usir | Event #1: The Big One

Entry tags:

The Awakening

🜙 Awakening the Heart Warnings: Injury, Blood, Death

	You are awakened from death by a cloaked figure. The sky is thickly choked by dark storm clouds, but it's growing darker. Sunset is approaching and you know you are far from any of the kingdom cities. It is only once you find your feet that you notice your new tunic adorned with the colors of one of the three kingdoms. It might not be something you remember wearing, but you're about to be thankful for the extra fabric as the first drops of rain begin to fall, hitting you hard and heavy. You won't survive a night out on the marsh flats during a storm. The weather out here is violently unpredictable and it's freezing cold to boot. Your breath escapes in a cloud in front of your face and a shiver runs through you as your feet sink further in the muck of the marsh. You need to find somewhere to go while you sort out what has happened to you. Atrómitos is the closest city to where you are now. You know these marshlands are part of their kingdom. Whatever side you might have been on for the war a simple analysis of the circumstances and surroundings you find yourself in make one thing clear. If you want to survive the night, Atrómitos is your only hope. The chill in the air makes it very clear this is winter and the other kingdoms are much too far to make in so little time. You will have to sludge your way across the muddy, icy marshlands and avoid getting trapped in the thick, deadly mud pits to get there but survival instincts instill a sense of urgency in your movements. You can pillage rusty weapons from the partly to mostly mud-buried skeletons of fallen soldiers on your way, but you had better keep a brisk pace if you want to survive the night. Take care not to grab a living body if you are grave-robbing.
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🜙 X Marks the Spot

	Night falls as you approach the outskirts of what used to be Atrómitos. In the poor light of dusk you can make out just enough to know that something is off about the silhouette of the great city, but you shrug it off to the exhaustion crashing down on you. Your limbs are heavy, your clothing drenched and thick with mud that is hardening in the biting cold. You are finding it hard to keep your eyes open and your limbs moving. Just across a bridge over the river is a large inn. The building is enticing, alive with the sounds of music and life. Light is twinkling from lanterns and candles in its windows, reminding you of warmth. You give the vanishing city silhouette in the distance one more look before it fades from view, swallowed by the approaching darkness. You will never make it to the city before the heavy black of a densely-clouded night cloaks your vision and strands you to stumble blindly across the uneven land and broken paths. It's too risky. You turn for the inn, knowing you have no coin to pay your way, and enter. The portly halfling woman at the bar catches sight of your muddy tunic and drenched form and heaves a heavy sigh, setting aside the flagons she had been cleaning to cross the inn and meet you at the door. "Another one, eh? I don't suppose you have even a handful of silver either?" She clucks disapprovingly, but there is warmth in her expression as she reaches a hand up, offering you a clean, dry towel. It is small, barely enough to dry your face, but it is a gesture of kindness. "Strange times, this. The lot of you are going to run us dry at this rate. Go on then, get yourself over to the fire. Alphie will bring you a flagon of mead and a bite to eat." She points a finger accusingly, stopping any efforts to speak. "And don't you be causing any trouble now. We have rooms enough to spare but you'll be sharing. Beggars can't be choosers. I don't want to hear a word of complaint or excuses. Shoo. Off with you." She doesn't wait for a reply, gesturing toward the large fireplace where a few strangers in similar dress and state to your own are talking over large flagons and bowls of something warm and savory-scented. A teen halfling brings you a bowl and flagon of your own once you find a seat, the smell of a hot and hearty mushroom stew greeting your senses. He also hands you a key fished from his pockets once you've taken your food and drink. "Mum says she expects you to help with chores in the mornin'. Don't be fightin' or she'll sick Boris on you." With that he leaves, heading back toward a massive beast of a saint bernard that sits by the bar. It maintains eye contact for a period before snorting and walking off after the boy. The heavy brass key in your hand goes to a room on the upper floors of the inn, a tag with the room number attached to the ring of it. Chances are you won't be alone when you turn in for the night, but there will be clean linens, a towel, and a fresh tunic and pair of pants in something near your size atop them. It isn't perfect, but it's something. The skies are clear in the morning and the ground is covered in a thin layer of fresh snow. True to the boy's word, Gilly, the woman from the night before, gives you a task in the morning. There are a number of chores, from tending to the sheep or pigs, shifting hay in the barn, cooking breakfast, dishes, doing laundry, or cleaning up the inn. Whatever the task, when you finish it she gives you a bowl of something warm to eat and she thanks you for your help around the inn. You are given the offer to stay so long as you keep doing chores to pay your way.
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🜙 Awakening the Soul

	You leave the inn, but before you can make much progress toward the city a strange sensation overtakes you. It feels like the pull of a magical compass, persistent and steady. The vial you picked up from the battlefield grows cold. It feels like ice against your skin. As the warmth fades from it, it also fades from you. Nothing warms you, not fire, furs, or even the false warmth of alcohol. With the cold comes pain as old injuries begin to appear on your skin, slowly growing worse over time. Succumbing to the pull you stumble back to the battlefield you came from, back across the frozen marshlands. The spot you rose from is untouched by the ice of frozen rain, the grass there still a vibrant green. Something strange is happening. With your animas now close to you and a device in your hand or pocket, you realize the sky has turned menacing once more. The dark clouds of the previous day have choked out the blue skies again and thunder rumbles, approaching at a fast pace. The storm crashes above you. Lightning cracks across the sky and thunder follows it. The weather has warmed enough that rain is falling once more and the hair on the back of your arm stands on end from the electricity in the air. You should get going.
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🜙 A City Under Siege. Warnings: Warfare, Death

	As you return to the city that used to be Atrómitos you quickly realize something has changed. Fires burn around the outskirts of the city. A skirmish has broken out and bulky knights in golden tunics are clashing with a band of fur and leather-clad red orcs, their faces painted with black and white colors of war. The sound of battle is familiar, and the orcs are pushing the city's defense back. There are a number of options before you. You could take advantage of the chaos and join the attack or loot the market. You could assist the defenders in fighting off the orc pillagers. You could slip by into the city and help the people trying to get away from or stop the fires. Or you could just find a local tavern, get a drink, and wait out the battle while you try to make sense of the city's vastly different appearance. Eventually, the defenders manage to beat back the attack and the fires are all extinguished. A crew of volunteers helps to move the bodies out of the city to waiting pyres. Anyone who manages to insert themselves into the crew could easily pilfer some weapons, items, or coin from the bodies. Post-attack the city returns to normal surprisingly quick, these attacks are common for the wall-less city. As night approaches, fires are lit on the outskirts and the city defenders start their nightly patrol. The temperature drops and the rain and thunder turns to snow. Winter is finally here.
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🜙 Divided We Fall.

	In the aftermath of the orc attack the smoke clears and rumors spread faster than fire through the city's streets and taverns. The general consensus is the orcs were after something or someone, but what? That depends on the rumors you hear, and which ones you choose to believe. The city is alive with whispers and theories while attempts to strengthen defenses and repair the damages are underway. Several things become clear in the aftermath: The Skywhale, the airship meant to travel between the City of the Free Peoples and Didymos has been badly damaged, sabotaged and grounded in the orc attack. People in the know about these sorts of things are saying it looks like it will take at least a week or two to be repaired. Winter's first harsh breath has stopped Krimnos' airships as well. The sudden and severe temperature drop in the mountains and the high risk of avalanches has grounded their ships temporarily. As a result, the City of the Free Peoples has effectively been cut off from the other cities. No one seems certain for how long, only that assistance will not be coming soon. And perhaps of more concern than any of this: the orcs are still out there, not far from the city, and they seem to be preparing for a second assault.
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🜙 A Mysterious Message.

	Some time during the chaos a message arrived to your courier. After finding someone who knows what the device is or some tinkering and exploration of your own you discover how to view the thought message it holds and what you find only adds to your confusion. Your message differs depending on your allegiance: Yearning: Do not forget why you are here. It is within your grasp now. You need only to claim what is yours. Hold strong and show no fear. -Epithymetikon Devotion: Burn bright in the dawn where your suns set. Your sacrifices will not be forgotten. Your efforts will not be in vain. Your soul will follow where your heart leads it. -Thymoeides Reason: There is an answer for every question. The truth will not find you. You must seek it for yourself. Do not lose sight of what you seek. -Logistykon
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🜙 It bites, it burns, it yearns and yearns. Warnings: Warfare, Death, Suicidal Orcs

	Snow continues to fall thick and heavy, coating the land in layer after layer of dense, wet, white until a foot of snow coats the plains and lowlands. It seems winter has arrived eagerly on time this year. Small raiding parties of orcs continue attacking the city periodically from different directions. The raiding parties never contain more than a dozen orcs and the attacks rarely last more than an hour. Fires are set, lives are lost, and the orcs vanish once more, their tactics and chosen locations unpredictable. A bounty is issued against the orc tribe, city-wide and open to all. Gold and silver are offered for any information gathered on the orcs and a much larger purse for any who bring back one of the orcs responsible, alive. No simple task as these orcs would sooner die by their own blades than be taken captive. The city is on lockdown, the airships are not coming or going, and city defenses are on high alert. The city's guards are recruiting anyone who is willing and able to help put out fires, fight the orcs, repair damage, offer their weaponry, their magical aid, or their healing talents to the effort. It is made known across the city that all who can help will be compensated in coin, and possibly other rewards, by Captain Lykos himself.

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⤛ Sources: 1 2 3 4 & 5 6 7

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

{ divided we fall }
It never does any good to sit and wallow in circumstances, and so Christine is pushing aside all her questions and her fear over whatever happened to her to focus on what's around her. The city is damaged from the attacks and people are hurt, so Christine offers her services to them. Without her stock of alchemy potions, she heals using her knowledge of wild magic and charges very little for her services. She will need something to live on, but has the conscious to not take advantage of those whose houses and businesses have been damaged.

She can be easily found should anyone want to help her in the cleanup and rebuilding, or if they came across the orcs and need healing. The entire time a small falcon can be seen circling overhead, perched nearby, or even perched on Christine's shoulder. She winces when the last of those happens, and makes mention that she will need to sew up a quilted shoulder pad to deal with those talons. After every long day of work, she returns to the inn to eat downstairs and socialize before she and her animas head up to bed.

{ a mysterious message }
The message shakes her, and she sits in contemplation for quite some time. The dragon she showed allegiance to: the one she thought had the most sense of the three... was dead. He had died first and Christine remembers her despair in the midst of the battle knowing he was gone. But... had she not been dead too? And some power or magic brought her back. It's possible the same happened to Logistykon.

He said she must seek the truth for herself. So she rises from her seat and searches for others like her, whether they're in the inn or out in the city.

"Did you find a strange object in the field with your animal? Did you receive a message through it?"

{ it bites, it burns, it yearns and yearns }
a.)
Christine helps after each renewed attack, mainly with healing, but also with putting out the fires using her elemental magic. Water, frost, and dirt are all used to smother the flames out and after each one she wonders where the next with arise. The city can't keep going on like this. She teams up with others — some she recognizes from the inn — to discuss the situation as they work.

b.)
Something needs to be done to stop these orcs. Why are they doing this? What do they want? Unfortunately, she's no bounty hunter, so she doesn't set about organizing a party herself. However, she's easy to find should someone want to recruit her.

Awakening the Heart

Hunger.

That was how she knew this was real.

Hunger crackled in her veins. She was distantly aware of other sensations -- cold air in her lungs, dirt felt through the leather of her gloves, how heavy her whole body felt as she knelt and shuddered on the ground, but the hunger washed over it all. Mòrag welcomed it, for the first time in her life, because it was familiar. Second nature, almost. A challenge to be overcome, and thus a means to center herself.

Breaths, in and out. The faint pressure of concentration in her temples and the sockets of her eyes. She was its master. She had it under control. She was Mòrag Ladair. Her fingers tightened in the dirt, her muscles tensed, and she stood.

Phew. The first moment was always the worst... though as she brushed dirt off the clothing both familiar and unfamiliar on her body, she started to think that 'worst' might be about to hit levels she'd never before imagined. All right. First things first. Survival. Survival meant weapons. Her own... nowhere to be seen, fine. A quick moment's work scavenged a pair of rusty swords whose only virtue were being better than nothing -- but they were better than nothing, and she stuck them into her belt in so that she could draw them quickly, and never mind how they might interfere with her movements.

Second? Making it to shelter. No, second was surviving to make it to shelter. Her clothing, even layered with a tunic as it was, couldn't ward off the chill. But there was a reason she was called the Flamebringer, and even now she still had magic.

A swath of flame around her shone brilliantly as she set off through the icy wilderness, a bright beacon that could be seen for quite some distance. Clear warning that a person was here, not subtle in the slightest. Dangerous, but Mòrag felt she could handle whatever danger it might bring. Better than freezing.

On she trudged, eye turned carefully around, looking for those who might approach, or signs that others might be hidden. She needed to know what was going on.

X Marks the Spot

A part of her rebelled, but that part was pride. Realistically, Mòrag knew perfectly well she dared not muster her magic to make the whole distance in a single night, and so she pushed pride aside to where it would only rankle and stepped in.

The conversation went swiftly enough, and left Mòrag with more questions and no answers. Her eyes glittered in the firelight as she swept them across the inn, then without a moment's delay moved to approach those who wore tunics as she did -- no matter their colors.

"Forgive the intrusion," she said, polite and yet with implied insistence that the intrusion would come whether it was forgive or not. "But I hope you can help me with a few questions."

Waking before Awakening

Morning found the elegant and dignified woman working at a table with a stiff-bristled brush as if she were born to drudgery, rather than aristocracy -- and by all rights she was. This had been a common task in the temple to instill discipline and duty, and clearly it had worked. A frown on her face that came from focus rather than irritation, Mòrag glanced up at those coming down to the common room, offering nods to those she might have met before, and assessing those she hadn't.

"No breakfast before chores, I'm afraid."

A City Under Siege.

"I'll not allow this!"

Flames trailing down her blades as her wild magic wrought power into deed, Mòrag lunged into the fray without hesitation, taking an orc from behind with a slash that cut its kidneys and snapped the rusted sword off in its spine. The smell of cooked flesh wafted up as she kicked it over hurriedly, then snatched up the sword it had lost in death, a better replacement for what she'd lost. Then she was in motion once more.

This she understood. This she was born for. This was honor and duty, to herself if nothing more.

Perhaps you find her when she joins you in battle, swift to help those locked in combat with the orcs wherever she can with strikes of her flame or thrusts of her weapons.

Or perhaps you found her dueling with an orc at a disadvantage, her stance and form badly compromised by the need to hold her other hand steady as a wall of flame kept two other orcs at bay. She was skilled and resolute, after all, but only one woman.

Divided We Fall.

Rumors flew like arrows, haphazard and uncaring of what they hit. As if she were still in battle, Mòrag listened to the flights, judged from their trajectories where truth might be hidden, and fired none of her own. She had other matters to attend to.

First and foremost, finding a healer would be pleasant. The bandage wound her wrist and forearm was no longer wet, but the gouge it covered had only barely clotted over. Sudden movement would break it and set her to bleeding again, and that was no condition for a warrior to be in.

Mòrag paused to tighten the bandage, a little clumsily thanks to having only one hand free. "Damn," she said as she worked at it, almost conversationally.

It bites, it burns, it yearns and yearns.

Among the first to join the efforts to fight the orcs, Mòrag was not fool enough to go out into the wilderness alone. A partner, at the very least, would treble her odds of success, presuming she could find someone to work with. So Mòrag hung close to the road outside of town, not far from the guards who she had originally spoken to about recruitment. If anyone looked as if they were so inclined as to join and hunt orcs, she'd waste no time in approaching them.

X Marks the Spot; Multiple evenings
[In this raising, in these compulsions, in the...very undersized white wolf that now follows Alucard wherever he is, there is one fact that has made itself clear. This magic is most likely necromancy, and there are things being done to Alucard that are against his own will. Like walking across a battlefield and finding a wolf in it, for none of those things are natural to his person.

Deep in him, there's only one desire: to go home. Back to his family's home, to see if there is anything left. It has likely been looted over the years, all his father's wisdom, all his mother's notebooks, all their family's treasures that he found and curated because they could all learn, they could enrich themselves and the world. Gone. Gone and sold because in wars people need coin to buy food and to have shelter and to survive.

It angers him. Of course it does. But Alucard cannot think of a better place to begin to research what kind of horrifying necromancy has dragged him from well earned rest.

So for one day, he does odd jobs. Enough to buy a small notebook of bound rag paper for his thoughts, along with pen and ink. Then he takes to himself in the inn that for labor, he can keep staying, and writes neatly on the top of the first page:]

Necromancy
--Causes
--Compulsion?
--SOURCE?

[His handwriting is neat and compact, and there's no attempt to cover his work. Alucard is too deep in his thoughts to pay it attention, struggling to regurgitate everything and anything his father might have once said on the subject. The dark and forbidden things, his father thrived there.

The wolf that follows him around makes it a sport to stretch out beside Alucard's chair, her paws still awfully large for a compact form, seeing who she can trip. It takes time for Alucard to catch onto the game, but when he does, he stares down at the animus like he's scolding...a much older friend, in truth.]

Don't be rude.

Message Mystery!
His father had a contraption in this shape once. An engine of sorts, or so his father thought it could be. It was a part of an experiment, to see if one day the castle could move from place to place without anyone traveling at all. A concept fascinating and maybe impossible.

In the end, the experiment never came to be. Dead men could not work on their arts, and Alucard's concerns did not allow for any time to be invested in his father's work. So the courier is still a novelty, something that he experiments with when taking a break from chores assigned and...

...and no, this is wrong too. Necromancy and dragons. There's surprise on Alucard's face, and then a look of real contempt. "Whatever this is, it gets fouler by the day."

Never mind who hears this. Never mind replying to the message itself. The dead are no longer dead and a dragon has an opinion on it.

It bites, it burns, it yearns and yearns
OTA
This city is not his home. This country is not his home. Alucard knows these things, just as he knows that to enter this kind of fight is a matter of basic justice. Night raids on an unwalled city are not right, and maybe there is a part of him that needs to let out all the anger that has built up deep in him about this situation.

So he walks the city streets and waits, anticipating the next orc to come, and when it does, there's a flash of gold in his eyes, a hiss that is not human at all, and...

...and he's in the goddamn air, sword in hand, flying in battle like this is a totally normal way to pick a fight with a goddamn orc.

CLOSED TO VICTOR
[It doesn't actually matter how it is they've agreed on the dangerous task of taking an orc alive. They have, and now it simply is a matter of putting things into action. The question of offense and defense is simple enough, and there is using one's surroundings as an advantage. Lure an orc into a narrow enough alley, make sure he drops a weapon and can't turn around to pick it up. Restrain it. Move on from there.

Alucard stands on top of one of the small wells that mark this portion of the city. Not a proper town square or a plaza or anything of the sort, but a wide enough place to start a fight and to lure the orc further inward, down twisting horrible streets that can trap and bind.

Standing there is also perhaps too dramatic, the animus of a wolf standing on the ground below, but there's only one other person around to make commentary, and Alucard is not certain Victor is that type.

His eyes remain ahead:]

Are you prepared?

Awakening the Heart

Groot has never seen a marshland, not that he can remember. Awakening in one is as strange a sensation for him as witnessing it might be for another. His body, largely buried in the thick, stinking mud and weeds, looks for all intents and purposes like a bit of deadfall, an old log to sit upon--and then it jerks upright and limbs break apart from the core of it.

He sits up in a fluid arc, like a child awaking from a nightmare, and the mud sloughs from him loudly, sliding into the puddles and the murk at his hips. It takes him a while longer to free his legs and stand. He doesn't even notice the red and black tunic draped over him at first, not until the rain begins to fall in earnest, and once he does he picks at it.

One can only hope that others are nearby--for he makes no move to walk, or to wander, and spends a long time staring at the distant horizon.

X Marks The Spot

It has been a terrible and distracting night and Groot is both disoriented and cold. He cannot recall ever feeling cold but, by the same token, he cannot recall any feeling other than cold and, as such, is in a sad and miserable mood. The battlefield it had left is full of memory and sadness and everything is grey--everything save the building in the distance. It is not the safety of the trees but Groot heads toward the sounds of life and laughter and the little lanterns.

The woman who greets him is kind, he recognizes that much, even if he doesn't quite parse what she is saying. He stares and she points and gestures. The flames inside give him some pause but it is warmer inside and so, despite his misgivings, he enters the building and moves to where she has directed him. He all but folds himself in half to avoid taking too much room and is careful and delicate with his motions. When they bring him soup he honestly does not know what it is and spends some time staring at the bowl before him.

A City Under Siege

The city is a strange place full of loud noises and lots of movement. The people here run to and fro, ducking away from fires or toward them, swinging weapons and fighting. They clash all around him and Groot is simultaneously fascinated by them and wary of lingering too near. The last thing he recalls doing was searching for familiar things--a little mouse where his last friend had been and he had no idea where his home was. Fortunately, he had one other friend.

Groot weaves around the combat and wanders toward the city, trying and failing to be subltle in his movements. This place is full of people and chaos and noise and he hopes it will not take long to find his only friend.

The idea that he might not be present here doesn't even occur to the arboreon.

Divided We Fall

The city is very large and very interesting. Groot rises with the sun on the day after the Orc attack and from the moment he steps outside into the daylight, he is overwhelmed and fascinated. He walks in bursts of slow, plodding momentum until something new or something moving catches his attention. Sometimes he investigates, looming or leaning to stare from far too nearby, sometimes he watches from afar for a long few minutes before moving on.

He is not subtle and he is not short. He towers above the crowd by several feet and is given to leaning over people. His whole body creaks and sways like a tree in a gale. When he hums it is a strange and wooden sound and, occasionally, one might spy a small mouse peering out through the gaps between the bark that grows over his surface.

(OOC: Feel free to use this prompt as a wildcard option and set Groot up in an awkward situation if it helps. Groot wanders around day. He will be doing awkward tree stuff in awkward places and has no sense of decorum or personal space.)

As Christine works on smothering one fire, the dirt from the ground rises up to assist. It's not her magic, though: it's Strange, standing a few feet away, murmuring under his breath as he concentrates on the fire. With that one smothered, he turns to look and—wait, Christine?

He can't hide the shock in his eyes as he looks over her. Strange looks close to the same as she saw him last, though there's more gray in his hair (which looks like someone forgot to brush it). He's wearing some secondhand threadbare clothes obviously purchased from the fantasy equivalent of Goodwill and a reddish-brown hare sits next to his feet.

"You, how," he stammers for a moment, still dumbstruck. There's no polite way of saying 'you should be dead' or 'why the hell are you alive' so Strange just gapes for a moment before exclaiming, "What exactly are you doing here?"

There's a tone of relief in his words as he speaks...though he doesn't realize the obvious answer to that question, 'putting out fires, you dipshit.'

city under siege
The buildings are burning. So he's going to help with that. Strange immediately heads for the outskirts of the city, hare jogging at his side as he does so. As soon as he spots a building on fire he stops, bends down, clenches his hand around a fistful of dirt and mutters something under his breath. The earth raises up to form a large yet crude shape of a hand which slams against the wall of a nearby building on fire.

Jury's out on whether he'll remember to return the dirt to where it belongs afterwards. But at least for now, Strange is literally patting out the fire...and leaving himself a pretty vulnerable target to any orcs that might have made it further into the city or any ranged bolts that might fire his way.

"Cover me!" he yells, as the earthen hand moves from one patch of fire to the next, setting itself a little too roughly on another roof.

mysterious message
It takes Strange a while to tinker with the courier enough in order to see the message. And when he sees it, he just breaks out into a grin. Unsurprisingly, someone who's put so much focus on draconic magic, who's studied and learned and explored it to the point that he wrote a book about the dragons is damn happy at receiving a message with the name Logistykon attached. So happy that he can't help it: he lets out a laugh, mostly triumphant and a little bit unhinged as he thinks over the name again.

He knew the dragons couldn't have died. Obviously this was Logistykon himself sending him a message. Strange stays where he is, brimming with excitement, until he spots someone else he knows was risen from the dead as well. Grin on his face, he walks over to them, his hare dogging his footsteps. Under his breath, he asks, "Did you see? Did yours have a message as well?"

it bites, it burns
Things are quiet at the moment, though it's been quiet for long enough that the raiding party could happen at any moment. Not that it worries Strange, however. He's frowning, looking out past the outskirts of the city, staring seemingly at nothing. And anyone who approaches him...is straight up getting talked at, though it's less 'wanting conversation' and more 'Strange likes the sound of his own voice.'

"You know, the last time I was in war, I occasionally used my scrying to help locate enemy lines and things like that. I doubt it will give us the precise location of wherever this camp is, but it might give us an idea as to what their fortifications are...of course, the magic does work best if I know the name of a person or have a general idea of what they're like."

Edited 2018-12-02 02:07 (UTC)

Alucard's face is sour, like he's some dhampir rabbit that has sucked all the juice from a lime by accident. This thing, the message on it, it's wrong. This entire situation is wrong on every level, and not only is it wrong, it has just gotten so much bigger and so much more complicated.

And maybe it's for that that the response to Strange's question is met with the quiet disapproving intensity of a man who would very much like to meet someone in the pit or just scream into the void about what has come to pass.

Death is in life, life and death are all askew, and there is no telling what else lies ahead. There are compulsions that have driven Alucard to do things he would never do, and how dare anyone force that upon any once-dead thing.

"Yes," he says, all intensity and fire baked int a single word. "This farce continues apace."

Christine glances over in turn to acknowledge the help of the newcomer and is equally floored by the sight of someone she knows. It's been hard to accept that all the people she used to know are now gone, but working to repair the city has given her a distraction to help push such thoughts out of her mind. Now they come flooding back and she presses a hand over her rapidly beating heart as a falcon comes to land on her shoulder.

"I could ask the same of you. Strange!" She shakes her head, realizing what she's said. "Both your name and this meeting. I... suppose the same thing that happened to me happened to you."

Strange gives Alucard a look like he's just sprouted three heads. Farce? And what's with that disapproval that's just radiating off of him? How exactly is this a bad thing? It's wonderful! The dragons are still alive (so Strange thinks), this is the best news he's heard all day.

The confusion only lasts for a moment before his excitement returns. Strange moves to sit next to Alucard, not really caring if Alucard wants him to or not.

"This thing you call a 'farce' is hardly even that. It's wonderful. Our whole...business was unexpected but this? The message? It's perhaps the best thing that's happened to me in a while." Sure, dying and being raised from the dead absolutely sucked. And he still doesn't know what this hare that appeared out of nowhere is or what it's doing (aside from patiently sitting at Strange's feet and looking up at the man). But a message from a dragon? Directed at him? It's like it's his birthday and he won the lottery at the same time.

There is a moment of total disdain not for anything being said, but for the fact that Alucard did not ask to be sat next to, and he would presume his entire demeanor would make it clear. He carries himself a little too haughtily sometimes, he knows that (he has been, as the kids say, roasted for it more than once.) But the ability to read a room is...not a skill known here, clearly.

"Yes," he says with a voice as dry as an ancient wine. "Because being raised by necromantic related powers should be of no concern of anyone to begin with, and anything that begs for history to turn in on itself ought to be embraced with open arms."

Divided We Fall
There’s a reason Racter did not usually fight directly. He could call upon a dhampir's strength if needed, certainly, but enhanced strength meant little when there was no talent or technique behind it and one's original strength started at "occasionally carries large reference books". But he can’t ignore what is happening. It’s all too convenient – the revivals, the storm, the attacks.

If the orcs are indeed looking for something, then they are his best lead. And this is the perfect excuse to pursue them.

The city needs defenders? Then they will have them. Racter can be found around the city, offering to help with building repair and doing odd jobs in exchange for scrap wood, metal, stone. When he does return to the inn, his bed gets turned into a workbench. He’ll be working late into the night on strange, spidery limbs and contraptions. Perhaps the noise wakes you up. Or, if you have any inclination towards engineering or alchemy, he might ask for opinions on designs.

Mysterious Message
The courier, as he found out it was called, was a marvelous device. Durable too, unfortunately – he’d been unable to take apart the panels so far, and the gears remain unmolested, ticking away in a strange double beat behind the glass.

But more relevant now, it can relay messages.

“The truth will not find you. You must seek it for yourself,” he repeats, turning the courier over in his hands. He had been in Thalassa his entire life, of course he knew of Logistykon. But it wasn’t as if he knew the dragon personally, or even professionally. Why would the white dragon reach out to him now? Or, possibly, who would be so bold as to masquerade as a dragon?

It’s good advice, regardless of the source. And so he decides he will follow it now. Perhaps he’s not the only one to receive such a message. So he approaches whoever he sees with the same icosahedron courier.

“Do you think these devices are truthful? Or can they lie as well as the ones who use them?”

It Bites, It Burns, It Yearns and Yearns
They weren’t perfect, but they’d have to do. Racter has built about a half dozen quadrupedal golems, about knee height. They’re rather abstract, not really resembling any living creatures, with crude spines and reinforced metal ends on their multi-jointed limbs. He didn’t have the supplies for anything larger, or more elaborate. He’ll have to be careful – he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to repair these if they get too damaged.

If any others are going out of the city, he’ll offer to join with one or two of his golems. Controlling them takes most of his focus in combat, so he’d rather have a team to help watch his back, but they are much more effective than those with a simple control rune. For anyone familiar with golems, they behave oddly, almost animal-like. They seem to enjoy combat as much as their controller, whose eyes remain a bright gold while he watches them work.

Racter will do his best to capture an orc alive for questioning - if he is successful, he has no issues with letting others try a few questions of their own.

He's not an idiot: he's not going to outright mention the whole 'raised from the dead' thing when they're outside, having just put out a fire and will probably put out more fires as the night goes on. But what else can it be? Here's someone who, by all accounts, should be dead by now and not only is she alive, but she looks almost exactly like she was when he last saw her.

While Strange stares in shock, his animas gets the work done. A reddish-brown rabbit hops over towards Christine and rests her head against the woman's leg, in a gesture of affection. At least at the moment, Strange doesn't notice this.

"If by the same thing you mean waking up on that battlefield, then yes. It did." He can't help but laugh a little, the slightly delirious laugh of someone who's just had a really weird past few days and knows it's going to get even weirder. "I honestly thought I'd never see you again."

Why read a room when you can just expect the room to revolve around you and accommodate your wants?

To his credit, Strange is lowering his voice when he talks, so as not to be heard by prying ears. "If you'd rather be back in the ground, I'm certain that can be arranged. As for your second point, how would we know if it's history turning in on itself? Perhaps what's happening was always meant to happen."

Though admittedly, most people wouldn't classify a shitton of necromancy and possibly dead, possibly alive dragons as something that's meant to happen. Still, this isn't tempering Strange's enthusiasm about the whole thing.

He recognizes the hat first, and wonders if he is dreaming the whole thing. There were others who had also revived, he knew that much, but a familiar face was still unexpected. And her? A project of sorts, an attempt to correct the mistakes of his own upbringing. Perhaps a protege. He could even consider her a friend.

He can't decide if he is glad to see Mòrag, or disappointed that his advice had not been enough to keep her alive.

"Strange, the lessons we remember." He takes a brush and begins scrubbing another table nearby - he'd done so often enough that his hands remember the motions. "It seems even decades are not enough time to forget chores."

Groot dislikes fire, truly he does, and he has gone very far out of his way to avoid being caught up in any. He skirts buildings and moves through alleys away from heat and light--but the fighting is everywhere on the outskirts and when he turns this corner he comes upon more fire than he has ever encountered. There is a woman dueling an orc with one hand and holding the other level at a wall of fire that rises as tall as Groot is.

The arboreon takes a moment, stunned by the wall of flame and, in his pause, the orc manages a particularly savage downward blow. It doesn't break her guard but the wall of flame falters. Groot is terrified but, as he looks at the lone woman he is driven to help. He has seen far too many little people killed in this way to allow it to happen again, not while he can prevent it.

There is no warning before Groot attacks. The vines that comprise his arm shift in near silence and then shoot out with some speed. They strike the Orc in the side with a great deal of force, toppling it and sending it skittering across the ground until it hits a nearby wall. Groot has no idea if it is dead or simply stunned, his goal was purely to move it away.

Davina sees someone in pain or discomfort, she instinctively acts on it right away.

"Here, let me."

She isn't an actual healer but she's worked with magic and herbs in an apothecary for a chunk of her life. And well, the things that she does—or rather, did—isn't too far off from what a healer does. Perhaps the only difference is that she supplies the substances, the potions, the poultices and the instructions on how to use them; a healer does the rest. Though admittedly she knows a few spells that would mend skin and knit wounds, only she doesn't have her supplies, which have rotted decades ago, so she can only offer a bit of help.

Besides, it's just simply bandaging. How difficult could it be?

[ Normally, Davina keeps to herself especially during the evenings at the inn. She's not only exhausted from the day's chores but there are still things that she doesn't understand, things that don't make sense.

For example, her second life on this world and this cat she's now carrying around. Sure, inwardly, she can feel the tendrils of her magic settling inside of her, comforting her that this is how it is now, she just needs to trust her power. But still, the confusion and the sentiment still remain. After all, not even her magic could answer any questions she has about it. ]

You might want to be more discreet with your notes.

[ She moves in front of him from behind, her cat jumping onto the table and pawing at his note. Davina picks him up right away, letting him settle on her shoulders once more. ] I don't know if that kind of magic has gotten popular even after a century.

A City Under Siege
[Ellie let another arrow fly, watching as it went through the orc’s throat. The orc staggered, but kept pressing forward, apparently determined to destroy as much as she could. Her torch was still gripped tight in her hand as she made a desperate lunge for the wood building.

The second arrow through her head before she finished the job. Ellie didn’t wait for the orc to stop moving before she approached, to see if any of her arrows were salvageable. Theseus padded forward from where she had been crouching. For a moment she looked calm, before her ears flattened and she yipped sharply.

Ellie whirled, drawing another arrow sharply, looking for another orc trying to attack her from behind.]

Divided We Fall
This part of the city was in shambles. Ellie stared out at it, hands quivering. She hated the adrenaline after battle, the way she couldn’t stop shaking - it had nothing to do with fear. Not really. It was just--too much all at once.

Ellie sat down a little ways away from a fire with some people around it. She stared down at the guitar in her hands - when had she picked it up? She didn’t completely remember. Sometime after the fighting, but had it been on a body? Had she asked someone?

Ellie took a deep breath, and then another. The reddish wolf she had taken to calling Theseus still paced beside her, silent and nervous. She could feel her pulse in her fingers.

There was always something about music that brought Ellie back to herself. She didn’t know why, but the feeling of the strings digging in and having to remember how to move her fingers in a way that wasn’t drawing a bowstring or gripping a knife--it helped. It helped.

Ellie aimlessly played a few chords, trying to think of a song. She knew she wasn’t the best of singers, would never be a bard--but her voice had been called “easy to listen to” once. Not moving in of itself, but... not bad. Ellie stared at her wolf for a long moment, before smiling.

Yeah, okay, she had one. She had a decent sense of irony, if nothing else.

"There ain’t no grave, can hold my body down..."

It bites, it burns, it yearns and years.
[Ellie waits. She’s crouched behind a rock that’s been covered on one side by snow--the other hasn’t been covered in snow yet, though it does nothing for the bitter cold. The blizzard howls, and she waits, bow in hand.

The orcs are smart. This kind of attack on a city so big means that the forces of Atr-- the City of Free Peoples--is spread out. They can be here and gone before enough forces can arrive to take them on.

This isn’t the most exciting solution, but it’s the smart one. Where she and her partner sit, they have a decent view of the western plains. The orcs may not come this way, but if they do? There’s another small team waiting ahead, closer to the city. All Ellie and her partner have to do is send the message so the other team can know where the orcs are and where they’re headed. Then the two groups can attack from both sides, leaving the orcs undefended from at least one side. Theoretically, anyway.

Unfortunately for Ellie, the message is magic. Fortunately for her, her partner has more skill than her - which means any, in this case.

The trick is just twofold: don’t get detected when the orcs pass, and don’t get detected following them. It’s easier said than done, but Ellie refuses to let panic encroach. She’s good at what she does. She can keep herself alive. She can keep her partner alive.

If the orcs even show up, anyway. If not, they’ll eventually retreat and switch places with another group.

(Ellie hates this, the snow makes her skin crawl and she can taste something copper on her tongue--)

Theseus, her wolf, shudders. Ellie reaches out a hand to steady her, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. They’re okay. She’s okay.

She glances over to her partner and reaches for her device. Thank the gods for the thought function. She holds it for a moment, waiting for the message to appear on her partner’s technology. The snowy land is too silent most of the time, and the wind carries voices in strange ways. Ellie doesn’t trust speech or noise.]

One hour down, two to go. Holding up okay?

[OOC: This can happen with a few characters, assuming Ellie would do a couple of rotations of this kind of shift. LMK on journal or discord or whatever if you want Orcs to show up and how the battle should go if they do.]

Edited 2018-12-02 11:40 (UTC)

i. X MARKS THE SPOT

Anyone who passes by the fireplace will find Davina sitting close to it, cradling a flagon of mulled mead. At her feet is a snoozing cat, seemingly content with the warmth of the fire with the way it's rolling on the fur mat. She doesn't seem to be doing anything, at first, until one notices that the fire is getting bigger every time she opens her hand, almost spilling out of the hearth but thankfully not burning anything, and then getting smaller, seemingly dying every time her hand curls into a fist.

Yes, she's playing with fire and testing out her magic now that she's alive again, making sure she remembers how it feels. Care to join her?

Alternatively, she can also be found shifting the hay out in the back the next day, looking very cross as she tries to shoo away an escaped sheep that's trying to eat said hay while she's pushing it around. Is it your job to tend to the sheep? Then please get it away from her before she decides lamb chops is a great main course tonight.

ii. DIVIDED WE FALL

[ a. One will find Davina wandering around in the outskirts market, going through each stall that sells herbs and other items she uses for magic. The army has only provided her so much when she offered her help and it's honestly not enough for everyone to go around, not with the amount of injured soldiers and civilians.

You might find her arguing with one of the merchants over what's clearly a small bundle of leaves: ]

Look, it's just common comfrey. With the price you're charging, you might as well give me a merlock orchid— [ The merchant tries to push her away, yelling that she's being rowdy and rude and that she's being a nuisance to other customers.

"Then get it from the forest, missy. If you don't get yourself killed." ] Maybe I will, you unsympathetic thief!

[ b. She's currently crouched on the ground with a random civilian, talking to them, asking them questions as she binds their wounds. She's not a healer but she knows basic first aid, at least, especially since her potions were once used for it.

One might overhear their conversation about the orcs, how an organised attack like this is rare. Almost too rare, in fact, that it doesn't seem like a random attack. Useful information, but she's not entirely sure how it would help.

... Or one might see her taking out a small portion of her courier, the triangle segments moving as they seek each other and form a little pyramind. She's very fascinated by it. She soon gets a small lesson on how to use them as thanks for her help, testing it out and perhaps accidentally sending you (and the entire quarter) a thought message.

Hi? ]

iii. A MYSTERIOUS MESSAGE: THOUGHT

So that was not ominous at all.
Anyone's questions have been answered yet?

[ Yes, she's testing out what she just learned about their new thingamjig. And of course she sent the message to everyone. ]

iv. IT BITES, IT BURNS: VICTOR

[ Even in the previous war, Davina never participated on the frontlines. Her magic was used mainly on her healing potions, on fortifying armours and weapons and on setting up traps. But this time around, in all her reckless and impulsive glory, she's found herself running after a straggler close to the city walls. She holds out her hand and shouting a spell that immediately impairs the orc. It shrieks in pain, dropping its weapon and holding its head like it's being split open; if she were to be asked, yes, that's exactly the sensation the spell intends to bring. Another orc jumps out at her and she does the exact same thing with her other hand, holding down both creatures onto the ground.

She soon chants another spell, slowly, carefully walking towards them through the snow. It's supposed to paralyse them, keep them from moving and doing anything stupid—like, oh, kill themselves? It's all swell for her until a third one announces itself, walking towards her with a taunting smile and a swing of its axe. Her animas seems to have realised that she's unable to do anything else while she's holding those two down, hissing at the advancing creature from her shoulder. ]

Stop moving, Orc, or I swear I'll set you on fire while keeping you alive. [ No, she can't do that with just her mind but delaying tactics, you know. It's useful once in a while.

Need a hand, please and thank you. ]

v. WILDCARD

[ Need her somewhere? Want to do a different Orc prompt? You can also send me a PM or ping me on discord (lucifel#1050) ]

Edited 2018-12-02 13:48 (UTC)

Alucard's intensity remains, and the next words out of his mouth are a very simple observation. "Perhaps. But not by you."

If Alucard was to be proven wrong, he might be genuinely surprised. As it is, the statement is delivered with all confidence in the world. Killing him takes effort and skill. That is the basic truth of it.

"Forbidden magic has it's reasons for being classified as such, the so-called art of raising the dead among them for the basic reason that it is unnatural. There is no reason for such a thing to happen. When the world moves on, it values the objects of it's past, venerates bones, but there is never a demand for a second coming of flesh and blood."

[Aucard's eyes look up from the page as he is addressed. His hand stills, and there's nothing to be gained by addressing someone's opinion on his notes. That's someone else choosing to peak over his shoulder.

But to the second point there's something a bit more patient in Alucard, willing to engage.]

Oh, doubtlessly it remains reviled for all the correct reasons. But between not writing or smearing my work all over the table, I am forced to take the road of mild carelessness.

[ If it helps him, it's not her idea to look over his shoulder but her cat's as they're passing by, curious of what he's scribbling down. Or perhaps just curious of the pen's movement.

Who knows with that cat? ]

Are you trying to figure out how it was done?

[ A hopeful expression flits across her face, taking a seat in front of him (don't mind if she does, thank you). Because really, she wants to know too. If it's the same magic she'd been taught of and used in the past, except it doesn't really feel like it. And it normally didn't generate an animas. ]

[Trying to figure out cats is the folly of all other living things. That is a basic fact of life, be it one's first, second, or however many other resurrections lie ahead.

The question is met with a weary sigh, coupled with a nod.]

It is a place to start. The mechanics are complicated, if my memory serves me well, but the why is the natural crux of the matter.

[From the sound of Alucard's voice, there's been no progress on that front. Below them both at the table, the wolf laying around has stirred. Well. She hasn't gotten up, she's just shifted so she can sniff at the newcomer's ankle.]

[ Honestly, Davina doesn't like the cold either and the same goes for her animas, huddled under the thick hood of her cloak. And the fact that she can't conjure any kind of fire to tide them over is starting to get annoying. But if she's to ensure the traps she's set would work and hold the orcs off, then she'll need to deal with it until their time is up. If things go well, then she and Ellie don't have to do anything.

If things don't go well, then ... well, they'll cross the bridge when they get there. At the very least, Ellie is skilled with a bow and an arrow and she can cast spells. Best of both worlds.

Davina's murmuring a spell to warm her hands up when she finds her device whirring softly in her cloak. Pulling it out and reading the message across the glass, she glances at Ellie as well. ]

Yup, still can feel my fingers. I can't believe it's only been an hour. [ Because it sure feels like ten in this cold. ] You?

Billie doesn't like going in for heroics when she can help it but sometimes you just have to be a good person, right? She's quick, she can get places others can't in the blink of an eye, and that's why it's her who does just that almost immediately next to Christine once she ends up with someone needing a healer on hand.

Or more like in arm, considering she's hauling a little cat-like beastling kid around in both of them.

It's mostly a coincidence that Christine is the first healer that someone mentions to her when she asks, pointing her that way and telling her to hurry up. Hurrying entails Blinking, which means one moment, Christine is either alone or wrapping up her current work and, the next, she has a someone in what might be a familiar red coat (but also a very unfamiliar mask) popping into existence with the aforementioned kid in tow. Conscious, thankfully, if dazed and bleeding from a cut on the head.

"Hey, you're one of the healers, right?"

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Page 1 of 39

Event #1: The Big One

christine delacroix | ota; will match prose or brackets

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Groot | OTA, will match prose or brackets.

it bites, it burns

Jonathan Strange | ota!

message LET'S START THIS OFF RIGHT SHALL WE

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who's ready for the fastest torpedo of cr dwrp has ever seen

RAISES BOTH HANDS AND WAVES THEM WILDLY

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Waking

A City Under Siege

divided

x marks the spot

It's a monster! I'm sorry

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it bites

divided we fall