================================================================================ Dec-8-2022 Temple of the Body ================================================================================ The camp was in disarray. Sargeants barking orders over the din of battle, with the fear and horror that beset the place. Men danced in their armors, crying out for solace from the storm. The mental wail that abounded was matched in intensity by the physical voices reaching for sanctum. It was all she could do to keep from joining them, but somehow Zera knew she must be strong. There was an unspoken truth she had learned in the past few weeks, the belief that she was somehow supposed to lead these people to victory over a foe she'd never seen. Her strength came from within her, and she rebounded to an ardent display of courage. "Hear me now! This foe has cherished our hesitation! I am but one sword, but I go now to meet my fate! Let the world see my devotion, and follow me if you dare! For Sorenthal!" She did not know where the words came from. She barely realized she was standing on a crate, bellowing to all who would hear. And some did, they saw her and held glimpses of an emotion Zera could not identify. Having made her promise, she lept from her perch and marched over to a banner, which she hefted on her shoulder and carried to the edge of the camp. Her limbs were alive with electricity, spurred on by a rage and fear she had never known. Staking the flag into the ground on the edge of the cacophonous melee, she took stock of her supplies. She had grabbed her backpack before she left, and it held enough supplies to travel deep into the forest. But none for the return trip. _It'll have to do._ She had a sword she'd brought from her Foot, her journal, and some rope. A knapsack, with hardly any supplies, and her blade - what more could she need? _Only others who may help me strike out._ Why was she doing this? Truly, was she alone? No sooner had the thought crossed her mind, than she saw some semblance of order return to her side of the camp. Some had seen her banner, others had rallied behind others who had the same idea. She saw a few adventurers stepping out and organizing others, and before long there was a procession that had begun marching. There was no time to strike the tents, the world was in peril. She had heard of calamitous events like this. There tended to be one every thousand years or so. Something that threatened more than life, more than kingdom, and more than any mortal could comprehend. These struggles brought peril to the very nature of existence, the structure upon which all else was built. The part that scared her most was how many were fought over unknown stakes. If the scholars of the world had written of those past losses, no record was permitted to be maintained, as the very fabric of reality would shift and contrive to destroy them. An errant fire, the dust of forgetfulness, and even simply erasing the words under watchful eyes. When reality was harmed, none were permitted to remember what was lost. And what was at stake now? She hadn't the faintest idea. It must have been the monster though, this dryad who commanded the undead, because the psychic pull Zera felt was drawing her toward where the witch awaited them. If only they had set out a week prior, if only they had been ready... She gathered her gear and stepped in line with the marching soldiers. ================================================================================ _Where was he?_ Searching all across the camp as it slowly emptied, Tibalt could not find his brother. Everyone seemed to be either focused intently on their purpose, or cowering and screaming. He couldn't help but notice. After hours of searching, he could not find any trace of him. Could he have run? Doubtful, but it was better than the alternative - that he had rushed forward to his doom. Tibalt knew what was at stake, and he realized he was tarrying too long. _Laren can take care of himself._ What else was there to do? He joined the march of the army. He stepped in line with the others. The rhythm took a little getting used to, but he learned quick. His travels with Laren and Zera had prepared him for long journeys, but this was more focused. There was an air of tense desperation, as everyone fought their own internals with every step. It was as if they were trying to swim with no air in their lungs, or run while sick with fever. He saw many people sitting beside the causeway, head between their knees, gasping for breath. It was a march of suicidal desperation. As they came to the forest, they stopped as the axes began clearing a path. Cutting straight through to the heart was the quickest and safest way to get the horde of men and horses where it needed to go. It also gave time for the rear guard to arrive with the tents, luggage, and supplies. An army on the go is like a city on wheels, and while the fighting men were clearing trees on the front the camp followers were to be behind. Tibalt knew his place was back there with them, but he could not resist the pull. He passed the time with a cadre mage named Kelik and a field herbalist named Sahren. Both members of the army with non-combat roles, Kelik was primarily tasked with enchanting the wagon wheels with resistance, the cooking pots with heat retention, and conjuring portable shields for the crossbowmen to take shelter behind while reloading. Sahren would gather herbs as they passed and deliver them to the alchemists, who created potions and elixirs which they passed out to whoever bought them. The city on wheels had an economy, Tibalt was surprised to hear. Each member would be assigned commendations, which were granted according to their rank and for acts of valour. The total amount was determined by the amount of goods that were prepared by the artisans of the army, of which most soldiers were one of. Each had a profession prior to joining the army, unless soldiering was their profession in which case they quickly rose through the ranks. In any case, they were assigned to roles based upon their talents, and were given the choice of switching careers whenever they wanted. "One comdat per potion was the going rate, and two for an elixir. I traded a bundle of morris roots for one on the way here, and another of charlin hess stalks. Morris is good for vitality, while charlin binds to certain proteins and reverses their effect. It's a great anti-venom for some types, but absolutely horrid for others." Sahren's eyes flashed as he described the herbs in detail, while Kelik jotted down notes in her notebook with a collapsible quill. Tibalt kept glancing around furtively, looking for any trace of Laren, but each face he saw was grimmer than the last. In time, the caravans began arriving bearing goods from the camp. A few more tents sprung up, but Tibalt resigned himself to sleeping on the grass. At least he brought his backpack with bedroll. ================================================================================ 2/14/2023 They were all on edge. Ever since arriving at the forest, they were near to the apex of the wound. It's sorrowful song called to all of them, and they wandered within their own minds, losing track of time and space while the world passed before them. It was all they could do to stay upright. "I say we strike them down, here and now!" yelled a dwarf, loud enough to be overheard. "What choice do we have? My tendons feel like they're going to snap." said an elf, leaning on her longbow. "Really? I feel like all the salt has been pulled from my body through it's pores." said a scurri cleric in long flowing white robes. Somehow, the dirt of travel had left them unmarred. Nalem wiped a bead of sweat from his brow as his stomach tied itself in knots. They had been walking for two days, and after they entered the forest the trees had begun to creep around them. Every time they stopped to catch their breath or make camp they were like an island in a river - the trees moved and flowed like water on their shores. You could stare at one and it'd stay constant, but blink for too long or chance a glance away and it'd have moved a foot or three when you next gazed upon it. It was very difficult to keep track of which direction they were going, and they frequently had to stop and climb a tree in order to orient themselves to the mountain. It made for slow going when the sun was high. The earth was not disturbed, the plants didn't seem to be moving... And yet they moved. Ever forward, ever toward their destination, the trees accompanied them. As if they were pulled by some extra-dimensional force that guided them onward. The warrior Akathren gestured as he spoke, and delivered fortitude through his words. He walked around to each of them in turn with a cleric at his side, and as she fingered the head of her two handed mace that lay strapped to her back she would provide blessings and minor quick rituals designed to stabilize their guts. Nalem's hand started trembling. He perked up at this, as he only shook when he was about to be taken by surprise. His eyes darted around and he saw movement. He shouted alarms as the manikins were upon them. All adventurers sleep with one eye open, and at the moment none of them were sleep-walking. Ready to deliver the undead to their final sleep, they quickly readied themselves as their foe seeped toward them, step by step by step. The sleeping spores of the manikins radiated outward on the gentle caress of the wind, but they were at the end of their rope and could not sleep. Nalem saw an elf knock an arrow, and he drew his crossbow toward where she was aiming. Together their bullets hit the target and pinned it to a tree - with a shudder, the vines receded and the empty skeleton clattered to the ground. A water mage drew from her internal well and cast forth a spire of ice, crushing another to the ground - with a bellow and a roar, Akathren drew his dual axes and whirled into a melee alongside his cleric friend. Limbs were torn from sockets and a plume of bone dust seemed to surround them as they went to work. The lesser undead are only truly useful as a shield. They absorb hits, and if you're not careful they'll strangle you, but a sufficiently skilled warrior can hold off ten or twenty of them without a struggle. The trick to their usage is to deliver spikes of strength interspersed through the chaff, and all at once they saw him. Velathrim, the fallen paladin, stood in his blackened armor and held his bane blade. It flickered like fire in his hand, and stabilized to a sharp and deadly point. Pausing for but a moment, he stepped into the fight. Akathren saw him at once, and immediately began wading forward. His cries of rage were distinguishable from the background clatter of the chittering skeletons, and all eyes turned to him. He faced the death knight alone, but not for long - his companions saw his urgency and rushed toward him. Again and again they were upon one another, until with a flick of his wrist Velathrim sliced the head of one of Akathren's axes. Without balance, the warrior fell in turn to a piercing of the heart. As he dropped to his knees, a swift cut drew his head from his shoulders and down he fell. Just as the adventurers were at his side did the tree witch make her entrance. Holding a brilliant blue sphere in one hand and a thistle mace in the other, she held them aloft and the mages did battle. The creeping undergrowth seemed to thrive like waves on the shore, and it rustled outward entangling their feet. Several trees came alive, and began to pound the ground with great branches - one unfortunate gnome was crushed as the weight overcame her. Arcane light radiated out from an archmage, and it's purple and yellow glow cast strange shadows across the scene. Spires of focused astral magic came hurtling from the heavens, crashing into the dryad as she used her orb to conjure shields of ice above her. She pointed her mace at him and screamed like a banshee, and from above came flocks of birds. They assaulted the mage, who began to scream in turn. Tearing chunks of flesh and biting toward the eyes, he was assailed and the dryad turned her attention elsewhere. She began to engage in a battle of ice against the aquamancer in their midst, a battle the adventurer was assuredly losing. But time was all he needed. Nalem had crept around the battle, outside the gaze of all it's combatants. He lined himself up for a true shot straight toward the dryad's heart, but there were manikins in the way. He crept closer. The water mage screamed, as blades of frost pierced her body in multiple places. She fell to the ground and a scurri cleric knelt beside her. Speaking words of prayer to the deity of faith, she drew forth some power and cured the mage of her pain. She fell into a dreamless sleep, as her body recovered. Just then, the archmage succeeded in casting an astral shield, and the minds of each of the birds attacking him were blasted with power - their unconscious forms fell in droves, and covered the floor around him. He readied himself and conjured arcane shackles that quickly bound the dryads arms. With a cry she dropped her ice orb, and it bounced unnaturally and rolled away. Seeing his master's predicament, Velathrim cast forth his sword and it's vile blade seemed to stretch and grow thin, until it reached a full fourty feet away. The archmage cried out in pain, and Velathrim faltered as the astral shield did battle with his mind. In the end his magic resistance overcame it, and he stood upright again and pushed forward. The mage was not so lucky, he was bleeding profusely and he fell to the floor too weak to stand. Nalem drew his shortsword. He held it in one hand, with his crossbow in the other, and with scarcely a breath he pounced. She whirled on him, and the head of her thistle mace began to glow. Suddenly a wall of brambles appeared before her, thrusting up from the ground. Nalem's crossbow bolt was already in flight - it lodged itself in the thistle as his sword arm went to work hacking through. With her back turned, the elven adventurer made a glancing shot on the dryad's shoulder - it scraped across her skin like a knife on marble, but still blood was drawn. She hissed, and rotated her shield behind her. The briars briefly ensorcelled her, then re-arranged themselves in a bulwark behind her. Focusing on the assassin now, she hefted her mace with her chained hands, and began her assault. Nalem parried each blow with difficulty - they came with a strength beyond the limits of the form she appeared before him as. A blow came that was too strong for him, and he lost his grip on his weapon. Stumbling backward, she advanced upon him with a vicious glint in her eye. She reached out and used the vegetation to trip him - he fell to his back. Reaching about wildly for deliverance, his hands found the ice orb that the witch had lost. A measure of panic came to her eyes, and as his fingers met glass an explosion occured - inward and beyond he fell, as vibrant colors radiated past him. Cast upon a pale blue background, the brilliant reflections appeared as endless rainbows without arches - but cast upon a background so distant it was infinite - like sunlight radiating from the darkness of the surrounding night. The perspective of a dewdrop, resting on a stone in a forest, the world must seem so infinite - stretching out beyond comprehension, beyond the limits of what may be - massive yet constant, changing as it seethed. Distress was above him, and with a pull he was conveyed. With a constant pressure, he was brought upward. Back to his realm, to this world bestowed with light, a place of warmth and brilliance, replete with suddenness and grace. ---------------. .------------------------------------------------------------ \ / ` Before he could comprehend the implications of his vision, he was frozen as if cast in bronze - he could not move, and everywhere was cold. He sat there, frozen, for countless breaths, wondering why the gods had ever gotten bored with him. Then, he felt his fingers touching something... Not ice. Something cool, smooth, and most importantly wet. Wetness meant warmth, and warmth was his solace. He felt around in his body, and found his fingers - he focused on their sensory perceptions. It felt like he could... Feel the entire confines of this... space that lay just beyond his fingers. Like there was an extension of his self that lay just beyond his touch. It was... The orb! Thinking back to his memory of the fight, he remembered the dryad used it to conjure ice. Ice... Was his confinement the orb's doing? And what's this in his hands... The orb. But... How to use it? Hmmmm, it seems to be like... A large stack of... something, layered like a roll of coins in your hand. I wonder what happens if I push - alright maybe pulling is better. The ice surrounding him began to recede. He didn't know how he knew that, it just came to him. Like he could... Feel it. And then, light, as he came to. ================================================================================ The dense forest closed around him. The sparking of his torch sent spiraling embers through the night as the placid air was lit alight. It twisted and it glowed, and often did flowed, the wind was bourne on to this site. He knelt there and where, in perilous flare, he saw the burden of flesh. feb 3rd 2023 The twisting mass was anchored to the ground like a tumor spawned out of the dirt. Lumps of body were piled onto a heap of diffuse skin, bones, feathers... He fought the urge to burn it. He had but one torch, and the darkness around him grew increasingly unreal as he plunged deeper into the forest. The leaves were slick with blood, and their dripping was the only sound that sparked the night. As he left the cursed mound behind, the wind grew silent, as if the breath of the gods had been drawn from this cursed plane. The pull of the wound had drawn him here, as surely as rain to the earth, and though he could not resist it's call he was ever cautious in his urgency. What terrors might he encounter? The forest itself was subdued in contrition, he could almost feel it's repentance and sorrow as the weight of the pallid moon shone down on the tips of the forest canopy. He could barely see beyond his sparse circle of light, and it was slow going. But Laren knew what nightmare he presently descended toward, and he bore his future with the patience of one already dead. The feelings that suffused him were altogether not his own, and they swept him away from his own life and into a careening crash-course through space and time. His breath came in ragged whispers, the fear and the exhaustion pressing against his sides. His head swam and he could barely see, but still he pressed on - as the earth below his feet became spongy and pungent with the smell of decay. There was no lapse in his attention, he was consumed with a steady drip of adrenaline that kept him upright. Feeling the weight of his self as it marched toward certain doom, he had the distinct impression that whatever had conjured these horrors was presently focused elsewhere - that, or he was being lured into a trap. But who would trap a single person? And someone like he? There was no reason for it. But reason had alighted from this world, it seems, as the fabric that stitched reality together had become frayed. This wasn't magic, of that he was sure. Magic had a deep grounding in the fundamentals of reality, whether they be the elements or the actual structure of existence. He hadn't seen much astral or death magic, but he couldn't imagine they'd be like this. This felt like a perversion, or a molestation of the beauty that he never really appreciated until now. Funny how your perspective can change when faced with destruction. He pressed on. Darkness enclosed him, and monsters stalked him just out of sight. Or did he imagine them? As if they existed beyond his vision, just outside the periphery of awareness. Let them stalk, he must walk. ================================================================================