RP:Ghosts!

From HollowWiki

Part of the The White Hunt Arc


Josleen needs to escape the city briefly to collect arctic poppies to brew pain relievers and increase the supply during war time. Her co-worker at the clinic, Ansel, goes with her. They travel westwards to the ruins and old graveyard, known to be haunted but in the all-bark-no-bite way. Well, something has changed, the ghosts have bite now! And they have learned some psychologically terrifying tricks. The ghosts attack with machetes and teeth, and the duo escape through a tunnel (and this synopsis may or may not be glossing over some wolf-man B-movie terror plot, complete with screaming girl). Ansel sustains a nasty concussion and Josleen tends to it.

Frostmaw Clinic

Josleen and Eleenin whisper behind a paper screen at the far end of the room. They are backlit by a lantern, their silhouettes tense — his still, hers gesticulating wildly, each their own version of worked up. Sibilant sounds diffuse wordlessly through the clinic. Finally the shorter figure, identifiably feminine despite the layers upon layers of clothing, turns abruptly away from the giant and storms out from behind the screen. She glowers at the floor, face reddened by the heat of the debate. Beneath an always-soiled nurse frock she wears florals and pastels, a bit faded from too much wash. This type of volunteer work favors old clothes. The new and luxurious stay in the closet to be eaten by moths, at least until the war is over. She crowds in between two friends and mouths, ‘This is bull.’


Ansel had been organizing shelves. Eleenin had given orders very clearly that more supplies had been given to the clinic, and the wolf needed to put these in stock with the others. The man was just finishing putting salves, various concoctions, and other medical supplies on the shelf. Now lowering his arms down as he put the last jar of yellow substance on the shelf. He then let out almost an annoyed breath before shuffling about the room. The man wore a thick, wool, heather grey pullover, a pair of mountain boots, and a simple pair of tan colored pants with a bunch of pockets. Two front pockets, two bumper pockets, and one pocket on one left calf. As he brushed past an ill woman resting in a cot, he would slightly smile and give her a reassuring nod before overlooking the floral wearing woman huff and puff between two individuals. He was not quite far away, in fact, he was right on the other side of her rearranging some things at a nearby table with probably more medical things or papers. He could not quite hear what she was mouthing, but the frustration from her posture was enough. He would idly take another glance before gazing down again with hazel eyes. “Rough day?”


Josleen doesn’t even look up as she pulls a jar from the shelf. “Yeeep,” she says, lips slapping irritably on the ‘p.’ Though her target is clearly not Ansel. She adopts the posture of the dutiful nurse, chin dipped over her work. She shoots Eleenin a sharp look without moving her head, brows high and tense, lips pursed. She scoops salve out of the jar onto a silver dish then lights a candle in a glass, places the silver plate on the jar, and waits for the gunk to warm. Without moving her head, she slides her tense brown gaze from Eleenin to Ansel. “You stocked the supplies today, didn’t you? What did you make of the opiates supply?” She circles around Ansel to the ill woman he greeted. Suddenly her face softens, smile blossoming, eyes bright. “How are you feeling today, Mrs. Faroe? You ready? I warmed it up for exactly seven seconds, just like you like it. Can you sit up?” She offers her forearm for the woman to pull herself up by. Behind Mrs. Faroe’s back she shoots Ansel that same tense look as before; he’s still on the hook as her commiserator. Without exposing too much of the elderly lady’s back, the volunteer nurse rubs the salve up under the shirt, between the shoulder blades. When the patient lies back down, Josleen’s tense face is replaced with that blissfully warm and loving facade. “You’re very welcome, Mrs. Faroe. My shift is just about over, but I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Aramoth willing.” Her hipswings left as she skirts the cot, then right as she skirts Ansel. The tension returns to her short frame and she resumes the conversation as if it had never been interrupted at all, hands busying themselves with tidying her workstation. “Perfectly normal opiate supply… for peace time.” Dun, dun, duuunnnn. “When the soldiers get back, I’d like to see how long it lasts.” She lifts her brows conspiratorially, assuming her audience has now been awoken to the severity of the problem and agrees with her. “I have a solution, but hey, who am I, right?” Her tone’s as bitter as the jewelweed salve smeared on her hands.


Ansel found himself casting a dull gaze at the bitterly enthusiastic woman. She had seemed familiar, he had just not gotten around to speaking to her, or most of the volunteers. The man would wait to answer Josleen’s question when she came back from caring for the ill woman. He would have a small smile on his pale dry lips to help lighten the mood as well and when Josleen began looking at him. “Not enough for those soldiers, plain and simple. With regular patients plus wounded soldiers, it’s a lot to handle,” he would shake his head and move eyes back down, scanning papers before finding the exact one he needed. Holding the paper now to his side, he continued watching her apply the salve towards Mrs. Faroe. He would then quirk an eyebrow at her rambling, she seemed so fierce to him, obviously someone not to pester. Slowly he would move the paper back up to his eye sight. “You’d think other clinics would donate, right?” He then peered over the parchment at the pastel colored woman out of curiosity. “And the solution is…? Perhaps I can help,” he shrugged, he was just here for support. Good old tiptoeing Ansel.


He gets it; he’s sympathetic. And the bard found her audience. She’s whispering, but the way her head moves in tiny, frustrated shakes, and the way her hands roll with the story, makes it obvious to anyone in the room that she is gossiping. “The other clinics don’t know, and I doubt they have the supply to spare.” Her voice is so low that she doesn’t even say half the words. She stands as close to him as his socially acceptable for barely-there acquaintances, and doesn’t invade further. “HE,” she stresses, eyes widening suggestively so that it is clear ‘HE’ is code for Eleenin, “Spent a bigger piece of the war budget on supplies that HE deemed more appropriate. On the subject of opiates he said Frostmaw soldiers are plenty tough to tolerate ‘a little pain.’” She air quotes the last phrase. “Far be it from me to criticize another culture, I don’t like to be insensitive, but it’s barbaric.” A nurse shoves near them to eavesdrop, one of Eleenin’s loyal hens. Josleen jerks her chin towards the door and coat rack and leads Ansel there. Still barely speaking, she says “Artic poppy grows in the wild. I can make laudanum from that. But Dame Hildegarde made it clear that during war times, the gates are closed and entry and exit is permitted for war purposes and special exceptions only. HE could grant me an exception to go gather poppy, but he won’t because he doesn’t think he could justify it to Hildegarde. It’s beyond my comprehension.” She lets out a long huff, shakes her head one final time. “I should leave you to it. I’ve taken up more of your time than is polite. Sorry about all this. I just…” Her hand flutters upwards in a gesture of rising agitation. “Just one of those days, like you said.”


Ansel frowned at her mentioning of Eleenin’s budget. He would glance to the side at the man behind the paper screen. He would then focus on what the woman was saying. “Not unless someone chops a leg or something, opiates are kind of important,” he would lower his voice as well as she approached closer, he was rather uncomfortable for a moment as he glanced to each side of himself, making sure to keep himself low key. “Do you know how many screaming soldiers we will have…? That’ll disturb others, we need to keep the peace around here, as much as we can, anyway,” he grumbled. He then inhaled a breath through his nose before narrowing his brows in thought as he walked across and listened to her. “Hildegarde seems rather reasonable. I know we are supposed to listen to…” His eyes would raise over to the hidden leading man. He then would grit is teeth for a moment, shaking his head. “No, no, it’s important,” he would insist. Looks like the woman got him intrigued. “Listen, you don’t know until you try, what’s your name again?” He would tilt his head slightly.


Josleen nods emphatically every time Ansel builds on her points. “Josleen.” She smiles. “And you? Are you stuck here much longer?” She starts to put on her layers. Off goes the nurse frock. She puts on a cardigan, then a sweater, and by the look of it she still has a plum pea coat, two scarves, gloves, and a hat before she’s through. Half-elves aren’t built for cold.


Ansel nods at her, a pondering look on his face. As she began putting on layers, he would get the hint, though he would not forget about what she said. “Ansel. I’m still here. I’m here usually in the nights,” he would eye her. “This conversation isn’t over, Josleen. We will figure out something,” he would nod before moving backwards with that paper in hand.


Josleen nods and smiles gratefully at her new ally in drugs. She reaches for her hat but hesitates. As she grabs her scarf, she unnecessarily moves another’s coat and hangs it over her own hat so that it is hidden. “I’ll see you around.” Hatless, she’s out the door. A few minutes later, than same door opens again and a friend asks Josleen, “Forgot something?” “Yes, my hat. Have you seen it?” She paws around the rack, turns up nothing, then starts walking around the clinic. On the shelf, in this chest, on that bed, the hat is simply nowhere to be found! In her search she passes Ansel, who has his hands full, and palms a note into his bumper pocket. She goes back to the rack for a final look and, “There it is! It was under a coat. I feel so foolish. Bye everyone!” She waves to the group and exits. The note reads: I’m staying at the fort. I have a plan. If you’re in, coming looking for me before sunrise.”


Ansel watches the woman put the hat under the jacket, but thinks nothing of this. He nods as she disappears out the door before turning around, and as Josleen comes back in oblivious, a small smirk is lingering on his face at the woman. The note is received, and he waits until she fully disappears and the suspicion has died down to open this. He continues onto his new patient, an elderly man and once he is finished, he skims the note. “Right,” he would mutter this under his breath. She was a sneaky little bitter thing, which had enough of Ansel’s attention already. Sunrise it would be.

The Fort

Josleen spends the night cat napping and cat burglaring. Sort of. She borrows low-value supplies from a custodial closet in the fort. Lantern, rope, and a small bag of sawdust. Sleep doesn’t come easy for the morning brings an exciting, nerve-racking adventure. She is fully dressed and ready to go an hour before sunrise. It feels familiar, like deja vu. During the last war, she had a sunrise rendezvous for a different mission for a very different group of people. That missions was far more dangerous than this one, and yet she is more nervous now. She wonders if she’d ever have the nerve to do something like that again. She doesn’t like the answer in her gut. At fifteen minutes to sunrise, she walks down to the fort’s foyer and waits. At ten minutes to sunrise, she starts pacing. Her bag of supplies, and a wicker basket with a cloth folded inside it, rest against a corner.


Ansel had finished up for the night – the man being exhausted from practicing his magic on various patients. Eleenin was putting him to the test, Ansel assisting the man when need be… It was now almost sunrise, the man had left the note in his back pocket, surprised she had slipped the parchment in there in the first place. The fort. That was where he was headed as he trekked through snow with an ice blue coat with grey fur-line on the hood. Passing the gate was easy, even though he was not staying at the fort, he was still a volunteer. He was staying in the tavern, since the fort was overcrowding. As he entered the fort near the foyer, noticing a woman who was pacing. Antsy. That had to be her, the exaggerated woman. He would then pull back his hood, revealing his short, messy, ashy brown hair with the one peculiar white birthmark lock, his claw mark scar on his left cheek, wind bitten lips. Looking at the bag and the basket, he lofted a brow. “… You’re up to something,” he would comment, his voice was always calm and collected, pointing out things was something he did well. One would might call him a wallflower at times since he was never a social butterfly, he was just an observer.


Josleen‘s pace breaks stride to intercept Ansel’s entry with an excited “You made it!” The excitement cuts short when he pulls back his hood. She stands stock still, only her eyes moving as she takes in what she missed at the clinic. The hair, the shy personality, the height. He cuts a figure like someone she knows intimately. Right hand fidgets with left ring finger, though with her gloves on it’s impossible to know whether or not she wears a ring. “...What?” Blink blink. “Oh, yes, of course.” Her lips thin impishly. “We don’t have much time. Come.” She picks up her things and leads him through the fort, winding through its labyrinth as if this were her home. “I know a guard who will look the other way if we scale the wall. I think he has a thing for me.” She winks. “But he goes home at sunrise, so we need to catch him now.” Without comment she hands off the sandbag, the heaviest item she carries. “And you were right yesterday. Dame Hildegarde is reasonable. I consider her a friend, and I believe she considers me one too.” The modesty rings false, and it seems like that false tone is intentional. “But I cannot ask her to intervene. I need to work with Eleenin while she’s at war. He’d be none too pleased if I went over his head to Hildegarde.” They are now at an archway on top of the fort wall. The arch opens to a open-air parapet where guards take sentry from on-high. By some treachery of feminine guile, Ansel is now carrying all of Josleen’s things save her pocketbook. “Wait here. I don’t want him to, you know…” She waves a hand to indicate Ansel. “Male bravado. He can be a bit touchy.” She leaves him to go work the giant guard. She flirts with him. He enjoys the attention. Clearly this giant understands that the half-elf will never actually be with him, but that isn’t what he wants. A frost giant family suits him just fine. But this game is fun, and its rules understood by both parties. He feels special and favored by a pretty small-people thing, and she gets an ally in the fort. She waves for Ansel to approach and explains to the giant, “This is the cousin I told you about, on my mother’s side. Could you hold the rope for us while we climb down?” The giant makes a show about how he should go with them to keep her safe, and she bats at him flirtatiously and says that she could never cripple Frostmaw’s defenses by stealing away their best guard. As they continue flirting, the giant takes Josleen’s things from Ansel, ties them together, and lowers them to the ground below. Now the small-people-things have to get down themselves, with this giant as their anchor. Josleen looks over the ledge and gets vertigo. Her inhale shudders and she takes a step back. “I can go after you,” she says to Ansel.


Ansel was taken back by the look she gave him when she first took notice of him. Hazel eyes noticing her fidgeting with her hands. He could not quite understand this reaction, nor wanted to put much thought to it. He barely knew her, perhaps she was just confused in thought – yes, he would agree with that. He would then listen to her explanation as they would shuffle through the labyrinth at a rapid pace. His arms would grasp the sandbag with a small ‘oomf’ of surprise before moving this to one arm, trailing behind her. The giant had a thing for the woman? Well, that was not a shock, the half elf was rather appealing to the eye – man-like thoughts. He would smirk as she winked towards him, her confidence was refreshing. He was not much of a talker, he did have the shy personality, and mostly did not know how to communicate worth crap. The man was now stuffed with supplies, which he did not mind. He had kids, he knew how the drill worked, and he would listen to her orders. Her doing all the talking relaxed him more, knowing that he did not have to say much – usually individuals liked to pry. “I understand, I suppose going over his head would be considered disrespect in a way, and well, no one likes a hissy fit,” he was partially joking, throwing out some terrible dry humor. The wolf waited there for a while, idly looking around, tapping his foot a little. He was hearing all sorts of flirty mumbles before being called up. Cousin? The man kind of squinted, but this was hardly noticeable. “Someone’s got to hold back this little fireball,” he would force an awkward laugh before kicking out his leg to give her a playful tap with his foot. Oh golly, it worked, the stuff was now out of his arms. He would just let her continue and the man would step forward first, noticing the sickening expression on her face. “No problem, Jos,” he figured shortening her name would probably be more family like and he would step over the ledge first, slowly climbing his way down. “Come on, just a little height, I gotchu. And he does too,” he would gesture to the overly friendly giant, a sly little grin on his face as he looked up at her.


Josleen watches Ansel descend on the rope and feels a rise through her thighs and hips. Fear of heights, or a more sinful appreciation for his lithe movements and total control of his body? Just in case it’s the latter, she looks away abruptly and focuses on the friendly giant. The rush evaporates from her lower body. She gets cold feet, the figurative kind. Frostmaw is the kind of place where you need to specify that. Heck, why are they even going out into the frozen tundra to look for tiny flowers anyway? A fear of heights and freakishly familiar (and possibly attractive, but who’s looking, right?) stranger has a way of making her doubt her nobler motives. But then Ansel calls out for her to climb down, and for the same reason she felt that rush, she cannot chicken out now. That would be too embarrassing. And thus it is pride that has Josleen clinging to the rope. It takes her three false starts before she even steps off the ledge. It took him two minutes to climb down. It takes her about ten, with frequent ‘I don’t know if I can do this’s and ‘Terald, can you pull me back up?’s. But she does make it to the ground, and when her boots sink into the fluffy snow she can’t deny the proud feeling that warms her chest and broadens her smile. “I think I did that like a pro, eh?” She wrinkles her nose to tip Ansel off that she’s kidding. Remembering Terald, she waves goodbye. The sun is just starting to glisten in the snowy dew. The cloudless sky is the color of steel, not yet warmed by the day’s infant sun.


Ansel tenses his muscles and continues his way down the rope. From time to time he looks up, but he is mostly focused on the ground and his own grip. “You’re okay, Jos,” he called, he figured this would maybe calm her nerves a little more. When his feet touched the ground, he grinned to himself, wiping his hands on his pant legs. The burn. As the woman took her time, he kept his gaze up towards her, watching her as he made comments here and there. “That’s it. You got it,” his voice was stern and reassuring. As she made it to the ground, oddly enough, he would attempt to give a pat on her shoulder. “Pro? Pfft, you’re the Goddess of the Heights,” he smirked. “Oughta, girl,” he would give her a wolfish grin before turning to collect Josleen’s belongings again, giving a wave to the giant guard while doing so. Perhaps he was easing a little since she was a stranger. “Alright, Jos,” he was still keeping that cousinly façade, “lead the way,” he would finish, nodding his head towards her.

Frostmaw Wilds

Josleen teases Ansel right back with an exaggerated smile and double thumbs up. Cousins! Truly! She leads him westward, her feet sliding a bit as her boots take a second to gain traction in the snow. They’re the type of shoes women describe as fashionable AND sensible, which means that the soles have grips and are flat. That’s where the sensibility ends. They look cute though. Every few paces she stops and looks left and right, trying to get her bearings. She’s been out in these woods a handful of times, usually with a guide. It’s easy for her to get turned around. “Uhm… I thiiink.. this way.” Eventually she does locate the desire path that connects Frostmaw town to the Royal Academy of Aramoth. As they walk, she makes small talk with the usual questions that are appropriate for colleagues. Are you from Frostmaw originally? How long have you been a healer?


As she slips and slides, eyes gaze down to her shoes, and he snickers under his breath as they continue onward, and as the questions come forth, he is prepared with the usual answers. He’s not from Frostmaw, he was from a far off village before – he does not talk about what happened to the village – the only thing he does say is that he wound up in the higher mountains of Xalious. “I just know Frostmaw is in need of assistance, so I volunteered. My two boys and I are staying at the tavern in Frostmaw for the meantime,” he would nod. He then goes on a story about his healing practice in the village long ago – an apprentice of sorts for his father. “I realized my true devotion when I came to Xalious. Wanted more experience, wanted to learn more, and I thought this would be the perfect opportunity,” he would shrug. He was vague, but said enough. He would only return the questions out of fairness, even though he left large chunks out of the mix.


Josleen has an intuitive sense for which questions are open to prying and which are closed. Interpersonal skills are among the few in which she succeeds. A woman of secrets herself, she doesn’t begrudge him his. And to some extent, she’s learned the hard way that there are benefits to distance. But distance doesn’t come naturally to a social creature such as Josleen, and thus it is a constant tug within her. “Ah, you have kids. That must be nice.” Being a traditional sort of provincial women, she assumes he has a wife or similar arrangement. This assumption disappoints her a little, and then she is ashamed of her disappointment for reasons that are not secret, but yet she doesn’t want to voice them. Strange he should meet with her at sunrise if he has a partner (assumptions quicken to fact in mere seconds in Josleen’s mind), but their mission here is noble. Maybe that makes it okay for both of them. “I’m from Xalious. Born and bred. Still live there most of the year, but…” She cants her head from side from side as if debating whether or not to disclose more. “I’m here for now. ...Was your father in the Guild?” For residents of Xalious, there is only one guild that can be named without specificity, the Mage’s Guild. As they enter the open snowfield, her mood shifts minutely. She becomes more subdued, as if suppressing something, and studies Ansel a bit more closely in quick stolen glances. Whatever she saw in him when he arrived at the fort, she puzzles over it now once more.


Ansel nodded firmly. “Love them dearly, I do,” there was something in the tone of his voice, as if he was proving to her that he did. Still in a gentle tone, but it was off a notch. Perhaps because he was always gone and they were always with the caretaker. He never talked about –her-, especially with woman. Well, woman who were quite good looking (hmph, different thought), however, he did find himself at a bar with some old women to talk to, they were always nice (hmph, pathetic). He was rather amused that she was from Xalious as well, someone close by to know, he supposed. He did not comment, he only nodded, such a quiet man. Always to himself. He then blinked his hazel stare once or twice at her, “Uh… No, no, erm. Well, not that I know of. We are more earthly healers I guess you can say,” he finished. Roaming about the snowfield, he felt more content than anything, sucking in a breath of cold hair through his warm chest, he barely noticed her low-spirited energy until he felt eyes on him every now and then with that look she gave him beforehand at the fort. “You alright?” He almost cringed while asking this (don’t want to ask a girl about her own feelings now, would he?). Though, he did, but he would change this quickly for her if she did not want to explain herself. “Shall we continue?”


Josleen explains that her father is in the Guild. Technically her list of family members in the Guild is longer than that, but she can’t bring herself to say it. Shameful, really, but she reminds herself this is harmless. It feels nice to be unburdened for the moment, chasing a goal, having a purpose. When he asks if she is alright, she waves a hand dismissively at her own feelings. “I’m fine. It’s just a memory. During Frostmaw’s last war, over a year ago now, the ice devil population ticked up and they were more violent, attacking closer to town. Something like that happened to me here. I’m fine now, as you can see.” She waves a hand in playful presentation of herself, a silent ta-da! And this is how she buries secrets. She tells the thing that seems private, but isn’t, or the story that seems painful, but isn’t. The truth of what this places means to her, and why she looks at Ansel, that stays concealed beneath the spoken word. “I think this is the turn off.” She turns south.


Ansel listened well to her explanation of her father, eyes searching far as most of the focus was on her. He found her response to his question quite amusingly strange. Eyebrows would raise, a hand would move through messy hair as he stared at her, trying to balance some of the supplies on his leg, and then he would look at the open field of snow again, letting the hand scratch his head now before securing the stuff again. “Right, lots of war,” he would say with an almost sheepish look as she hid herself with lightness. He would not really know, he was a new face to the area. She must have knew a lot. He would turn to where she was going and shuffle slightly behind her with the luggage.

Abandoned Ruins, Staring Spirits, and Graveyard

They’ve been walking so long she starts to feel bad for Ansel and offers to take the lighter luggage, leaving him with just the heavier sandbag. In the ruins, she starts to look for the artic poppy. “Do you know what we’re looking for? It’s a small yellow flower, rounded petals, curved like a tea cup.” She glances at the basement to the east, then looks away. More places, more memories. Frostmaw is home to too much of her emotional life, good and bad. It’s better to just move on. “I thought we’d surely find some here. Shoot.” She rubs her collarbone nervously and looks to the west. Her heart rate picks up. “We’ll probably have more luck in the cemetery.” She deals with her fear by joking, as usual. “They say it’s haunted. I hope you’re not scared of ghosts.” Josleen certainly is, with good reason. More secrets, more memories, though that one is housed in Xalious at least. This barrage of unpleasant memories, couched in pleasant ones too, has her feeling older than her twenty-seven years. “This way.” Beyond the ruins, the air grows even more blustery. It bites through her coat and nips her nose. Is that the wind howling, or a child wailing? Josleen lifts her ear to the northwest. “Do you hear that?” In Ansel’s peripheral vision, a black shadow runs past him.


Ansel was a little relieved she took some of the supplies. As they journeyed further, he would search the ground. “Yellow teacup-like flower, got it,” he nodded firmly, eyes squinting about the snow. “Perhaps we’ve travelled too far?” As she talked about the cemetery, he shifted his gaze to her slowly. “Cemetery? What?” He was a little wide-eyed, yet he was not that scared of ghosts. I mean, he was more scared of mermaids. The worst party ever. Poor Lorca… eaten by a beautiful creature such as a mermaid. “Ghosts? Why, I’ve never encountered…” he trailed, he was listening now. Something else grasped his attention. “Is that…?” Was that a child? Wolf senses were growing, his listening becoming a little stronger than normal. Then, the shadow. His head would turn quickly towards the black blotch that was quickly in and out of his vision. “The hell?” His hazel gaze was more concerned as he now stared at Josleen. “Did you just see that?”


Josleen did not see anything, but the fact Ansel did is all she needs to spook. She takes a big step closer to him. “What was it? What did you see?” She keeps him at her back like a human shield, close enough that she can feel his heat and breath and know he is there, but not so close that they are touching. That would be weird. This is weird enough. She scans the woods and ruins, eyes as wide as she can bear in this gust. In the shadows before Ansel’s line of sight, a child the size of his youngest materializes, hunched over and crying. It cries out for him, Daddy/Pa/Dad, whatever Ansel’s child would say. “Why did you come out here? I followed you.” “I’m scared.” “What is this place?” The child sits in the snow, facing downwards. Josleen, looking in another direction altogether, calls out in alarm, “Skylei?!” She takes a hesitant step away from Ansel. “Is that you? Did you escape?”


Ansel shifted his gaze in different directions. Left to right, forward from looking behind, and then there was the child. She was close now, and he would stand guard – wolfish habits. That was when his attention was directed elsewhere. The sound of one of his own. The copper haired boy, freckled, different from Ansel. This had happened before, but this time it could not have been possible. “Dana, what are you…” He was shuffling over slowly. Fatherly habits. He would try to reach down to touch the six year old child, but then he hesitated. “Wait… You’re never without Shia and Jenson would have never left you out of her—“ he paused in speech, only to back up rather quickly. “Josleen, I don’t think—“ he cut off again, he did not know what he was about to see.


Josleen takes another step towards ‘Skylei.’ Tears sting and bead on her lashes. “Sky…” Her gut roils with alarm, but her heart is tender, for Skylei is like a sister to her, and the reason she came up to Frostmaw on this trip in the first place. Could it be? Did she escape the drow? ‘Skylei’ calls to Josleen for aid, moaning that her legs are hurt, she can’t move, she needs help. Her voice flickers and fades like faulty organ pipes, but Josleen justifies that aural wickedness as a trick of the violent wind. She can’t fail Skylei now, and so she taps into her courage, what little there is left of it, and presses on. ‘Dana’ chases after Ansel’s retreat, head low, his speed unnatural and a blur. At the father’s feet, it rears its neck back at an angle that would snap a living neck. Its face, a veil of smooth flesh. No eyes, no nose, but a hole where the mouth should be, lipless and with razor-sharp teeth in circular rows like a lamprey. That snapped neck rears forward like a braying horse and lunges at Ansel’s shin. At this short distance, Ansel can see through his pup’s little body, but only a little, like a ghost who is more here than ‘there’ (wherever ‘there’ is). Yet it breaks the rules the dead, for its teeth do bite in the realm of the living, sharp enough to rip through his pants and flesh if they find purchase. Behind Ansel, Josleen screams as ‘Skylei’ grows to double her size into a black wraith without features, in the shape of a giant. It swings at Jos’s chest with a bloody machete. Real blood drips onto the snow. It cuts through her coat and sweater, but misses her breast by half an inch. The ghost swings again, and as it advances a supernatural blizzard picks up in the area, despite the lack of clouds. The snow whips laterally as well as vertically in a blinding haze that veils everything beyond three feet in front of their eyes. Josleen runs towards where Ansel should be, but she’s already turned around in the blizzard. “Ansel!” she shouts.


Ansel began to back up even quicker as the illusion of his boy crept up towards him. ‘Dana’s’ copper curly hair facing him, no visage. The wolf was hesitant, eyes confused at this creature before it got to his own feet. The head of the ‘boy’ would slowly rise and tilt back at a deathly angle. No real face. No eyes, no nose, no freckles, a hole with sharp teeth. Widened eyes would grow, and his breath would falter as he jumped back from the creature lunging towards him. “Run, Jos! Run!” He would holler as he began to pivot to rip through the snow with his mountain boots. Shoes slipping for a mid-moment before catching a grip to move faster. Then again, when he did turn around, he heard the cry of Josleen and a giant black shadow hovering over. “Move, Jos! Just move!” Now, knowing Ansel was learning knew elements with his magic, the only true one he did know was ice magic. Being a winter wolf and all, you had time to practice when you lingered about in snow for so long. The blizzard was taking over his keen eye sight. He could only stall for so long. The man would halt in his stance, and knowing that the little demonic boy was probably creeping up on him, he would begin to suck in a cold breath. He would release all of his energy, forcing frosted tips to his fingers. The man would clench his fists and try to swirl up a bit of snow from the blizzard and direct some towards the creepy little boy (that was not a little boy, but whatever) and hopefully this would push the creature back and stall. So much energy for one small, almost helpless move. The blizzard was getting thicker, and he would decide that reaching out would probably be a better idea. “Josleen, listen quickly, follow my voice, I’ll follow yours. Talk to me,” a hand would move to the front of his eyes, while the other arm would reach out to search for the woman blindly. “Come on, talk!”


Josleen‘s sensible boots slip on an ice patch. Ansel’s keen wolf ears would hear her fall, then the metallic hiss of a blade whipping through the air. The shade is right on top of her, and it only missed because she slipped. Saved by fashion boots. Ansel’s snow ball sails right through ‘Dana’s’ face, splattering the tree behind him. The elemental magic disrupts the fiend’s possession of this plane. It flickers in and out of existence, struggling to anchor itself to the physical realm. With each re-apparition, it’s a foot closer to the wolf. “Don’t leave me,” it cries in his son’s unsteady voice. “Ansel!” Josleen’s voice now, robbed of its former confidence, replaced with panic and terror. “Ansel, it has a knife!” Josleen scrambles on her hands and knees towards a tuft of grass, something with friction to stand on. “I’m here! I’m here!” Too dangerous to run, too scary to walk, so she oscillates between to two, following Ansel’s voice like a breadcrumb to safety. It isn’t long before she finds him, her face breaking through the haze and into his line of sight. Her eyes have been replaced with shiny black marbles. Her lips welded shut speak in a disembodied voice. She says, “Take my hand.” Her hand, demonically clawed and wispy, reaches for his without violence.


Ansel cringed as the snow did not do the job to gain more time. Ansel’s eyes were now amber out of alertness, trying to contain the beast inside. “You’re not my son!” He would try to release another flow of energy towards the shadow, another gust of wind that would blow through the creature. The man would then twitch, eyes flickering towards the sound of her voice. He would keep trudging through the snow for her. As she yelped that the thing had a knife. “Don’t panic! I won’t let it harm you.” He was grunting a little, voice stern, and he was searching around for her outline, anywhere. She was getting closer, yet the façade of Dana was getting closer. Though, he would keep moving before settling eyes on her figure. Something was off. Amber eyes would form back to hazel out of pure shock. The man was hesitant toward the different woman. Would he trust this? “Josleen…?” He was frozen, what was happening? The man would glance back instead, wondering if something had corrupted this woman, or if this was just something that was normal for her to do.


Josleen‘s brow furrows over her black eyes and she creeps in closer, her approach cautious. The fear in his eyes scares her, but he’s all she’s got right now. “Are you hurt?” she asks, her lips moving normally, unstuck. The black fades from her eyes, and her large, fearful brown eyes sharpen in his view. From her confusion, it is evident she has no idea what he just saw. Her hand, gloved and small, takes his and she leads him towards the village ruins, their dark silhouette just visible through the blizzard. Ansel’s second flow of energy exorcises the Dana fiend for now, and it is nowhere to be seen. As they make for the ruins, Josleen casts a glance over her shoulder to see if anything chases them. Gasp! She releases his hand and jumps away from him like a frightened cat. She sees his face melting in bloody streaks, the skull beneath glistening white, maggots and worms writing in his eye sockets. If Ansel were to look in the mirror, he’d see his normal, frost-chapped face. “GET AWAY!” She shouts at him. Her feet slip a couple times before she finds purchase in the ground beneath the snow, and she continues for the village, fleeing the ghosts, Ansel among them. The shade that had attacked Josleen appears behind Ansel and swings its machete for the wolf’s neck.


Ansel watched as her eyes faded back to the plain brown. Perhaps, this was his imagination. He was seeing things. He was spooked. He gasped a little before speaking. “No, no, I’m fine,” and he lets her gloved hand take his icy bare one. He was usually always warm, the wolf inside him crying out. He shuffles through the snow with her, boots gripping well, no stumbles. He was wondering how she was getting around with those fancy ones she was wearing (women, am I right? Hmph, just kidding). Anyway, his pace was rapid, and his hazel hues would glance towards her face once and a while, still in shock from what he just saw. As she glances back at him, he notices the reaction of her face dropping in fear. As she jumps back, he widens his gaze in sternness, and he jumps himself. “What, what, what, what?!” He was panicking a little before noticing how freaked out she was. I mean, she fell in the snow. He would lunge after her, “Josleen, talk to me,” odd for him to say that. He would then look back to see what she was looking at, maybe it was not him she saw. That was when the giant shade appeared again. He would roll to the side through the powder. “Sh**!” He would shout before scrambling through the snow. He would then grunt, tightening his core before releasing energy into his hands again, squeezing his fists and extending his fingers. He was a beginner. He had not met the woman who was going to teach him the rest that he needed to know, that was another day. Razor-sharp icicles would lift from the ground and force their way towards the shade, even though they might just end up going through.


The icicles do go through the shade, but again the magic forces the undead to flicker. Their bodies sift the physical from the magical; the physical passes through, the magical inflicts damage. But like Ansel knows, he is a beginner. The shade’s deep voice laughs, the hellish cackle coming at them from all sides. It is more powerful than the wolf, and knows it. The malevolent spirits continues the hunt, swinging its machete at neck-height. One clean decapitation, please. “Ansel!!” Josleen’s voice shrieks, its pitch peaking in step with her panic. Is he dead? What did she just see? Is he possessed? Reanimated as the latest rank and file in the army of the dead? Dread creeps into her bones as she realizes she may be alone in this now, the kind of dread that makes people give up if left unchecked. She has few powers. Not a warrior, not a mage, and not even a very magical bard. But she has some ability when it comes to sound, and she enchants her voice as she calls out his name a second time. The sound persists longer than her lungs have breath, an aural trail for Ansel to follow if he’s still alive. He better be alive. It startles her how badly she wants that to be true. On the surface, it makes pure survival sense: if he’s alive, there’s a greater chance she’ll get out of this alive. And of course, she has the common empathy most people have for their fellow man. But she knows in her gut that her concern for him transcends survival and compassion, but she doesn’t have the head to pay that any mind right now. In the abandoned village, she keeps her back to the exterior wall of a house, scanning the blizzard for his lean figure and messy hair.


Ansel watches as the icicles go through the figure and watches the shade flicker. “Are you kidding me?” He grumbles before moving, eyes keeping steady on the hellish monster. As the machete comes forth again, he pivots just enough and ducks for the handle of the machete to come forth towards his head. A clunk on his noggin, this got him down. Did not kill him, but the blow would cause some serious bruising. Nothing to really be too concerned. Maybe a concussion, but he would be able to keep himself together until they escape – hopefully. The man’s eyes were closed for a brief moment as the snow covered some of his body. The sound of his name was being called, the wind was blowing, pressing against warm windblown cheeks. His eyes would open slightly – hazy. “… Jos…?” He would then try to focus on the song, and he might have been seeing double for a moment before crawling through the snow quicker before moving to his feet. He would wobble before falling again, and he would try to pull himself up. He was just a tad dizzy. Though, he would come into vision, her vision. “Where…?” He would listen before trailing more near her, finding her frame. He would stumble forward with his hand out for her to grasp. “Come on, we need to get out of here before you get hurt,” his voice was tired and was groggy, though he had enough focus for the meantime.


Josleen sees Ansel stumble into her view. His footing looks unsure and balance afflicted. Rushing out to meet him, she takes his hand and takes stock of his condition. Good news: his face is normal again. Bad news: “Your head…” The shade advances at his lethargic, but persistent pace. The dead have all the time. Their prey have few hiding places, but Josleen found one of those few. She leads Ansel back to the abandoned house as fast as they can manage, and yanks open an iron cellar door. “Get in, quick!” Stairs descend into pitch blackness. There’s no telling what is down there. Ansel’s wolfy senses shouldn’t pick up on any tenants. The shade’s a couple yards away now, already raising its machete over its head. “Quick, quick! The iron! It will protect us.” Hopefully. If this is the right type of ghost. She’s rolling the die a little, but mostly this is an educated guess. She closes the double iron doors behind them and slides a bar into a lock from the inside, an extra and totally unnecessary precaution, but fear stamps down rational behavior. It’s so dark in the cellar they can’t see their own noses. They must use touch as their guide. Josleen’s heel slips on a patch of ice just three steps from the bottom, and her tailbone crashes down hard on the stone floor. She lets out a pained yelp then hisses several times, in and out, as she tries to manage the throbbing pain.


Ansel shook his head slightly. Not as much force since he was shaken up enough. “No, don’t worry about me,” as he pulls himself forward to her before letting her lead him again. He definitely needed to get to know Frostmaw better. As he enters the cellar, he lets go of her hand, letting her close the door behind them. He waits as the cellar becomes pure black. Nothing but the sound of breath, both most likely uneven. He listens to her steps and then a loud thump. He descends down the stairs carefully reaching out to grasp her, or try, he did not know what he would end up grabbing. “Are you hurt?” He would wait before adding, “Shh… It’s okay. Deep breath,” his voice was gentle again and still rather groggy. “Those shoes… Not the best traction,” if he reached for the right place, which would be her arm, he would attempt to help assist her up, even though he had no idea where they were at.


In the darkness, Ansel’s hand clumsily paws through her hair, then cheek, and from there he successfully figures out where her shoulder and arm are. He helps her stand, and she takes a few breaths before whispering, “I’ll be okay.” Another tense, shuddered exhale. “I’ll be okay,” she says. “Let me light the lantern.” Her hands paw at her supply bag and it turns up empty. “Oh no,” she says, voice choked. “Oh no, it must have fallen out when I fell out there. Oh gods.” She only knows a little bit more than Ansel does. They are at the abandoned village near the graveyard, but which house is? What’s in this cellar? She had no idea. At the top of the stairs, the wraith can be heard making a howling, angry fuss, but the iron keeps it out, just like her father taught her. “Ansel…” She bites her lower lip. The situation is helpless. Her hand traces the wall, an exercise in doing something for the sake of not despairing. “This is as far as I got. I-I don’t know what to do.” The wall is curved and made of uneven stone and dirt. The cellar is crudely designed in the shape of an oval and completely empty. It’s ten feet across by eight feet wide.


Ansel blinks at her when she chokes. “What if…” He would let her go, hands gliding against the dirt wall as he stepped down onto the cellar ground. “Well, don’t fuss about it,” his back was turned to her, not that she could see. There was long silence between the two. Ansel was thinking, thinking hard with his pounding head. He honestly just wanted to get them back to safety. They were safe now, but… rotting was not the plan for his death. He then spoke calmly, turning his head towards the side so she could hear him better. “Josleen…” He trailed, he was thinking. “Do something to irritate me,” strange coming out of his mellow voice – his voice was always like awkward silk. “Err… Push me, do something to dig into my skin,” was the beast not dying to come out? Or part. He still could not control when he transformed. That was all based on emotions, which he was still trying to learn to contain. However, if she hit the right spot, well, amber eyes would glow with heat creating a bit of night vision to see what was exactly inside the cellar. He was not about to mope that they were helpless – not yet, anyway.


Josleen follows his voice to be near him. His calm presence and mellow voice help her keep a cool head. That calm is infectious. Unseen, she lifts a hand between them in the dark, debating whether or not to take his arm again. Would it be inappropriate? Back in town it would be, but here, given the circumstances, is it okay? It would make her feel better. Some chaste contact, a temporary tribe to weather this terror. The way he says her names startles her. Something subliminal shifted, and she doesn’t know what that means in him, because he is still a stranger to her. Not knowing, that makes her nervous. Who is he? She doesn’t take well to his bizarre request. Who is she trapped in a cellar with? Wary, nervous now of the foe without and the stranger within, she says, “Why.” Without realizing it, she backpedals until she bumps into the wall behind her.


Ansel sensed that she was startled. Well, he was startled of himself, but they were already in a risky mess anyway, how could it get any worse? “Because if you… get me a little flustered,” he was trying to make this sound nice and easy. “I might be able to see where we are.” He listened to the shade outside, pounding against the iron that would block it from coming inside to them. “I’ll explain later. It’s rather complicated –“ he hesitated. “I just need you to… trust me. We’ve made it this far, have we not?”


Josleen‘s heart is racing. Women are bred to know that no matter how bad a situation is, it can always get worse for you, dear lady. Always. The catalog of violence and perpetrators of that violence is extra long for the fairer sex. But it’s true he has given her no reason not to trust him; and they have few other options. “Alright…” She follows his voice again, unsure of how to rile him. He seems impossible to rile. If she knew more about him she’d know which buttons to push, which truth is too cruel to be uttered aloud, which insecurities to needle. “Where’s your head?” She reaches a hand out and touches his back. Her fingers trace up his spine to the nape of his neck in little brief taps, trying to minimize how much she touches him. It isn’t her place to touch him — or his to be touched. Her fingertips land on his bruised temple. “Sorry,” she says in advance, undermining the task at hand. It feels too weird to annoy an acquaintance, even with his permission. She isn’t naturally so hostile. Her fingers rub in tiny agitated circles against his bruised temple, exacerbating the pain. Unsure if it’s working, she layers on some verbal abuse. “You know we’re probably going to die here, right? Your kids will grow up fatherless, and if we’re being honest, poor. Homeless. All because you couldn’t fight off a wee ghost or two. Pathetic.” Her tone is surprisingly convincing, thanks to her theatrical background. She rubs his temple a little harder, wincing on his behalf behind his back.


Ansel was trying not to focus on his mellow side. Once she agreed, he would release the calm, and let other emotions flick the switch. "Just remember, bring me back." Meaning, the true Ansel. The hand on his back made him tense, he knew exactly what she was doing. The bump on his head that was already throbbing enough. Eyes would close tightly and he would let everything in. From the ghost knocking against the iron, to the unpleasing remarks – let the heartache in. Cue Anna… He would then add in the physical pain. The irritation that she was bringing to his head made everything worse. “St…” He wanted to say ‘stop’, but he would not let himself, instead his breath would grow heavier. An off sort of breath, almost like angry pants. Do it for the stranger, Ansel. Get her home, wherever that may be. A few seconds later after she would continue rubbing his temple, he would snatch out behind him to grasp her wrist tightly. His other hand would grasp his chest and his eyes would snap open. A glowing amber, they would glint a little in the dark. He would glance back at her, his face was twisted; eyes were noticeable in the dim. Crack! His back. He would howl in pain. He did not fully want to transform, afraid that there would be no going back, so he was tensed, veins popping through his neck. Though, the beast had awakened, and the man was irritable, but he could see. However, now it was time for him to search for what would be useful, so he hovered about the room to different corners, tables, whatever was down there. “What…” grunt, he seemed to be in pain, “am I…” he clenched his chest, his heart was pounding severely, “looking for?” His voice was deeper, vicious, almost as if he was trying to force an answer out of her – demanding. Now, if she was smart enough, she would try to calm him back down before he completely transformed and ripped her innocent bardic throat out.


Josleen stops as soon as he grabs her wrist and chest. She rolls her wrist against his thumb, as all women with attentive fathers are taught. Number two self defense in the lady survival handbook, after gouging out the eyes. But she doesn’t go for Ansel’s eyes. She’s terrified of what she’s witnessing, but assumes this is what he wanted. This is his gameplan. She backs against the wall again, bracing herself for the worst. Then his spine cracks and that’s too much. He told her to bring him back, and she starts cooing in a frightened, wavering voice like she’s trying to tame a wild beast. Which is less metaphor and more fact of the matter. “Ansel. Ansel, come back. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean any of that.” She extends her hands hesitantly towards the noise he makes, open palms facing him passively. “Shhh, Ansel, it’s okay. We’ll figure something else out.” She doesn’t know what this is, but she has a few guesses, and doesn’t want whatever this is to run its course. As Ansel scans the room, he’ll find a trap door in the floor in the center of the cellar. It’s covered in dust, but the door has a knocker embedded in it and hinges. No visible lock. It should open. “Hey, darling,” she calls in a saccharine voice. It’s awkward to call him by a term of endearment, but she commits to the act. This situation calls for social boundaries to be damned. Anything that could get through, she uses it. And she’s a good actress. If they had an audience, they’d be convinced Josleen has known Ansel a long time, and there is a deep love between them. She recites lines from one of her favorite plays. In this scene, a woman tries one last time to save her marriage by calming her husband off his rage. She betrayed him, went behind his back, and the details of that betrayal make up Act 1 and Act 2 of the play and don’t really fit in here, but the lines work,and the bard uses them. “I don’t know why I said those things. I guess I feel guilty for what I did. For getting us here. You think I don’t know it’s my fault we’re here? Of course I do. And, Frank..ly, Ansel.” The original line is ‘And, Frank,’ the name of the fictitious husband. Josleen modifies on the fly. This is the part where the wife recaps the disaster for the benefit of the audience, but Josleen skips that part. She continues towards Ansel slowly, her palm turning upwards to take his hand. “I’ve been a fool. You’ve been so good. Forgive me? Please.”


Ansel’s nails are now growing into claws, she might not be able to see the transformation, but she could sure hear it. Taming the beast was hard, though he did see the trapped door. The man would then fling himself against the dirt wall to cling onto, a few more bones cracking, a few more yelps. Listen, listen… that’s what you need to do, Ansel… He would then snap his head to the side and look at her with glowing eyes, he would then slowly move up to her as if he was about to aim for her throat, yet something inside held the wolf back. Look at her, she’s terrified. She’s so sincere. Is this real or fake? She did not mean to. Was this the beast or Ansel thinking? ‘Forgive me? Please.’, her voice was so infectious, so persuasive, almost like… -her’s-. A few bones were snapping back, he was so close to her, and he would cave in, hand pressed against the wall above her. Eyes were still glowing. He was fighting, he truly was. If he did not, she would most likely be dead by now. “I do… Don’t be afraid anymore…” A weak hand would then trail down to her own. Though, the hallucinations that the wolf was giving Ansel was fading, he was coming back, his awkward calm self. There was silence, nothing but off breathing before they slowly mellowed into soft even breaths. He would then begin to pull her back, his eyes fading dark again. “There’s a trap door, we have to move,” his voice was still rather raspy and rough. He would try to tug her along farther through the cellar, now bending down, still grasping her hand, and using his free hand to search for the latch. Once he would find the latch, he would begin to tug and tug, making the trapped door creak and snap as it lifted. “I’ll go first, okay?” The dust would surround the room, and he would choke a little.


Josleen swallows her fear and impulse to run. He’s so close. She can’t see his hand over her shoulder pressed against the wall behind her, but she can feel his nearness. It sends an electric tingle through her flesh. Her skin prickles with the sensation, mostly fear (he might kill her, she knows this in her gut), but partially something else she can’t quite name. But she won’t run. Instinctively she knows she must believe in him so that he can believe in himself. What kind of ludicrous thought is that? Why does she feel like she knows him? He reminds her of -him- in so many ways. When his voice finds its calm and his hand takes hers, she lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She clasps his hands between both of hers and holds it against her racing heart. He tries to calm his breath. No rush. She affords him all the patience in the world, despite the demon beyond the iron gates. It feels right. That’s what she should do, she knows it. She holds her scarf over her nose and mouth as he disturbs the inches of dust. When he chokes, she gives him her second scarf. You thought it was silly, didn’t you? Scarves on scarves. “For the dust,” she says. The scarf smells like her, rose perfume on rose-based make-up mask a little fear-sweat, as sweet as the death she was sure would take her moments ago. “It’s pitch black. We don’t even know where this leads.” But they don’t have a choice. Voicing her fears helps her get them out of her system. “I’m behind you.”


Ansel felt her heart racing, which surprisingly calmed him more. He did not want her to fear him, even though she should. As he continues, he feels the cloth being pushed towards him, and he reaches to find it, grasping the scarf and placing this over his own nose and mouth. The scarf is sweet, but not overly sweet, slightly soothing, nothing to make him sneeze over. “It’s our best option, Josleen,” his voice was muffled, but the silkiness was back, he was hidden behind the serene façade. He ceased, one… two… “It’s either rotting, or facing, which is most likely, death,” he then let out a breath when she agreed to follow behind him. “Alright, I’m going down,” he would then climb down the dusty creaking ladder, wooden, almost rotted from the abandonment.


Josleen is, and this may come as a shock, not soothed by Ansel’s grim prophecy of rotting or death. Thanks for that. She follows down the ladder then hisses his name, fumbling for his hand. It’s just as dark down here as it was in the cellar, but this place spooks her more. The tunnel extends east and west. The ceiling is too high for Josleen to touch, but Ansel’s fingertips would graze bricks. The ceiling curves into the walls, also made of bricks. The arched tunnel’s floor is cobblestone. “I think I may know what this is.” Her free hand feels the masoned walls. “My father once traveled to the arctic, another city. He said that in olden times, villages had tunnels built beneath homes and stores which connected them, so that the villagers could travel even when the frost was too strong to go outside.” Josleen’s teeth have stopped chattering. The tunnel, while still cold, effectively keeps out the wind’s frosty nip. “We should go this way. East.” She doesn’t let go of his hand. That awkwardness has come, been obliterated by some monstrous bone-cracking struggle, and now holding hands is just about the only thing that makes sense.


Ansel was only speaking truth, he did not want to lie to her. It’s going to be rainbows and butterflies, Josleen! We’re going to ride the rainbow to safety! No. Ansel was sometimes dark and grim when he was in the mood, and he did not hesitate when she reached out for his hand, he took her palm in a heartbeat and twined fingers around her own. Once on cobblestone ground, he would help her down and he would reach out to feel for anything. To the side, he could not reach out to touch anything, but she could. He reached up, bricks… He stare in the blank darkness as she spoke. She was smart, thank gosh for listening to dear old papa. A small, “Okay,” escaped his lips, his tone soft and quiet. The most eerie part was not knowing where the other person was for him, he was more comforted, yet still awkward, while holding her hand, just to know where she was at. “So you’re saying that this might lead us to a safer destination? Can…” He trailed and he was looking up, not that she could see, before speaking again. “Can that… thing get us down here? Will it know?” He was whispering, just in case something could hear him.


Josleen whispers back, “I have no idea. To any of your questions. I’m really sorry, Ansel. I had no idea tha-” Abruptly she shuts up. This isn’t the place for apologies. If they survive, she’ll apologize then. If they don’t, then apologies seem a pale prize. She makes towards the east. Their foot steps echo in the tunnel. The howl of the blizzard above fades as they progress. The banging of the ghost on the iron doors grows distant too. “How will we know when there’s an exit?” she whispers. Her hand has been tracing the wall looking for a door or ladder. A few times they come across intersections, and Josleen uses her mental map and sense of direction to make an educated guess as to which way takes them closer to Frostmaw. From time to time, rats can be heard scurrying and chittering. Ansel’s tall head wakes a colony of bats, who fly away behind them, screeching. The tunnel begins to slow gently upwards and the air smells and feels less dank.


Ansel frowns in the darkness as she begins apologizing, she halts, and he lets this go. Takes two to tango. The man was worn, his head still throbbing from the knock and the woman irritating the bump on his temple. Eased breaths and footsteps throughout the tunnel, a few rustles from rats, a few drips from dew within the tunnel. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to try what I did again… That was… too dangerous,” the air was smelling less dank, and the tunnel was moving up. “Maybe if we keep going, there will be an end. Here,” he would pull on her hand with the one that was becoming slightly clammy, yet it was cool sweat. Not that she could feel, she had gloves on. He would move them both towards the wall. “Maybe if we run our hands about the walls, we’ll find something else. Follow the side wall, I’ll… move up. There has to be an exit somewhere.” As much as Ansel did not want to because the bats had already swarmed them and made him duck, he would brush digits against the cool ceiling. “Let’s keep walking.”


Josleen shakes her head when he debates whether or not he should do it again. “Please don’t do it again.” She gives his hand a squeeze, her voice just as tight. “I don’t think I could do it twice.” Lower, conscious of her feelings but needing to say it, she whispers, “I was really scared.” On some level she still is. It’s pitch black and her companion has some dark beast bottled up deep, something so powerful that if it erupts, it snuffs out the light in her life like a volcano blotting out the sun. The tunnel comes to a dead end, and Ansel’s fingers would find an opening in the ceiling with a metal plate over it, like a manhole cover for a sewer system. The ladder that once hung from the lip of the opening has rusted and decayed long ago. It’s completely useless. “Nothing in front of us or on my side.”


Ansel sighed and nodded, not that she could see. “I know, I know,” he would rub his thumb against her hand for comfort – considering the situation, perhaps it would be less awkward. He wanted to make her feel better. He still would not explain himself. He would then halt as he felt the metal circle. “Oh,” she could not find anything, but he did. “There’s something here, its… metal, like a closed opening,” he would let go of her hand abruptly, reaching up with the other one. If this was some sort of manhole, there had to be at least two holes to slip his fingers in. He would blindly search and try to twist the old sewer hole. “Hmph,” he would grunt – he needed strength. Cue inner beast, there was screeching as the plate twisted. Chink! He would push the sewer plate up trying to lift it, he was a little short now. “I need you to get on my shoulders to push the plate up, it might be our only way out,” he would keep one hand on the plate and reach out with the other hand to her so she could find him again.


Josleen doesn’t ask for an explanation. She doesn’t want to know. It’s easier to like him if she could fold whatever happened in the cellar with the rest of the morning’s events. Tuck that away, bury it deep, never look back. It’ll join a small gallery of unwanted, repressed bad memories. “Alright. Where are you?” Her hand fumbles for him again, landing on his chest. If she could see him, she’d wait for him to kneel, offer her a hand, then climb onto his shoulders with the minimal amount of contact necessary. But she can’t see him, and everything must be done through touch. She knows he’s kneeled when her hand finds his cheek. One hand takes his, the other roams over his shoulders and neck to find where she must slips her legs. As always, she’s wearing a dress, and she’s thankful for the pitch darkness for the first time since they entered it. She doesn’t have to worry about what her can or cannot see. She’s only five-foot two and doesn’t weigh too much, though no one would describe her figure as waify. She forgets that her stockings stop just above the knees, and that Ansel can feel her bare thighs against the back of his neck. Had she remembered this, she’d have to sit down and start sketching the pros-and-cons of death by entombment or death by humiliation. Thankfully her focus on escape dwarfs these concerns and she says, “Ok… I’m ready.” Her hands lift from his face towards the manhole, finding the grooves to help her grip.


Ansel bends his knees so that when she would get on his shoulders, she would not hit her head against the ceiling. Though, her head would be close to the ceiling. With each bit of contact, the man was getting use to the stranger’s touch. Were they still strangers after this? Her gloved hand was cold compared to his warm cheek and he would flex muscles so his hand would stay steady for her to climb over his shoulders. She was very light. I mean, he did not look like the strongest type, he was only lean. Her bare skin was cold against his neck, he was nothing but heat. A big contrast between the two, and though she was dying of embarrassment, he was thinking of just escaping. Even though, he did question why she was not as well dressed for the chilling air. “Alright, I loosened it, twist a little more and push up, it should slide up. Close your eyes, we don’t know what will fall – dust or dirt, who knows,” and with his advice, he would take it too, shutting hazel eyes tight so nothing would fall in his sight. Nobody likes scratchy dusty eyes.


Josleen ducks her head and closes her eyes as she works the metal cover back and forth, back and forth, until it comes loose. Harsh bright sunlight spills in. Even with her eyes closed it burns, for she had acclimated to the darkness. Slowly she blinks open her lashes, squinting against the harshness of the sun. Above, the sky is cornstarch blue. Thin columns of powdery snow fall in clumps through the manhole, casting shadows on Ansel’s face. Josleen pulls herself out of the hole, onto the snow at the center of the ancient ruins near the Royal Academy of Aramoth — where Josleen first stopped to look for the yellow flower. On her knees, she peers down the hole at Ansel. The sun backlights her head like a halo. She offers him a hand for him to take, then jump and grab onto the lip of the exit with his free hand. He can pull himself out from there. The virgin snow around them softens the landscape, only their footsteps from earlier in the morning disturb the blanketed white peace. As Josleen pushes the manhole cover back in place, she shovels snow and finds the yellow flower beneath. It was here all along, as she expected, hidden out of site by snow. “Oh my gods,” she exhales. “Ansel, it’s here.” She starts fanning the powdery snow away to find more artic poppies. There’s plenty here. Her knees begin to soak. Her teeth chatter, but she pays no mind. They found it! The flower! Right here where they had trespassed hours ago.


Ansel hears the earth crumble a bit over his head and he finally squints and looks up. As she moves up and out of the hole, he tries to adjust to the light. Her face in the light made him smile slightly, they found their way back into light again. He then grasped her hand and jumped up, pushing his hands on the sides to pull himself up and out of the hole. Snowy cold hands, he brushes them on his pants. As the flower appears from Josleen’s ruffling, he places a hand on his forehead before looking up. “Thank the Gods!” He then gets on his knees, moving the snow about. He hears her chattering, and he quickly gestures, “Let’s hurry up and grab as many as we can before you freeze to death,” many yellow flowers begin to pop up from the white snow. “Who knows what could happen if we are here too long,” he was concerned, and well, he needed to get his own head checked… The man was tired, very tired.


Josleen grabs the flower by the fistful. "The stems are very important." She holds her purse open for Ansel to drop in his flowery loot as well. They lost her basket long ago. The wind seeps into her coat and sweater through the cut the wraith made to her clothing. She begins to shiver uncontrollably. "As soon-n as we g-g-get to Frostmaw, I'll use these to make a p-pain killer for your head. L-look at that too." She glances at his temple now in the sun, getting a good look at it for the first time. She trains the wince off her face. No need to alarm him. Before long she's up on her feet, still shivering. The walk back to Frostmaw is faster than was the walk to here. So many words line up on her tongue and lips, but she's too cold to say them. Later. Or maybe never. The guards at the gate recognize them both and let them in, grumbling about how they shouldn't have been out in the first place. The city's micro-climate is a bit warmer. With so many bodies around them, Josleen's constant shivering breaks up into isolated spurts. She looks to Ansel to see what he will do.

Frostmaw and the Fort

Ansel is picking multiple at a time. “Stems, right,” the silence within him overcomes them again as he drops handfuls of flowers into her bag. He would glance at her shivering body, her lips were almost blue from the cold. This man was never really freezing, a curse honestly, he missed the cool. “It’s okay, let’s just worry about getting us both back and you… getting warm,” as the two would finish up and move through the snow again, a warm hand would rest on her back, rubbing her back slightly. He knew this would not help, but it was the thought that counted. Reassurance, even. His head was throbbing still, he felt drained. Do not rest, Ansel. Resting would be the worst thing that could happen to him right now. Never waking up again would be devastating. As they opened the gates and the guards started rambling in their ears, he would hold out his hands to stop them from talking. “The important thing is that we are safe. We did it for the soldiers, the civilians, even,” the soldiers still babbled on and he would gaze at the frozen girl, “They’ll thank us later,” he then looked up at them. “Get her somewhere warmer, please.” This was not a question, this was more of a demand – well, in the Ansel tone of voice. So cool and collected, like what? “Don’t worry about me, Jos…” He would trail, he was zoning – giving out now that they were surrounded with protection. Though, guards knew… the bruise was thick, very purple, and they would surround Ansel instantly, waving hands in front of his face to keep him steady.


Josleen narrows her stare on the guards who assume the roles of healer. “I’m on it.” Her voice is firm, and perhaps a bit annoyed, but ears do deceive us sometimes. Before they can react, she leads Ansel away. She knows as well as the guards and Ansel that the concussion is serious, but prefers a cool head in her bedside manner. No need to sound the alarm just yet. “Let’s get you to the fort. I have something that will help.” She leads him by the arm, but takes care not to brace his body with hers unless he absolutely needs the help. It’s an odd thing to be conscious of now, after all they’ve been through. Her eyes shift left and right nervously, scanning the face of each pedestrian they pass. She looks more nervous now than she did on their walk from the poppies to the city gate. When they pass a woman that knows Josleen, the bard, who had been silent for the past few minutes, says to Ansel, but clearly for the other woman’s benefit, “Need to get that concussion looked at.” As they enter the fort, she announces to a guard that recognizes her, “Had a little accident. Just treating a concussion.” No one asked, and yet she explains herself to anyone who looks at them. They reach her room in the fort and she keeps the door wide open so that anyone can look inside and see them plain as day. She sits him down in a chair, instead of on her bed, then roots through a cabinet for a concoction of essential flower oils in a small bottle with a dropper. “How’s your vision?” she asks as she mixes ten drops of the oils in a glass of water. “Can you hold the glass on your own?” If he can’t, she’ll help him drink it. “It’s to help with the swelling in your brain.” Something subtle has changed about her demeanor. The sweetness in her voice is gone. She's all business. The distance between them, physically speaking, has grown by inches.


Ansel is surprised to see the woman talking again, she was barking off the guards. He would blink once or twice, and follow her as she led him through Frostmaw back to the fort, he did not need that much help, he could walk; he was just… exhausted. All the stares, this was unsettling. Ansel was never the one who had the attention on him. As they moved through the foyer and through the fort to her room, he would slowly ease into the chair. Placing a hand on it first before settling down. “Vision is fine, I’m just, well… my eyes are just aching,” he meant from being tired, which was the concussion talking, and do not forget pulling an all-nighter shift at the clinic. He would reach out for the glass, he would shakily put the glass to his lips. All the adrenaline was gone, using magic back when the shade was after them wore him too. Taking the toll. She was stern with him, like back in the clinic when she was all gossipy. “I know the drill,” he said lazily and he would then suck down the concoction. He knew what was happening, being a healer and all or a learning one. Then again, protocol on explaining things to patients was always key, but for Ansel, he preferred if it was just done – stubborn man, patient, but stubborn at times.


Josleen misinterprets his impatient tone. She isn’t being cold because she is treating him, but for other reasons that she doesn’t want to admit to herself. In the same way a thief assumes everyone else steals, she assumes he is resuming a distant demeanor in the city, as is she, for private reasons that disappoint her. “Right,” she says in response to him. She dips her hands in a bowl of lukewarm water, then rubs them together to generate warmth. She doesn’t look at him as she pulls a jar of salve from the cabinet. Her motions are slow, leaving room for thoughts that play on her face in frowns and blankness. When she turns to him, that sadness is gone, a polite smile faked on her lips for his benefit. Gently she rubs the salve on his temple, with a soft, slow touch. It will help with the bruising and the pain, but he knows that. “I’m sorry for asking you to go out there with me. I didn’t expect-- And thank you for getting us out of there.” A bad thought percolates from deep in her mind. She’s tired too and her emotions, which have very little to do with him, begin to get the better of her. A frown threatens her lips and she whips away from him, turning back towards the medicine cabinet and busying her hands with nothing. “If you don’t feel worse in thirty minutes, you’ll probably be okay to sleep, as you know.” When she turns back towards him she’s wearing that soft smile . “You’ll get the first batch of laudanum as soon as I make it.”


Ansel did not know what this adventure meant, yet he brushed this off. They were co-workers, they would see each other around. She was not looking at him, was she avoiding him? Or was this just his thoughts? He brushed this off, they were both tired; they both needed rest. He closes his eyes and hisses in as she begins rubbing his temple softly. He breathes out. “Don’t apologize. We went out for a reason,” he would then open his eyes and as he does, her back is turned to him. “Mission accomplished. Think of all the people we are going to help,” he reassured her, he tilted his head slightly, he could not see her face yet. She was fiddling through the medicine, as he usually did, though he could not see clearly what she was actually doing. “Trust me, I’m.. good with pain. I’ll be fine,” that was no lie, being a lycan took all the energy in the world out of you. Now, sleep sounded good, but the wait would kill him inside. “It took the both of us to get out of there, you know. We both couldn’t have done that alone,” he let out a smirk, which made his head pound, so that snicker faded on his face. “We’re stupid, you and I,” he would add. “Though, oddly passionate and relentless,” he would grin his tired wolfish grin.


Josleen can’t help the coy smile that arrests her in response to his smirk and oblique compliment. “You’d be calling me worse than stupid if you’d sustained more than a concussion.” She grins right back, the sadness gone from her eyes and color returning to her cheeks. Catching herself, she glances away from him. One arm folds across her chest, the other lifts to cup her mouth. She shakes her head against her fingers in disbelief, but at herself, at this situation, at the fact he exists. Looking out the window towards the south, towards Xalious, she slips back into her thoughts. “Twenty-five minutes,” she says at length, finally looking back at him. “How’s your head?” The playfulness from minutes ago is gone again. Back to business. She’s tense, afraid of what she’ll do if she lets her guard down.


Ansel smiled slightly with his eased gaze. “I don’t deny that,” he would raise his brows before watching her turn around. He was confused, but maybe that was the concussion talking. As she gazed out the window towards Xalious and spoke about twenty-five minutes left, he got this feeling from her, like she was pushing him away. “Err, right,” he was hesitant. Her mood shifted so fast, perhaps that was just her personality? He would let her continue the business, they did not know each other really well, he guessed. “Better, the pain is slowing down, thankfully,” he scratched his chin, now letting the awkward silence settle over. Oh, poor horribly communicative Ansel – sad sap. Back to holding his tongue again.


Josleen can see how she disappoints him, and frowns. She doesn’t want to be this way, but she can’t be the way she wants to be. Hey, he’s not the problem here, and he isn’t pushy. So she can manage a little risk and glances out the window, left and right, then draws the curtain. In the hallway she repeats the furtive scan, looks left and right, then walks back into the room and closes the door behind her. Immediately her body looks less tense. She’s smiling again. For the first time since they got in she sits down. “Finally.” Her exhale is long, honest, well-earned and unguarded. Despite how little she knows him, and the fact he almost killed her, she’s comfortable in his company. Struggling for survival has a way of making quick friends of strangers. She wants to talk to him, but they’re both too tired for a conversation, and both have too many secrets for her to know where to start. Silence is easy in his company anyway. He seems alright with that. She sheds her coat and sweaters, beneath which she wears a floral dress. She lies on her side against the edge of the bed, arms tucked beneath her head, and watches him. Sleep would be a welcome relief, but someone needs to make sure he doesn’t pass out before he’s in the safe zone. “Twenty minutes.” Her lids get heavy. Who will watch to make sure she doesn’t pass out before his time is up? “You can take the salve,” she mumbles sleepily, not yet opening her eyes. Before the fifteenth minute mark arrives, she’s out, chest rising and falling in peaceful waves.


Ansel watches her odd behavior from across the room. No he did not mind silence, in fact, he preferred this. Too much talking for one day. Too much thinking. As she takes off layers, he smirks. “Dressed well for venture, I see,” he says this softly in a teasing tone before letting his eyes follow her to the bed. She looked just as exhausted as he was. Twenty minutes… That was not fair, she got the bed while he had to sit in a chair and stay awake. Her eyes closed, and he began to look somewhere else, realizing he was staring for too long. The salve… her tired tone, sweet to the ears. What? No, it’s not… is it? The adventure must have been talking. His lids were falling as well, but he quickly realizes what is happening then shakes his head before standing up quietly as she passes out on the bed. Salve, right. Perhaps, he could take it and disappear? She would understand, right? Fifteen minutes… Walking is good. Home is good. By the time he would get to the tavern, he would be able to sleep. Check on the kids, fatherly stuff. Though, he got this sensation that he did not want to leave her behind, but she worked with him, he would see her face, he knew he would. The man would walk towards the bed where the woman rested peacefully, looking around for some sort of… throw blanket to toss over her before he vanished. When he would make for the door, he would turn. “See you soon…” A soft whisper before opening the door slowly, stepping out quietly and twisting the knob so the door would not click behind him. She would see him again, she should not worry about that.