RP:The Warrior's Witness

Part of the The White Hunt Arc

Summary:

Old Camp

It was a fleeting vision, a passing flicker like a shadow or a phantom in the snowy haze and dead of night. Through the fat, drifting flakes, Krice caught a glimpse of him from the western wall of the city: a single rider, distant and silent, shining green like emerald before disappearing into the snowy gloom. Following flashes of green, Krice's curious search has led him into the wild woods east of Frostmaw's ruins. From off to the north, the strange green glow filters through the trees, illuminating tall shafts of snowfall, gleaming between the trunks and sometimes flashing ember orange before returning to the flickering emerald glow. Krice has passed recent wolf tracks, and he can hear their agitated ruckus, their bays and yips, but has not yet seen a one. Finally, after a long hike, he draws upon the old lumber camp and the source of the glow. Several great pines, torn up from the ground and still bearing their roots, are stacked together in roiling, eldrich green fire. Around it, wolves careen and pace, bouncing and howling in their eagerness, and not just wolves, but firey hellhounds with them, sparks flying from their mouths and noses with every breath. Riding with them is Krice's specter--he wears a tattered black cloak and beneath it, ancient furs and fine embroidery bedecked with gleaming jewels, diamonds and sapphires of lost antiquity. His frostmare steed has succumbed to the rider's foul magic and withered to a mummified husk, pulsing with blue flames from within. In one hand he holds the reigns, and in the other he holds a briar wreath wholly enveloped in green, eldrich fire that neither consumes the briarwood nor the rider's hand. He waves it, brandishing the unholy icon with ritual flourish; without hesitating, the nearest wolf takes a running leap into the heart of the burning pile of timber, immolating itself in the emerald heart of the unholy bonfire, thrashing and baying its death song as its fur and flesh incinerates. The other wolves and hellhounds sing too, and with them cackles the rider, his chilling laugh raising high, even over the roaring of the mad din around him.

Krice's search had been more 'preventative measures' than 'curious', for as he followed the shadow away from Frostmawian civilization, he took care not to stray too far into wild territory. Of course, that had been a -plan-, only, and not one he could readily follow as that flashing green light weaved through the frozen forest, leading him to a developing situation. Rather than leaving tracks in the snow, which also would have sent the crunch of each footfall loud and clear into the air, the warrior took to the trees. He ascended through the boughs with efficacy and haste befitting his level of skill, a passing shadow of black and silver intermittently reflecting that ever-evasive glow in twisting green arcs, like a haywire compass. Once near to the source of that glow, the warrior halted upon a higher branch, more than thick enough to withstand his solid weight, and observed the scene below from the cover of his chosen tree's gnarled trunk. Kneeling on his right leg, Krice shifted his left food beneath him, balanced his weight, and watched in silence as the agitated wolves cried out in warped delight following their packmate's sacrifice. The magic in the area was palpable and prominent, and his sensitivity to its presence helped him maintain steady awareness of its hot spots, pockets of air that contained higher concentrations of the wraithen rider's supernatural magics - and the magics of other users nearby. The silver-haired man lingered, attempting to discern the ritual's methods as well as to illuminate the reason behind it; he was too far away for any of the creatures present to catch his scent, unless the wind changed, of course, so he remained where he was, motionless and mute.

From his high post, Krice will have a clear view of the goings-on below. Within the blazing fire's heart, the wolf's bones writhe and twist, thrashing and howling with vigor from beyond the grave. "Rise," the rider bids in a tongue long lost to Frostmaw's darker ages, and in a flash of burning orange, the bones leap free from the fire, restored to flesh in blazing form--a hellhound. The rider trots over and holds the briar wreath above the dog's head to bestow a fell benediction of invisible magics so repugnant that any kind onlooker, anyone with a spark of love or goodness, could vomit or even faint at the profane gesture. Thus bade, the freshly pledged hellhound bounds off to rejoin the wild ritual. This madness will carry on in like manner, sacrifice and resurrection, until all the wolves are thus lost to abyssal servitude or until Krice gives his presence away. Meanwhile, the fire burns higher, and higher, and higher, and many strange shapes and horrible visions rise and pass in the tall crown of the wildly dancing flames. Krice can feel the heat, and in fact, as the wind catches the rising column of fire, it whips eldrich tongues to catch on the trees beyond, lighting the woods past the edge old camp's clearing, clinging to the green branches of the pines. The falling snow douses the fresh flames and halts the spread... for now.

Krice could indeed feel the heat from the supernatural flames and it troubled him. Even -more- troubling was the emergence of that self-sacrificing wolf -from- the flames, reborn as a hellhound. The magics that swirled around the area, accompanied by palpable evil and sickening malice, allowed the warrior to deduce that he was outnumbered - and potentially outmatched - here on his own. He turned, shifting on the toes of his booted feet to evacuate the area; after spending a moment to properly take in the details of the wraithen rider, the number of wolves, the size, speed, and movement of the sacrifice-turned-hellhound, he had seen enough. He was just as silent on the way out as he had been during his approach of the supernatural bonfire, and unintentionally used the eruption of flames through the trees as an obstruction to whatever sound he may have unwittingly made during his retreat.

Silently, Krice descends, but does he remember the climb being this far? Or the trees being this high? Should he look up, he will see the eyes of the dogs upon him like spotlights. Their revelry has abruptly ended, and they stand in sudden, eerie silence. The entire world takes on a menacing cast as shadows deepen, pine needles turn to bristling thorns, and boughs twist and rear like coiling snakes. A foul chanting fills his ears, and towering bonfire falls silent too as it takes on the colossal shape of the rider, still shimmering and translucent, and he points his burning and wreath at Krice. The horrible, towering specter's eyes burn brightly enough to obscure the rest of his face, and as he talks on, the trees surge higher and the shadows grow darker. The knots and lines in the bark turn into warped faces, caricatures of weeping agony and laughing, sadistic ecstasy. Krice may, in skepticism or perhaps optimism, believe the horrid warping around him is a work of illusion, but if he is well-learned or keenly enough aware, the more hideous truth will become apparent; he is being cast out of the material world, body and soul and into another, less pleasant realm of being.

Krice believed himself still too close to danger to descend from the trees, and thus stayed his course along the boughs over which he had traveled to get here in the first place. He didn't -need- to descend to the ground below in order to sense that something was amiss with the world, warping and twisted and thick with magic as it was, but the illusory aspect of the transportational magic jostled him just enough off his equilibrium that he mistepped and -missed- his next tree branch. This sent the warrior plummeting to the earth below, and he landed hard on both hands and one knee - and one foot - amid an upward spray of freshly layered snow, a grunt marking the impact. Still too near to the ritual site - and too far out west - to be safe, Krice cursed under his breath at the shifting worlds and sprinted through his distorting one, memory and instinct guiding him along a choppy path back the way he had come. He needed to break free of the teleportation before he took hold of him completely, and his superhuman speed was as good a method as any to try do so.

Before him, Krice can see the woods stretching out into infinititude, and the faster he runs, the longer the path seems to stretch, and should the warrior glance behind himself, he will only see wraith and his dogs towering higher and higher, expanding to immense proportions. The thorny vines of the warped trees swipe and coil, dashing out and striking at the runner who, despite his fleet feet, seems to be drawing to a standstill, even as the snowy ground hurtles by beneath him. The fire is a throbbing pulse all around him, thrumming in time to an unseen heartbeat, perhaps his own? The whirling ground is a fleeting bed of stars, a deep and empty abyss. Above him, a knothole opens into a gaping mouth, the thorny brambles wind inward and inward, trying to catch him, trying to snare the warrior and drag him into the freshly opened abyss, if they can.

Krice's eyes and senses were wide open, so he saw and felt that the world was expanding, but slowing down around him, the faster he tried to flee. He slowed only briefly as a consequence of this, but found himself eagerly pursued by the warping branches and thorns of the trees surrounding him. Wasting no time to consider what the hell was happening to the world, the silver-haired man reached over his left shoulder and flicked his katana forward into the action, withdrawn from its back-mounted scabbard right into the thick of the vines that were trying to grab him. He grunted just once, an expression of the efforted he had to exude on his attempts to stave off the multidirectional attacks. His stomach twisted into itself and he lurched, his body weakening, incapable of dealing with the warping world for much longer than it already had. This was the opening needed by those voracious vines, which in turn lurched for -him-, grabbing at his limbs in a simultaneous attack-and-grab. Krice growled obscenities at his persistent foes and continued to cut away at those closest to him, curved steel splicing thick and warped vines at alternating angles matching the paths they took toward him. He was mostly successful until the warping world flipped on him again, and he shut his eyes to combat the surge of nausea that compressed his throat. Vines snaked forth to encapsulate him in their hold. He retaliated to the touch of one such grip around his left arm; twisting his wrist, the warrior whirled his katana backward into the slithering for to cut himself free, and though he had succeeded, others took its place. He grunted, more effort exuded to combat the bonds and effects of the warping world on his body. After a prolonged battle, and surrounded by scores of amputated vines, and scores -more- of active ones, Krice was successfully captured in their grasp and pulled toward that odd portal in the sky. He did not go without fighting, however, as he wriggled and writhed in attempts to break free, and flailed his katana around from movement of only his wrist--his arm captured--to cut at whatever vines strayed within its path.

Lurch by lurch, Krice is drawn by the thorny vines, inextricably it seems, into the gaping maw. Deep, bottomless blackness awaits. The knothole looms wide, and as Krice is forcibly passed through the threshold of the portal, the world behind him rapidly recedes to nothingness. The vines wither and wilt away to dust, vapor, and shadow around him as he descends alone into the seemingly infinite blackness. Wherever he is, the laws of ones senses, mind, and being are not the familiar laws of the. Though there is no visible source of light, Krice can see and feel himself and his belongings plainly. Gentle rushing, blowing sounds surround him, and if he speaks, nothing reaches his ears. He is suspended, but not weightless, and items he releases from his person could potentially be lost forever, drifting readily away and vanishing into darkness the moment they pass beyond Krice's reach. The warrior's nose can pick up no foreign scents; in fact he can barely smell himself. Gradually, after a hazy, nebulous wait that could have been hours or weeks, faint ambient light begins to shine around him, and he finds some sort of ground beneath his feet. Poorly defined outlines begin to show around him, and Krice will find he can move and walk around to approach them. Attempts to interact with any of these items will uncomfortable at best; these strange shades are nauseating to the touch and fill Krice's mind with bright, insense, scarcely discernible visions of snowy ruins. Sour, metallic smells and tastes occasionally pass through his nose and over his palate. More and more, bit by bit, much as though his eyes are adjusting to the darkness, Krice can see a world emerging around him, and it is only a matter of time, if time does exist here, before the passing shapes and dim terrain grow discernable enough to give away their secrets. Krice is deep in the ruins of western Frostmaw. Sometimes it is very clear and plain. Sometimes it descends back to deepest shadow, and when the clarity returns, he is in some other part of the ruins. The gentle rushing never ceases, and beyond that, sound never returns.

Krice's stomach was already churning as he was pulled off his feet and into the other pseudo-word, the transportation nauseating him just as much as did the onslaught of new sights and smells. Once released from the vines to float through the nothingness of his ethereal prison, the warrior tried to orientate himself with his surroundings but queasiness lingered. Trying to focus on anything was a chore. Throughout his time in captivity, Krice caught glimpses of thongs that he remembered, and of some things that he didn't even know existed, but all of it worked against his ability to function and calculate -where- he was. As images of a world second to his prison fluctuated and changed, the sickened warrior deduced that he was in fact still moving, rushing with whatever supernatural currents were flowing around between realms, passing the ever-changing terrain of Frostmaw and beyond. Swallowing back a lump of nausea, he cleared his throat enough to utter short-lived curses of his misfortune. And then an image of a familiar structure materialized before him, like a smoky building reforming after a breeze had disturbed its shape. He grunted and reached out, trying to grab at any portion of the roof of that structure, trying to pull himself clear of this world and back into his own.