SUMMER

Angkar: Wet season. Precipitation is common during the late afternoon and evening hours. Vegetation grows significantly during the summer, but flooding is a danger due to the monsoons that ravage the country. The rainforest sees evenly distributed rainfall throughout the season.

Ashoka: Desert: Extremely hot and dry. Violent, heavy downpours following long dryspells. Jungle: Hot and humid with frequent, violent rainstorms.

Morrim: Relatively hot and dry, but with a chance of thunderstorms from time to time. The heat may cause forest fires.

Soto: Hot and humid, tree cover is dense while ground growth is restricted. Thunderstorms see the most amount of rainfall during the season, and it can be very windy. On occasion, there are flash floods that can destroy homes and farms built on flood plains.

ANNOUNCEMENTS

March 30th, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has changed hands and is now under new management! If you have any questions, please direct them to DaringRaven! As for the rest of the announcements, including a season change, you can find them over here at the following link!

January 16, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has a new skin, all thanks to Mel! Don't forget to check out the new OTMs as well!

December 2, 2017 Winter has settled on Elenlond, bringing sleep for some and new life for others.

September 26, 2017 With the belated arrival of autumn come some interesting developments: new OTMs, a Town Crier and the release of the Elly Awards winners!

July 14, 2017 After a bit of forum clean-up, Elly Awards season has arrived! Head on over to make your nominations!

May 31, 2017 Summer has arrived and so has activity check! That's not all though – we also have some new OTMs for you and some staff changes!


WHAT IS ELENLOND?

Elenlond is an original free-form medieval fantasy RPG set on the continent of Soare and the Scattered Isles, which are located to the south in the Sea of Diverging Waters. The four chief nations of the western side of the world—Ashoka in northern Soare, Soto in western Soare, Morrim in eastern Soare, and Angkar, the largest of the Scattered Isles—continue to experience growth and prosperity since the fall of the Mianorite gods, although power struggles within the countries—or outside of them—continue to ensue.


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    Angkar: To honour the reinvigoration of the ancient city of Mondrágon, the majestic Queen Eulalia has permitted the opening of a Coliseum where people from around the world and all walks of life can test their combat skills against one another. Many have already done battle in search of honour, glory, prizes and money.

    Ashoka: In an otherwise peaceful times, Ashokans are beset with the relatively minor inconveniences of wandering undead and occasionally-aggressive giant rock worms. There has also been some controversy over the recent re-legalisation of human sacrifice.

    Morrim: Rumour has it that Emperor Leofric de Hollemark is mustering forces for a war. Though the threat from Soto’s forests has passed, the forces previously employed in watching the forest now linger at the border. Rumours also circulate of a small group that has been dispatched to make contact with the tribes of the Do’suul Mountains.

    Soto: The Sotoans have defeated the fey and liberated themselves from Méadaigh’s oppression! Preliminary efforts have been made at rebuilding the city of Madrid, which had been captured at the beginning of the war. However, the Sotoans are hindered from recovery famine. Méadaigh’s magic caused summer to persist in the Erth’netora Forest through the winter. Her power has been withdrawn and the plants die as if preparing for winter – even though it is now summer. The Sotoans must sustain off what food they can get, what creatures they can kill and what can be imported into the city from Morrim and Angkar.

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    Crossed Stars; for shiro! <3
    Topic Started: Jun 24 2017, 06:49 AM (329 Views)
    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    The shores of Death were vast.

    Voices whispered to him, of so many languages and tones that they dulled to a mindless susurrus, lapping at his hems in waves. Occasionally a grey face would push through the mist, staring at him with sightless eyes, but then it too would fade to nothing, disappearing like so much smoke. On and on the undulation of spirits went.

    Time and distance meant nothing here. For all he knew, he had not moved at all — but experience told him otherwise, guided him like a firm hand.

    Kinaldi. He tried to hold the city in mind, lest he be lost; but he’d seen that scratch of ink on a map so many times, and felt the pulsing star of Orl’Kabbar in the northwest, a quiet whisper nudging him not to go that way. So he pressed northeast, felt the vague impressions of people, as though he floated above a city — a wall of men whispering in Morrimian, their voices distorted as if through water — a changing pressure, opening swaths of grey — the horizon, if such a thing could be called that, had turned white, rising like an impossible wall.

    Kinaldi…

    It was like navigating open water — behind him, the land he’d left behind — before him, a few anchors with which to steer himself, else… blind determination.

    Occasionally the howls of interlopers would rise above the tide like a blistering wind, raising his hackles. Ah. That’s how he knew he had crossed the border into Morrim.

    Their presence was powerful here — relics of the Dark Conquest, the unholy things that had crawled from the nether and ravaged the countrysides. The land may have healed, but its spirit did not; the rifts opened by necromancers had not closed, warping the scape like scars.

    Kinaldi…

    Another cry came, closer this time.

    The necromancer froze, sinking down into the grey mists. A terrible, dark Thing burst into existence — loped to one of the dead paths, throwing its tortured body against it. It gave a low cry, like a cracking gong.

    Devils.

    Phaedrus swam through the whispering, keening flow of spirits, passing it like a fish underwater. Its presence was overwhelming, distorted, wrong — left him with a heavy pressure on his chest and a metal tang in his mouth.

    Onward…

    The rifts made it hard to navigate, and unease wormed into his guts. Unnatural dips and valleys pocked the Shores, not seen but felt — like hidden currents and rip tides, tearing souls in sudden directions.

    Easy…

    He gave one a wide berth, pausing to orient himself again. Still traveling east… still—

    Another howl split the nether. The beast tore from the grey, bursting forth like a flock of bats. It engulfed him with the shrieks of a passing storm, black clouds roiling overhead. Blinding. The necromancer could not see — screeched in turn, trying to wrench his rippling body out of its massive form—

    Mistake.

    At once the air changed. He felt it with a sudden vertigo; the black creature withdrew like smoke sucked through a pipe — the grey became a blur — the current tore him along, too fast, too chaotic, and the necromancer loosed a hideous scream. Where. Where was it taking him, where— he lost all frame of reference, a buoy thrown about by the waves. The mist burned away — became a dizzying, blinding white, searing his vision —

    The pressure changed. Something tugged his navel, hard — all his guts flipped as his flesh rippled back into existence, the air suddenly hot and dry on his skin — he scarcely could take a breath before —

    A branch hit him like a fist. Phaedrus gave an undignified yelp, but it was short-lived— the next slammed into his midsection and punched all the air out of him, leaving him choking. Birds exploded out of the canopy, flapping by his face in a terrifying blur of feathers and claws. The necromancer scrabbled for purchase, found none — he broke a fingernail on the bark as he scraped down it, tearing away moss and splinters — the ground hit him like a shield, ringing through his bones.

    Stunned, the necromancer could only look up, eyes glassy and wide.

    The tips of pines swayed overhead, rustling in the breeze. His ears buzzed with a high, tinny ring — the revolting taste of metal still seared his mouth, burning in his throat. The faint smell of sap joined it — it stained his fine tunic, came with the needles and small branches he’d torn away on his fall.

    Not far to his right stood some blackened stone ruins — the carcass of some fortress— and surely the source of his misfortune, given the powerful aura of necromancy radiating off of it. A stronghold from the Dark Conquest? It was utterly uninhabitable now, reduced to rubble and rotting wood but for a few walls that remained stubbornly upright.

    Still…

    Hackles raised, the necromancer tried to get up, wincing at the pain. He dug a pinecone out of his back and tossed it away, struggling to get his breath back. It may still be a ritual site. Best to get out of here and figure out where the bloody hell—

    A branch cracked. Guts leaping to his throat, Phaedrus braced a hand against the mossy ground, fighting to stand upright. His body screamed in protest, stabbed by a dozen aches and pains, but he managed to stumble upright.

    “Come a step closer and I’ll kill you,” he rasped, lofting his hands into a casting position. Quite the lofty statement coming from a fop who could barely catch their breath. His yellow eyes pierced the gloom, flicking back and forth wildly to hunt the source of the noise.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Shiro
    Member Avatar
    Valkoinen Metsästäjä

    Shiro had left Kinaldi just the day prior. She was off again in her search for curse removal services. Morrim as a country was quite an odd place to be in, and the characters that lived within the borders were just as odd, if not more.

    She considered heading back south down to Soto now that supposedly the 'Fae War' as everyone was calling it was over. She scoffed at the idea, it all sounded like some high school rumor run far to rampant. It was true that she hadn't seen her homeland in well over a year and was beginning to get a bit of the homesickness. The neko decided that heading home was the best idea. She needed to check up on her little cottage, maybe run into a few familiar faces.

    On the other hand, traveling had brought her to so many cool and unique places, not to mention meeting all sorts of wacky and zany people along the way. In its own sense, she loved the travel just as much as she loved home. She ultimately decided that a return trip home was in order.

    She had set up a small encampment near some ruins outside of Kinaldi, it was growing dusky and the sun was dipping past the horizon. She whipped up a small campfire to provide a little light under the canopy of trees. She sat and leaned against a tree. The neko contemplated and mused about several things.

    What a world she was living in. The catgirl knew the Forest where she called home was large, but this world was bigger than she ever knew. It was good to return home. She had to start making a mental list of all the things she had to check in on. Traps, defenses, etc. It would probably take a good part of a week to sort everything out if things were in complete disarray. She felt a small bit of anxiety in the actual state of her homestead. The place couldn't be that bad, right?

    She was dozing when a rustle and crack dragged her out of her half-conscious state. She initially tried to shake it off as a animal or something, but then there was a unnatural yell and more cracking. It sounded like someone or something was falling out of the sky and smashing through the various tree branches on the way down. It was violent and unpleasant. It was a fury of sound before a dull whump that only a humanoid body could produce upon impact with the ground.

    In the meantime, Shiro had leaped up and thumbed Tsujigiri half an inch out of the sheath. Her hand firmly at the ready for a fast draw and a fight to ensue. Instead of an attack, a feeble voice called out. Trying to sound brave and not like it had just fallen several stories and smacked the ground hard.

    “Come a step closer and I’ll kill you,” the voice managed in a gravelly tone. She did have to give him credit for at least trying to sound intimidating.

    Wait a second...

    Shiro recognized that voice from somewhere, her memories flashed through her mind rapidly. Who could it be, she pondered quickly. Then it hit her.

    Phaedrus!

    She called out to him, quizzically at first, just in case. It might not actually be him.

    "Phaedrus? Is-is that you?" she watched, unmoved in her battle ready state, "it's Shiro. Remember?" She hoped that he did remember that wild night with Galena. He was drinking quite a bit and it was very possible that the alcohol muddled his memories.

    Hopefully he remembered.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    All was quiet.

    For a moment he wondered if it was merely a squirrel or some other woodland creature; no other sound came from the darkened boughs. Paranoid, he kept his hands lofted, hackles bristling on the back of his neck.

    Then -- movement. A vague shape detached itself from the trees, cracking another branch underfoot, and he whirled towards the noise, blue flames erupting in his palms--

    Phaedrus? Is-is that you?

    The necromancer jumped. His mouth wilted open. The voice was oddly soft, quiet -- and the girl it belonged to stepped into sight, her hand half on a sword, grey eyes reflecting the eerie dance of magic. The blue flame lent an unearthly cast to her pale face, made her look half a ghost. Phaedrus stared quite blankly at her, blinking to make sure she wasn't some sort of apparition.

    How? What? Who--

    "Erm." It's Shiro. Remember? The panic buzzing his mind hurtled into a wall of confusion, and for a moment he could do little but stare. He tried to pick through his memories -- rummaged about in his skull-- shook out the corners of his dusty mind, but he couldn't quite --

    "Shiro," the necromancer repeated slowly, after a brief moment of shock, as if that might jog something. "Shiro, erm..." At the very least he lowered his hands, flames guttering in his palms. His eyes roved about her features, found a blink of recognition there.

    Grey eyes of a sort he'd seen before. A tiny button nose, like Bast's... and such odd hair! The hair, yes!It curled in a snowy mop upon her head, hardly common, and it tapped on a door of memory. Yes, yes, he never forgot a face... it did look familiar, but he couldn't quite--

    "Remind me where we've met, again?" Phaedrus asked wearily, dispelling the magic and knitting his fingers together. He wasn't sure if he could relax just yet, eying the wicked sword at her hip.

    "I do apologize. I thought--well, nevermind." A nervous laugh chittered off his lips. Relief betrayed itself on his features, shoulders easing somewhat. He was happy to not be alone. Particularly at night, devils.

    The forest raised the hackles on his neck. Behind him the trees clustered like enemies, hiding secrets in their boughs. Whether or not anything lurked there, paranoia still hunched on his back, wound it to knots. At any moment he expected the Fae to burst through the pines and impale them both, or worse. The darkness breathed on his neck, a suffocating presence as he'd felt on the road to Nemetona.

    Absurd, that a creature like me is afraid of the dark...

    "Um." Something tickled his neck and he flinched, fishing a twig out of his hair. Phaedrus stared at it a moment before flicking it away, clearing his throat. Well, he looked a mess. Nettles clung to his tunic and pants, along with leaves and moss and other oddments on the forest floor. The necromancer heaved a great sigh, slapping his hands at his thighs.

    "What an odd thing. Well, it is good to see a familiar face. Though... certainly the last place I'd expect." Another sigh. He wedged his fists on his hips and looked down to his ruined boots, shaking out some nettles to no avail.

    By no means was he dressed for the forest; the fine embroidery of his tunic and fresh pants suggested he meant to take a stroll down the streets of Kinaldi or Madrid --well, what had once been Madrid-- not tramp around in some pines and ruins. Nevertheless, he forced a faint smile to his face, brow arched at Shiro.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Shiro
    Member Avatar
    Valkoinen Metsästäjä

    The catgirl waited. Phaedrus looked confused, probably searching his memories of her. It took him a solid minute to remember. It wasn't much that he went on, but he asked her where they had met before.

    "We met one particular evening at a tavern with Galena. It was a while ago, yes," she confirmed his memories. Her own memory was quite the fickle thing itself. Certain items that seemed completely inane she could remember vividly, like two kind strangers on one fateful night a few years back. Nevertheless, she hoped that her words would spur something. The Necromancer was studying her, still searching to find some clue in his mind. An apology escaped his lips. She loosened up a bit, after she had noticed he wasn't in attack mode anymore. She returned Tsujigiri back fully into the sheathe and adopted a neutral stance.

    Other than the confusion that was plaguing Phaedrus, Shiro noted that he seemed pretty jittery. It was almost as if he was being followed or something. This sent a small wave of panic down her spine. The panic of previous mention was quickly replaced with concern. The last the neko remembered of the guy, he was having a drunk merry time. She forced herself to remember that times change and so do people. Something had him real spooked.

    Questions.

    "Y-yes, well, come here. Warm yourself by the fire and chat a while. Stay up here for the night at least, can't be having you wandering around in the night," her voice came out more motherly than she had intended, but she was gonna run with it anyway, "You keep looking behind your back like you are about to get jumped. Tell me, what has you on edge?" Maybe he could ease up a little, there wasn't anyone around as far as Shiro could tell, and she wasn't providing any reason to be a threat to him. Nor did she even consider him one either. The catgirl had checked well before sunset, the nearest people were over in Kinaldi.

    "...and another thing. Care to explain how you got here? Y'know with all the crashing and tumbling down a tree?" This time, the neko was genuinely curious about this particular string of questions. She couldn't just shake the huge commotion that occurred just as he showed up, not to mention that he was covered in brambles and such.

    Shiro felt a pang of guilt for hounding him with so many questions.

    It was mainly her curiosity that was the driving factor here. Phaedrus did literally just drop out of the sky, startling the poor neko half to death. It was only natural to have so many questions right? She turned back towards the fire, hiding her face from him. She was only trying to regain her composure from that guilt.

    "Are you hungry? I have some meat I can spare if you'd like," she tried being sincere. She wasn't sure how to properly be a hostess in an impromptu camp situation. If she was back home at her cottage, she could whip up some delicious soup or stew, throw down a bedroll and whisk away the evening. But here, she was traveling for one. As such, she only carried food and provisions for herself mostly.

    "No alcohol though."
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    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    Galena.

    Mention of the Councillor jarred him. During the war she broke all ties with Madrid and fled to join the Fae army; scouts reported her side-by-side with Maedaigh and Sophia Orjtarn. Word spread that the two had attended a lavish party in Morrim, acting as hellish emissaries. They said she had taken on the appearance of rot, threaded with black veins, her sharp eyes dulled…

    He could not picture it. The two realities did not mix. Laughing and drinking wine at one of her many garden parties — hearing of her tireless work at the Ameliorate Ordos, evidenced by the bags under her eyes — ah, yes, he remembered that night in the tavern, the night he’d—

    “That’s right,” Phaedrus conceded softly. She spoke of it as if it happened yesterday, with the cheerful recollection of someone ignorant to what befell Madrid. Did she know about Galena?

    Her voice became almost motherly. It was endearing, and his mouth quirked in a catlike smile, warmed rather than irritated by her concern. Nobody had ever really tried to protect him, or shield him from… anything, really.


    “Ah, it's the forest..." Phaedrus took a deep breath. "Since the war, it makes me uneasy. I keep expecting Maedaigh's army will... well, nevermind." Gooseflesh prickled his flesh. He felt his hackles raise, tried to calm the panicked flurry of his thoughts.

    You're in Morrim. Her magic did not extend here. Nothing’s going to come out of the brush. And besides, that hell dryad is dead… gone. She is gone, gone, fool!

    Intellectually, he knew this. But the memories of Reine and Nemetona did not leave so easily, lingered in every broken stone and corner in Madrid. It followed him into his sleep, popped up unbidden in quiet moments. It was written in the eyes and faces of every Sotoan that returned to their city, beginning the daunting task of reconstruction. He zoned out a moment, reeled back to earth by her question.

    Care to explain how you got here?

    A laugh tumbled out of his mouth. Some of the tension unwound from his shoulders, and the necromancer put his forehead in his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose.

    "I'm a bleeding idiot, that's how," he snorted. A pause. He wondered how to put it without sounding like an absolute madman, cleared his throat. "Well, you see... I was on my way to Kinaldi, actually. I was trying to, erm --“ how would one explain to a layperson? "--teleport there, in a manner." He made vague gestures with his hands. "However... when you're traveling through the aether... sometimes magical disturbances pop up. I suppose you can think of them as whirlpools in the sea. I got attacked by something, and it threw me off course, where I got sucked into... here." The necromancer gestured around, then jerked a thumb at the ruins behind him. He was rambling, but it put him at ease, gave him something to do with his nervous energy.

    That must've caused it. My guess is that this was a necromancers' stronghold during the Dark Conquest. They summoned wretched things here... and the scars of that lingered." Phaedrus crossed his arms, kicking an acorn. It went skittering off into the brush. "Raises the hairs, doesn't it? At least for me. You know, people sense magic differently... for me it's in the mouth. Tastes like shite.” Yes, that unmistakeable metal tang filled his tongue, all sour and tinny…

    It radiated strongly from the ruins behind him, but also from a different source. A presence pressed into his mind, building a pressure around the sinuses. Where was it coming from? Surely not…

    Of a sudden the girl looked ashamed. She turned towards the fire and it limned her pale cheek, lending a warm cast to her hair.

    “Ah. Thank you for your hospitality.” He meant it, spread a hand against his chest. Gods only knew what sort of food was around here. Killing an animal was easy enough… but tracking it down? Certainly not. And the process of skinning them was simply heinous. When he worked in an inn kitchen he wretched every other minute, and the cook laughed at him between the thunks of a cleaver.

    No alcohol, though.

    The necromancer followed her to the fire, tossing a hand to say no problem. Her concern tickled him, made him smile at a private joke. How… fortuitous. At least he needn’t struggle with the temptation at all.

    “That’s alright,” he snorted, voice full of twisted mirth. Phaedrus tossed himself onto a log by the fire, rubbing his nose. Devils but that sensation was bad. It didn’t abate — only got worse, stronger, closer

    Something was wrong. His eyes kept drifting down to her sword.

    “Alright, now I have some questions for you,” the necromancer jested, spreading his hands before the fire. Even in summer, Morrim never grew warm enough. He remembered loathing that about living there. Always colder than a witch’s tit…

    “One. Why on earth are you out here? And two—if I may ask… um. Where did you get that sword?” He kept his words guarded, but he couldn’t keep the curiosity from his voice.
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    Shiro
    Member Avatar
    Valkoinen Metsästäjä

    Phaedrus inhaled, in an attempt to shake off the nervousness. He explained that the war had him on edge. Shiro figured that was reasonable. She looked up from her position and smiled softly at him.

    "Well, surely you are alright now. This is Morrim, and last I heard, that whole ordeal is ravaging Soto," she attempted to placate him. She wasn't wrong by any measure. The woods here were teeming with life, but the nastiest thing that might get you would be a pack of wolves. Granted if you were bleeding and they didn't have a variety of herbivores to pick and choose from.

    After her inquiry of arrival. Tensions died pretty quickly after that. The Necromancer laughed, then went into a lengthy -and half arsed- explanation that left Shiro just staring at him. She picked a few words here and there, but really he was just difficult to understand.

    "--teleport there, in a manner." Teleport?

    She laughed quickly. "You could've just said 'attempting to teleport'!" She grinned at him.

    Phaedrus further explained that he had his money set on the ruins nearby. He joined the little neko by the fire, waving off the declaration of no booze. Shiro leaned back against a tree once more, gazing up to the stars.

    This evening was turning into quite the odd sort. She contemplated for a few seconds all the crazy shenanigans that she ended up into along her life. She figured that there was some kind of curse that landed her in the wackiest situations. Maybe it was bad luck, or even fate.

    ...coincidence? The catgirl internally scoffed at the notion. There was no way that every wild thing that happened was really just happenstance. For example, Ser Phaedrus that fell out of the sky and now was a camp partner. It was just weird how things happen like that. Shiro shuddered at the thought of what was to come, and the fact that there was no way to even know.

    It was the Necromancers turn, he had questions for her. The neko sat up and gave him her full attention. First, easiest, why was she here? Then, secondly, also more difficult, where did the sword come from?

    "Dubious circumstances at best. You are already seated, good, story time!" She cleared her throat and started up her story.

    "So, I'm searching for a certain person. I heard wind that someone was up in Morrim, figuring that I would be fine with a bit of adventure, Morrim I went, " she started, " after doing some poking around and nearly getting crushed by a half man half bear. I decided it was time to head back home. After all it has been a year and I need to check up on my cottage."

    Every bit of it was true, she was heading home. She did omit her plan to travel to Madrid for some things. There was no need to tell anyone of that just yet.

    "Now, for the second question, is to actually answer the first one as well!" she giggled. Again, this was the truth.

    "The details are fuzzy, but I remember something about a cave, then a huge force of something that flung me out of said cave," she searched her memory, " when I awoke, there was this sword in my hands. And some intrepid archaeologist. Aside from that I cannot tell you much."

    She was truthful, the sword was still an enigma to her. She didn't like waving it about for everyone to say and shout 'HEY LOOK AT ME I GOT A CURSED SWORD HAHAHA'. That generally didn't end well. Usually it was met with angry mobs and beheadings. The catgirl wasn't sure just how much she should share about it. She did just stumble upon it one day. The neko did have this stupid blade to blame -or thank- for her entire adventure to Morrim.

    So maybe it wasn't just a horrible burden?

    The verdict for that remains to be seen. She chuckled to herself.

    She fiddled with a few prongs of meat, rotating them so they browned nicely. After they were finished, she held one out in offer to the Necromancer. All the while she was digging into her own. Her tail flicked in happiness.

    It was the simple things.
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    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    Well, surely you are alright now.

    Ah, if only.

    A faint, sad smile suffused his face, not reaching his eyes.

    —Last I heard, she said, last I heard—

    Did she not know?

    "Maedaigh has fallen. The war is over, as far as everyone hopes." The necromancer sucked in a deep breath, trying to bat off the memories. “We lifted the siege of Reine. From there… the city of Nemetona was breached, burnt, sacked... but the forest is still dangerous. Teeming with straggling Fae and bandits and the like." He fiddled with the fabric of his tunic, flicked off a rogue pine needle.

    "And Madrid is..." his tongue went dry in his mouth. The necromancer tried to force his lips to move, managed a grimace. "...in ruins." He hated to puncture her good cheer, infect her with his own gloom and frayed edges. Phaedrus rubbed his eye, tucking a curl behind his ear. "The people are rebuilding, looking for solutions... Maedaigh's magics left the fields fallow. The plants are exhausted, people are still going hungry. That's why I was on my way to Kinaldi, actually."

    Phaedrus crossed his arms, chewing on his lip. "The Mystic Occult was sacked. So many books are gone.” A fact that brought him exceptional pain. "I hoped the mage's library at Kinaldi might have some tome or research that could help, but... this is all rather--unprecedented." He waved vaguely at the trees with a flick of the hand, stuffing it back under his arm.

    Perhaps they had been wrong in researching Fae. They ought’ve researched demons—

    The girl laughed, and it was high and bright. You could've just said 'attempting to teleport’! It woke him up a bit from his gloom, and he huffed a laugh, a grin twitching on his face.

    “Right, sorry,” he waved a hand at his own silliness. Was he becoming a boring, droning mage like Galeas? Devils, he hoped not. They walked towards the fire, and it was like a shining beacon, a sphere of warmth and safety in the hellish woods. It smelled comforting, too — the crackling spit of meat and smell of smoke made his mouth water, eyes drifting to the skewers. The necromancer sat primly on a log, dusting the rump of his pants but — really, what use was there? He sighed.

    Story time!

    The way she spoke on it — it all sounded like a great, jaunting journey, a fun adventure over the last year of the dryad’s reign. Her eyes were bright, a grin never far from her lips, her motions animated. Despite himself he felt a welling of jealousy and resentment — kept it from his face, but still, his heart turned over in bitterness. Oh, splendid, exquisite. Have you any idea what hells I’ve gone through—

    A fiery brow rose, and he canted his head like a cat.

    “Half-man, half-bear…?” It puzzled him. He watched Shiro for a moment, his eerie eyes flickering back and forth over her face, as if trying to connect the bizarre dots she had given him.

    “Who are you looking for?” He asked conversationally, kicking out a leg and assembling himself into a — well, there was hardly a comfortable way to sit on a log — better position, still managing to lounge even in the middle of the wilderness. Phaedrus clucked his tongue, trying not to stare like a hungry dog at the fire. He kept his eyes trained on the girl’s, a frown marring his brow. “It must be hard to have come so far and not found them…” Ah, he knew that feeling well. He’d spent most of his new life chasing phantoms across Soare, never getting any answers.

    Then she went on about the sword — how little she remembered — the cave, the archaeologist — and by the end of her story his brows had crept up as high as they could go, lips tugged down in confusion.

    What…

    He gathered himself, taking a deep breath and clasping his hands together in a scholarly manner.

    “How… er... curious.” An understatement. He unclasped his hands, curling a pale finger under his lip. Once more, his eyes wandered back to the girl’s sword. It had a hideous aura. He fought a shiver; it reminded him of the desert, the flapping membrane of a tent, holding Glede’s scimitar in his hands and feeling the undercurrent of old, evil magics…

    “May I—see?” It was hard not to betray his concern. Gooseflesh prickled up his arms, fingers twitching on his knee. “I do not mean to alarm you, Miss Shiro, but there is something—“ he stared at her round, sweet face, her apple-blossom cheeks and the shock of white hair beneath her hood. “—terribly wrong with that blade. I can sense…” His voice dribbled away.

    The meat popped, crackled, spat. It smelled wonderful, and he felt distinctly aware of the hunger caving his guts, the animalistic Dead part of himself that leapt at blood and raw meat. Most of the game had died off in Soto. He’d been kept from it for so long, living on a miserable existence of squash, couscous, lentils — while it sustained him, it did not sate him, and between that and his mind’s constant screaming for wine, he could not stand being in his own body.

    And then the girl held some out to him. He could have cried, absurdly — his emotions felt paper-frail, uncertain even to himself.

    “Thank you,” Phaedrus said, genuine, a startling amount of emotion in his voice. Calming himself with a hem, the necromancer drew the stick closer, blowing on it a tad to cool it off. He offered a sheepish grin. “I wish I had something to offer in return.”

    He took a bite, and the melting red and salt-tang of the meat was like nirvana. The necromancer chewed with gusto, had to keep from cramming the entire stick down his mouth like a snake and sending the girl screaming. Instead he delicately covered his mouth as he chewed, all thought of a cursed sword and cursed ruins temporarily forgotten.

    Something white flickered in his periphery. The necromancer’s eyes shot towards it, senses still peeled for the most minute sign of danger or strangeness— and it seemed to him that a tuft of fur stuck out from Shiro’s cloak, but… no, madness. You are seeing things. When was the last time you slept?

    Phaedrus tore his eyes away and met Shiro’s own again, and they crinkled in an apologetic smile.
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    Shiro
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    Valkoinen Metsästäjä


    Shiro listened to Phaedrus explain that the war was finished. The neko sighed, it would've been a bad thing if she had returned with a bleeding war still going on. She remembered how her father died and recoiled a small amount. Shaking off the bad memories, the catgirl forced herself back to the present and on the current conversation.

    "That is good to hear, at least," she was relieved to get the news, " I'm heading back that way. I'll lend a hand and try to get things taken care of." It was as much her country as the next person. In a way, Shiro felt a little patriotic about it all. She had her plans as well, the only issue was execution. But that was something for a future date.

    The fop explained further, most of the books were lost. Not the books! Shiro actually needed them now! She was headed that way to find something about curse removal. To make good on his offer from so long ago. This threw a massive wrench into her plans. The neko would have to find another way now. She'd have to hunt down someone, possibly a priest of Madrid, and seek their help. No easy task considering how busy everyone must be rebuilding the city.

    "I, uh, well...anyone with magic knowledge of rending curses really," she said it surprisingly casually.

    They ate, Phaedrus ravenously so. The catgirl was happy to share her food with him. He ashamedly had nothing to offer in return for her hospitality. Shiro just waved dismissively at him, she didn't need to be repaid. He did want to see her sword, and this is where the problems arose.

    "Y'see...that is kind of the thing, it's somehow just attached to me," she explained, demonstrating what the neko just said. The sword, refusing to leave her open palm despite no conceivable was for it to stay up. Some party trick; all she managed to do was scare a few people and make a awkward show about it. Phaedrus denoted that there was something quite evil about her blade.

    Shiro agreed with him.

    The revelation only dawning on her now that Phaedrus did dabble in the arts of magic. Maybe he could help! She grew excited. The neko felt it would be rather rude of her just to demand his services, maybe he could make an exception?

    The neko took notice about how he eyed Tsujigiri, it was scaring him. Any common person that gazed upon it would notice it's intricate design and black shine, they might be scared if she were to draw it but otherwise unscathed. There was full on fear in his eyes. She wasn't prepared for this kind of reaction. What kind of magic makes a sorcerer recoil in terror like that? If she had to hazard a guess it was something dark, and old.

    "C-could you help?" she asked tentatively. Either answer wouldn't hurt her, if he couldn't, he couldn't. Her life didn't depend on it. Thankfully for the little neko, that was not how the curse was set.

    Shiro stood, holding the sheathed blade outward for inspection. A shot of nervousness rolled down the catgirls spine, hopefully he wasn't about to blast it with some kind of destructive magic or something. Shiro quite liked her arm, hand and the rest of her body. She had previously stated that it wasn't going anywhere without her, so if he tried to take off with it. The blade would just end up back on her hip. This whole journey thanks to it. In some way, she was growing a bit fond of Tsujigiri. After all, it quite literally never left her side.

    She nearly forgot about her arm as well. This entire time, still bandaged. Out of sight, out of mind. Her eyes drawn down to the appendage. Shame and guilt washed over her like a wave on a beach. Along her journey she had found nothing about what causes or even helps get rid of furry arms. The neko had been so focused on getting the curse upon her sword removed that her own arm became a secondary issue. Despite it happening at the same time and causing her the same level of grief.

    Her tail curled again, betraying her curiosity.
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    Phaedrus
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    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    He listened as the girl went on, attempting—for all his ravenousness—to still eat like a polite nobleman. And so his fingers hid most of the violent tearing of flesh, and barring that, cupped under the skewer so that the juice wouldn’t ruin his tunic. Any more than the forest had already, anyhow.

    And when it had done—too quickly, to his disappointment—he fished a lacy handkerchief from his pocket, cleaning his fingers and dabbing his mouth. A brow raised as Shiro demonstrated what she had been talking about. It continued to climb as the sword did not so much as wobble, tethered to her palm by some unnatural force. The shocked o of his lips were hidden by a cloud of fabric, and they quickly thinned as he took the handkerchief away and stuffed it back into his pocket.

    C-could you help? Her eyes met his, wide and open, and they wrenched something in him.

    “I can certainly try,” Phaedrus assured her, taking the sword gingerly, as if she had handed him a rabid animal. Its edge looked wickedly sharp, and he was in no mood to lose a finger. So he lay it across his lap, staring at the make of it.

    “It doesn’t look like anything from Soare,” he observed absently, flipping it over. He was no swordsman, but he’d been in and out of enough bloodshed to get acquainted with plenty of weapons. No, it wasn’t the longswords of Morrim, or the khopeshes and scimitars of Ashoka, or the gladiuses of Soto. And certainly not fashioned in the make of antique blades he knew of. He’d seen nothing like it in Angkar, either, and yet it still had a nagging familiarity. The grips of the sword were different too, diamonds stacked neatly atop each other. Where had he seen—?

    After a moment it struck him.

    Once, over tea in Ylsa’s, she’d let him peruse her books and scrolls. Some of them were illustrated with great dashes of ink: usually cranes or some tranquil scene, but once he’d happened upon ugly, snarling depictions of demons and men. The former had clutched swords that looked just like this one; and in some hazy, dim corner of memory, he remembered going to a festival in Madrid where traders came from all across the globe, and a troupe from across the sea had put on a show with…

    “I believe it’s Daroan. Curious that it would simply be… in a cave,” Phaedrus muttered. His tone could have meant anything. But he held his tongue and his misgivings, flipping it over once again.

    His white fingertips brushed the cold, dark steel. They trailed along its flat side and he ironed his lips to a white line. Something pulsed within it -- he could feel it under his fingertips like a great leviathan bumping against black glass.

    It reminded him of Arukah, in a manner -- except Glede's blade was alive with bindings, a map of instructions that compelled the mind when it was whet with blood. This was...

    His brow furrowed. There were bindings, but they were not commands; it was rather like bars holding back a violent animal.

    "Something is living in your blade, Miss Shiro," he decided at length, standing from the log. "And it appears to have taken a liking to you." A grim not-smile twitched on his face.

    "Stay there," Phaedrus nodded at the girl. "I wish to test something."

    Without a word he started off towards the ruins, the blade held awkwardly in his grasp. He held it out from him as if it were a stick he intended to fend off a beast with, leaning away from it. A terrible metallic taste filled his mouth, caustic as ash. Had he a heart, it would have pounded as he left the safety of the fire, eyes adjusting to the darkness again. The moonlight lit the ruined tower in pale hues, where it hunched like a sleeping giant.

    So far, so good... He looked behind his shoulder; the girl was about twenty feet away. Slowly, measuring each pace, he continued to crunch through the leaves.

    Soon enough, the sword began to respond; whatever was inside it resisted, going taut like a dog at the end of its tether.

    When he took another step, it disappeared. Suddenly his fingers grasped air; he turned to see Tsujigiri glinting with firelight at the neko's hip, leering at him with a red smile.

    It's like Bast's box, he thought, with a sickening flip of his guts. The woods breathed on his neck; the necromancer hurried towards the fire in his eagerness to get away from them. Phaedrus stopped a few paces from the crackling flames, folding his arms and looking at Shiro with a furrowed brow. His face was still and grim.

    “...I can think of several things," he began, putting up a finger. "One... there is something contained in that blade that has spiritually attached to you." Another flicked upwards. "Two... that perhaps it is not a blade at all, rather some kind of daemon masquerading as one. Regardless, it seems to be using you as a host. It was rather unhappy when I walked away from you."

    Phaedrus held his elbow, tossing his hand and staring up at the starry sky that peeked between the treetops.

    "It brings to mind something I've seen before.” RETH, RETH, RETH… that awful box hissed and cracked in his memory; in his mind he saw a dizzying whorl of flames and a crossbow aimed at his missing heart; a faceless, snarling horror in a void.

    “My love suffered much the same. She was plagued by an artefact of—foul magics. It was… part of her, in a manner, and thus ended up by her side no matter the distance. And it was intelligent, furthermore, inhabited by some kind of..." he wiggled his fingers, making a face. "...consciousness." It still unsettled him.

    "The only thing that availed it was to contain it in a box that bound it in a particular location... still, it did nothing to dissever it from her, only keep it from reappearing and doing more harm.” His eyes wandered back to the girl. One look at Shiro's face told him he was rambling once more, going off like a doddering old man. Coming to, the necromancer shook his head, red curls bobbing.

    "My point is...” the necromancer sucked in his lips, wondering how to break it to her. "Her situation was quite dire. The box spoke to her, and the consciousness within it induced hallucinations and madness. Why, I suffered some of it myself, whilst trying to puzzle it." A haggard grin ripped across his face, and a laugh limped out of his mouth, hoarse and brittle. "I suppose you remember when we met... I thought she would die before I could solve it, and, well... at any rate..."

    He paced about the fire restlessly, clutching his elbows once again. He was not eager to relive the terror of the box, Calliope and the Mulciber, removed as it was now. Their tavern meeting in Madrid felt like it happened in another era, to someone quite unlike him. Crr-rack, cr-rrack, went the twigs beneath his boots.

    “…it meant to consume her in order to gain enough power to emerge.” At length he stopped, looking at Shiro with a crinkled brow and tired eyes. There was no kind way to put it. "I fear your sword aspires to the same. If not that, then take you as a thrall, and have you do its bidding. So I ask: does it speak to you at all? If not in speech than in odd dreams? Does it seem to possess a form of intelligence? Have you suffered any physical effects from it?"

    His tone changed from its previous weariness to the brisk clip of a physician’s. If it was so dire, then they’d best act, and soon.
    Edited by Phaedrus, Dec 10 2017, 03:10 PM.
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    Shiro
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    Valkoinen Metsästäjä

    //Rustier than a car in a Minnesota Winter. Woo.

    Shiro breathed a small sigh, he was at the very least able to take a look and deduce how bad the situation was. She was internally grateful for it. His actions betrayed and cast a shadow of doubt, as if it was a ticking time bomb. Phaedrus made comments whilst inspecting it, claiming that it was not of Soare. He was contemplating in thought.

    Shiro didn't know what to do, she felt agitated. Tense. It was strange to have such a feeling, she held her tongue. But her tail flicked and fidgeted, manifesting her true feelings. Phaedrus continued to inspect the blade, with more intent. She bit her lip waiting for the news.

    Then the payload was delivered. The catgirl recoiled at the news that something was indeed possessing the blade, and much more so at the fact that whatever it was liked her. The neko had a inkling that was the case but she couldn't bring herself to accept that fact. The necromancer stood, a grim look on his face. Her tail flicked nervously to and fro.

    Nothing about this spelled anything good, Shiro was frightened. She couldn't figure out what he was going to do.

    He walked off with the sword, claim to be testing something. She knew exactly what he was attempting to do. Nodding, she remained put. Like clockwork, after he reached a good distance away the sword vanished and reattached itself to her hip, all tied nice and neat like she never even removed it. It was unnerving every time it happened. The catgirl fidgeted in her seat, she grabbed her tail and idly twiddled with it, as one would with two normal human thumbs. Cat habits.

    Shiro looked up at him with a dash of fear, her grey eyes glistening in the firelight. She was searching for answers in his face. Something had to be there, a way out from this nightmare. All he offered in return was unhappy answers that she might be harboring a demon of some sort. Ill tidings all around. Her stomach dropped at the notion, what would the nefarious hell-spawn have in store for her? To what ends, nay, what did the creature possibly want to use her for?

    Did she suffer from possessing the sword? It was really hard to tell...no, there were signs. The neko's judgement was being poisoned by the evil from the blade. She needed to tell him everything about it.

    "Physical? U-uh...well. I haven't really shown anyone, " she started hesitantly, " It did control my body after I had awoken, there was a archaeologist whom had found me, I nearly took his head off. Entirely against my will I might add, somehow I managed to wrestle control at the last second and sliced a fairly large tree in two." Her memories raced through the events in her mind, vivid like they just happened just the day prior. It happened a good fair bit of time ago, but she had plenty of it to relive that day. The scene playing again and again, even the phantom pain of smashing into that tree, all of it.

    "It...told me about itself? Thousands of hands had wielded Tsujigiri, they all more or less used it for the same thing: To spill blood, of friend, foe, or anything in between. It wanted me to do the same thing, it had-has a hunger for blood. Constantly. It's like that tiny whisper in the back of your head that you just can't shake..." The catgirl's voice trailed off for a second, her grey irides casting downward, searching deep into the cackling fire.

    Shiro extended her arm, and with carefully measured movements she removed the bandages covering her furred arm.

    "This. Is the physical changes. My entire arm is covered in it, also, I seemed to have gained a few...perks from all this. My hand can...how do you say...'transform' into, what I can only assume is a leopards paw. Along with it's bloody history, I know how to effectively use it in combat." She was rambling, it was all pertinent information.

    Phaedrus stared with rapt attention. The neko could only guess what could be going through his mind.

    "So far, it's been tame. I've only had issues when my adrenaline starts flowing, you know, in battle. But nothing completely dire...maybe self preservation?" Shiro threw a guess out in the dark, blind arrow.

    That was the story, or what she could remember of it. She didn't tell him about her feelings towards the arm, there was the waves of shame and sadness yes. But there was always a underlying current of something else she couldn't pinpoint. The feeling was akin to that of her...homeland? It was fleeting and drowned out by other emotions at the given moment.

    Familiarity.

    There it was, all of her 'cards' on the table. Plain as day, clear as crystal. Shiro never liked showing her plan, but in this case, an exception was needed. There was something sinister harboring within her.
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    Phaedrus
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    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    [lol imma try to keep it short so it’s less stressful to reply to! And nahhh dude, you ain’t rusty at all, was a lovely post! <3]


    The girl spilled her story. As she went on, his face drained of any weak color it possessed — he tried to keep the extent of the horror he felt from dawning on his features, but it was difficult. Controlled her body? Nearly killed someone? Whispering in her mind? The necromancer watched as her eyes drifted to the fire, glassy and reflective. Thousands of hands, his mind repeated in horror, and gooseflesh splashed down his back. Thousands, thousands—

    And then —

    The bandages unraveled with a rasp. He watched as patches of fur sprouted between them, and she winced like undressing a ghastly wound— and then the full extent of it laid bare. Phaedrus pressed his lips, unsure of what to say. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Lycanthropy of some kind? “Perks,” he whispered, mouth fumbling.

    Adrenaline… Glassy-eyed, he thought of Glede. The roar in his basement. Swatted like flies, the metal giant had said of his victims; he remembered the hungry throb of his sword’s bindings, resonating with the script in his joints made to thread with blood. It hurt to swallow. Phaedrus took a deep breath, feeling faint, and clasped his hands together.

    “Yes,” the necromancer nodded to her conjecture. “It wants to keep you alive.” He stayed silent a few moments, crunching through the fallen pine needles and sinking down onto the log. Clasping his hands together, he rested his chin upon them, staring into the flames. The meat churned in his stomach.

    “I can think of a few things, in the interim,” he managed, after a long pause. “It… destroying it may be out of my capabilities. It is—powerful, to have endured this long and slain so many.” His head whined in a high buzz. “So…” he licked his lips, straightening.

    “Instead, I can—try to weaken the influence it has upon you, else seal off its voice… at least until a more permanent solution is found. An exorcism, perhaps…” An amputation? But this he did not say, lips pressed. “…And I may try to speak to the Creature residing in that blade. The more we understand of it—its name—its origin—the more effectively we can fight it. Yes?” To show he was not afraid, the necromancer extended his pale palm to the girl’s fur-marred hand, offering what he hoped was an assuring smile. His cold fingers clasped on hers, and he shook it gently.

    “We shall find something, Miss Shiro. And we must banish it so it can harm no other.”
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