Catacomb of Ashes In-Character

[Mormarth]

Saraya

I furrow my brow as I skirt along the edges of the field, flitting gently from one bit of detritus to another, moving briskly towards the fortified (though it was a generous term) hold of supplies and (hopefully) arms and/or armor.

Such would be rather appreciated.

After all, the Sixth Catechism (by the reckonings of the Prophet Nashana, at least, which was the common orthodoxy), dictated that while one's body was indeed pleasing to the eyes of Ishtar, the Lady of Flames gave unto us Her gift so that we may spin beautiful plumage and dazzling claws.

In more practical terms, we weren't born with rending claws, we forged them, so take advantage of those and quit mucking about.

I hunched gently against the ground, affecting a half-prowl as I stalked along, I hadn't much time, so I needed to get what I could and move to shelter.

[Twelveseal]

Saraya's skillful movements allow her to pass unnoticed by the struggling warriors and terrible creatures they battle with, bringing her to the cache of supplies. Now she need only find suitable gear.

The mysterious woman manages to reach the fat man still hanging by his bonds, her deft fingers making short work of the knots that his own plump ones could not undo. The man falls to the ground with a heavy grunt, barely avoiding the sharp, sand-like stone that even now supports the kindling that would have eventually claimed his life. He drags himself through the sand, stumbling awkwardly to his feet and running towards the catacombs, all the while rubbing his rope-burned wrists. His savior, however, dives to the sands far from the pole as a shrieking cloud of leathery wings and jagged mouths swoops through the air where she had clung but a moment before. Their snapping jaws and tearing claws pass just above her head and back, tearing through the space she once occupied.

More of the same dive at the wolf-like woman, while still more harry the members of the cult as they battle with beasts and flee towards the mountain and its looming doors. The flapping of wings are furious screeching of these creatures only adds to the cacophony of the battle and the approaching storm. However, their attacks are clumsy and easily avoided, easily fended off... For now, at least.

As this chaos unfolds, young Dor follows Vargrulf's lead as they race for the supplies. Though clearly worried, there is determination on his face... and a curious hint of something that might be elation as his pendant bounces against his muscular chest.

[Mormarth]

Saraya

I grimaced against the nagging of my back, the position I had been held in had not been friendly to my body, and so now, freed from bondage, it did as one does when freed from an arduous task: complain.

Gently pushing away my growing desire for a bathhouse, or even one of the bodily experts favored by the temple, I crept into the shadowed nook, brushing lilac hair from my eyes, peering about.

Anything would be better than nothing, but I did certainly have certain things I was in favor of, light dress, leathers or hide if possible, and then something sharp.

Preferably two sharps.

But I'll take what comes, a beggar in the night can't choose what comes, and should be grateful its even edible.

[Twelveseal]

As Dor digs through the pile beside Vargrulf, he manages to find his own gear; simple leather armor, a well-crafted club made of some beast's thighbone, the ball join the weapon's head. He manages to find a flask of something, which he offers to the warrior other warrior... but suddenly he freezes, his eyes widening in shock as his fingers draw from the pile a longsword crafted of bone and covered in ornate carvings of strange beasts battling and a glittering red stain, as if rubbed with some ruddy powder that remained in the porous bone. He looks to Vargrulf, unsure of what he should do with the weapon.

The Dhari woman who had reached the hoard before them seems to be growing frustrated, even as she dons her own armor and reclaims her weapons. Whatever she's found, it's not as great as she'd hoped for. And certainly not as good a haul as the lithe man, who's busy stuffing his finds into an ornate satchel he found at the bottom of a pile. "Waste not, want not," he mumbles to himself, grabbing what food he can find in addition to his own gear.

[SpoonyViking]

Vargrulf of the Nordskaari

Aided by Dor, Vargrulf quickly runmages through the pile of supplies stolen from the would-be sacrifices. He shouts in defiant joy as he and the son of Jeroo recover their weapons and rearm themselves, taking the opportunity to also grab some things that caught his eye - a gourd filled with a liquid that smelled of herbs, a piece of animal hide with strange symbols on the inside, and some copper coins.

"It's best we take all that may help us on this island forgotten by steel and glory," he says. Then, as he ties up the bow and javelins around his shoulders, he allows himself a small show of amusement as he continues: "We'll use the coins for as much ale as we can get in the nearest port we can find!"

His youthful mirth is interrupted by Dor's concern over the strange blade, and Vargrulf frowns. Vargrulf understood little of either religion or the occult outside of his people's gods and rituals, but much of what the cultists had stolen was of such a nature, and the sword seemed to be no different.

"It's best we take all that may help us, Dor," he repeats. "We should wrap it in something, and I will carry it if you think it's best, but we shouldn't leave it behind."

(OOC: If Dor agrees, Vargrulf will take the sword, Twelve, but only to carry it, not wield it. Even if Dor takes the sword, it will first be wrapped in a cloak or something else that can do the job.)

"We must away from this place," he tells his companion and the others around the pile as he quickly eyes the chaotic battlefield, his heart heavy as he sees that some of the prisoners seem either dead or close to dying. "To me, kinsmen!" he shouts to all the former captives. "In this place forgotten by time and its children, we're all siblings in steel! Follow me to victory and glory, or at least survival and honour!"

So saying, he leads whoever will follow into the caves for refuge.

[Twelveseal]

Dor nods his ascent, grabbing a tattered cloak from the pile and wrapping it around the blade with a peculiar sort of reverence before hefting his club and following Vargrulf, determination on his face. As if to punctuate the decision, a fresh chorus of screams tear through the night air as the dragon-like beasts let loose with terrible jaws and claws, and more terrible breath, belching spheres of flame at unfortunate cultists and setting parts of the jungle alight. The swiftest of the cultists scurry, carrying what loot they can and running ahead of Ouyig, whose pace for the door is more measured while his men charge ahead. His spear and javelins do their best to offer cover against the beasts as they approach, even while he retreats. His aim is true more often than not, proving that he has earned his place as their commander. A few of his men stay with him, helping to cover his flanks. Their pace is slower, but they'll surely reach the cave in moments.

The fat man who had just been released runs with a speed that belies his size, making for the pile of supplies with a look of utter desperation and terror on his face, belly wobbling and mustache and beard flapping. He seems to know exactly what he's after, but whether it's cover, help, or simply his personal possessions, only he knows. Maybe some of all of them.

[arkturus]

Rhienn of Dhal Mesh

Satisfied that her words had stirred the prisoners to action, Rhienn began making her way to the supply pile as well to gather her confiscated possessions. She knew not how long the journey ahead was, but it was no doubt going to be a hard one.

But first, to survive the ordeal at hand. Her bare feet pounded against the sand and her breathing grew labored as she ran as fast as her legs could take her.

Amongst the commotion, she makes out the lupine warrior galloping towards the pile as well and once again reaches out to offer guidance.

There, in the middle. See how its hilt of fur and scale rises above the rest. Take it and regain your strength.

[Twelveseal]

The wolf woman nods at Rhienn's mental communication, her eyes finally resting on the prize she seeks. And soon, her hands. Soon.

The red-headed woman who'd helped Ghoro, small axe held at the ready, pumps her powerful legs towards the cache of supplies. Stealth is not something she's concerned with, the feral look on her face almost inviting opposition to her charge. That nothing seems interested in taking up that challenge clearly makes no difference to her; she seems confident it's her victory, either way.

Despite this, there are others among the cultists doing battle still; warriors continue to try to fight off the smaller beasts, to flee from the greater ones, and try to rummage through the supplies themselves. Most, however, are running for the stone doors. That, or shoving their way inside. Those that haven't fallen prey to fang and claw, that is.

[Sixkiller]

Virgo of Katagia

The sable sky did not give up its secrets easily. Only flickers of flame and the gleam of moonlight beat back the darkness. But the victory was always short-lived: the sparks faded and the glow dimmed. Turning to her other senses, Virgo felt the warm stone beneath her bare feet, and the splash of crimson on the sand stuck there. Her ears caught the storm of mortal words before the bestial chorus silenced them.

"What devil invented these agape jaws?" mused Virgo. "May Mithra heal my ears."

When Virgo saw Ouyig under pressure, she thought better of him because of his skill with a spear. He had the constitution of a warrior, even if his slaver's style marked him with cowardice. One's companions reflected one's worth, and the pusillanimous behavior of the cultists spoke ill of him. She turned instead to Vargrulf.

Above the clash and clamor, she cried, "I am with you, my brother of steel! Give me a sword, nay, a dagger, and I will reveal my scarlet talents. Nergal be my witness!"

[Twelveseal]

As Virgo's cry rings out over the din of fire and battle, others take heed. Some among the formerly imprisoned turn their heads to her, and to the man to whom she called out, their reactions varied. Others, numbered among the cultists take note as well. Among them are eyes who couldn't care less, faced with more pressing concerns. Others seem to burn with malice for her, and for Vargrulf by extension. Malice, however, does not seem to be enough to motivate them to attack as yet. Fighting for their lives and fleeing seem to be the order of the day.

Especially as the hulking beast and its dagger-toothed maw prowl forward, lashing about with fang and tail. One unfortunate soul discovers the power of the beast firsthand as its massive, beak-like jaws snap down with terrible force on him. Even through the sound of battle, his blood-curdling screams can be heard... only to end with a hideous crunch as the monster's bite tears him in half. What remains of his torso, head, neck, and a single arm fall to the jungle floor, sheared off as the rest slides down the creature's gullet.

Archers, members of the cult, turn their bows on the beast, trying to slow it down... and one, at least, to blind it. Some of the arrows glance off the creature's hide, but more find purchase. After all, it's a big target. Hard to miss, despite being on the move. However, one archer's aim is especially true. Arrow flying true, as if guided by fate, it finds its way into the towering beast's right eye and buries itself deep. The ear-piercing shriek this brings seems to stagger everything near the monster as it tramples about, tail nearly taking the head off another cultist. Some of its smaller, faster keen try to flee from its trampling feet as it pivots, tiny arms clawing futilely at the arrow in its eye socket. The ground shakes as it stomps about, crushing another small dinosaur beneath its heavy talons. Unshaken, this same Archer draws her bow again and looses her second shot... taking the beast's second eye as well. It flails in a maddened, blind fury, robbed of its sight... but not its other senses. Not its keen sense of smell, not its hearing, and whatever other perceptions such an unnatural being may possess. Clearly not one to gloat, however, the woman is swift on her feet as she flees towards the catacombs.

"Damn. Glad she wasn't aiming for me." The lithe man digging through the supplies is genuinely impressed with the performance. Even so, it's not enough to stop is pillaging of the cache, though he's at least taken the time to throw some crude leather armor over his skin. "So... I take it you fellows are planning to stick together, then?" He talks to Vargrulf and Dor as he rummages. "Mind if I tag along? Until we make it back to civilization, at least?" As he asks, he pulls a strange, chitinous blade from the pile, a black substance slowly welling up from cracks near its serrated edge. He looks at it with the eyes of someone who knows he's found something valuable, but not what it is... and snatches it, shoving it into a dark-stained sheath that likely belonged to it, judging from the fit and materials. "Not that I think any of us should really be trusting each other, but in this situation..."

As he speaks, the old man with the stone club slowly strides up. The head of his weapon is battered and covered in gore. Just when, and what, he bashed with it is hard to say. In either case, he seems hale enough for his age. "Shut it and give me a real weapon." The younger man leans back, but grins, and tips a heavy, snow-white greataxe in his direction. Gnarled, leathery hands close on the wooden haft, the lump of strange rock already forgotten as the old man digs for some kind of armor worth wearing.

[Draconic]

Rixia Ad-Khalein
Night

Her eyes were drawn to the pile of stolen goods the survivors were rummaging through and decided that was as good an excuse to grab what she could.

She was delighted to find her clothes and pack easily, but some light rummaging was required to find her dagger, rod and armor.

After dressing herself, she found several mostly identical rucksacks, and it took a few moments to grab the one that seemed most likely to be hers. It had a crowbar and a few tinker’s tools protruding from it.

“Where’s my…?” she muttered. Most of the stuff in her backpack was there, but there were a few things missing. “Oh… they didn’t dare,” she huffed. She was missing two bananas and someone had the audacity to take a bite out of the fresh cut of meat she’d bought that morning. It still looked fresh at least, and hadn’t attached flies, so it still seemed relatively safe. She probably wasn’t going to eat it anyway, but it could still be used as bait. She wrapped it back up in its paper packaging and stuffed it into her backpack.

What else could she find in this pile of loot? Several people were already dead, and while robbing the recently deceased was objectively wrong, she kind of wanted every advantage she could get against their killers.

Roll for Perception = 17 (Searching the pile of stolen items)

She stuffed a small wooden flask of unknown contents into her belt, and carefully placed an orange and blue hide enscrawled with strange letters into her bag, while dropping fifteen battered coins into a separate pouch on her belt without really thinking about it. She'd have to put those in with her coinpouch later, but she didn't really have time for…

Hmm…? Her eyes were drawn to a sharp object protruding from the pile.

“Well now, this is interesting,” she murmured.

It was some sort of small axe, made from what looked like a black horn, but for the odd texture. She hung that on her hip, opposite her rod. She made to continue rummaging throughout the stash. Then, as though to remind her that she was in no position to be browsing through other people’s possessions, the winged beast roared again.

“Umm… okay,” she squeaked. “I’m going, I’m going!”

Right, right, she was currently in mortal peril, she needed to be running. Sure, the tunnels behind those doors were probably full of people who wanted to kill her, but on the bright side, none of them would be able to swallow her whole.

She hoped.

[Twelveseal]

The irritable elderly man hefts the axe tilted at him with a grunt and tests its weight and swing, muttering something unintelligible under his breath before loosely throwing his gear onto his weathered back and hauling for the stone doors. "Friendly, isn't he," quips the lithe man as he settles his own findings across his back. "Though he does seem to have the right of it." However, before he can run, the furred woman manages to reach the stacks, her clawed fingers falling upon the weapon Rhienn had guided her to. "My thanks to you!" Her voice is filled with genuine gratitude as she pulls free the heavy weapon and quickly finds her own gear, as well as a few other valuables, pointedly ignoring a strange, faceted crystal as big as her fist. Rather, the fact that she even touched the thing seems to irritate her as she wipes her hand against the armor she throws across her shoulder. The wild huntress who had quietly been rummaging through the stacks throws her own equipment into a bag not unlike the one the lithe man holds and hefts a needle-like spear made of black chitin wrapped in white cloth. "Is go. Be safe." Though broken, it seems she at least wished those around her well. Ghoro, on the other hand, is only full of complaints, for while he managed to find his own belongings among the mess, he found little else.

Meanwhile the beasts and cultists continue to clash. It's clear that many of the latter aren't going to have a chance to make it to those doors as their numbers begin to dwindle. However, some of the ones that remain are powerful warriors, to be sure, swinging heavy blades and axes with ease and giving themselves over to the fury and madness of their faith. Scalding blood spills as they hew, even as their own flows to join it. Depraved though these men and women are, there is a primal strength in them that can't be denied. However, in the face of this uprising of the wilds, primal strength will clearly fall short.

Unusual among the chaos, however, is Sigurd; the athletic warrior seems to be trying to secure a safe passage to the doors... or at least to chart one through the melee.

[Mormarth]

Saraya

I pawed through the assortment of refuse, grimacing lightly at those more soiled than others, while I was not some of the more cloistered sisters who disdained getting their hands dirty (one could say it was my job to do dirty things), it did not mean I appreciated digging through crusted offal and other, unmentionable things.

Still!

My stalwart companions revealed themselves in time, a pair of twined blades gleamed lowly in the mixture of faint moonlight and the fires, ensconced near by, by the grace of She Above, were my traveling clothes, a well-stitched tunic of cured beast-skin, accented with cloth of deep darkness, and those of a gentle vermilion of the coming or fading sun, left deliberately ambiguous.

A lady had to find some way to be fashionable, even if one had to acknowledge reality, I thought, knocking on the firmed surfaces with a knuckle.

Good, still supportive.

In addition, and, May The Warm Embrace grace me, I had been left with a sturdy (yet comfy internally) pair of boots, a blessed balm to my aching feet.

Returning my companions to their wrappings, and securing them firmly with a pat, I tossed my over-cloak over a shoulder, surveying other bits of my gotten gains with a hurried, yet experienced eye.

The sealed jars I recognize, after a gentle sniff as healing droughts, for all of the many cultures and heathen religions of the land, the potions and poultices remained fairly similar.

The word of Merchants and Militaries, no doubt, even the soothing syrups of the Ishtari Temple could be found on the market across the continent, or even beyond.

Such was the appeal of the Queen of Heaven, no doubt, I thought, marking the eight-sign.

The other was something alien, greenish and motted, like some manner of frogskin, it shifted colors as I prodded it, moving make to its original greenish hue after I jerked away hurriedly, blade half-drawn.

Perhaps it was nothing.

Or perhaps I should burn it?

Hm.

I considered this.

From distant memory, I remembered the words of the Dusk Abbess, fresh from castigating a Most Holy Sister of Men:

"Ye can't be havin' with them foul bits what you don't know about, gel," She said, spitting something foul smelling into a pot that always followed her, yet was never seen carried, "Iff'n not from Temple, don't trust it."

She was a frightful old hag, and distressingly lax about her responsibilities other than that which she viewed as important (which were usually violent).

Still, even if she'd shake her one-eyed head at me and tut for long hours about my incessant goddess-bothering and clucking knowingly that if I went around with my sharp companions so often, I may as well join the army.

I would then pointedly stare at the various sharp objects she regularly had strewn about her person, letting my gaze linger on her scarred, bulbous knuckles, and say nothing, for while She Who Rises has filled the realm with light to look upon the beauty of the world, words were a grey area.

Then that roguish, half-blind eye would wink at me, with a husky chuckle, and tell me to go find a man already so she could start bullying my children.

In any case, despite her obvious dotage and scandalous remarks (I was not even five-and-ten, then), she had good wisdom.

So, pulling one of my friends from their rest, I gently lifted the wrappings with the end of the blade, and then tossed them in a fire as I crept by.

Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Anyway, time to get underground.

And so I made for the caves, still skulking, hoping to blend with the flames and the dark.

[Twelveseal]

The strange leather Saraya cast aside smolders and sputters fitfully in the fires lit by monstrous breath at the outer edges of the cache's clearing, path open before her. However, the night remains alive with the sounds of beasts and battle, and of the ominous fluttering of wings both great and small.

And it is the latter which makes itself immediately known as clouds of strange, biting creatures harass the unfortunate souls struggling beneath those stormy skies. Shrieking and uttering reptilian hisses, these strange creatures wing out of the darkness to snap and bite at Dor, while another such cloud rushes down towards Virgo, and yet another towards young Rhienn! The strange woman who'd previously dodged an attack by these creatures before by leaping to the beach rises to her feet in time to see the creatures swarming towards the three and after a moment's hesitation, as if trying to decide who to help, she breathes out another bolt of blue flame at the swarm surrounding the small girl. It slams into the cloud, sending creatures fluttering about, but many still remain.

Dor rapidly flails about, trying to defend himself from the biting creatures, roaring as he swings his club into the creatures, but they seem to almost flow around the weapon. His blows find no purchase.

[SpoonyViking]

Vargrulf of the Nordskaari

Brandishing his ever-ready longsword, Vargrulf immediately leaps to Dor's defence!... But though the blade strikes true, still it's nearly useless against a swarm of creatures, for one beast just takes the place of the next. The Nordskaari prince swings his torch around in unison with the sword, hoping the flames will scare the flying lizards off - before throwing sword and torch in the air and, in a swift movement, grabbing them again, but this time with the opposite hands. Now wielding the torch as a weapon in his main hand, he hopes it will be a more effective weapon against the enemies.

[Twelveseal]

Between the mighty hews of the two men and Vargrulf's torch, the swarm begins to draw back. It seems these creatures have little interest in prey that fights back. Indeed, even the swarm that had descended on Rhienn breaks and flees... perhaps fastest of all, as the woman's blue flames send many of their number smoldering to the ground. Those harassing Virgo have yet to turn aside, however.

Nor have their mightier cousins, who wing through the battlefield, hurling balls of flame that detonate with terrible force. Cultists scream as flames consume them... but so do some of the smaller beasts caught in these fiery blasts. It's more than enough to drive the few remaining cultists not aiding Ouyig for the doors or the treacherous jungle, or even the rough seas without so much as a rowboat, as all other avenues of escape are slowly cut. Ouyig and his guards remain stalwart, having reached the doors and doing their best to guard them so that more of his men might make it into the mountain's shelter.

The fat man, stumbling and breathless from both running and screaming at once, reaches the cache of supplies. Despite this and the still fluttering creatures hanging around the area, he's quick to snatch at what was hopefully his own possessions. However, the eye he gives much of the merchandise there is one consumed with anguish at what he clearly can't take. After all, it's also clear he's made the assessment he's going to have to keep running. "Haaaaah... haaaah... Please... haah... I will... pay you... if you...guh... if you protect me... haaah..." Yes, he's decided to keep running, even though he's clearly not used to it. Just not alone. "I have money... a warehouse... a business... whoo... in Quodeth. Haaaah... I can pay you well if you can see me back to home and holdings. A hero's welcome! I am well-respected there." It seems he's finally caught his wind again.

[arkturus]

Rhienn of Dhal Mesh

Rhienn continued to run even as a dark cloud of scaly wings and gnashing teeth descended upon her. Though her rags be torn and blood be spilt, she had to keep moving forward to see her fate through.

The child searched the pile for her stolen possessions and anything else of use, nothing too heavy though, she was no warrior. She hoped that among the confiscated items, someone had the sense to bring medical supplies such as herbs or bandages.

But she could not stay long. As the wave of beasts surged closer, she gathered up her things and continued running towards the doors of the catacomb, uttering a quick prayer as she let fate guide her footfalls.

[Twelveseal]

The fluttering creatures break from Rhienn, allowing her to flee without further challenge. The strange woman's flames, insufficient to truly disperse or destroy them, at least seem to be enough to give them pause in further pursuing their target. The girl remains unmolested, even as the struggle for survival continues elsewhere. Cultists continue their fitful retreat or try desperately to defend themselves against the savage beasts.

Meanwhile, the redheaded warrior reaches the cache and begins digging around for supplies of her own. She seems satisfied with what she finds, even though she takes little.

[Sixkiller]

Virgo of Katagia

Pain coursed through Virgo. She was the victim of a bestial conglomeration. The reptiles swarmed in and out of her flesh, tearing and gnawing. They had not a single thought outside of the violence they were inflicting. Mindless creatures fit for the desolate night. "I am not in your power!" the Katagian shouted, swinging her arms to catch one or two. The force of her blows seemed designed to crush the swarm. "Gnats will never secure my end. Feel my wrath instead!"

Red drops splattered the sands. It remained to be seen if it was only hers.

[Twelveseal]

The powerful blows of Virgo's mighty arms, even without a weapon, are enough to smash the life from several of these biting creatures. Not merely the scarlet drops of her own blood, but the broken corpses of a few of these bat-like reptiles fall to the sand at her feet. The resistance is enough to scatter the cloud, sending them in search of easier prey.

The largest of the beasts, blinded and disoriented, flails around. The towering, roaring horror snaps its massive jaws at nearby sounds as it crashes through trees and underbrush. Even so, its sightless stumbling draws it slowly closer to the cache of supplies.

The lithe man is clearly not pleased with this situation, but seems reluctant to move on just yet, as if waiting for someone. The elderly man, however, simply shoulders his new axe and begins making his way towards the stone door, swinging the heavy blade at anything that dares impede his way.