RP:A Taste of Madness
Pale Moonlit Path, Vailkrin
Lithrydel’s two moons seem to shine more brightly here and lend the pale treetops an eerie shimmer. A thick white fog obscures all in the distance except for the massive, arched bridge to the west and the dark stone path leading up to it. Upon this path, one can find several large statues, constructed from the same unknown stone, guarding the walkway. This path also diverts north, heading into the Forest of Abyssal Darkness.
In the stark, silvered light of Vailkrin’s two moons in rare dual fullness, the lanky figure silhouetted by the edge of the road stands out sharply, his identity even in outline likely unmistakable to those who know him. Otherwise he just resembles the usual ne’er-do-well type that regularly tumbles out of the Hanging Corpse.. only with worse hair. The shabby coat he favours is open by four or five buttons at the front, revealing his lack of shirt below. One hand is shoved deep into a coat pocket, the other is raised as if signalling greeting or farewell to some party off in the forest to the north. Finally, he lowers it and scuffs at the dark, oily earth with a bare toe before peering up the street and then down it. He’s missing one. Or two. Dark brows knit, in vague concern.
The paladin wore a moonlit veil of mist and shadow. A dark cloak billowed around her polished armor. Holy symbols shone softly on this path to deepest darkness.
She couldn't be mistaken for a denizen of this realm if she tried. Next to this tall, scraggly stranger, Ralinde was all the more distinct. Looking from afar, one might mistake them for a silvery lantern hanging from a rather awkward post. "Hail, sir Mcracken," she greeted him with a smile. "Beg your pardon for the length of my absence. I must admit, we worshippers of the light have an uneasy relationship with these lands. I pray I don't bring you more trouble than expect."
“Ah!” exclaims the Seaborn, pacing toward her, “Well met, Ralinde Garecht, you are present now, when it counts, so I must refuse thee my pardon for none is needed.” The lanky man-apparent isn’t smiling, but his oceanic eyes flash with silver light like Vaalane’s rays off the crests of midnight waves, and every sincerity is redolent in his tone. Too, Ralinde might hear a hint of urgency. “Thou bringst no trouble with thee, M’Lady, only shining hope.” Mac gestures toward the gloomy forest ahead. “It is our mission this… “ Day? Night? Time was abstract here in the Dark Lands, “… our mission to clear the path from yonder access to the drow lands, to deep below their city, for extraction of my people may prove slow and difficult for the ones tasked to it. Impossible, should we not remove all obstacles to their course.” Well may Ralinde wonder with what, precisely, Mac intended to remove anything, as he is not bearing any kind of visible weapon. Or even shoes. He cants his bearded chin northward, “And in that terrible wood, lie terrible things. Below, I have sensed, it is likely much worse. I trust thy faith is sharp as thy sword…’ These last few words are spoken as he steps forward off the road, leading Ralinde into the murk of Darklands trees.
"I am grateful that my path has led me to where I am needed, Mac." She might be flattered yet, though too quick affixing her helmet to know. It had a strange faceplate all of one piece, polished to a mirror shine. Her voice took on a ringing metal tone within.
"You honor me with your words. I pray I can return it with my actions. Let me lead the way, and by the light of my god, guide you." It wasn't her first foray into Vailkrin's forests. She fell into a thoughtful silence full of tense expectations. Enemies were a foregone conclusion. Only by the grace of the divine and her training with the Sage Rangers could she delay the inevitable.
As Mcracken spares that reflective face-plate a glance, a swift but curious expression crosses his features. Not quite sorrow, not dismay, perhaps something that speaks to a wistful memory unloosed. He says nothing but shows his deference to the woman’s wishes and drops back a pace or two, shortening his long strides to maintain a brief distance behind her.
The forest is eerily silent as they tread on, only the rustle and thud of their feet on soil and fallen leaves and the regular soft hiss of their breathing breaks the paucity of sound. It’s as though the forest is holding its breath, thinks Mac. Then something overhead scuttles along a branch. Something heavy, on a very large branch. Not a squirrel, he guesses, and a moment later is proven utterly correct when a great spherical body drops out of the canopy on a string, like some loathsome giant-child’s toy, filling the gap between Mac and Ralinde, its eight legs flailing to poise its murderous net just-so and catch their owner a tasty prize.
Half-plate thudded dully over the paladin. Without chainmail, the leathers and quilted padding softened her steps. As something scuttled above, the grip tightened on her sword. Her stance lowered with the spider and she drove her blade up. A powerful thrust with the spring of her muscles towards the belly of the beast. Ralinde raced around for Mac's side, her shield held high, a beacon in the dark.
Chitinous mandibles clash together, pincering nothing but a spider’s own venom and thin air. Its belly, pierced by a sword that stung more than most, is leaking ichor. Its eight eyes, sensitive and accustomed to gloom, are blinded by the fiery white emanating from something that clearly isn’t lunch. The spider flails madly, swinging like a mad god’s Yule ornament in agony and rage.
M’cracken speaks quiet;y, “Hold,” the tone emanating a calm which remains as he steps one pace toward their erstwhile murderer. “This is a sentient thing. It must be offered a choice.” To the spider he speaks louder, his words adopting a strange, scratchy quality: “Thou art gravely wounded, Sister Spinner, and hang before both the Light of a holy warrior, and one born of the Dark Face of Selene. Yet you may live, to tell thy sisters what fate befalls them should they prove as foolish as thee.” He reclaims that one step, waiting for the massive arachnid’s next move.
There’s sentient, and then… well, ‘sentient’ doesn’t necessarily mean “smart’. Or sane.nUnlike Balladonna and the other arachnids he'd met in Quintessa's company, this spider held only murderous savagery in its rows of eyes.
Waiting on a spider to make the next move? Ralinde stood on edge, ready to strike, or block its attack. She was not about to let her guard down simply because it could be parlayed with. Though it would be cruel to not give some quarter. After all, a beast only attacks from hunger, territory, or fear. Each could be negotiated.
The giant spideress quivers. Lidless arachnoid eyes glisten with utter madness in the light of Ralinde’s shield, as it drops and then rears its front two forelegs to reveal a formidable set of venom-laden fangs.
“As thou wish..” mutters the kraken, and retreats from the range of the paladin’s sword, allowing room for what next may happen now that the wounded spider gathers its legs under itself, clearly ready to make a blind leap toward revenge.
Mercy must be tempered with wisdom. There would be no more talk. Ralinde braced her shield and kept Mac behind her as the spider bared its fangs. The creatures leap would spell its end. Bells rung as a wall of light burst from her shield. In a swift lunge her sword aimed for its head.
Ichor sprays as the savage spider’s head is cleaved down through the center of its array of blinded eyes to sunder its wicked set of pincers in twain. The eight legs buckle, the heavy body drops.
Mac releases a long breath of sorrow and regret, for he has quite recently met other spiders of this forest, and admired their intelligence and capacity for reasoning. “That creature was insane. Tis evil indeed which infests this place,” he says quietly, patting Ralinde on a pauldron, “I suspect this is merely a drop in its ocean. Perhaps we should make haste.”
The cavern isn’t far from where they stand, far enough that Ralinde likely won’t hear the strangled moans of a trio of ebon-skinned undead as they stumble from the cave-mouth. But Mac does.
“Prepare thyself, Warrior of Light,” Mac says in that very quiet tone intended for her ears alone, gesturing along their route, “for worse company, ahead.”
"A shame. There is beauty here, even in the spider queens daughters." A moment of silence was followed by a troubled sigh. "You're right. Thought I wish we had time to harvest it for alchemical ingredients. I hate to leave it for waste, if it must be slain."
She did not need his warning but it felt rude to say. Undead stank to her, even the more put-together ones. "I appreciate your care, Mac. The more the merrier." An ambush might serve them well here, or to see what form the undead took. "If haste we must make," she cut words and drew steel.
Mac’s lips bear a faint smile at Ralinde’s bravado and without further word follows her onward to stalk the near-barren floor of the deepening forest, the glow of the paladin’s shield cutting the dense fabric of the dark all about them, for even Selene’s silver gaze cannot penetrate the canopy above.
Soon the black compost below gives way to a rockier ground, and a break in the treeline offers a view of both the cavern’s yawning entrance where the three ungainly figures still lurch about in its vicinity. Once they were fine drow fighters, now their white hair is snarled and stained, their accoutrements filthy and torn, lithe motions rendered jerky and lumbersome. And they stink to high heaven, of rot and old blood, and the repugnant touch of unholy corruption.
Mac glances upward through the thinned branches, where a glimpse of moon shines through. “Forgive me, Mother,” he whispers, knowing he must this day break the covenant he’d sworn to Selene so long ago. Also knowing he is already forgiven, but Mac does love his formalities.
The undead trio clump together, blocking passage to the cave, snarling and pawing at one anothers’ dead flesh in vain hope of finding a fresh morsel of meat.
The Seaborn turns to Ralinde—she may notice his oddly shifting gaze has changed, one eye gone pearly white, the other dark as the midnight deep – and indicated with hands that perhaps they should separate and flank the group.
A thoughtful silence fell as she studied the undead for a moment. Her faceplate betrayed no expression, only reflected Mac's odd eyes. She shrugged and split left in the treeline. In the dark her black cloak drew close around her armor.
Moments later, rays of sunlight burst from her cover. In the brilliant beams her crossbow looked aflame. Searing radiance streaked across the night and left trails in unguarded eyes. Cleansing energy pierced the air with righteous fury. To the undead, Ralinde was a nightmare of dawn.
On the opposite side of the clearing, Mac steps out from the trees in time to catch that blinding flash of brilliance, from which he shields his eyes with one arm drawn hastily over the upper portion of his face. Among the weird after-images blazing in the dark, the seaborn can make out two of the three undead wafting skyward as so many oily cinders. The one remaining, perhaps spared the same fate by shade cast from the bodies of his fellows during the blast, was only half burned and now, with smoke still rising from charred flesh, was clumping its way with one badly shrivelled leg toward M’cracken.
There is no sentience left in this creature, only endless hunger and dire, dark magic. Mac mutters a few words of pity for the proud dark-elf it once had been and walked a few paces forward to meet it, pushing up one sleeve of his shabby nautical coat. The zombie drow lunges, as best it can given its present condition, teeth snapping for the meat of the forearm Mac is holding aloft as though offering it up for a snack. In that murk, perhaps Ralinde will glimpse a sudden electric-blue glow emanating in a scatter of bright circles on the kraken’s skin. The undead latches on, its jaws clamping down while clawed fingers flail to get purchase on its prey. Through all this, the lanky man-apparent remains calm, as though this was any other moment on any particular day. Or as though he’s waiting….
And moments later the revenant unlatches, clawing violently at its mouth even as its jaw falls away and the fingers groping it. The undead appears to crumble in on itself, producing an ill-smelling foam which quickly consumes the entire corpse but for the rags it wore.
Mac nods to Ralinde, for a job well done. The wound on his arm leaks pale blue fluid, but this doesn’t seem to bother him any. He waits for her to join him.
"I was worried that would be overkill. Pity to have missed one. An interesting technique you used, though." She looked over the last body and confirmed it's final rest. "Sad, what they've become. They deserved better than this." More strange words, from a half-elf. "Would be well that all the undead scourge were so simple-minded though, eh? Not many resort to using their teeth. A blood curse, perhaps?" No time to study it fully. Ralinde shook her head. "I could heal you, if you wish." She nodded to his arm. It didn't appear to bother Mac, but a bit of concern crept into the paladins tone.
The seaborn’s gaze, still eerily bi-coloured in black and pearly white, drops briefly to the bite, which is ugly but already knitting ragged edges together. “It is but a flesh wound,” he assures, “But have I need of healing at any point, I will surely ask it of thee.” There is real power coursing through this woman, that he’s not doubted, but still the sheer force of it has surprised him. He gestures toward the smoking patch of ground that used to be two walking corpses, his dark brows rising in inquiry, “I am not familiar with the denizens of this place, and have done what I can to sense what we must face, though the earth here is too dense and stony for my abilities to function well. Do you have further knowledge of these…” his lip curls ever so slightly, “… abominations? All I have managed to glean is dull, animal hunger and minds too rotted and befouled to function beyond it. Should there be greater sentience among those below, even to the use of magic, then our path is indeed perilous.” The bright blue rings on his arm have faded, he pushes his sleeve back down to cover the fainter circles.
"Very well." It sounded like she had reservations about letting his wound go untended though. "If we have a moment to investigate, I know much of undead." She'd burnt half the corpse, and whatever Mac did wasn't helpful. Any clues might be erased with them.
"If a paladin wishes to live any longer than their enemies might permit, they do their research." From her fingertips, Ralinde produced a mote of light that floated about. She turned the body over and put a close eye to it. "Certain poisons produce a mindless drone. They'd need to eat and drink real food and water. A curse might leave a physical or spiritual mark." A wave of her hand followed a whispered prayer. Ralinde consulted her own knowledge and whatever insight she'd find from the gods guidance. "An arcanist necromancer is better off producing undead that follow orders. Not just shamble about trying to eat. Necrotic energy fields and aberrant forces can fill a corpse, such as the influence of the blood moon, and that may produce an animal hunger. A particular dark spirit or creature might inhabit a corpse. Cenril had a problem of an undead variety not long ago..."
The kraken listens intently—though the doings of land-walkers were not his general interest or business, still there was that part of him that hoarded stories, the way a dragon does treasure. “I have been…” submerged deep in the Black Gulf, but instead he says, “… far from these lands, for many a year…” the blink of a kraken’s eye, “… and have lost touch…” am not terribly concerned, “… with recent events.” He toys with the end of his beard as he ponders something, adding, “If these be the puppets, what then of the puppet-master? May it be the master is perished or robbed of power, leaving these.. husks.. to their own devices?” Whichever of all these options is the case, it remains that seaborn are in peril, a youngling kraken is corrupted, and they were going to have to go down that tunnel, come heck or high water. “Mayhap we ought to find out first-hand.”
"You are not the first I have known to be far and removed from the goings-on of late." Ralinde had been staring into the corpses eyes and feeling its veins. "Not always the case, that there is a puppet master. Or that if such one died, they would stop. There are powerful magics." She stood up and prayed for the poor drow lost to this terrible curse. "Let us press forward. I believe from their uncoordinated movements, but their presence at the mouth of the cave, that these ones are controlled by something. But I don't believe that it is the cause of their undeath. Likely, it is reaching out to control aimless or unintelligent undead, through some greater influence. A remarkable malevolence. But unskilled in its application so far. Let's hope it remains so." The way she spoke about it sounded a lot like a naturalist or some collegiate researcher. Perhaps paladins really did have to be so studied in their craft.
Mac listens, his gaze drifting from Ralinde to the cavern’s opening, and if he has an opinion or any theories on his mind, he doesn’t share them yet. “We shall forge safe passage for those who will follow and aid us.” He gestures toward the deep of the wood. The kraken cants his head toward the cave then, in lieu of any speech, but his meaning is clear: Off we go.
Part of the No Seaborn Left Behind Arc