple flash of a spell, the monsters remained unperturbed, even as others fell around them. It seemed as though they lacked awareness of anything that wasn't a target to be attacked, a disregard for everything but flesh that could be ripped and torn. If these things ever had a conscious, it was clear that they had quickly lost.

It was a shame that they stood at the end of her blade now, otherwise, Cecilia might've felt a pang of grief for them.

"Perhaps, it'd be better to simply get them out of the way." And with a rapid motion of her free hand, a glowing sigil appeared underneath a cluster of the horde in front of them before they were promptly sent flying, slamming into the crumbling houses beside the path, some even knocking down other undead with their lank bodies. It was a simple redirection spell, leaving more damage done due to the impact than the spell itself. Cecilia cared not for killing them all. What mattered now is that the path was beginning to clear. "I suggest you continue to stick close and save your energy. Don't bother killing unless they're too close."

There was the briefest of nods from the assassin, so subtle as to wonder if he had heard her words at all. He did take a few steps closer though, and in accordance with her words, his bow was ready but held low and his eyes darted over the landscape, denying his otherwise lazy stature. When a member of the undead variety did get too close, she found his bow at the ready and an arrow promptly found its way to its head. Together, they pushed through the horde, leaving behind more than their fair share of dead... or undead bodies as they went, yet they continued to come at them. Seeming to pick up on her desire to push through, she watched as he drew another arrow pointed ahead of them, and a glow started to resonate off of the bow. "Cal Nor". The blue arrow shot true, striking yet another undead in the eye and exploding much like before, but this time covering everything in a thick frost. Several creatures slowed and quickly stopped as their limbs were frozen solid. A few on the outer most edge of the blast continued to move, but severed their limbs as their legs attached to the ground and refused to be moved by any power.

"Nine." Thomas stated.

The grin on Cecilia's was all teeth as she watched a sheet of ice cover the undead. "If I'm being honest, I must say that you are beginning to surprise me in the best of ways." They found a steady rhythm, alternating between Cecilia's spells and Thomas' arrows, making their way through the infested streets at a brisk pace. Before long, they came across a road section that seemed to open up towards the end. Corpses were sent flying once more with one last redirection sigil, revealing the town center that had a horde of its own. And cutting their way through the horde were the familiar faces of Ragnar and Garos.

"Well, it's quite the relief to see someone who isn't a putrid, walking corpse."

Setting

The World of Ambar

Characters Present

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

#2019-01-03 21:30:19, as written by mjolnir

It was silent... Far longer what was comfortable. Phaedra strayed behind the pair as they lead onward to some unknown destination. Her gaze fixated on the billowing hem of Callion's robes, causing her brows to furrow. She barely knew the man, yet he already rubbed her the wrong way. To some extent she could see where the woman was coming from, but either way to expect her to be content and merry to join along was foolish. After all, Phae had no idea who these people were. Sure, she had their names, and between how Mara described them and what she's picked up on her own, she could connect some dots. But that didn't explain why they were together.

Regardless of how safe she was supposed to feel, Phaedra's hands still twitched close to her daggers. It was all too convenient. Not only was she found by a strange pair in a razed village no one dared go near, but they had a mark similar to the one that recently appeared on her own wrist. It felt like a setup. No doubt an intricate ruse but a ruse none the less. Everything seemed to piece together too well.

Phaedra lingered more as her gaze fell to her satchel that rested against her hip. She glanced toward the pair making sure they wer looking elsewhere, before she lifted the leather flap. Her fingertips brushed the surface of the odd stone tablet, too apprehensive to risk whipping it out for the world to see. It felt too important... and potentially dangerous.

Her feet stopped moving as she was temporarily entranced by the tablet. Phaedra looked up as she closed her satchel, seeing the barrier move ahead without her. It'd be a lie to say she didn't think about it, turning and running the other way, disappearing out of sight before neither Mara nor Callion noticed. But before her mind could make the decision, sounds of distant voices alarmed her that the rest of this party was near.

Mara's shoulders visibly relaxed as she heard the voices. These were clearly familiar sounds to her.

"I hear Cecilia and Garos, I think." The girl murmured, looking to the wizard. Her expression seemed a little relieved and... flushed? Mara turned to Phaedra, expression soft. "Just know that Garos... the tall one with small tusks... is loud and... may hug you." Mara's expression reddened a little and she looked at the ground bashfully. "B-but he's very kind and means no harm by it... most of them seem well natured, truly." Mara notched another arrow, pointing toward the ground. The girl visibly took a deep breath, steadying herself. She seemed so out of place here and aware of it... yet still smiled softly. "Callion, can you see? How bad do they seem? Is anyone injured?"

Phaedra looked up from beneath crimson looks, her gaze fixated on the dark haired woman before her. Was Mara... blushing? Curious. Working in a world of... flesh, she quickly learned how to read others, but it wasn't hard here. The girl wasn't hiding it well. A crush was an interesting thing to develop in such odd circumstances. She couldn't recall if she ever had experienced a crush, but she imagined along with Mara's flushed cheeks, butterflies churned in her stomanch. A small smirk grew as she parted her lips to speak, but instead of hearing herself, Callion's rather obnoxious voice was present.

"The only beings I see are the ones who are far beyond anyone worrying about their injuries." Callion stated as he seemed to pause for a moment. Glancing ahead of him, more of the dead ones stumbled forward, their arms reaching out to grab the trio. Callion seemed to pause, his brow furrowed as he peered at the crowd ahead of them. "That being said, there appears to be far more of these walking insect factories than I anticipated..." The first dead one slammed into the barrier around them but didn't pass through. Like it was hitting a wall, it pushed and hit against it with whatever muscle fibre it had left. As more and more undead clambered against the barrier, Callion flinched and physically slid backwards as he gripped his staff in a white knuckle hold.

Mara, practically underfoot of the wizard, winced as she too was forced back.

As the dead started to pile it, it became evident that it was a very real force against Callion as he stumbled and started to lose ground, his feet digging slight gouges into the earth as the pile in front of them became larger. His eyes gazed backwards for a moment, searching for something but evidently not finding it as he returned his attention to the front and attempted to... reinforce the barrier? He stabbed his staff into the ground for a moment, the barrier flashing with what seemed like renewed vigor as Callion attempted to push past the group, but this required a strength that the wizard did not seem to have.

Still standing outside the barrier, Phaedra backstepped avoiding a collison from the pair as they retreated from the creatures. She secured her satchel against her hip before her hands found their home on the handles of her daggers harnessed against her lower back. Just as she was about to shove between the two, an arrow went loose.

Thwak!

Surprisingly, the farm girl loosed another arrow into the horde of undead. Peeking around the wizard like a child might peek from her mother's skirts, she held her bow a loft. A glance showed her eyes were wide with fear, but again, her aim was better than expected. Another eye shot. The one she hit slid down the barrier and moved no more. Shakily, the girl fit another arrow, loosed it, and struck another creature in the forehead. The thing was so decayed that the shaft went straight through and a second creature slumped away from the wizard's sheild. But her shots were slow, shaking, and not nearly enough to stem the oncoming flow of creatures. Still, there was a clear determination in her eyes as she refit more arrows and loosed them. The clutter of bodies, making up for her shaking hands, she felled one by one.

Phaedra glanced back over her shoulder. The path was still clear... tempting too. But as she looked back before her, a sigh escaped her lips. Before she could talk herself out of doing the right thing, her feet went into action. Rather than run back into the barrier, between the archer and wizard, she ran around. Phae made a sideways glance to the pair as she passed the protective bubble, and made her way to the back of the growing pile. One after another the undead clawed and pushed each other to get into the barrier, and more were coming up behind her.

Pale fingers pulled the daggers from their sheaths. In the same motion she turned with her left side toward the barrier and the right toward the oncoming hoard, the blades finding their way into two decaying skulls. Phaedra didn't take the time to revel in the moment, instead withdrawing her weapons and burying them into the eye sockets of another oncoming thing. She quickly got into a rhythm, dancing her way through those that charged toward her. Aim for the head, aim for the head, she repeated in her mind as she moved.

Corpse after corpse collapsed, litering the ground like fallen trees. But it seemed no matter how quickly she moved, more arrived, swarming her like flies to decay. Phaedra ducked beneath swinging arms as they clawed after her. Boney fingers tore the fabric from her sleeves and scratched her arms as she sifted through them. Elbows flew into their faces, her kicks snapping legs as she worked through them, slowly leading them all away from the barrier.

Phaedra climbed her way above the hoard, her left hand supporting her against the flowing crowd while her right continued to stab at any skull within reach. In the distance she could see them... whoever they were, the others in Callion and Mara's party. When there was a pause, a brief moment where all the undead beneath her seemed to freeze like the calm before the storm, she called out to the others. "Go! Go now!" Phae motioned her hand in the direction of the others just before the hoard swallowed her back up.

"You're looking mighty fine yourselves!" A voice called over the havoc of the swarm. No doubt it was directed towards the others, perhaps to the ones Mara spoke of. In the midst of the swarm, Phaedra kept moving taking down whatever undead she could as she sifted through them. Two figures rushed their way through the throng of undead, fighting towards another pair, only mere glimpses of them flashed between the crowd of rotting flesh. One even appeared to flash a bright smile, once he had a moment's respite. By the looks of it, two of them dabbled in magic. It was an impressive sight. The grizzled soldier kept focusing on the oncoming dead as he spoke, though the tide slowed slightly. It was evident that he was glad they were relatively unscathed. By the time he was within a few yards distance of the other pair, he was sweaty and breathing heavily. It was a constant skirmish this and their enemy wouldn't let up, but it was clear that the man relished in this environment. He did not look out of place.

Another man was at his heels, breathing just as heavily. Orc, no doubt, although he didn't appear as barbaric as others Phaedra had come across. Maybe a halfbreed like herself? Was that the hugger Mara spoke of? His ridiculously large axe dripped with blood and gore; caked with matted hair and other things Phaedra probably didn’t want to guess at. He looked perplexed for a moment as his eyes roved over them, blinking owlishly in the distance. There was a small tip to his lips; the small tusks Mara described barely peeping up, before his expression tempered itself into a smooth line, as if he suddenly remembered they were surrounded by a swarm of relentless undead. He seemed plenty happy to let the soldier do whatever talking as he swung around and ended an oncoming corpse's advance, cleaving it nearly in two from the collarbone down. It ambled and fell.

"Have you heard anything from the others?" The soldier's tone turned a little more grim and serious, as if he were bracing himself for bad news. Phaedra could only guess his expression matched, but in the thralls of the hoard she didn't dare turn her attention elsewhere. Despite the chaos, his voice rang with authority. Loud, booming. Probably to be heard over the near-constant moans surrounding them. He took off the hand of an approaching deadling in one smooth move, bringing the sword up over his head and planting it in the skull so deep that it cut the nose in half. The creature's jaw clacked together rapidly, as if the brain was sending conflicting signals to the body. Then it stopped. He planted a foot on its chest and wrenched the sword free. "I think it's best we regroup and come up with a better plan." The orc flashed a grin over his shoulder, clearly agreeing with the sentiment. It appeared as if he were saying something in a lower voice, tipping his chin up in Phaedra's direction. The gesture caught her attention, causing the red head to quirk a brow, yet she said nothing. She never liked people talking about her as if she wasn't present, but it wasn't the time to pick a fight. The orc wiped at his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand and faced outwards once more, studying the slow, languid approach of undead. Wary, but ready.

It felt like ages before Phaedra broke through the hoard at the back... Or was it the front? She took the brief moment to catch her breath. Her long crimson hair had long fallen from its ribbon, locks clung to the sweat and blood upon her cheeks. Her gaze fell to the torn sleeves of the expensive silk shirt she stole from the ridiculous Lord she encounter a few days past. Without batting an eye she raised her blade and freed the tattered fabric from the blouse, exposing her pale arms covered in scratches and caked in... she didn't want to guess.

Phaedra finally allowed herself to take in the newcomers. An orc and a soldier. No doubt an interesting company. She never saw such varying types of people in the same city, let alone on a first name basis traveling in the same party. Her brows furrowed and lips pursed slightly in thought as she studied them. No two of them seemed even remotely similar, herself included. All that could be said of the two accompanying men was that they were both handsome, but that was not hard to see, although in completely different ways. The soldier was attractive in the same way most soldiers were, strong and gallant. He fell under that tall, dark and handsome category but the way he carried himself was as if he didn't know this about himself. While the orc had an ethnic beauty about him, which only lead Phaedra to stand by her assumption of him being a mix breed like herself. Rarity has a magnetic appeal to it.

"A better plan?" Phaedra scoffed, repeating the soldiers own words back to him as she glanced over her shoulder toward the approaching undead. A wary sigh escaped her lips as her dagger clenched fists rested on her hips. "How about leaving before we're killed... or worse." She turned her attention back to the soldier as she brushed her hair back from her face.

Seen 45 Times • Page 3 of 3 • 1, 2, 3

Garos Sharad

0 · 1,191 views · located in The World of Ambar

a character in “Ambar: Chapter 1 - Snow & Ash”, originally authored by Yonbibuns, as played by RolePlayGateway

Description

So begins...

Garos Sharad's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Setting

Characters Present

Setting

Characters Present

Setting

Characters Present

Setting

Characters Present