RP:The Trek: Into Darkness

Part of the The Day I Tried To Live Arc

Summary: Khitti, Dominic, Brand, and Lionel finally make their way to Plane of Shadow. Things do not go as planned (as usual).
Note: At the bottom of this page are the prophecies mentioned in this RP and the character they correlate with.

Deeper Into The Woods, Frostmaw

Today was the day. Or, the night. Morning. Something. It was early. Too early. Then again, Khitti hadn’t slept, hadn’t noticed the time tick by as Dominic and Brand slept. Reading and more reading had kept her attention, and only now at the last minute did she realized it was nearing the time to leave, the vampiress rushing about to get things together. Supplies--food and drink, and various potions and elixirs of all sorts, and even extra arrows for Diamond Dust--were thrown into that jar that had been pilfered from Raiez’s cave, aiding in the light travel that was needed for this journey. Breakfast was made ready, her dragonscale armor put on, and a seriously strong cup of coffee was downed as she waited for those Catalians to awaken and get ready to leave.

Khitti looked like she was ready for war by the time everything was set and they took the wyverns to the warrior’s guild post, heading to the meeting spots in the forest near Lionel’s keep. Diamond Dust and her quiver were adorned, as were those silver and iron short swords she’d come to have an affinity for. They could very well be walking into a trap what with all the mindflayers that had been looking for her, so she was determined to be ready for anything. When all had arrived and greetings exchanged, she’d hold out her hand to whichever of the dual-minded male--in this case, Khitti’s writer means Dominic and Brand, of course--was present and only would only say one word, “Orb.” She didn’t need the book at all, it seemed.

Brand kept having that dream. At least, he kept dreaming of Viera, and of giant lettering that proclaimed some so-called prophecy or other. ‘The time for schism is ending,’ or some nonsense. Spiritual or not, it was clear a part of his brain had latched onto the worry stirred up by those worn scraps of paper. Probably the Dominic part, he thought with a scowl. Glancing over to the kid from his usual illusion form, Brand nodded toward the black-haired Catalian’s bag. “Frontmost pouch, on the left.” Dominic rifled through his pack as told and retrieved the aforementioned shadow orb for Khitti, a faint frown echoing Brand’s obvious displeasure. “This shouldn’t be too long, right?” It was only one question of the many Dominic possessed, but he’d only voice the one.

Solace. Esche's shoulders are perfectly straight, his musculature delicately contorted. His eyes are closed, and it is as if the wind's gusts do not effect his reality. Solace. | Discord. Lionel dares not attempt sleep again. Not after the nightmare. Every time he blinks, he sees that ghastly faceless figure sneering inexplicably from atop a pale stallion. He hears the screams. He suffocates beneath the fog. The powder he has been given to alleviate the symptoms of the red dust overload? Minimal results. Discord. || Esche rises, refreshed. || Lionel rises, distraught. || Esche peers into his reflective orb, admiring the good grace his morning meditation has done for his complexion. ||| Lionel takes a deep breath, stares into the mirror in his washroom, and taps the dark spots beneath his eyes with shaking index fingers. |||| With a smile full of confidence and a genuine sense of intrigue, Esche straightens his robes and fetches his oaken staff. He is ready. |||| With a curse beneath his breath, Lionel neglects to change his emerald tunic, but he detests the cloth-of-gold embroidery, and grits his teeth at the symbol of a Catalian hawk upon the right breast. He straps Hellfire at its prismatic Frostmawian sheath upon his back, but pauses and feels a chill as he recalls the sword's inability to ignite in his previous dream. |||||| Esche pauses only briefly, taking in the crisp chill of the region's still-wintry air. He sets off for the appointed meeting spot, bowing humbly to those gathered once he arrives. |||||| Lionel is at Síocháin, and then he isn't. The dwarves bid him good tidings, but he barely registers it. Once he arrives, he takes his place beside Esche and steels himself, forcing a smile.

It didn’t take much for Khitti to notice the change in Lionel; the difference was like night and day. As she waited for Dominic to dig out the magical implement, she stared at the Catalian prince, brows furrowed, concern threatening to mar her features. [Please keep an eye on him,] the words flowing across the link to Dominic and Brand, her mind opened to even reach Esche, [If something happens to him, or the drugs worsen his mind, we’re going to have bigger problems in Frostmaw than anything Amarrah can throw at us.] But, on the outside, she was different, masking the thoughts that worried her mind quite well as she replied to Dominic, “It von’t take long. And hey, it’ll take even less time if ve die.” Not the time for morbid humor, but it was the best she could do at the moment. “But seriously, ve’ll be fine. Completely and totally,” while adding off-handedly to Lionel, “Zhe green looks far better on you zhan zhat outfit you vear vhen you’re vith Hildegarde, you know.” She offers him a reassuring grin, then gets to work on the portal. Orb held tightly within her left hand, the index finger on Khitti’s right spins about as she worked her magic to call up the portal necessary for all of them to travel to the Shadow Plane. A great swirling vortex would open up before them in the snow-covered ground, the air whipping about around them, gangly snaking shadow tendrils popping up out of the portal. They flailed about for a moment, licking at the air, before plunging themselves deep into the ground. The tendrils held open the doorway to the other plane of existence, pulsating with unfettered dark magic, shadows seeping from them, filling the area. And here, as something most terrifying sat before them, Khitti could only grin further, almost Amarrah-like with that expression, though Amarrah she was not. She’d spin about, facing the four as she gave a wiggle of her fingers, waving to them, “Bye, boys.” Then, in true dramatic Khitti-fashion, she fell backwards into the darkness.

As Dominic began handing out the air filtration masks to each remaining member of the group, Brand shook his head at the departing vampiress. “I’ll give her one thing: she’s got the best gorram sense of humor.” He almost sounded… fond? Could Brand even be fond of -anyone-? The remark earned plenty of side-eye from his younger counterpart, who shot back with a sarcastic, “Yeah, joking about certain death definitely set my mind at ease.” The tail end of his remark was somewhat distorted as he fixed a mask to his face; they could talk through it, though their voices came out somewhat more… mechanical than they otherwise would. A quirk of the enchantments used, perhaps. Dominic was about to hand the last mask over to Brand when he realized -- oh, illusions don’t need breathing masks, do they? D’oh. Brand shrugged back at Dominic and sauntered his way into the portal, and Dominic followed close behind.

Lionel plucks the mask from Dominic and fixes it. "Thanks." Lionel isn't talking much just now. Esche examines the headpiece thoroughly before doing the same. Beneath his mask, Lionel glares at the shadowy tendrils, his heart racing in response. It's similar to the black magics used by the unknown assailants, but there's enough difference that under normal circumstances the Catalian would not chafe. These are not normal circumstances. Esche, having received Khitti's mental note, places a hand upon Lionel's shoulder reassuringly. "Let us embark," he prompts him. Into the maelstrom they go.

The Mountains of Madness, The Plane of Shadow

On the otherside, it looked...a hell of a lot like Frostmaw--except, however, there was a severe lack of trees. Faint wisps of shadows rolled off the ice and snow like heat on the sand in Gualon, but otherwise things seemed relatively fine, the danger mainly being the slickness of the ice. Khitti, in the same Khitti-fashion that brought her here, also landed the vampiress directly on her face, in a rather large mound of snow. It’d been hard enough to bust open the capillaries in her nose, blood flowing from her nostrils. “Can I just have one day vhere I don’t manage to bleed, please?”, she said to the air around her as she dusted off the snow from her outfit and awaited the rest of the party. She’d wander, not too far from the portal, but just enough to take a look around. Strange-looking ice sculptures littered the area, all in some humanoid form or another. They looked...afraid--no, terrified. “So veird, “ a hand moving to touch the face of the closest one.

Dominic and his boatload of snark arrived, just as Khitti’s hand neared the ice sculpture. (Oh yeah, and also Brand.) “I wouldn’t touch them if I were you, Khitti. One of the books I read in Raiez’s cave made mention of a transferable disease of stone. You never know. Touching them might turn you into one of them.” He neared Khitti’s side, peering up at the man’s face -- and then jumped sky high as Brand laid an illusory hand on his shoulder. Dominic -might- be a bit skittish. Brand pretended he hadn’t startled him on purpose, stifling a grin as he stepped away again. Seeking a better vantage point, the illusion scaled the ice sculpture of a nearby giantess, her hands risen before her face in a defensive pose.

Lionel is cautious for only his first few steps, returning to a more typical stride within seconds. He examines the area, squinting. "Doesn't really feel like we've gone all interdimensionalitis yet, or what-have-you," he thinks out loud, kneeling over the slippery ice and tilting his head at the creeping shadows. Esche, on the other hand, is far more instantly invested in the sculptures. The elf is entranced; he scans them in great detail, and with remarkable interest, moving from one to the next and then pausing before the giantess. "These postures, this craftwork. It is masterful. Lionel, I believe your deduction shortsighted. Something ethereal resides even here." Frostmaw's Knight-Commander shrugs, approaching Esche with casual timing. "I don't see the big idea. They're just -- oh." He sees it now. "That's maybe not so good. Hey guys? Gals? Spectral representations? Why would someone go through all the effort of sculpting a bunch of frozen scared people?"

Khitti just couldn’t help it. She giggled at Brand’s antics, but soon quelled the laughter for Dominic’s sake. Brand was so cute when he was being mean to other people--but don’t tell him that. She’d shake her head then at Dominic once she stopped laughing at his expense, shrugging, “But, zhey’re not stone. It’s ice. I don’t zhink zhis is the same zhing. But--” she paused, turning to eye Brand as he climbed atop the frozen giantess, “I vill be careful, okay?” Brand’s vantage point would allow him to see, well, a hell of a lot of gore. The ice and snow not even fifteen feet away from where they all stood was splattered and soaked with blood, random bits of meat and various body parts scattered about. || In the middle of it all, was the horrid beings known to the land as the Gloomglut. Great, fat creatures they were, gnawing on the bits of what looked like frozen parts of the statues, rows of jagged fangs crunching into the bones so that they could slurp away at the marrow within. Like a shark to blood in the water, one of them sensed the red liquid that had slowed to a few drips from Khitti’s nose. They were fast, unbelievably so for the corpulent things they were. The first gave chase, and then the others followed, twelve in all, arms outstretched to catch anything in their gore-slick fingers.

First, Khitti would hear the growling, and then the smell would soon follow, her eyes wide as the the hunter soon became the hunted, “Oh...sh--. D-Dominic, get up zhere! Vhere Brand is. Now!” The vampiress shoved him in that direction as a ball of shadowflame lit in one hand, this ball of flame stronger than usual thanks to the orb and being in the home of said magic. It was soon sent in the cannibal’s direction, but...the magic dissipated as it hit him. Just a poof and nothing more, as it would appear that magic had no effect on it--and soon they’d discover, if one of them were to swing at it with a weapon, that it’d just bounce off and do no damage whatsoever. If this was the first thing they’d encounter after getting through the portal, one could only wonder what’d be next.

“But what if it’s--” Khitti’s shoving cut Dominic off. Alright then, he supposed, potentially getting turned into an ice statue was still better than getting eaten alive. Scrambling as fast as he was able and audibly freaking out all the while, Dominic did as he was told and scaled the great giantess. Brand, meanwhile, jumped off of the sculpture and right into the path of the closest Gloomglut, spectral daggers manifested. One swing and then another bounced off the creature’s flesh. Brand braced himself against the thing, digging his heels in to try and slow its forward assault, but this too was ineffective. The hulking monstrosity swiped at him and he vanished into shadow, reappearing a moment later at Dominic’s side. “Lionel, Esche, any brilliant ideas?” Throwing his corporeal counterpart over his shoulder, Brand took off again, leaping from the head of one sculpture to the next and the next, doing his best to keep close to the group and yet out of reach of the grotesque, hungering masses.

Lionel tenses visibly and draws Hellfire in a full-bodied whirl, swinging the fabled blade through the air with an audible whip. Mental flashes plague him of the sword proving ineffectual in his nightmare, but he casts them aside, determined to strike true... until Khitti's shadowflame is easily deflected, and a diagonal cut aiming to sever gluttonous neck is met with only the reverberating feeling of being bounced back blow-for-blow, force-for-force. Lionel nearly loses his footing as he zips through the snow from his own swing, straightening his back too rigidly and causing him to grit his teeth and conceal a guttural cry. Beside him, Esche concentrates not on casting a spell he knows will have little effect, but asking his millennia-long partner for advice. Nothing present -- not anything Lionel can do, or Khitti can do, or Brand can do, or any of these creatures can do -- -nothing- will detect the bond Esche taps into with the cloaked Ishaarite spirit within the artifact he carries. Yet the communion, for a change, does not deliver results. 'Old,' the spirit tells him. 'Too old. Older still than even us. Experiments, unsuccessful. The void, untapped. I do not know, Esche.' It is a painful thing, not receiving an answer where answers have almost always been received. Like being cut off from an addiction, Esche can only take a step back, examining his surroundings as if seeing them for the first time. Disguising his disgust with a series of circular swirls of his staff, the elf calls forth a protective barrier to stand between the party members and their foes. "I do not know what this will accomplish! These beasts are utterly alien to me! Perhaps the answer lies within the statues..." Esche's tone tapers off into one of wonderment again even in the midst of carnage, and he fixes the nearest sculpture with the tip of his staff. It glows a brilliant bluish white, and a pure, thin beam of light energy gently pings the depiction of a terrified giant right upon the forehead, then pings the next statue, and then the next, and the next. Ricochet after ricochet, and as the gloomgluts step and hop swiftly into the line of fire, some of the sculptures may buckle and fall upon them, if the material is receptive to Esche's magical blows. If not, the light itself might somehow dispel their blubbery abilities, or otherwise slow them down. All-the-while, Lionel has recovered from his mishap, and he shoves Hellfire into the snow hard and takes a running leap from that shove, landing his booted feet down on one of the things and reaching down to rip its head off with fiery anger.

Esche’s magic--with its oh so gleaming brightness and super powerful awesomeness--did...absolutely nothing. Nor did Lionel’s attempt to rip off its head. Instead, its neck extended like the body of a Stretch Armstrong (you know, that really weird toy from the 80s), and only proved to piss off that first Gloomglut even more. Even Lionel, Hero of Hellfire, was out of his depth. The entire party was, as they say in the gaming world, ‘not high enough level to defeat this monster’. The Gloomglut roared, and the others yelled with it, fat fingers with broken nails reaching up to grab Lionel’s boots to pull him down as the horde gathering around the one Brand deemed ‘FireSword Guy’ to devour him while he still breathed the heavy air of the Shadow Plane.

Khitti was frozen for a moment, standing and watching as her magic failed to work and then the failure that was Esche and Lionel’s own attacks. This was not good. Not good at all. “RUN!” There’s zero hesitation now as Khitti copies Brand, darting atop the statues to sprint across them to Dominic. The vampiress takes a detour first, stepping first on the sculptures, then on purple, veiny Gloomglut heads, yanking at the back of Lionel’s tunic to pull him out of harm’s way. He’s dropped near his sword, and her path continued on to raven-haired Catalian, snatching him from Brand’s hands, and heading right through his illusion. “Sorry! You're too slow!” was shouted as she darted from sculpture to sculpture. Pieces began breaking off of each one of the statues as she walked across them, frozen bone and sinew made known to the world. Only the gods knew what caused it.

Soon the Lithrydelian scouting party knew too: the horde of Gloomglut all unhinged their jaws, a thick cloud of unsavory-looking hoarfrost spilled forth from their mouths, like some sort of many-headed frost hydra. As they made haste again towards the group, ice breath in tow, Khitti leapt off of the last of the sculptures, stopping at small clearing ranging a few feet off to the east, not far from the rest of the group, Dominic still in her hold for the moment. She carried him in her arms as she often had in the past, though now she wondered if he’d put up a fight thanks to that wedge that’d been driven between them. “Come on! Zhis vay!” Regardless, she’d lead the Catalians and Esche away from the horde as fast as they could possibly go, the Gloomglut almost literally nipping at their heels. They’d press on, of course, until Khitti came to a screeching halt, right at the edge of the mountain. The incline was steeper than any one side of the mountain Frostmaw sat on and completely coated in ice. In times like this, the words of a great, fiery man comes to mind, “Seven frakkin’ hells, “ and Khitti made those words known out loud.

Whatever Brand and Khitti had come to think of him, Dominic was no idle damsel in distress to be thrown about from one rescuer to the next. As the Gloomglut neared, Brand vanished once again into nothingness; Dominic tore himself out of Khitti’s arms and kneeled onto the snow before her. “Stand close,” he commanded to his three companions, and with no further explanation a great bubble shield formed. With Dominic at its epicenter, the shield of water and ice grew and encapsulated the four of them, just barely large enough to hold them all. But even this wasn’t enough to hold the Gloomglut at bay; as they neared, he could see the first tendrils of icy breath wisping against the barrier, passing through as easily as if there were no barrier at all. Whatever the source of this power gifted to him by that damned runestone… it wasn’t powerful enough. It was between certain death and a leap of faith, hoping the barrier could shield them even as they tumbled off the cliffside. Grabbing Khitti’s hand and pulling her close, Dominic took a running jump off the edge, hoping against hope all four of them would survive the fall.

Lionel relaxes his muscles to improve limberness, mindful of the steep drop and prepared to swivel his lithe form like a cat in order to minimize bodily harm. He is mindful, too, of the fact that he may need to reach out and secure aid mid-fall; thankfully, none of his companions are anything less than fit. It's adrenaline alone that guides him from dwelling overlong on the helplessness he is feeling next to these grotesque creatures, and how that helplessness mimics his disturbing nightmares. This is a mockery of that mist and faceless horseman, but a cruel one at that, and deadly dangerous. He fastens his fingers around the hemp of a sturdy rope, swings its edge around his waist sturdily, and tosses its opposing edge to ring securely around a rock outcropping. At first, the rope is only ten meters in length, but it seems to be expanding magically to accommodate any plunge. (In truth, the center threads of the rope simply house over two dozen high-strength, high-impact tethers which unfurl and expand as needed to grant the rope hundreds of meters of tug.) Confidently, Lionel bends at the knee, in case he must grapple the others and add them to the line upon the rope. All of it will depend upon the usefulness of the spell bubble Dominic has crafted. Whether the scouting expedition ultimately needs the rope or not, it has now been set up to help break the fall. All-the-while, Esche is considering Dominic's runestone again, elongated elven digits pressed delicately against the rope.

Khitti just stared at Dominic as he summoned up that bubble and grabbed her hand to pull her near. The idea was risky, a bit heroic, and also, uh, kind of hot. Had he done something like that before? Swooping in all Brand-like to save the day? It practically melted her brain in that instant, and she didn’t realize until it was too late that they’d left the cliff. If they weren’t being chased by vicious cannibals and now rolling dangerously down the side of the mountain, she’d probably tear his clothes off and--whoa. Uh. Sorry. That’s, uh...that’s private and to be written elsewhere. Yes. Ahem. Anyway, the four tumbled about down the mountain like hamsters in a ball. Much screaming was to be had, at least from Khitti--she doesn’t like flying, if you’ll recall, and this was so much worse--as she clung to Dominic like...well...like a scared cat, claws and all, and was pretty much useless right now otherwise. Had she’d been paying attention to Lionel and his rope, she’d likely commend him on such a good idea, but the Khat has mentally checked out at the moment as she prays to those gods that never listens to her anyway so that she might not become a giant, Khitti puddle on the ground. Along the way, banshees are alerted to their presence, but thankfully for the four, they’re going much too fast for the shrieking spirits to catch up to.

Dominic was going to lose his breakfast, he was almost certain. Even with the bubble absorbing much of the shock of their tumble downwards, and the rope alleviating much of what the bubble couldn’t, it was hardly a smooth ride down the cliffside. And more than once, Dominic found his elbow planted in someone’s ribcage or their knee dangerously close to knocking his mask off his face. Khitti clinging to him was, if anything, an advantage -- a few less limbs flying about. Down, down, down they careened, beyond the shrieking banshees. As they neared the bottom and the cliffs began to level out into gentler slopes, they rolled through a herd of zombies, knocking them aside like so many bowling pins. Those, too, they were too fast for -- and on they continued until the slopes gave way to a thick forest of white, birch-like trees and a ground littered with bones. The bubble flickered and then dissipated entirely as they at last came to a stop up against the trunk of one of the trees; Dominic remained where physics had left him sprawled, breathing heavily and for the moment too afraid to check himself for any wounds incurred by the fall. “Let’s… never do that again.”

Lionel is quick, but the laws of gravity don't recognize deft feet during perilous falls. As such, and more than once, he finds Dominic's elbow planted in his ribcage. With decreasing breath, patience fades, and he begins to hope his knees might find the lad in the face. Alas, even this momentary lapse in decency is not destined to bear fruit; it is Esche who knees Dominic, however inadvertently. Esche seems calm for a time, even in the tumbling. But that serene facade doesn't last. As the painful rolls and terrifying fauna continue to stack, the elf's eyes widen and his lips are pursed. To Lionel, he seems desperate to deny the very possibility that they should fail here, that he should die here. A fleeting thought: Lionel envies that level of conviction. But conviction is one thing, physics another. Esche's resting place sees him sprawled, his slender limbs outstretched like an exhausted child who has given up making angel prints in the fresh winter snow. His staff smacks his back as it descends upon him, and he sounds a quiet, delicate groan. Lionel, however, is fine. He's detached his rope in the final fall, and it's zipped back in blurring speeds to attach its wielder to the withered old stump of a dead, ancient tree. Lionel plants his boots upon the stump, hanging perfectly horizontally, suspended in midair. "There," he notes, although his voice is strained. He unhooks the rope and lands on his feet deftly. As he helps the others, he replaces the tool in its holster. "Never leave home without a rope. Also, were those zombies? Because this place? Not a big fan right now." Esche, with Lionel's help, stands up with a grunt. "Lionel, we must endeavor to be solemn and serious-minded at this juncture if we should like to complete our mission and survive to speak of it." Lionel throws up his hands as he climbs a nearby slope, revealing another pile of bones as he kicks away the snow. "I bet they were all plenty serious," he points to the fossils with his chin. "It ain't mental voodoo what's gonna keep us kicking, Esche. It's gumption. Ingenuity. And a whole lotta luck."

The White Woods, The Plane of Shadow (Xalious Region)

Unfortunately for Khitti, the phrase ‘cats always land on their feet’ does not apply to her. Instead, she was sprawled out on top of Dominic, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Once it does, she pushes herself up off of him with an ugh and moves to the left. “Zombies, I can handle. Zhose other man-eating freaks up top, zhat’s a big nope. I don’t know vhat zhe hell zhose vere but god damn…Never again. Next time ve come here, I’m not making zhe portal in Frostmaw.” There’s a shriek from the female, not long after she’s said this. She’d drawn herself closer towards the nearest tree, while looking over her shoulder to make sure Dominic was alright. Only when she looked up did she find that she was face to face with a newly rotting, spore and plant infested Gloomglut. Seems it’d fallen down the mountain or some such, and ingested the spores, the plants growing right out of its mouth. Irritated now that she’d been reduced to screaming like a damsel in distress again, she punched the dead thing in the face, a cloud of spores erupting from it. “Damn it, “ she sighed heavily. “Good call on handing out zhose masks before you guys jumped through zhe portal, Dominic. I didn’t even zhink about it.” She’d been a vampire much longer than she’d wanted; her forgetfulness about the spores surely could’ve killed them all. “I’m sorry.”

The vampiress finally stood then, looking around. The trees were tall, impossibly so, and as white as the bones beneath their feet. Somehow, despite having been in multiple different forests, including Vailkrin’s, this one was the one that gave her the willies. “I’ve got a bad feeling about zhis.” When everyone was recovered and ready, elixirs and potions doled out to help them regain their strength faster if it was needed, she’d lead them into the forest, the dwarf star the dimension had for a sun rising and lighting their way. The further the got, the more frequent those plants and flowers were. They all varied in hues of purples, greens, and blues; one would likely consider them quite beautiful if it weren’t for the fact that they were so deadly. On they pressed for what seemed like forever, heading deeper and deeper into the forest, through what was likely the Xalious of this realm. The White Woods, however, had different plans for them as the sun snuffed itself out behind the trees, leaving them in darkness again. Wait...how long have they been in there for?

Occasionally, the crushing of bones would be heard. Creaking and cracking and snapping from various points around them. And then there was that uncanny feeling of being watched, but everywhere Khitti turned, she saw nothing. Saw no one. “...Zhere’s something here…” The vampiress turned again, catching a blur of a moving white figure out of the corner of her eyes, but it stopped immediately the moment she focused on it. Anytime anyone would try to focus on the moving objects, they’d stop and nothing but the trees could be seen. “Lots of somethings maybe.” This place really wasn’t going to give them a break, apparently.

Miraculously, Dominic hadn’t acquired any injuries an elixir couldn’t fix. Well, any physical injuries, anyway. Sure, he’d been plenty quick to act in the moment, but now that the shock was settling in and he had time to process the ordeal they’d just been through, he was far from being in his happy place. If he’d thought for a second she would have complied, he might have demanded that they’d seen enough, that they should take a portal back to Lithrydel immediately. As dangerous as Amarrah was, the beings here were worse, weren’t they? At least Amarrah they had ways of disarming.

They trudged along through the forest, and Dominic’s only conversation was within himself. Brand knew what Dominic was thinking. No matter how he tried to wall himself up the way Brand always did, he always seemed to know. There had been a time where this hadn’t been such a bad thing, when their opinions actually aligned -- but now, as before they’d come to Lithrydel, they seemed in constant conflict once again. Brand prioritized Khitti’s needs above even Dominic’s now; that much was obvious to him. And Brand was as unyielding to dissent as he ever was -- well, fine then. Dominic handed over the reins to their shared form, and Brand made his appearance in the flesh this time. Let him deal with it. Let him deal with it all -- with Khitti, with whatever was lurking around them in the forest, with Esche’s probing. Gods knew Dominic had had enough for one day.

“Wolves or spiders is what I'd guess if we were in Lithrydel,” was Brand’s response to Khitti’s observations. He adjusted his position to be towards the rear of the group, his back to their center. Twin flames lit in each palm, though it was clear his magic was dampened somewhat by some aura of the woods or the Shadow Plane as a whole. “Lucky for us we found ourselves in terribly creepifyin' death woods, instead."

Lionel takes the scenery in stride. The evergreens, the birch, the cedars; it would all be so serene, were it not for the strange distortions, the transformative nature of this realm. Objects, when viewed from a straight angle, seem either to wave about as if being peered-upon in a hot summer's day, or instead -- and more unsettling -- they appear closer than they ought to be, yet somehow further away. Every far-off shrubbery, every too-near torn old log. All of it is difficult to gauge geographically, and anything upon the horizon has an odd glow to it like the edges of fresh-melted parchment recently exposed to candle fire. But Lionel trudges on, and on more than one occasion Esche glances at him uncertainly, curious at the Catalian's nonchalance. That changes, however, when the blur of white begins to stalk the party. It places Lionel on silent edge, and Esche wields his staff closer to his chest. Should a creature strike, the elf's first move would be to cast protective fields around his allies, and Lionel would surely leap into the fray. As the dwarf star paints the dreamscape a pale baby blue, Lionel's only thought is of a dark promise he's made to his queen. One he only hopes he will not need to act upon.

“Spiders?”, Khitti thought out loud after the blonde mentioned them. And then, as if her brain was jolted with lightning, she proclaimed, but not so loudly as to attract more things that might kill them, “SPIDERS! Brand, you’re a genius!” She could kiss him. Well, actually, she did. Yep. Right in front of Lionel and Esche. Awkward. The vampiress coughed as she realized what she’d been doing, who she’d been doing it to, and the fact that they were probably going to die right now. In an almost comedic fashion, she side-steps away from Brand and moves back towards the front of the group, in the direction they’d be head. The usual hand gesture to summon Francis is made, but...no portal opens up. “Vhat zhe hell? Vhy is my magic just not working here? Zhat makes absolutely no sense. I--” But, she doesn’t get to finish her thought for the arachnid bounded its way through the White Woods, all eight legs carrying its cow-sized body as fast as it possibly could to his “mom”. He promptly pounced her to the ground upon reaching the group, slobbered all over her face, and shook that butt of his in the air like the good pupper he was. “Francis!” There’s much hugging of the spider and then she shoved him off. When he wasn’t as excited, the spider is alerted to the beings that crept about just out of the group’s sight. “Aha. I zhink he lives here. No vonder he liked zhat spore stuff so much.” The one direction that none of them seem to be faced towards, as the spider made for a lovely distraction, was where a lanky white treant attacked from. No, there was more of them that. As soon as Khitti would turn to face the ent, it froze in place like a statue, another taking its place behind her. In fact, any time any of them turned to face an attacker, another would pop up. The treants surrounded them, gnarled branches outstretched to grab the foreigners, freezing in place when looked upon. ‘Don’t Blink’ seemed like a good idea right now.

Great, white treants with milky eyes stood around them all, faces frozen in snarls and limbs at times mere inches from the travellers. Francis whined and chomped on the leg of one of them as well as it could, but even his mandibles couldn’t do much against that bark. In the distance, they could hear the crunching of bones underfoot; another was racing forward, to be sure, and this one had no need of stealth. Brand threw his flames into the branches of the treant nearest him. Might as well, right? But this, too, they seemed impervious to. He muttered curses under his breath and, making sure not to drop his gaze, began groping the air to one side in search of Khitti’s hand. “Welp, today’s as good a day to die as any, I suppose.” He found his mark and gave it a squeeze, for perhaps the first time letting her hand linger in his. They were surely dead men breathing anyhow; what harm could a little affection before the end do?

The steps were drawing terribly near now, thunderous in their approach. The bones underfoot rattled and shook as if in greeting; soon, the party would be joining them in their eternal slumber. No such interloper as these few could make it out of the White Woods. If Francis had survived here this long, it was likely only because the treants didn’t have a taste for spider meat.

The footsteps were here and had come to a stop just outside the ring of treants. The rattling had grown to a crescendo and the bones themselves rose from the ground, reassembling into complete skeletons. But this wasn’t how the group died, no -- not to the Silver Stalkers, and not to the reanimated skeletons. The latter group shrieked in unison and tore at the treants around them, making up in numbers what they might lack in strength. Soon they were clambering over the treants like a swarm of ants over fresh-cut fruit, clawing away bark-sealed flesh, tearing out their pupil-less eyes, digging into their trunks and ripping apart their organs. The treants could not even scream as they were rent asunder, not as long as the party did their part and held the gaze of the horrid creatures.

When the last of them had fallen, the bones scattered. Shrieking and hooting, they retreated into the trees, and beyond where vision could reach there were more sounds of tearing and clawing and ethereal wailing of Silver Stalkers as the skeletons did battle with treants that could still move. And into the space that had been vacated stepped a treant taller than those who had been torn apart, this one wizened and black as soot, except for its tangled grey moss-like beard and those same milky white eyes. It inhaled a deep and languid breath, causing the tattered flesh in its exposed ribcage to flap about noisily. Unlike the other treants, it seemed half-skeleton itself, and not at all hungry for flesh -- thankfully, since looking it in the eyes did not deter its movement in the slightest.

“ ‘In the season of fire,’ ” it wheezed, blinking slowly across one person to the next, “ ‘where the dead flower wilts near the light’s end, two shall be born. One is doomed to perish, untimely, time and time again. One shall trespass the boundaries of shadow and light, and the dead shall rise up in protest.’ “ Its unseeing stare halted upon Khitti and lingered there. “You have arrived at last, Harbinger. Come, let me show you your path, and those of your companions.” Without waiting for an answer, it turned back the way it had come, beckoning for the lot of them to follow.

Lionel is all angular swings, throwing muscle into strikes he conventionally prefers to deliver more lightly. Here, Hellfire is wielded like a traditional claymore, and its wielder's arms are sweating with the tension of shoving ancient steel into his enemies. But even with all this might, Lionel cannot so much as dent the creatures, and they are pushing him back, again and again, forcing him to speed to and fro in great bursts of magical flame. Nor do Hellfire's own flames seem to spread in this forest as they'd spread in the skirmishes against Chisel; something unforeseen, or some property of the shadow plane itself, does not seem to react to the heat as it should. Nearby, Esche's brows furrow in frustration, his barrier having little or no effect on the treants as they burrow and barrel forth with their gnarled hooked branches. "This is not the way it should go," the elf curses under his breath. "Burn me, this is not the way." Lionel can hardly hear him, his path changing constantly to avoid the brunt of the assault. When the skeletal saviors arrive, his jaw slacks uncontrollably, but he grabs hold of Esche's sleeve and yanks them both into cover, closer to the rest of their companions. The sound and fury dwindle, replaced by a newcomer, and Lionel eyes Khitti precisely when it does. "Lead the way, kind tree-ser," he waves his hand forward dramatically, shrugging at the rest of them. But his face isn't so carefree. Any who look upon Lionel now will see it clear as setting pale blue day: he's worried.

Khitti’s hand was taken up and it actually startled her a little, more so than all of these flesh-hungry ents that surrounded them--things that wanted to kill her, wanted to rip her flesh from her bones was never anything new; affection from Brand, however, was. There was no brave declaration of love, no throwing herself in Brand’s way to save him from the Silver Stalkers for none of it mattered at all. Instead, she only squeezed his hand back and waited for the end. But, the end never came. Khitti could only stare, shock and awe washing over her as the ents were chased off by undead that was not of her making. And then...and then he appeared. That great, hulking tree of her nightmares. The hand in Brand’s grasp trembled terribly, even more so once the skeletal ent’s attention fixed on her form. The vampiress, for all her confidence and fire of late, was absolutely petrified. The spoken words of that prophecy echoed through her mind as the ent wandered away, towards the northeast, her line of sight never drifting from his blackened form as he disappeared into the White Woods beyond. She’d pull her hand away from Brand’s finally, an instinctive flicker of shadow-fire coming into view before she ultimately snuffed it out, fighting off the urge to char that undead-commanding ent further. Without a word, she’d follow after him, even running ahead of the Catalians and the elf to keep up with his great thunderous steps, Francis leaping off ground and trees to stay at his mother’s side.

The White Woods, The Plane of Shadow (Kelay-Sage Region)

Brand’s hand slipped from Khitti’s once more as soon as it was clear they -weren’t-, in fact, going to die today. Or, at least, not to the treants. He made no fanfare of it, no babbling awkwardness, simply… his hand was there, and then it wasn’t, and hers was wreathed in that dark flame. He stepped after her, and Francis, and the towering black treant, his gut writhing with the same disquiet the others faced. “Who’re you?” he demanded, “and what the gorram hell were those things back there? Damn near everyone save Francis tried to kill us since we got here; how do we know for sure you’re any friendlier than the rest? Can’t say I’m not grateful for you savin’ us, but we’re just s’posed to take that as proof n’ follow where you lead?” He was near to shouting, such was the volume necessary to reach whatever the treant had for ears. The bearded creature kept to its pace, its long legs making it difficult for the others to keep up without at least jogging, even though the treant itself seemed in no great hurry.

“Yes,” rumbled the treant, without breaking stride. “Else, the Silver Stalkers would end your journey before it has truly begun.” It wasn’t a threat, not the way the treant voiced it -- rather, it was a cold fact. Most of the creatures on the Shadow Plane were far beyond the capabilities of any of them to defeat, and the treant seemed to know this as well as any of them. “My name is hardly relevant, and would not be utterable in your tongue regardless. But if a name you need, you may call for me as Emeritus, and I will answer.”

Brand didn’t seem quite satisfied with this response, but what else was there to do but follow? Down through the forested foothills they continued, far beyond what must have been the equivalent of Xalious and well into Sage. A whispering invaded each traveler’s mind as they walked, prophecies unheard by the rest, riddles and rhythms of Fate for them to ponder upon. Some, Khitti and Brand would recognize as the same prophecies spoken of in the pages rescued from the dead mindflayers; others would be new but creating no less of a chill up the spines of those they were meant for. [They are meant for you to know, as I was meant to find you,] the treant thought to each of them when he’d concluded their shares of prophetic poetry. [But my role is only as guide and ferryman; you still must choose which courses to take, though each fork of the river still ultimately deposits you upon the same shores.]

Lionel dismisses the whispers out-of-hand, falsely assuming it's what they're all hearing. Unfortunately for him, the words cling like amber, insistently, and after a time he begins to play with them despite himself. And then it hits hit -- he should not have been so dismissive in the first place. Here in this wild world, with so distinctive a guardian force to guide them, Lionel might uncover some necessary cosmic answer for the wars to come. With Frostmaw imperiled, to say nothing of Larket, and the insectoids, and everything in-between, the shadow plane in all its ethereal beauty may be tied to it all. And then Lionel's heart begins to race, for he cannot currently make heads or tails of the thing he has heard. Instead, he squints, offering Emeritus his quiet thanks with a mild nod and a troubled distant stare. For his part, Esche is immediately unsettled, recognizing patterns in the weaving of the prophecy and eliminating variables on the short hard road to determining the meaning. Some of the lines remain frustratingly vague, and a few of them scare him. What does this mean, three deaths? If rebirth is the final death, perhaps he has nothing to worry about. But then, rebirth is not Esche's goal, anyway. What could...? And then it washes over him like a plague, and Esche's eyes widen and he observes Emeritus as calmly as he can muster. 'Levant,' he whispers in his mind to the Ishaarite spirit within him. 'Levant, it knows. This creature... -knows.-' The spirit does not answer, too wrapped up in its own immediate fears. Esche is left alone with his dark thoughts. For Lionel, the shadow plane just grew a little bit warmer. For Esche, it is ice cold.

Khitti kept up with the ent easily, darting around the trees, her pace only slowing when the prophecies flit through all of their minds. “You vere supposed to stay dead. I killed you.” A mask of irritation was thrown up to cover the unease she felt, defiance in her tone, “I told you...I told you zhat you’ve no control over my fate.” But, that wouldn’t matter would it? No. If it were meant to be, the universe would make it so. “I’m not some damned Harbinger. You’ve got zhe vrong damned person.” Emeritus would say nothing, merely giving Khitti a brief look over his shoulder, though, that look seemed to be more of pity than anything.

They’d continue on, following Emeritus, until they happened upon a small village that surrounded a crystal clear lake. Tall black tents, each large enough to house Emeritus and his Shadowseers loomed overhead, torches lit with bright purple shadow-flames lighting the way at the end of the forest, and on into the village. Emeritus comes to a halt as equally enormous, robed figures gather around him, whispers and gasps filling the heavy air around him. “It’s -her-.” “Did you tell her? Did you warn her?” More of the same comes from the others, gnarled branch-like fingers extending from the sleeves of the dark vestments they wore, singling the redhead out, surrounding her. “You’re going to ruin everything. Destroy the balance. Even the Shadowfell has balance, even the Shadowfell has light, “ cried one, its voice a shrieking whisper as it grabbed at Khitti’s arm and pulled her towards it. “Harbinger of death and fire and shadows, “ hissed another, grabbing her by the hair, dragging her in its direction instead, “You’ll be the end of us. The end of all. The souls...the souls in the lake cry out for your death! Join them you will...and then all will be well. All will be right again.” But, they did nothing to harm Khitti, besides shoving her about in the circle they’d made around her, rattling her to her very core. Surprisingly, Khitti did nothing. Not a god damned thing, except listened. She listened, and she dwelled, and she buried the anger the Shadowseers brought on down deep inside. What was she to say? She’d not argue with them. They were so utterly convinced of things she’d not even done yet or things she wouldn’t ever do.

Emeritus let it go on for a time, allowing the words of his brethren to sink deep into the minds of those not from this plane of existence. “Stop. We do not bring death, we merely tell of it. Tell of the future. The past. The present. They must leave now, but you will give them aid for their return here. We guide them, but we do not choose for them. Their fates are not sealed until the choice is made.” The shrouded figures dispersed somewhat; some lingered nearby their leader, others went off to gather the things they knew to hand out. Their speed was much like that of the Silver Stalkers, though their own bark-flesh was just as black as Emeritus’. Soon they returned, a map and freshly written guidebook was handed over to Khitti, and three cats of dire size prowled into the area. “Take these, all of them. They will help you on your return. The Tikifhlee, they are swifter than the Silver Stalkers and more fierce than the Gloomglut you encountered in the mountains.” A stark white one with ice blue eyes padded over next to Lionel and sat beside him while a black one with eyes like a fire ruby stopped by Brand’s side. The last, and final feline, was charcoal grey and had eyes much the same purple as Khitti’s magic. Each, while young, were already old enough to ride, although they seemed to lack saddles. “More than one may ride the Tikifhlee, should you return with others. Seek out the Darkfel, they will give you safe passage over the sea to the Sanctuary of the Damned. You’ll see that the path will be treacherous should you decide against it.”

Brand, for one, had decided he hated these treants. They might be willing to ‘help’ them, sure, and they might owe Emeritus their lives, but at what cost? All this talk of prophecy and the future was grating. “You don’t even know her,” he shouted at the Shadowseers, though they paid him little mind. “Or me, or any of us. Who the frak are you to act like you know what we’ll do? Just cuz someone put some flowery words down in some gorram book or somethin’ an eon ago?” He was rattled, terribly so. He couldn’t be sure what the others had heard, or if they’d heard anything at all, but the words that had entered his mind dovetailed well with what he’d been seeing in his dreams. Too well. Too well for comfort. But it was all rubbish, anyhow. There were no gorram prophecies, just as there were no gorram gods. To Brand, they were all creations of floundering mortals who were too weak to accept the nihilistic truth. Brand had survived this long through his own wit, dammit, and not because some fool star-reader foretold some role for him on the galactic stage.

Brand even eyed the Tikifhlee with distrust, though it seemed to have taken to him just as quickly as Francis had. The thing was nuzzling him almost hard enough to knock him over, purring all the while. Emeritus placed a steadying, brambled hand on Brand’s shoulder as the man was trying to decide whether or not to spurn the ‘gifts’ they’d been given. “It is not our way to take offense, whether or not you’d seek to give it. If you wish to act out of spite, it is only your road that shall become more difficult, not any of ours.” The gorram tree had answered his thoughts with an unwavering calm before Brand had even given voice to them, -and- he spoke of prophecies. This was worse than Esche. “You resist change as much as your counterpart, Dominic. But even the statues of monarchs must bow to the passage of time. Allow yourself the freedom to go where the winds take you, or they’ll wear you into nothingness.” Wait, was he calling -him- Dominic, or was he merely pointing out that he knew the name of the other entity in his head? It was unclear -- and either way, it bugged the hell out of Brand. Grumbling, he took the damned cat that was offered and sought the perimeter of the crowd.

Lionel doesn't entertain the treants as they ridicule Khitti out-of-turn. He narrows his eyes and balls a fist, but refrains from following suit with action. They are, after all, grossly outnumbered, and Emeritus himself is fast proving ally. Or at least peaceable enigma. "Leave her the hell alone," he mutters, not quietly, but the gang's patron saint of benevolent shrubbery seems to have moved on to speak in riddles now and he has soon summoned three large cats. Precious little of this makes sense, and Lionel's mind is still racing around the whispered prophecy he has been granted. Lionel, like Brand, views talk of gods as categorical nonsense -- and he's fought and slain demigods, at that. But he knows their power, too, and with the cacophony of bullying trees having died to a whimper, he opts to maintain his stoic calmness and reach a hand out to the white Tikihflee. "Be seeing you, then," he tells Emeritus. What more is he to say? This doesn't feel like his ball game right now. Best to stay focused. Esche has spent this time carefully observing the creatures, contemplating the conversation flow, and taking ample mental notes of his environs. Esche is prepared to use these treants to suit his purposes someday, should the need arise, but he would rather spare them. He'd rather spare anyone, truly. Perhaps that is why Emeritus says nothing to warn anyone of Esche's real thoughts. Whatever the case may be, it does not seem to have calmed Levant.

Khitti’s head ached with all the shouts and the whispers that went on around her, her mind like a maelstrom. The taunting was still there, swirling about in her brain, the Shadowseers still speaking to her, much like Emeritus had.

[You’ll be the death of us! The dead will rise up! They’ll come for us and then they’ll come for you. The souls will find you. The dead was your beginning and they will be your end.]

They screeched and whispered at her as one, poking and prodding at her thoughts. And somewhere, deep within the far recesses of Khitti’s mind, the vampiress could hear her. Amarrah cackled like a madwoman, taking absolute delight in Khitti’s unfortunate predicament and aiding in chipping away at the redhead’s sanity.

On the outside, however, everything seemed fine. Khitti was the perfect picture of cool, calm, and collected. “Zhank you, Emeritus.” Her own Tikifhlee, who was at least a foot or two taller than her, nuzzled her shoulder and let out a ‘mahraowr’ to get the vampiress’ attention. It took a second for it to register as Khitti tried to sort through all the whispers and laughing in her head, but she finally gave the massive feline a few pats on her head and turned away from the charred ent. Silence clung to Khitti as she found a suitable spot to create a new portal for them to return home. Here she didn’t even need that stone to open it, the woman taking a mental note of it. Good. She’d need as much magic as she could possibly get next time around.

The Prophecies, kept by Emeritus and the Shadowseers

Khitti: In the season of fire, where the dead flower wilts near the light’s end, two shall be born.
One is doomed to perish, untimely, time and time again.
One shall trespass the boundaries of shadow and light, and the dead shall rise up in protest.

Two stars shall fall for a third to rise, their curses lingering as putrid foam upon the shore.
The two shall find the end of time unreckoned, and they will not understand.

Of the two entwined, siblings but not by birth, one shall be by madness consumed; the other will suffer until they trek across the dark land.
There a choice will be made: to fall deeper into the void or to allow the light to shine.

Brand: The one taken by shadow is naught but shadow themselves.
The three are two, enemies joined ever more as one.

Reflections of family are cast upon the frozen sea, breathing their own breaths but never alive.
They hunger for redemption that will only come through the howl of terrible suffering.

Lionel: One shatters, the other reigns.
The boy pays with his life.
Ice blankets the world,
Wolves lose their way,
The hour is late,
And the man must be born.

Esche: Before reckoning,
The old ones stirred.
Freer of spirit, without need for vessel.
Reckoning returned,
The old ones extinguished.
Death of spirits, but those who found vessel.
Reckoning awaits,
The old ones choose their champions.
Hell's fire to the western realms, without end.