[Linmotar] Black Mage Down! Black Mage Down!

[Bad_Kharma]

The sun stood at it's Zenith high above the city of Raliea, though it most likely went unseen by anyone. After the storm of last night, thick clouds of mist had begun to move in at first light and now they had swallowed the entire landscape. Nothing of the great trees, now coloured in their many shades of red, orange and brown as fall approached could be observed. Nor the sight of the green grass covered with morning dew, glistening in sunlight nor the soothing ripples of the many hills of the Reliean landscape could reach one's eyes. All there was to be seen was a depressing shade of gray all around you, limiting sight to a few yards at best. Every now and than, the sun managed to show itself as a pale yellow disc high above, but that too quickly vanished again.

Surrounded by that one depressing colour, two figures haphazardly made their way west along the Great Mountain road outside of Raliea. Their progress made extra slow by the cobbled road, one man limping along while the other supported him. Every step taken was an extra hurdle passed, but alas at the cost of great strength. Only a few more steps could be taken before fate struck, sending them both tumbling to the ground; a wayward stone having caught the limping man’s boot.

~*~

The wounded warrior tried to correct himself, using his injured leg to catch his fall, but as to be expected, his leg simply buckled under the weight. A loud groan escaped from the man’s mouth, a jolting pain surging upwards through his leg as he fell to the ground like a brick - his heavy bronzen armour most likely having something to do with that. Shock rippled through his limbs as his elbow met the ground first, the rest of the body following almost immediately after. The sounds of metal impacting with stone were swiftly dampened by the thick mist though, not echoing further than a few yards at best and quickly silenced beyond it. The wails that followed them however were incessant. Pain had increased tenfold as it shot up the man’s elbow – a sensitive spot on any body - and outright scream of agony combated against the mist as a result whilst the dark-elf’s face distorted itself in pain; his eyes clenched shut tightly, his mind tried blocking out the pain, his teeth locked together, trying to bite the agony away.

Sadly, the grimace itself hurt as much as the elbow did, his face being a canvas of many cuts and bruises, purplish stains surrounding swollen bumps of skin at various spots. It was a wonder any untouched skin remained, though it certainly didn’t feel like it. He had received all his wounds the night before as a party of five angry sailors took him for a punching bag. Now, he had yet another note to add to the grand orchestra that played his nerves like a harp. The pain would slowly ebb away from his mind for sure, most likely allowing fatigue to take the upper hand again, but that time was not now. The dark-elf and his companion had been traveling all morning and though this accursed mist might not allow for an accurate sense of time, Sorakon was sure they had been walking for hours. To make things all the more aggravating, he didn’t even know where exactly they were going, just that it was ‘home’ to the other one. Right now, he was too tired and in too much pain to actually address the point, he simply wished it to be over with, he couldn’t go on much longer, his body had its limits like any other.

~*~

Edmund could hear the sounds of armour grating on cobbled road behind him, his partner writhing in pain, his cries not falling on deaf ears. The holy warrior was simply too exhausted to respond or turn around himself. Edmund had fared much better than his companion in their fall, simply having put his hands down in front of him to catch his tumble. Now leaning on all fours, Edmund gathered his thoughts again, his mind and body as exhausted as his companion's. His long black hairs, dampened by the fog, coldly draped themselves alongside his face, Edmund's helmet now lying a few feet away in the green grass alongside the road. But it didn’t take long before pain registered itself with Edmund as well, though be it in a much milder degree as with Sorakon.

Pulling himself back to his knees, his feet supporting his ass, he pulled up his hands and looked down at his palms, almost in bewilderment he had actually been hurt. His gloves were the poorer for it after the fall, the flimsy things that they were. Pieces of leather had been torn away and in their stead scraped skin now showed, a crimson color slowly seeping through the many cracks of the torn flesh while grains of dirt and sand clung to leather and blood alike. It was as if he had never seen blood and dirt, so mesmerized was he by his minor wounds. But in reality, he took it all as an excuse to give his body a moment’s pause. For the seconds this would continue on, he would not need to carry his wounded companion further over the road. As long as he concentrated on his hands, he wouldn't have to contemplate whether or not he had already walked past his home in this fog and had simply missed it. As long as he started at those wounds, there was nothing but those wounds and the pain and in a way, it was soothing.

He hadn't just been up and about since first light, but well before that, only taking a ten minute nap before jolting awake again, his mind having realized he had fallen asleep. The night before, Edmund had intervened in the fight between five sailors and the man he now supported. He had joined the uneven fight simply because it was the right thing to do. If it had been left at that, Edmund would have been much more rested. But seeing the wounds of the dark-elf, a man Edmund had actually been looking for, the holy warrior couldn't leave the man alone and instead had stayed up the entire night to watch over the man and care for his wounds. The entire ordeal began to demand its toll now, both on his body and his mind. His eyelids felt heavy and the temptation to give into sleep was overwhelming. Even the discomforts of the chilly air combined with the damp mist were barely enough to keep him from snuggling against the cold ground right then and there. To make things worse, it was as if the wind was singing him a lullaby, slowly blowing past around him, singing in his ears, the chill it provided hardly being noticed by his numbing skin.

A glimpse away from his hands woke him from his thoughts though, or at least, the absence of them. Right before him lay his mask, a face of empty sockets and welded shut lips staring back at him, the thin white layer of water drops between them somehow making the mask look all the more lifelike, gazing at him with those black empty eyes. With a sigh, Edmund reached out and picked up the mask, his eyes now searching for his helm, finding it surrounded by high brownish-green grass a few feet away from him. Obviously, the helm had been launched off Edmund’s head as he fell to the ground, though the half-elf still pondered on what could have happened, he hadn’t even heard it fall to the ground to begin with; Regardless, the holy warrior reluctantly and with much effort got to his feet and walked over, picked up his helmet, brushed off a few sprites of grass and after drawing his black hairs back, shoved it back on his head. Quickly after, the mask was once more inserted in front of his face within the helmet, a single click indicating the helmet was once more complete, the picture of Edmund now whole again.

Turning around, the half-elf faced towards his dark semi-brethren, for Sorakon was a full elf, and gazed upon the pale image before him, a thick gray veil heavily diluting the sight of the bronze armour and the dark flesh contained within it. Another sigh left Edmund’s lips before he walked over, not certain how much further it was to home, but certain they must be on the move again. Once before the elf, Edmund bent down, not paying much attention to the dark-elf's wounds, he didn't have the time to waste on that, every moment awake was a moment too many. Instead, Edmund grasped Sorakon's wrist and pulled him up by his left arm, throwing it over his shoulder while propping his own right arm behind the dark-elf’s back, grasping him firmly beneath his armpit. The break had ended, mind numbing labor was now to be performed.

~*~

Sorakon groaned at the sight of the half-elf approaching him, not because of the mask, he had gotten used to that by now - and he knew the face beneath it, they had met in a tavern 2 nights before - but he had barely recovered from his fall and already his savior of the night before insisted on tormenting him even more. Trying his best to suppress his yelps, Sorakon simply underwent it, doing his best to put his own strength into the movements. He didn't contributing all that much, his body being as good as drained - and cold, and wet, and starting to get numb as well - but he did manage to keep his elbow close to his body and thusly spare himself from more agony. A great achievement for someone in his condition. Sorakon didn’t hold this torment against the man though, for he knew the half-elf was as tired as he was, though most likely in slightly less pain. He could hear the holy warrior's heavy breathing behind his mask just as Edmund could undoubtedly hear the dark-elf’s heavy respiration. Both their movements were clumsy and slow, but at least the holy warrior of Diandra hadn’t given up just yet and dragged Sorakon with him, it was something to be thankful for, someone to push him and keep him alive.

---

Not that overly far away from the unfortunate duo, two torches burned not so brightly next to a great steel enforced wooden gate. If one would want to press their nose against the intricate steelwork, they would surely find it not only fascinating how a smith could bend metal in such a way, but they would surely also be awed by the beauty of the play between steel and carved woodworks. Though with the little light there was, no one could never fully appreciate it under the current conditions. That the light was diminished had nothing to do with the efforts of the nearby raging flames though, for they burned as feverously as ever before. The light simply wasn’t permitted to travel far and was quickly captured by the thousands of tiny light drops now filling the air, turning the gray into a temporary orange, only to be seen by those close enough. Those doors of course didn’t stand in thin air, no, a long and high wall built out of great thick stones was built around them and within the current situation, no end to it was to be seen in either direction.

These walls belonged to a monastery of Diandra, Goddess of life, which doubled as a house for travelers, one that had great battlements supported by thick high walls surrounding it. Here monks both contemplated on their faith and their life as well as they tended to the needs of the weary and wounded. Those who lived here would know it for the great complex it was. Three high spires, roofs as pointy as a spears and stones as great as those of any castle, could normally be seen from far away and normally drew long shades over the landscape when the sun was in the sky. this somehow even allowed the monks residing here to tell time and seasons without a flaw. Not only did the sun give them life, but knowledge as well apparently. Behind the main door, a great courtyard had been made. A central path led straight to the main door of a two storied building, flanked by trimmed bushes, great apple trees, benches and fountains, the place more an inner garden than a courtyard. It was a place of relaxation and contemplation surrounded by the gifts of nature. The stables of course were not far away, for all life was precious, even that of the animals. Though all of it was now covered with a shade of darkness, the fog diminishing the most passionate of colours present to a bland image of itself.

Once one entered the main hall however, one would find themselves in a place fit for kings. Great ornate pillars, would support the high up roof, brightly painted windows would depict Diandra herself together with her saints and followers, the sun and light playing a central role in all of it. A golden sun was laid into the floor and at the far end of the room stood a great chair, flanked by a few smaller once, a throne not exactly fit for kings, but it would surely do for an abbot. The doors leading out of the main hall would bring one to great long corridors flanked by many chambers, both for guests as residents. Here a bowl of water, a chair, a chamber pot, a simple bed and a dresser were all to be found, but it was more than enough for both residents as traveling guest. Everything was present here, a kitchen great enough to prepare food for a small army, a dining room grand enough, both in size as in decoration, to hold a great banquet. The hard times of the last three years certainly weren't to be felt here - yet - and the monks were wise to protect it. for aside from studying their tenets and trying to understand the depths of their own soul and body, these monks also trained in the control of their body and combat. For as Diandra is the Goddess of life, so do they protect it as well. As a result, even great training grounds for hand to hand combat - for they used no weapons - were present, wooden dolls serving as a tough substitute for the human body.

Aside from the many rooms present, there were of course also a great number of monks walking through all these places. In contrast with their almost royal surroundings, these men kept things quite Spartan, wearing nothing more but a long brown robe, not even a hood to shelter them from rain was present on their clothing.

Though times had changed in the last three years and hospitality had been diminished somewhat. Those who knocked on the great wooden door would not find them to automatically open for them as they used to, instead, a small door, just big enough to show the eyes of the one behind it would be opened. A test would follow, a test to determine who was true and who not, a test to "see if the black of death houses within". Next to the door, beneath the torch, a nail stuck out the wall and a sharp one at that. The idea was apparently for people to cut themselves – and risk a great deal of diseases most likely – and show their blood to the monk behind the door. the purpose of this was obvious.

If the result was crimson or green or blue or any color but black, people would be allowed in and directed to the main building with a simply pointing of the finger. No words would this warder of the gate speak nor would any other monk as if they had all taken a vow of silence. Within the main hall, people would only find one man who did open his mouth to let his voice be heard and that was the abbot, the overall manager of this holy place. Any question could be asked to him, whether it be for lodgings, healing or simply a blessing. Being the only man who actually spoke to outsiders, he was obviously very busy as well.

A little bit busier than he should be actually, though those that don't frequent this place all that much wouldn't notice. Several monks were sweeping the ground, clearing out broken pieces of glass and pottery. Others were removing a last piece of what was once a table. It seemed a fight had taken place here and the monks were cleaning up the last of it.

[Alis grave nil]

Upon the lands of Linmotar, a light mist was to be found. Keeping its green landscape covered and sheltered temporarily from the light of Diandra. An unfamiliar face walked upon the road, the face of one by the name of Sjinji. His physical appearance, strange yet familiar to people, was on first glance that of a human being. But anyone who would study him, would find it to be far from the truth. The hair was black with some clothing to match it to hold his hair. Black glasses reflecting like a mirror before his eyes, preventing anyone from seeing them, only his eyebrows could be seen. His tanned skin, appearing almost brown surely gave him the look of a foreigner. His clothing, appearing almost as if he was somewhat royal, black silken cloth with a silver like trim appearing almost like a jacket. It was open and swayed slightly when wind blew by, showing off a tight woolen shirt.

The man was not showing any signs of feeling cold; in fact he showed little emotions of anything, he was just walking along the path. The leather boots were muddy, rain had set upon the road earlier and the dirt had turned to mud. Apparently a storm had raged upon the sea forcing many boats to stay docked, keeping many sailors from the open sea. He had seen what sailors kept away from the sea did, they would drink and occupy taverns, claiming it as their own. Because of it Sjinji had gone without food, he did not want trouble, he did not wish to fight them, for they where far too many for him. So he had left, and with that left town, without food, and it came at a cost. The bugs within him were hungry and without food they would die shortly, too long had they been without food. Therefore they had fed off his body, their hunger taking its toll upon the nest. The boots sank deep within the mud each step he took. Walking would demand more and more from the endurance of anyone who passed by this particular road, the mud trying to hold anyone walking over it in place. So it did too to Shinji and in this case the legs paid the price in weariness

..::..::..::..::..::..

For what seemed like weeks for anyone tired and walking upon an empty stomach, was in fact no more than half a day's walk. The mist had lifted and the sun had made an appearance once again upon the sky, not much but slightly every now and then from behind a cloud. In the not to far distance an impressive display of architecture could be seen, a monastery of the goddess Diandra, build into granite rock. Approaching the doors in walking speed, he was upon the door shortly after. But the short strays of sunlight soon withdrew once again as the weather returned. So much for the hopes of warmth, but the torches gave a small amount of warmth, and it felt good for both Sjinji and the bugs as well. Knocking upon the door a small part of the door opened, just enough for the eyes to show them self. The reason for the needle under the torch was obvious for there was much dried blood upon it, red and green alike. Sin knew quickly this would prove a problem, not because he bled black, but the fact that his body would not bleed in the same way as humans, greenskins or anyone else for that matter. He knew only that if he cut some bugs under the skin would exit from the wound and not blood, for that would be his way of bleeding. Such was Sjinji’s nature, he and the bugs were united. Living in symbiosis witch each other, but he had nothing to lose. A small cut was made upon his finger, and as he knew slowly a beetle pushed it self out, and started to crawled around the cut, as if it were protecting the area, as if it were on patrol. The eye slit was closed and no further sound could be heard, for a moment Sjinji stood before the door. Minutes passed, after a while Sjinji knew, he was not going to enter. Tired he knew he couldn’t make it any further, slowly his body fell to the ground. Dragging him self up against the granite rock he leaned up against it. Under the torch he could at least be given some warmth, not much but it was something. It didn’t take long before he fell asleep.

[Kumashin]

Autumn was settling upon the land. Green grass stretched as far as the eye could see, all of ten yards in a thick mist coating the land. Along the obscured path a light tap-tap-tapping of a wooden cane marked the traveling of a man thickly set in dark stained, tattered and torn garments. The pants were particularly horrendous around the knees where large gaping holes showed white bandages. At his heels, his pants were shredded and faded before it even reached his feet. The mans feet were not so much as sheltered by shoes but small burlap sacks tied off with rope. The dark overcoat seemed to have been a different color though, faded through use it had seen a good deal of time in mud and smelled awful.

The man’s face was wrapped partially in white bandages, as were his hands, the small white limbs wrapped over and over, the tips stained brown from dried blood. His eyes were covered by a dark compress, many of the cloths around his head darkened in spots from what appeared to be blood. Such a man would be an easy target walking alone down even this lightly traveled cobbled road. What was once a busy trail of commerce had nearly dried up with the emergence of the divine. Now few risked the adventure, let alone solo, even if they had a scary looking long sword on their back. Though by his appearance, the sword seemed to be about as useful as his cane, which wasn’t half a lie.

Thankfully it seemed he had a dedicated lover, or at least a committed caregiver. Short yet beautiful all the same she held the man’s bandaged hand lightly; she too was armed, with a small sword which she wore on her back. She helped to support herself on a javelin inscribed with indecipherable horde writing. Why would a little girl like her possess such an item was not immediately apparent.

They walked together confidently; especially the man who swung the wooden stick back and forth across the ground as he walked proceeded with an air of certainty uncommon among the blind. The bald man kept his head held high as did the small girl, her dark skin as black as midnight contrasted with the faded black of her companions dirty rags, and her snow white hair brighter than the sullied white cloths. Her clothes appeared rather revealing, and one might wonder who she wore them for if her significant other was blind. At least Kit couldn’t see the men’s heads turn to watch watch her as she passed, not that they had seen anyone in half a day’s travel.

Have we lost them? the small girl heard in her head, her thin lips curling. He had asked that a hundred times. The sun’s at midday. No one has been near since last night. We got away clean. Well almost clean. The assassin had gotten caught up in his escape and had to kill a few extra people.

On the right she suddenly caught notice of a large building which she couldn’t even see the full extent of, the massive stone walls framing enormous wooden doors the likes of which she had never seen. Stopping and gawking the bald traveler suddenly found himself alone. “Peitho, why yous bee er stoppin?” The man said in horrid common. My name is Orphne! she snapped back at his head. With a sinister smile his own thoughts retorted much more calmly, and who gave it to you?

With small steps she accepted defeat, Morgoth. They had argued the same point a hundred times before, and it always ended the same. A random golem had given her a name, she had not been born with it, nor did she choose it. “There’s a big building on our right Loki.” She said with a small smile, her teeth as white as her hair. “We could rest and…” Without the need to say more he nodded and she helped to lead the way to the door. Seated outside was a human-like creature just lying asleep in the midday sun. A small headache had been pounding away since the sun had been barely been resting on his skin. The exposed areas of his pale skin were rather red, especially for such a misty morning.

“Erm.” She said, surprised by the body, holding onto Kitsune tightly. There’s someone lying by the door. The thought filtered through the transient space between their minds. Somehow he had taken the place of her former -now dead- guardian and had tried to rid himself of her more than once; however, she always came back. Though she was a useful tool. Well, is he looking at us?

“Hello?” She called to the sleeping insect man. “I think he’s asleep.” She said aloud, leading her companion gently by the hand. The loud knocker rang out. And an eye slit in a much smaller door opened. Flanking the doors were torches, and near one was a rather nasty spike covered in dried blood. Apparently they spoke less than Kit did but Orphne soon got the idea. “Blood?” She asked, to be certain, afraid of the spike. The head behind bobbed impatiently. Looking back to the man on the side, she pricked her finger on the end of her javelin instead of the spike. At least she knew the javelin was clean.

So they’re testing for blood here as well? The assassin thought to himself. It seemed the practice was being adopted everywhere. Holding out his hand and pulling away a few bandages the heat of the sun felt warm even through the cool mist enveloping the world, such was the plague of forever having lived without the sun that the smallest amount was unnatural for their skin. Stabbing his hand with the javelin red blood squirted out over the already darkened cloths. “Yeow!” He shouted in pain. Perhaps it was her way of getting back at him for his use of any name but hers. Whatever it was, the eye slit closed with a loud clack and the great doors opened with a low rumble. Surprisingly it didn't seem to awaken the sleeping man, maybe he was dead? Regardless he didn't matter to them, a monastery surely wouldn't let a berserker lie like that outside their gates, would they? Once within the doors quickly shut and they were pointed further inward.

Following into the monastery they found the air stagnant though the scent of lunch being prepared hung lazily in the air. An energetic man was busy in the main hall pointing and directing traffic. Dressed in a simple brown robe his face wasn’t the pudgy ball of joy Orphne would have expected but his voice, strained and on the verge of deserting him spoke rapidly. “Would you like food? Of course you would! By the light of Diandre we have plenty to share. Come in, fill your empty stomach and rest your weary legs children.”

Regardless of Kit’s beliefs in Kazman and Leventhism, he believed chiefly in free food and a full stomach. The abbot pointed the way and Orphne continued to lead her ‘Loki’ to the long table full of vagabonds and other weary travelers. The darkness provided by the ceiling and walls felt like an enormous fire had been put out and a great weight removed. Kit felt refreshed already. Of course many were staring at them as they sat down. A blind man in the company of such an attractive girl, both heavily armed, was not typical by any stretch of the word, even in this world where typical had been stretched quite far already.

[Poetic]

In the midst of the globules of water suspended in the air, the cracking of leather soles pressed against the crude path. The autumn chill after the storm pierced the skies. The heat of the sun was swallowed by the mist. His vision was impaired by the isotonic mist. The aimless manifestation tapped his bow against the dirt making a rattling sound like a serpent. Silent groaned in annoyance of being lost. He was used to the intricate details of his self-proclaimed opulent life. It was depressing that he couldn’t even walk without having to focus heavily on the scene at hand.

The beast's horrendous appearance made him stray just off the path to avoid unwanted attention. His mud colored robe provided nothing more than a sore sight for eyes. His oak mask veiled his hideousness. Trying to become accustomed to the man’s new, rotting, corpse he cracked his bones constantly into position. Silent groaned in agony at the thought that hadn’t the time to rest his feet. Shards of leather from his soles were beginning to tear off from the rough surface. He clenched his fist in anguish and started shouting nonsense to himself. “I’m going to kill you. Actually, I’m going to annihilate you and then feast on whatever’s left,” he stammered.

Unfortunately, the man was stuck in the wrong continent. His crippled body needed conditioning before he could return to Culvix. Silent’s life was now independent. There was no one to protect – no claim to fame. He supported his mental issues by his desire for acknowledgment by slaying the enemies of his father. The monster’s trail was as slow as his stomach’s hunger. I don’t eat now. But there is one thing I want to digest. The cynical jester was being meticulous on every pace he made. He intrigued himself on how he was to erase his past. By now he had forgotten about the soreness in his feet. To make things more amusing… there was the thought that now he was a free man without restrictions. He abided to no law or moral guilt. In fact he just wanted to kill something. The rough touch of his foot on the grass was silent as he tried to stalk in the shadows.

His skill was nothing more than a petty thief. Traveling merchants over the rolling hills seemed to laugh at him. They also avoided close contact of his rancid smell. The man didn’t seem to mind at this point. He was so preoccupied with himself that he forgot what he was even doing. Wilson’s sinister motif of killing was untamed. Killing in public was out of his league. To abolish Culvix he required strategy. His new goal was to find a place to recuperate and steal some new boots to replace torn ones.

Grinning, he glimpsed forward noticing two dim heat sources ahead. Like a true child king he grinned and rushed forward impatiently. Getting closer he realized that someone was under the torch, resting. Well, I don’t think he’ll mind if I take his shoes, I could use them more than him anyways. Using his cane as an object identifier he poked around the torches. The section of stone was very condense and extremely cold. The section of wood seemed to have dim warmth by the flame. He could barely make out that the area was a gate and the face of the resting man was impossible to fully distinguish. Crouching down, Wilson pondered how to steal from the insect man. Cautiously, he started to image stealing the boots.

His attention faded when he detected two small oval sources of heat staring at him from a small door. Silent received the hint that they wanted to confirm his blood was purified from the taint of evil. Selfishly, he decided he didn’t want to cut himself and looked down on the ground. Some fresh blood appeared to remain on the ground. He feigned falling down out of the eye’s reach and smeared the blood over his gloves. Concealing his hand from the guard, Wilson moved over to the nail. Standing at the nail he pseudo pressed his hand against the nail and let out a yelp. Standing, facing the guard, he grinned and obnoxiously waved his flat covered palm at the observant eyes. His vision fixated at the warmth of the blood on his covered hand.

James's body snapped into a new shape. Upright and with a protruding sense of dignity was used to describe James’s new formation. “Where in the world am I?” he announced. Turning around he noticed walls that seemingly went on forever. His gaze shifted back at the doors. Strangely, the guardian of the gates granted James passageway. Mute defined the Guardian as he spoke nothing. He only pointed in the direction of the main common area.

James’s utmost chivalry led to him opening doors for the women and warmly greeting everyone he discovered. I wonder how I got here. I should probably figure out where I am. A divine scent filled the monastery as he headed down the path towards the main hall. The scents seemingly made the food appear fit for kings. Only one man spoke, he scurried all across the monastery blessing and appeasing every weary traveler without bias. Wilson decided to ignore him and allow the monk to be at peace.

Entering the commons there was little commotion between all the weary travelers. James took particular fondness in a smaller childlike figure and a larger man covered in a plentiful array of weapons. He spread out his arms, cracked his back, and moved over to the area where the man and child resided. “Pardon me Ma’am, Sir, I apologize for disturbing you… could you tell me where I am? More specifically what continent are we on.” he jittered. James tinkered with his fingers nervously at such a bold, but idiotic question he had just asked to such intimidating figures.

The guised skeleton hoped that no one would notice his putrid smell which might give away his identity. As a sign of respect, Wilson kept a moderate distance from the two. He hoped that he wouldn’t appear to be obnoxiously breathing down their neck. Patiently he stood tall and proud.

[MondoMmon]

Through the eyes of a foreign body one could see a dark and evil character poised for battle. The evil thing appeared to be a giant shifting shadow with red eyes and sharp jagged teeth. It wielded a sword in one hand and the cane of a blind man in the other. The thing let loose a maniacal laugh and disappeared into its surroundings. One could tell the thing thirsted for blood. As if shifting views to tell a better story the eyes of the beholder transcend its body and saw the actions from a vantage point in the air, much like a ghost does as its relatives give its former body a proper burial. The eyes saw no landscape, just unending darkness and two figures ready to kill. The eyes recognized and watched its own body, cloaked in green with nothing more than a few orbs of water swirling about as a means of defense, trying to find the shade. Out of nowhere the shade attacked, throwing rocks and injuring the mage. The mage retaliated, throwing his water where he saw the attack originate. The water disappeared into the void and the eyes could only watch helplessly as the shade circled around, preparing for a final strike. The evil presence went about undetected and when he decided the moment was right his shadowy hand stretched out of the darkness with inhuman range and stuck the sword through the belly of the mage. It was then the eyes were returned to their body and closed as death took its grip. Panting hard Tom opened his eyes and was returned to a forgiving reality. His heart raced and there was a cool sweat covering his body.

The young water mage had been reliving a nightmare he had of what must have originally been a dream, since he was still alive, of his own death. This time he knew everything that was going to happen but was powerless to stop it, dieing again to the blade of an unknown man. Tom had never felt death before and was unable to cope with such a realistic experience. He took comfort in returning to reality and rubbed the sand out of his eyes. With a yawn, the lazy teen sat up and took in his surroundings. He was in a warm feather stuffed bed with white linen sheets in a room furnished for travelers. Next to his bed was an oak night table where he had placed his smaller trinkets on before falling asleep. Across the small room was a similarly fashioned desk with complimentary pieces of parchment, ink, and quill lest the need of a traveler such as Tom was to write a letter to home. The source of his light in the room did not come from a candle or oil lamp more typical of inns, although the option of candle light was available; the main source of light came from a large window with wooden slats dividing it into fourths. With the thick fog absorbing most of the light from the sun, the room remained dimmer than usual but regardless he felt lucky to find such a place last night.

Tom got up and dressed himself. He found it in poor taste to sleep fully clothed when his outer attire was so dirty. He put on his shoes, undergarments, and robe and noticed something about them. The clothes were already dry despite the rain he had been running through the night before; they should have been at the very least soggy at the bottom. He did not look at the gift with distain but was rather grateful; it was the second time he had been saved from such discomfort. As he finished getting dressed a monk conveniently walked into the room, his intent to wake the once sleeping boy up for lunch as he had already missed breakfast. When the monk saw he was awake his face made no change in expression and he didn’t speak a word, he simply motioned his hands out into the hallway and exited. Tom grabbed his most valuable trinket off the oaken night table and followed, he knew he would catch hell if he did not feed what slept within.

Tom was led down a spiral staircase and winced at how every other step seemed to creek. Once down he found himself on the main floor again and could hear the bustling chat on a single man. Tom stared at the man, wondering how he could remain talking with such a hoarse voice as he was led by the monk into the feast hall. The air around him was stagnant but the tempting aroma of food being prepared make Tom’s mouth duel. He didn’t know what time it was other than a good time to eat. When he first entered the large chamber he saw several more silent monks. They kept themselves busy by sweeping broken bits of pottery out of the way for their hungry guests. When the water mage turned his attention to the table, he saw several raggedy degenerates hoping for a free meal. Tom knew he would be counted among them but took solace in the fact that if it were an inn he would probably be the only one able to afford it.

The hungry teen found himself a place to sit across the table from a beastly looking man. The man had several white bandages and tattered well worn clothing. He was bald and his face was partially covered by some bandages. Tom found it odd that the man’s skin had turned such a deep red, similar to the worst sunburn the mage had ever seen. The man seemed worn out and barely able to wield an impressive steel blade he bored on his back. Tom noticed the man’s bloody hand and recalled how Tom had to use the horrid nail. He had tried to sterilize the blasted thing by asking for boiling water but was only able to use the water after he had proved his blood was red. He then observed a small but very cute girl sitting next to the decrepit man. She had black fair skin with white hair. The lustful boy was aroused by her looks but kept in check by his dignity and her detracting shortness. If she had been of normal height he would have found her neigh irresistible.

Tom caught himself staring at the nymph’s boobs and then bashfully looked away. He decided to distract himself with the conversation unfolding between the bald, lobster skinned man and another one well covered by a creepy mask and unrevealing clothing. The new man was very polite and Tom took admiration to that but he didn’t say anything and let the conversation go on without molestation. While the two men spoke, Tom set his glass orb down onto the table because holding it had made his palm sweaty. He knew that the smell of food would eventually arouse the girl confined within from her sleep and give her some of the meal, he hoped, that would come soon to him.

[Bad_Kharma]

One step by Edmund, one hump by Sorakon. A light rustling of decayed mail, a dull thumb of heavy bronzen armour colliding with the shoulders of the person caught within.

That’s how progress was made and it was made very slowly. Taking off the armour was no option, they’d had to carry it otherwise and in a threatened world like this, any armour was as precious as gold. Edmund was rather (un)fortunate in that area, wearing little protection but the clothes on his back and the decayed remains of some dugg up armour - which offered no protection - regardless, they now added their own weight without providing the added safety. The red tabard clung to Edmund’s person, weighed down by the fog it had absorbed, turning the otherwise deep red to a dull brown instead. The only thing which remained shiny, even through the mist, was the emblem of his goddess, a radiant sun. At least, Edmund didn’t have to worry about any hairs in his face, his helmet and mask preventing that – though the itch of wet hair was close to unbearable. Sorakon’s otherwise flowing black hairs on the other hand had caught their fair share of fog as well and now hung lazily all over his face. With every jump, positions shifted, from his mouth to his eyes to his nose, everything had been tickled and irritated by the rebellious black permanent. Not being able to move his right arm due to his painful elbow and with his left across Edmund’s shoulder – and it being the only support he had – it was impossible to do anything about it either, making it all the more irritating.

It would be something they would look back on with a smile without a doubt, if they survived that is. For now however, the itches were the least of their concerns with despair raging through their minds, a feeling fed by the fear that all their efforts might be in vain. Muscles barely had any strength left to support the efforts demanded from them. Legs wobbled and knees almost buckled before they stopped and pushed back the heavy load of the bodies they supported. Edmund and Sorakon were truly at the end of their powers, having walked and stumbled across the road for another half an hour, their pace to be compared to that of a snail. All sense of time was lost to them, since no sun was present to show them the time of day, and as far as they were concerned, they had been walking for hours.

Both men had come to the conclusion they could not go on like this for much longer, though neither one was willing to admit their weakness to the other. As long as one companion still pushed on – yay for male ego’s - so would the other, at least, in their minds. Up until now their will to move on had served them well, but now that their bodies were about to collapse, the mind might not have much of a say in it.

Neither spoke of their worries nor doubts on whether or not they'd make it, though that was most likely due to neither person having any breath left to speak. The noise they made while inhaling made it seem as if the very air was grating their tracheas clean of flesh. The silence was probably for the best, neither one would desire to have confirmed that his companion was as desperate as he was. The heavy fog clouding their vision didn’t exactly boost morale either. If only they had a destination they could focus on, a goal to set for themselves, to comfort each other with the thought they were almost there. But no, the only thing they saw was the cobbled road beneath their feet, the weed springing up between the stones, a bit of the dull green grass bordering the path and a void of nothingness beyond.

The single thing that prevented them from giving in to their fatigue was the knowledge they simply couldn’t afford to stop. It was a thought which had been imprinted in the minds of many over the last three years; nowhere is one safe. With a simple exchange of looks, Sorakon and Edmund knew it was on the other one’s minds as well, such things no longer needed to be spoken these days. The divine were everywhere, could appear to be anyone and would strike when one least expected it. Linmotar hadn’t suffered the great defeats that had plagued Deshkin and Rurian just yet, but the divine presence was undeniable. Reports of black creatures wreaking havoc came from every corner of the continent; nowhere was one safe. Anyone foolish enough to stay outside, let alone sleep outside, would be putting his life at stake. It was why Edmund hadn’t slept a bit last night and why he couldn’t afford to rest now. They both needed to get to safety, especially with the fog limiting their vision; it made it impossible for them to spot any of those black blooded creatures until they would be right upon them.

All of it all weighed heavily on the mind and body of these two and hence, it was no surprise that a great relief washed over Edmund when he spotted a rough beaten path – at least, the first few inches of it – leading away from the main road. His home was at the end of that dirt road and they would arrive there shortly. With renewed strength, Edmund pulled Sorakon with him, the dark-elf welcoming the change and the sense of direction. The dark skinned warrior had had no clue as to where they had been headed to, but that they had now veered away from the main road, after walking for hours on a road with seemingly no end in sight, had to mean they were getting close. With the promise of shelter nearby, the dark elf too put some extra strength behind his limping, no longer having the need to hold anything back, salvation was close … he hoped.

His hope was not in vain and it didn’t take long before two spots of light appeared within the grayness, a great wall looming out of the mist shortly after. Finally, Edmund was home and more importantly, he had made it there in one piece, together with Sorakon. As they approached however, not only the great wooden door was revealed, but the presence of a mud covered figure slumped beneath one of the torches was unveiled as well. Edmund froze in his stride, hope fled him and terror took over, his regained strength drained away as quickly as it had come and his iron will went with it. Only those of impure blood would not be admitted into the monastery and now Edmund thought he had found a divine in his path while he was so close to his goal.

His instincts were of course to draw his sword and attack this beast; he hadn’t traveled for so long to just be thwarted when he was at the end of it all. Luckily for the one dozing beneath the torchlight, Edmund simply hadn’t any hands free to do it. The half-elf on the other hand all saw it happening before him, the black blood suddenly erupting from every pore of the man, forming a blade and striking him and Sorakon down. It would be fast and without mercy. Yet, for the seconds they just stood there, nothing happened. Slowly, the half-elf’s mind set into action, realizing the monks would not let a divine just sit at their doorstep. Monks the inhabitants of this monastery might be, but they certainly weren’t born into the habit and most of them were hardened fighters; a lone berserker would quickly be disposed off.

~*~

With questioning eyes Sorakon gazed upon his companion, confused as to why they had stopped when the end of their suffering was right in front of them. Shelter, rest and food hopefully awaited him behind those walls and he was rather impatient to get to it, they both had deserved that much. With the strongest nudge he could muster, Sorakon brought his half-elven companion back to reality. A few seconds later, that little door snapped open with a short clack, revealing two piercing eyes which waited for something. Not a word was said, but as Sorakon eyed his companion yet again, the man seemed to know what was required of them next.

Not knowing what was to happen, a shiver crawled up the dark-elf’s spine, a seed of fear blossoming in his mind when he felt his companion’s grip tighten beneath his armpit. His left wrist was released and Edmund’s bloodied palm now made its way for Sorakon’s face. All the dark-elf could do was look straight at that iron face and the green eyes behind it. He pulled back his head as far as he could, trying to avoid whatever Edmund was going to do to him, but he knew he was at the mercy of the holy warrior and the little resistance he put up, turned out to be futile.

Pain stung like a small – but very sharp - dagger being stuck into his cheek, a closed wound now ripped opened again by a flimsily gloved hand. Blood flowed freely out of the torn flesh, the red blood appearing to be rather bright compared to his darkened purplish skin. His long left-hand fingernails dug into Edmund’s tabard as deep as they could for an answer to the attack made on his person. Though the half-elf simply grabbed the dark-elf’s wrist again, pulled it up a bit and took a step to the left – almost tripping over the sleeping figure – dragging Sorakon’s bleeding face right in front of the monk’s peeping hole.

With a nod, the head behind the door showed his approval and averted his eyes to the metallic mask. Still not understanding what was going on, Sorakon questioning eyes fell onto his companion. Yet again his wrist was released and now Edmund rubbed his free hand down the wall in a short jerking motion. Unseen to Sorakon, a grimace of pain decorated the face behind the half-elf’s mask. Quickly, the bloodied palm was shown warden of the gate, Edmund’s wound too opened once more.

Curiosity as to what had just happened be damned though, the dark-elf’s mind not wishing to spend any effort on figuring out what had just happened, especially not now that the gate opened. Whatever Edmund had done, Sorakon was glad that it had been done.

~*~

The monk at the gate made his gestures, though he didn’t simply point these particular visitors towards the main hall. Instead he motioned to close by monks – it would be foolish to expect only one monk to watch the gate with the divine threat – to come and aid Edmund. The half-elf was a welcomed and well known guest here and had been a member of this order for almost forty years until he had taken up the sword again. Though these monks would of course aid any wounded person, when that person is a friend, aid tends to be given much faster and monks quickly rushed in.

Sorakon was passed on as if he was a sack of flower: clumsily. Edmund was all too happy to have this burden lifted from his shoulders and almost let the dark-elf drop to the ground. Two strong hands grabbed the armoured warrior just in time though, but not without a bit of protest from Sorakon. The dark-elf let his discomfort and pain be heard under the form of a groan which could easily be mistaken for breathing out; it was all he could muster right now.

To sorakon’s dark eyes it was as if the gates to heaven itself had been opened, just without the winged people and the bright shiny-ness, but it was close enough for. Even as he was carried through the courtyard between the two brown robed monks, their coarse garments shaving against his armour. Emotions filled him as he took in the little he could see of all the benches, the shrubberies and the trees … it was disgusting. He was a dark-elf, not one of those Deshkin nature loving elves his father and his father before him had fought. But beggars can’t be choosers.

Right now, he didn’t even bother limping anymore, forcing the two monks to practically carry him on their shoulders and drag him forth. But he was safe now and at last he could just let go. Once into the main hall, his eyes were already closed his eyes, his body desperate for sleep. As a result, those within the main hall would simply see two monks dragging in a beaten up, bronze armoured and unconscious dark-elf. The two brothers didn’t waste any time to answer the questioning look their abbot gave them though. Edmund would surely explain things to him and instead turned into the left corridor, bringing Sorakon to one of the free chambers. There, they would take off his armour and examine his wounds; the monks didn’t know the extent to the dark-elf’s wounds and needed to make sure he was in no lethal danger. What needed urgent attention would be healed to the best of their abilities and the rest nature would take care of.. In short, Sorakon would be stuck with his scrapes and bruises for some time still.

---

"Noh, thank you … brother … Ah’ll be … fhine."

In such a way Edmund kindly declined the help the monks offered him at the gate, assuring them with gestures mostly and the little words he could utter that he was fine. Obviously, he wasn’t very convincing. Ignoring his wishes – these wiser men knowing better – one of the monks offered his shoulder none the less, now carrying Edmund like the half-elf had carried Sorakon.

As soon as he felt the aged brother’s grip tighten around him, his legs simply gave in, his mind too letting go of pretenses. A little slump followed, the brown robed man not prepared for the masked warrior to suddenly go limp, but he quickly caught it. Drawing Edmund up with a few tugs, the monk made clear that though he had offered his help, Edmund sure could cooperate a bit more. Giving a thankful and both understanding nod – though not bothering nor able to actually turn his face to his supporter – Edmund did his best, taking one step at the time as the bald and gray bearded monk guided him into the main hall.

Lazily he took in the scene while his uncovered skin embraced the warmth and suddenly felt as if they had been lit afire. On first sight, nothing was all that different, except that unusual high number of weapons to be seen on people. A monk – at the directions of the abbot - was hastening his way to a heavily bandaged ‘being’, a frightening sword tied to his person. The monk was undoubtedly on his way to offer his services as a healer to the man. Though whether the blind one would exchange the cares of the monk for those of the attractive woman, possibly his lover and hopefully his wife, was doubtful. Regardless, she too drew Edmund’s eye, not because of her revealing clothing - though the curve of her back was a target of his eyes for more than a few seconds – but because of the impressive weapon she had next to her; a great spear like that wasn’t property of just anyone.

A boy, too young to be wandering about on his own, was sitting near them. Such were the horrors of war; too many men had died that now children had to pick up weapons as well. He had seen it many times, hell, he had been one of them before his … long sleep, as he preferred to call his death.

Though those three weren’t the only remarkable figures present, the outside mist apparently forcing many to take refuge. Standing out the most, and not because of his weaponry, but rather his secretiveness, was another. A fellow wearer of masks and one who had his entire body covered up, not showing a piece of skin. What he did show were beggar’s clothing; cloths with the colour of mud and covered in it as well and from the faces of those vagabonds behind him, he smelled that part too.

A victim of horrible mutilation or someone who has something to hide?

A large number of merchants and their guards wore their weapons as well, such things were to be expected these days. Even the vagabonds were armed, where they used to rely on their fists in the days of old, now they brandished swords and clubs at their belts, most likely hoping to be recruited into someone’s militia and be given an excuse to ruff someone up.

Like a meek little lamb, Edmund let himself be guided further into the main hall, finding himself brought to a free bench onto which he was carefully sat down. The scrapes on his hands were on fire, the sudden change from cold to warm hitting him like a wall of air pressuring down on him. Thanking the well aged and wrinkled man for his assistance, a weak pat on his arm and a fleeting "thank you", being all he could muster up, Edmund turned his back to the crowd and instead stared at the stone wall in front of him.

Gently, he removed his torn gloves, pulling it from his hand fingertip by fingertip, careful to have the leather avoid the scrapes on his palms. Once removed though, a sudden heat was introduced to his fingers and wounds, his whole hand throbbing with pain and warmth. Fingers turned cold again when they touched the chilled steel of his mask, the half-elf carefully removing the metal from his helmet. After a silent click, warmth washed over his face, tearing up his eyes and turning the world into a blur, while his face became tormented by a million hot pinpricks. After lazily putting the mask down onto the table in front of him, he slowly removed the helmet which held painfully cold ears within, the headgear as chilled as the mask. His raven black hairs fell drab to his ears as the helm rose vertically into the air before joining the mask and tattered gloves on the hard wooden surface. His elven heritage had been revealed for but a instant, though those who caught the slightly pointed ends of his ears needed almost eagle vision for it.

While Edmund removed his gear, the elevated temperature gradually found its way through his clothing and to all parts of his body. His hands had turned as red as tomatoes and his face was no different. Small tears rolling down his cheeks, the cause being his incessant blinking to remove the abundance of moist caught within his sea-green eyes. The more metal was put on the table, the more he relaxed and slumped his posture. It didn’t take long for his belt to become unbuckled as well, his bastard sword joining helmet, mask and gloves. Decayed shoulder pads and strips of chainmail added to the pile shortly after.

When all was unbuckled and undone and nothing remained but his basic torn clothing and tabard, there was nothing left to do. He had made it, he was safe and he could rest now. So he simply sat there, staring at the wall, his mind joyful to be released of all his worries, those having weighed as heavy on the brain as Sorakon had upon Edmund’s body. Though as he stared at that wall, questions returned to him, the holy warrior slightly cocking his head to the right as if he had seen something peculiar.

Something is missing here

"Edmund, we were all worried about you. You were expected back at dusk yesterday, you even missed the evening prayers. What happened? Who was that dark elf?"

The abbot hadn’t rushed when he had seen Edmund, but had simply concluded his tasks before calmly making his way over. His voice didn’t betray a single hint of emotion, but as he let a gentle hand fall on the half-elf’s shoulder, it said more than grimaces or words ever could. At least, to those who were part of the order and knew of the interactions behind the scenes. The man had worried about Edmund as a father would over a lost child. Though he was the head of the organization and barely let his emotions be shown, especially with outsiders present.

Edmund’s mind barely registered the questions though and instead sought to resolve its own conundrums.

"Wasn’t there a tapestry here?"

As he let his eyes wonder, more and more things appeared out of place and monks weren’t known for their habits of changing things around. The sweeping had ended before Edmund had entered, but that didn’t prevent the half-elf from spotting a missing table and closet of tableware, the tableware itself now having found a home in another cabinet.

"What happened here?"

He asked as he turned his head sideways to stare at the older man standing behind him, the elder’s dark and warm gray eyes staring right back.

"I believe I asked first?"

Edmund smiled, glad to hear the old man’s voice again. The abbot viewed him like a son and Edmund viewed him much like a father, and a chance to not make the mistakes he had made in his previous life, but that’s another story.

"It’s a long story. But the dark-elf is somehow involved with my purpose here."

The abbot, and most of the monks, knew about Edmund’s 'condition', his non beating heart and why he had taken up the sword again. The half-elf had even told the old man about the voices he had heard during his long sleep and how they had popped up again. His ‘purpose’ was Diandra’s goal for him and the abbot now understood all too well the importance of this dark-elf to Edmund. Like it would with any father though, it instilled more worries, the old man’s hand slightly squeezing Edmund’s shoulder, who on his part reassuringly laid his still cold hand on top of the abbot’s.

"Diandra’s voice has never led me astray, have faith father. Now, about what happened here?"

The son worried about the father, the latter now being the one who showed a smile, though be it a small one, better described as a slight twitch of the muscles in the corners of the lips.

"That too is a long story, you need food and rest and I have tasks to attend to. I’ll tell you in the morning."

With that, the abbot turned back to his duties while a line of monks exited the great kitchen, carrying plates of food for the travelers and of course, Edmund. It was a simply meal, a stew of chicken and dry bread, but enough to fill the stomach.

[Alis grave nil]

Awoken as the large door had opened, a slight turn in his head he could se 2 men entering the door. They where wounded by appearance, as 1 man was carrying the heavy weight of the other. The most wounded was wearing quite apparent heavy armour while the other one seemed not to rely upon material for protection. As they entered, Sjinji quickly came to his feet, a bit in a clumsy way as he almost tripped in his own motion. Seeing how low on energy he was, he had forgotten in his sleep. The bugs within him were restless to feed, and he knew it very well for a few had gone as far to begin to feed upon the nest again. If he did not find a meal for them soon, he would be devoured by his own protection. A step towards the door while it was open was made and the monk obviously saw it as a threat and was seconds from killing him where he stood. But Sjinji held his hands behind his head, slowly moving his left hand towards the spike, cutting him once more. Again the piercing needle made a cut, and slowly after bugs emerged from the cut, their need of food had made them desperate. So desperate that with the slightest possibility of finding food on the outside made them emerge with haste. With a few seconds the monk watched, it wasn’t the same monk who had rejected him before this one was older. With several seconds in delay and a lot of consideration from the monk he stepped aside and allowed his entrance. They looked for black blood, though no fluid came out, only bugs. It was safe to assume that he would have bleed black along with bugs if he had been converted, and with that in his consideration, Sjinji was allowed to pass. Slowly the bug nest made his entrance, 6 bugs upon his hand where still sitting there, restlessly crawling back and forth, flapping their wings every now and then.

Upon entering Sjinji cared little for his surroundings, satisfying his bugs where his biggest concern. He saw food arrive from what appeared to be the kitchen. Several people sat and where served food, and he quickly putt together that puzzle and made his way to a quite isolated table. No longer than from the moment he sat down he was given food, seems like he had entered with the best possible timing. Taking the bread he slowly split it in half and putt 1 half inside his arm sleeve for the bugs to feed upon. He had to keep them out of sight, the first monk hadn’t let him enter because of it, and he wasn’t a person who was familiar with the presence of others. He wouldn’t know how they could react to his bugs and so he had to shelter them. He knew that half bread slice wasn’t enough to feed such a high number of bugs inside him. Sjinji took some stew with his wooden spoon and let it out on the table in front of him, the bugs slowly emerged from his sleeve and took turns at eating from the stew where he kept a steady supply as it disappeared from the table. Always cooling it down first blowing on it, the heat would have scolded a beetle to death if it where to be in contact with it. It was for this reason he had chosen the most isolated table. With the bugs feeding he could finally focus upon his surroundings. A man, the person who had entered just before him resided at the table furthest away from him, apparently worn out and cold as he was removing all of his gear. A worn out person would remove gear to avoid its heavy weight, and embrace the warmth. A boy with a appeared to be a ocean blue crystal next to him sat at the table not far from Sjinji. With a large… thing… the bug host couldn’t really make it out, he was sitting with his back to Sjinji and therefore couldn’t se much of him, except the big weapons. Next to him a small girl by appearance with a rather large spear next to her, judging by the distance they where sitting apart they would be comrades. And lastly a person fully dressed covering every inch of his body. Strange of appearance, but the bug man didn’t care to find out at this point.

The rest of the people inside where of little interest, but they all had one thing in common, they where all armed with weapons or magic, if not both in order to protect them self against the divine threat.

[Kumashin]

Orphne watched with awe the event of lunch unfolding. The food smelled delicious but looked much less so as it came out. They likely didn't have much food themselves, but being the good natured men they were they shared it all. Relaying what she saw to her companion he kept her close. He might not be blind, but no one had guessed that yet and with his eyes covered by bandages he truly was blind... for the moment.

An unfamiliar voice beckoned to them as ma'am and sir, obviously not a friend (of that they had none) but it appeared he wasn't here to hunt them down either. Such a pathetic question caused the little nymph to laugh, her soft giggling ended abruptly by Kitsune's hand squeezing her firm dark thigh beneath the table. With a bright smile that wasn't entirely friendly though inextricably tempting, she replied, “You're on Linmotar. The great wooded lands of, in a church of Diandre..the G-ddess of light...” She had wanted to make a mockery of him with citing everything that Linmotar was, but she befuddled herself and she became quite quiet.

The Monks brought out bread and stew and placed one of each before each beggar regardless of size. So were the pickings of the beggars. The big ones just ended up not getting as much sustenance from the already much watered down meal. Sipping at the burning broth Orphne bit her lip. “It's hot.” She warned with a thin lisp to her companion. Looking around at the beggars eying her she scooted closer to the assassin. He wasn't exactly warm or friendly but he had found a use for her and that meant he wouldn't let someone else take her, unless it was part of a plan. Plus, she knew who his identity. He wouldn't want that coming out here.

Monks are coming. Her mind thought, the ethereal chain that linked her to him, intertwining their destinies also linked their minds. The healers came from behind, and without speaking touched the man lightly on the shoulder. He should have thought as much. His hands were cut up from the escape and his head had a few scratches. His pride was by far the most damaged.

“I nos be needin ja. Ice'a fine.” He said, waving his hand at them. His voice was thick and heavy, and clumsy for want of use; but the tone said everything that needed being said. He didn't want to talk to anyone. The more you speak the more you stand out. His mind told him. They quickly left to other chores, regretting being so hasty Kit wished he had asked for spare bandages. But he would do with what he had, perhaps it was for the better. Above all else, he didn't want people to take hold of his cold gray storm cast eyes.

Orphne's own ruby-like eyes glowed as she blew on her soup and Kit's alternatively. Almost like a dutiful wife she helped him eat, all the while Kit hated himself more and more; feeling more like a cripple with each moment that passed until he even began to believe he was blind. Her petite hand helped him find the hardened piece of bread, over cooked to the point it didn't matter it it had been stale or not. Her smooth hand again gently held his bandaged hand and guided it to the wooden spoon to sip at the watery stew with just a hint of meat. Of course, it was a free meal, and they sat in a haven against the black terror that roamed the country side.

Along the way Kit had been working on his extrasensory perception, trying to feel the world around him while he was bandaged up and Orphne had led him along the trail by foot steps and scents. He was still quite terrible. In all, he could tell you if it was a horse approaching or a man; though heavens be good it wouldn't be a centaur!

[MondoMmon]

The desire for food was temporarily forgotten to Tom as more visitors came into the dinning hall. The first to enter was a trio of men; two of the ever silent monks who carried a third unconscious man. The curious boy couldn’t help but wonder what had happen to the unfortunate soul. He wore a great deal of armor but it didn’t seem to have helped him much. He looked to be in a critical condition and utterly helpless. As the limp man was dragged out of sight another man came, another of the mysterious silent monks. This charitable man appeared to have healing powers and offered the unkempt man with the beautiful girl his services. Tom hadn’t expected anything out of the ordinary and that the man would simply accept the help.

The observant teen was surprised though; the man spoke in an unforgettable tongue. The words were scarred into his conscience as the horrific looking man replied to the offer of help. He said; “I nos be needin ja. Ice'a fine.” To any other the words meant nothing, but to Tom they were so much more. The man that sat across from the stunned water mage was the same one that had killed him in his dreams. It was the same man in the dream that had reoccurred last night in its abstracted form. This man, the one who sat so calmly across the table from him, was the man that had stabbed him in the back with a cold blade and supposedly ended his life. A chill ran down Tom’s spine and he became pie-eyed. The teen didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He looked down at the table and avoided eye contact.

The teen’s discomfort was relieved slightly as food came out. His stomach was empty and it provided a nice distraction from the unsettling discovery. Tom had been so shocked he had hardly even noticed that two other sorry characters who had entered the room. He mindlessly ate the watered down stew and over cooked bread as his mind swirled with thoughts. Had he predicted a future confrontation or was it a figment of his imagination. Tom had never seen the man because in the dream the man was always cloaked by shadows, but it felt so real the first time that it was as if he had truly been there, not the hazy experience of a typical dream. The confused mage pondered and decided that there was only one sure way to tell. Before he could put his mind at ease though, the blue crystalline orb showed signs of movement.

Sure enough, as the food had been placed on the table the aromas pierced through the sea blue prison and woke the enslaved inhabitant. Sleepily the water spirit exited from the orb, a small portal of light letting her pass through its confines. She was the size of a man’s thumb but for what she lacked in stature she made up for in beauty. Her blue eyes made contact with her owner as she removed the enchanting thread like hair from her face. She gave off the expression of anger and flapped her butterfly wings until her small body was blocking out most of Tom’s nose and eyes to others around the table. She placed her hands on her blue skirted waist and expressed her desires; “Tom. How am I supposed to get any sleep if you take me with you wherever you go? Next time just leave me in the room.” She expected an answer out of Tom and after invading his personal space so thoroughly she wouldn’t be ignored.

The mage had known that this time would come but had wished she would have made her move after he confronted the man who killed him. Tom, with a bit of effort, tore off a chunk of hardened bread and pushed the spirit away from his face with it. He let Aral hold onto the morsel of bread that was nearly half the size of her body and tried to get her to go away. The uncaring teen said; “Sure sure Aral, next time I’ll let you sleep undisturbed. If you don’t mind I was in the middle of something. Go and bug someone else for now we can talk later.” He watched as the spirit, both shocked by the large amount of food and by his blatant rudeness expressed her desire for him to fuck off. Aral couldn’t let go of the heavy chunk of bread but managed to mouth the words to him. She then flew off to see if she could find more decent company. Tom felt like he had moths in his belly as he prepared to confront the man.

While the water mage had been distracted by the spirit, the killer’s own companion had made fun of their polite but yet very naïve guest, mocking the fellow’s lack of knowledge about Linmotar. He assumed that the masked man would distract the beautiful girl long enough for Tom to question him. The young man got up and leaned over the table; he chose his words carefully and hoped that the experience hadn’t been mutually shared. He cleared his throat and quietly said; “Do you remember an island?” He then sat back down, curious to see what the reaction of the gruesome bald man would be if he even registered Tom at all.

As graceful as one can be Aral the water spirit struggled to carry her inhumanly sized piece of bread, in proportion to her thumb sized status, away from Tom. The task was made harder because her body was still in a state of rest, unprepared for the rather sudden and harsh workload. She took comfort in the knowledge that there were plenty of empty seats and less rude or despicable guests to sit with. While flapping her wings nearly twice as fast as normal to compensate for the work load, the spirit took little time choosing where to eat her meal. She landed at the table directly behind her owner, in the presence of a man oddly stuffing his sleeves full of bread. With relief she plopped her bread on the wooden table and eyed her newfound company.

As Aral inspected the man he didn’t look different from other humans. His basic features were all average and caused little for one to ponder about, he had flat black hair, a nose, his mouth was a little funny looking but nothing of interest, ears, and eyebrows. However, his unique traits were so abnormal and foreign to the spirit it was worth mentioning to the bug loving teenager. The first thing the water spirit said was; “My name is Aral, and that person over there,” She pointed to Tom in disgust, “is my slave master. He’s being a jerk and refuses me his company, but enough of that. I have to know what those things are covering your eyes!” She had never seen such a contraption before and thought it might even be part of his being. She would have continued her interrogation of her new company, but before she could ask about the man’s clothing the water spirit spotted a bug.

It wasn’t due to the spirit having a sharp eye, but merely a matter of spotting a rather large bug that could lick her knee without standing up. The bug was approaching her piece of bread. She shrieked out a small girly scream hardly audible to others around and prepared for combat by trying to shoo it away. She could sense the water of the man’s soup but from experience didn’t think the insect would be the type to fight so she refrained from any magic. Wither it was part of the man, or just another bug it was coming with clear intentions. Aral figuratively placed money on herself.

[Alis grave nil]

Unlike humans, Sjinji’s body is a lot different. He has skin, muscle tissue and bones just like a human, however he does not have internal organs, instead he has bugs. A human would suffer a fatal wound from a damaged organ. sjinji sufferers a fatal wound from losing a vital bug. Just like a human however, the vital bugs cannot leave the body without causing fatal damage to the body (much like removing a vital organ from a human)

Sjinji regenerates in a different way than humans as well, where human body regenerates cells and tissue, his body reproduce bugs, at the same rate, where bugs mate and lay eggs. The process however is at the same rate as a regular human. Humans need food to create energy, produce cells and tissue and heal it self, in the same manner does the bugs feed and bring food back to the “nest”. Thereby “healing” the body in the same manner that a human heals him self through eating.

So the food helped him regenerate, in the same manner. He did however not eat it him self, the bugs ate and harvested it for him. Almost to be compared with the young female helping the blind person eat, so did he help his bugs with food, where she showed him where it could be found, so did he by providing it to them close to the nest. Preparing it for harvesting and eating by keeping the stew at a more appropriate level in heat.

He watched the little female struggle her way to his table, as she approached the bugs who where eating soup retreated to him, crawling in his sleeves for shelter. Attempting to go unnoticed, but by the time they where inside she had already stopped by the table. She carried bread, it appeared from how she flew with it that it was quite a hard struggle compared to her capabilities. But she managed. Watching the creature behold him, latterly staring him down, he found comfort in that his shading glasses only reviled nothing but the black glass. Without warning she spoke as if Sjinji had invited her to a conversation.

“My name is Aral, and that person over there, is my slave master. He’s being a jerk and refuses me his company, but enough of that. I have to know what those things are covering your eyes!”

“I am Sjinji”

Where all the bug man answered a very short and blunt answer, without regards for her question to what his glasses where. But all his thoughts where discarded with Aral’s tiny scream. Not much to speak off but loud enough for him to hear it quite well, due to the short distance between one another. Without turning his head the bug somehow turned to him, and retreated to the sleeve. Taking the last of his bread the bug host placed it in the sleeve just before the bug that had somewhat offended the little girl made its way inside.

However in most cases it would be common to apologies for things like this, something he was responsible for had offended her and such where common to apologies for. But it was quite clear that Sjinji had no intentions of doing so as he sat there, without moving, watching the little creature. Without pouring more soup out for the bugs to feed upon, they had to settle with the bread for now.