Something Wicked This way Comes[Open]

[Remus]

The sun was starting to set. Shades of orange had just started to streak through the sky with shades hauntingly reminiscent of autumn leaves.  Despite the season, the tree's surrounding the forest of Worde were far less lively. At best, the pine tree's still boasted a coat of slowly dying bristles. Needles clinging in fading life, attempting to thrive as long as possible. At worst, the darkened branches seemed forever devoid of life. The tree's a very brutal sign of the barren, devastated state that lay upon the waning territory. For the people of Forstford, it was seemingly the opposite. A hardy people. Despite all the monstrosities. All the terror, all the hardship, they kept attempting to thrive. Demonstrating one of, if not the greatest, trait humanity possessed. Perseverance. The town was layered with three wooden walls segmenting and isolating the town from the outside world. The outer wall was little more than a large wooden fence, but still served as a buffer to the second wall. A much larger one, almost a full twenty feet above with enough space between it and the final wall to allow for climbing up to its thin battlements. The third wall, a much hardier one. Reinforced with stone brick layering behind it. Such a strange sight, it might've been for such a small town if not for the single crest upon the gate for the third wall.

An Ostian crest. A symbol, from a time far more peaceful when the reigning territory had helped guide the smaller allied territories into stability and safety. It had served well, but showed visible signs of damage. The wood was warped, or rotting at certain spaces and in blatant neglect. The citizens of the once flourishing, bustling town had dwindled. Within this run down place, where tunics of brown and grey and green were common, a rather outlandish mass of blue was moving about. Robes of Etrurian faith to Elimine.

Remus had never been one to shy away from such dire places. If he was able to help another, he would. A mindset that would no doubt lead to some gruesome ending. Perhaps, had the children been with him, he wouldn't have wandered so far into monster plagued territory. On his own however, he strangely felt more confident. He didn't have to worry about protecting them, and could rest knowing they were safe and sound, back home. If only, he could ensure this town had such comforts.

He'd only just gotten to the town, exploring the battlements quietly as he looked out to the dead forest beyond, clutching the white stave ever at his side, and resting against it slightly. Thyrus's large gem within the center seeming to exude some faint warmth of magical presence, while the priest cast a glance back at the village below. A few town guards, clearly haggard but attempting to keep vigil. The wall had a small handful of sentries. Mostly it seemed, the village's large gates had been the source of safety. The dozens of houses and tens of streets for each pocket was what drew his attention. Many seemed run-down, yet this place had an air about it. As if the people tried to stay busy. Few seemed to aim for hiding away within their homes.

He admired that.


Unbeknownst to all however, within the darkest depths of that forest...death itself began to stir.

[Donovan]

The brisk air stung at the mercenary’s nose, but the tattered and worn coat that donned his chest over the trusted and light leather armor kept his blood warm. Worde was dying. There really was no other way to say it. And it wasn’t just the season - something seemed wrong with the surrounding territory about the outpost town on the fringe of a war with the dead. Donovan and his small faithful fox companion, Kitchi, approached the smaller, less grandiose gate that faced the relative safety of Ryerde. Safety that was some dozens - maybe even hundreds - of miles away. The crest of Ostia. It had been a long while since the wayward warrior had seen that crest on anything other than ruins.

A sentry looked down from where they stood on the battlements and Donovan raised a hand in greeting. A strong and foul gust of wind from the west delivered a putrid scent that made him gag in disgust. “Hey there! I’m here to meet with Doogan. Of the Nameless.” The name of the mercenary band he once commanded felt foreign and strange on his tongue. But it had taken a long while to track down the location of his comrades, and he had come a long way to arrive in this dead place.

After a few minutes of what Donovan could only imagine was distrustful murmurings out of earshot, the first and second gates opened - and the tall, thin man with the small slender fox walked side by side into the fortified town. The two gates closed behind him and a stern looking guard approached the mercenary saying, “You got any arms other than that sword?”

Donovan raised his hands slowly and said, “Just the two right here. And a dagger and shield - nothing that isn’t standard in this part of the world.” The guard gave Donovan a suspicious eye before whistling up to the massive wall that protected Forstford. The gate creeped open and Donovan shook the hand of the guard, slyly leaving a gold coin in the other man’s grasp. A small thank you for not looking too closely at the unusual blade at his hip.

Kitchi leapt effortlessly onto the shelf of his human's shoulders and Donovan headed off toward the core of the town - a refuge awash in dull and muted colors, but shockingly lively in spirit. Donovan had grown so used to people hiding away from the dead as best they could that seeing folks out and about in this part of the Marches was little more than shocking. But nothing was so shocking as the speck of blue in the light of the orange sky. “It couldn’t be…”

Donovan stepped over toward the battlements and off of the main street, before opening his bag and insisting the fox jump into its relative safety. “What could he possibly be doing here?” Unsheathing Fragarach, he pointed the blade at the ground and leapt upward while unleashing a forceful gust of wind. A cloud of dust was all that was left behind, as the shape of the mercenary disappeared from view.

He’d done this feat before, but it had been a while since he’d truly needed to shoot himself upward like this. Course correcting slightly with a small puff of air pointed behind him, Donovan landed - perhaps a little harder than he had intended - behind a blue haired man with an incredible white staff. Sheathing his sword, Donovan asked, “Remus?”

[Duma]

Another Day, Another task. He arrived in Forstford a few days prior, on the wagon of yet another merchant. The merchant and his group were brave souls, who were well aware of the dangers that lurked in the lands, closet to Ostia. The merchant band would stay in the town for a few weeks before moving back towards Ryerde and then into Badon. Duma had agreed to join them on the return trip as he had grown fond of their company. And while he was fond of their company he also knew not to abuse their hospitality. If he was going to stay here with the troop, he would need to earn his keep. And that meant finding other work in the meantime. And he did! He found work as a novice lumberjack for the time being. He knew how to wield an axe, at least to the extent of needing it to chop wood. And since, he knew how to use a sword, he doubled as a guard for those who risked their lives outside the town walls to cut wood. He wasn't 100% wearing his usual attire. The long flowey robe that usually adorned his body was folded up neatly in his pack. He was left in his undershirt, pants, and shoes. His hair was tied back with a plain ribbon. And the top of his head was also covered by a plain leather bandanna. Last thing he wanted to do was have an accident due to his long hair or long clothes. His swords however, were where they should be. Tucked away safety in their scabbard, and hung onto the holster on his hip. They were primed and ready to go in the event of a sudden undead attack. 

The swordsman was unaware of the commotion going on inside the town walls. He had no idea that two of his former colleague's were in town. As far as he knew, the town was doing it's regular town things. The people were out and about carrying on with business as usual. He was outside of the town walls, out in the forest, with the lumberjacks. Their task for the day, to fell an already dead tree. Struck by lightning a few weeks back. A perfect wooden candidate to chop up and turn it's wood into all sorts of useful things, like charcoal and wood craft. 

[Alvin]

Alvin had gone on adventures with people who boasted quite a bit about their ability to fight on quest to slay the undead, they brought a healer 'just in case'. Those adventures had turned sour quite quickly, despite them knowing his ability to heal wasn't too great they were over confident and thought it to be enough. Every time he barely escaped with his life, some times with others, each new group would state he was coming 'just in case' to the point he almost wanted to tell people his name was Justin Case. Using magic to heal the wounded tended to take it's effect on the caster, draining them of their own stamina, much like building muscle one would have to train their body to take such toll healing takes.

It was obvious to Alvin that going on adventures to get used to the strain he would be putting on his body would kill him sooner or later, factoring in his luck in finding parties to go out with. If he was going to train his magic muscle he would need to find a town that was safe as well as had it's fair share of injured to tend to. Alvin had been in Worde for a few weeks now, he had trained himself to be able to cast his heal almost a dozen of times before he would collapse from using it.

There was something in tonight's crowd that caught his eye, those shades of blue. Seeing that staff wielder had drug out some memories from when he was just a little child, the priest of the church of St. Elimine wore robes similar to those colors. He wasn't talking about the brown ones they started to wear years after Etruria's aggression where they had bad mouthed the priest still in Etruria, no the ones that wore those blues were early refugees that did not agree with the so called prophet. They were so much more 'pure' in a sense, they did not care who you were or where you came from they just helped you, unlike the ones that "raised" Alvin and the other orphans.

Alvin didn't realize it at first but while he was taking a stroll on memory lane his feet decided to start to take a stroll towards the man in the blue robes.