RP: Whatever Happened To Mr. Ameno?

Part of the Township Troopers Arc

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Summary: Ameno awakens in some nefarious form, his persona seemingly replaced utterly. In his wake, the Warrior's Guild suffers an unexpected defeat. With the bulk of the Guild in far-off Rynvale, only a single survivor of this abrupt tragedy will live to tell them about it...

Frostmaw: Royal Academy of Aramoth

Lionel | Anton has had a very bad first few weeks up in Frostmaw. Nineteen and bright-eyed, the far-off immigrant had been spoonfed delusions of grandeur with regard to Lithrydel; after all, his home country of Elchev is quite possibly the sleepiest and most mundane place in the world, but all his books talk up Lithrydel as if it is full of adventure. Well, that much is certainly true, young Anton has decided. But not necessarily the best kinds of adventure. The best adventures are well worth telling, and bragging about, and end with good friends and good cheer and boasts for years to come. Nothing about the experience poor Anton had with the red dust during Frostmaw’s recent terrorist attack will ever be boasted-about. Nor have the piles of paperwork Lionel has left him with proven cheerful. Hoping to maximize the fun factor, brave and curly-haired Anton thought to enlist with not just the Frostmawian military but the Warrior’s Guild as well. Thus, he’s suffered the aftereffects of a grim illicit substance thrust upon his face, followed by not one but two massive and endless stacks of paperwork, while Lionel and the bulk of his allies have run off to fight bugs. “Bugs?” Anton mouths to himself. “That just seems… oi, oi, Lithrydel is not what I expected.” He’s murmuring as he steps inside the Royal Academy’s sickbay, tilting his head to peer at Ameno Drannoht. For several days now the lad has been put in charge of administering the draconian’s medicines and his foodstuffs. Another tedious task, but Anton has real concerns for the creature, and feels terrible for what he has heard happened to him. He kneels down and grabs a canteen of water, pouring it into a mug. “Oi, oi,” he carries on. “You and I, we’ve not met, friend, but I am thinking maybe Lithrydel is not so kind to you, either.”

Ameno remains still the wounds in his chest might have healed but the scars my god the scars they haven't his form is riddled with them, While his eyes remain closed his breathing changes only slightly, a little more shrill than before. Inside his mind four out of five parts of him struggle for control, one will wake the body and change as proper.

Lionel | Humming, Anton now sets to the task of removing old bandages and applying fresh ones. He winces. Every time he’s done this, he’s winced, because the depth of Ameno’s injuries startle him every time. Even as the chest wounds heal, the draconian is a comatose testament to danger. He looks like hell. “Alright, now, one day you are going to awaken, my friend, and I will be thinking of the ways in which to tell you to steel yourself before, ah, before… looking at a mirror, heh…” It’s a cheap, desperate, self-deprecating laugh. Anton cannot stand seeing anyone in such a physical state. He finishes with the bandages and traipses over to a nearby chair, sitting down with a sigh. “I am exhausted.”

Ameno |it is then when scraith decides to wake Ameno, His form suddenly sits bolt upright and his jaws part and his eyes open, but those eyes, they morph upon opening, flashing from Icy blue, to yellow, to Green, and the to soild blackness, with a single voice blended together the names Ali,Sethus, Yemaro, and Scraith all speak at the same time, " (Name) I Live!" His form mutates and morphes the edges sharpen, the talons grow, the wings vanish and the form grows, this creature from between the dimensions as emerged, and he is called Scraith, his eyes turn upon Anton, and with a roar that shakes the walls and floor of academy, it isn't deep but neither is it shrill or ghostly, its not unnatural nor is it anything heard before, its strange the roar seems to be to almost be drawn back into the beast, before the tail whips toward anton a hideous throat at it end ready to swallow the lad, no sooner has it swung its tail Scraith, turns and smashes through the sick bay wall.

Lionel | Anton, it cannot be overemphasized, has had a very rough go of things since beginning his tenure here in Lithrydel. As his jaw slacks and he jumps so briskly from his chair that he topples it and falls to the floor, your humble author really wants to repeat this fact. And as Scraith opens the peculiarly-positioned throat upon its tail and devours poor Anton whole, it appears that the immigrant’s story has ended. Only a few stray follicles of that lush, curly brown hair of the lad’s will be left for the investigators. All that is left of a boy who wished to become a hero. Scraith’s charge through the wall alerts the several guild instructors and initiates presently stationed at the Royal Academy, of course, and two of those instructors are outside in the training yard where the creature will emerge. They gasp, shout something crude, and ready their swords to intercept.

Ameno | as scraith emerges from the wall one of its massive talons swipes through one person and then his tail swipes a lot of other people who have emerged, warriors, instructors it matters not, the beast scraith kills, eats, smashes whoever its sees, breaking through the walls of the academy it leaps off a cliff to the south, into lands yet unknown, but its path of destruction is evident, its not stopping yet.

Lionel | Death. Destruction. The creature Scraith spreads these things in its wake. If there is a silver lining in this sea of sorrow, it is this: only seven people were stationed at the Academy today, with the bulk of the Warrior’s Guild’s sparse forces stationed either in Rynvale or throughout the city of Frostmaw. Yet six lives are lost today. And that should not be understated. While the Guild has fought its war against the insectoid menace, a full quarter of its ranks has been slain by a most unexpected killer. One woman survives. Barely conscious and bleeding badly, she reaches a gauntleted fist in the southern direction the menace set off toward, as if to grab him, though he’s long gone. “Murderer,” she mutters. Her name is Grace. And whether by the grace of the gods or her own considerable will, she will not succumb to her wounds. Frost Giants on regularly-scheduled patrols will find her, get her the medical help she needs, and fail to stop her from setting off on the first available caravan to Cenril. There, she will hop a boat. Her destination is Rynvale. Her mission, the only thing she lives for now, is to reveal to Lionel O’Connor and his companions that the man called Ameno is gone, and whatever has replaced him must be destroyed.