As the Walker wills

Areka

In which Areka trundles off into the Dramedo Crags of Albedos and finds more than she bargained for.

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Before an ancient seal.
The black, jagged walls of the Dramedo rise sharply against the horizon here, framed with hoary sentinel pines that cradle a vast door set into the mountainside. Dusted with snow and wreathed in a tangle of gnarled roots from the trees that bow around it in silent vigil, the great door is a slab of smoothed stone the bars all passage into its depths. A shattered skeleton lies in a heap nearby, bones split and broken by the gnawing of sharp teeth.

The numerous broken fragments of this skeleton only seem to account for half of the body of an adult human; every one of the bones is cracked and gnawed, long-since drained of marrow by many voracious scavengers. Any scraps of information about age or size have been lost by the predations of the wildcats, and only one of the corpse's feet is present.
It weighs about 12 pound(s).

You have emoted: Areka moves a hand as if to brush snow from her shoulders, though with her natural heat, none remains and her light uniform remains dry. The Azudim picks her way past the threshold, butt of her glaive's staff tapping against the ground like a walking stick.

With your approach, the vast door before you creaks, disturbing the snowfall that clings to its face with a slow, unearthly rumble as it rolls slowly aside. With a whisper, you feel yourself drawn inward and the door rolls back with a thundering crash, leaving you alone within the oppressive dark of the seemingly forgotten shrine.

Before a dark, shattered plinth.
Dark lacquered fragments of weathered wood are idly propped upright to form a makeshift plinth that dominates the center of the shrine like some fallen sentinel. The walls here are cut deep within the mountainside, in a crude, almost octagonal shape that has little rhyme or reason with its sharply slanted ceiling. Dust and fallen detritus cover the floor of the shrine in a thin, undisturbed layer of muted grey hues. A dull, faceless coin rests on the ground here.

You have emoted: Crooning a low note, Areka strokes a mote of pure, living flame into a brighter life, and lifts to let it settle upon the blade of her glaive, acting as a torch for her immediate surroundings. She stands firm, peering into the dark, the crackling, glowing lines that mark her skin exaggerated in the surrounding black.

"Surprising, Pentarch," a voice drawls out from beyond the gloom. "I did not expect you so soon, but you are a creature of import and intent, are you not?"

You have emoted: "I prefer not to neglect things." Areka simply states, feet splaying a fraction more into a defensive, ready stance, though her grip upon her glaive remains moderately relaxed - at least as relaxed as might ever be associated with the Azudim.

A brief moment of complete silence drowns the area in an eerie melancholy.

"You are in My home now, Pentarch. And I am nothing but a hospitable host," comes the murmur, a slow step forward that barely sheds light on the hooded figure, wrapped in cloth like a cowl of shadow and darkness that hangs from his form. "Sit and be at, for once in your life, peace."

"There is no peace here for me, but I will respect the rules of your house." Areka guardedly states, the hiss of metal on metal sounding as she lowers to sit akimbo, weapon balanced across her lap and that mote of flame stretching to run its length.

"As expected, Pentarch, but disappointing nonetheless. Why did you come?"

You say, "Disappointing? It would be ignorant or naive to expect otherwise of me, would it not?"

You have emoted: Areka balances her hands atop her weapon's staff as she stares straight ahead. "You have invaded my home, you are a being of power that we apparently are rather helpless against. While I have no hope in finding understanding, I must try to seek it, even if only a small portion. You peaceably left and said to come, so I have."

The air shifts and the voice is now behind you, light and whisper soft in the gloom. "And what did you expect to find here in my shattered ruins?"

You say, "Probable death or malady."

You have emoted: Areka's tone is flat and matter-of-fact, stoic and without inflection to suggest feeling or thought beyond that.

"You wound me," he murmurs. "Is my gift not to your liking, then, Pentarch?"

You say, "I do not know you, for there to be a wound. I do not understand your gift, so can place no judgement as to if it is desirable or not. With your evident power, what is a coin to you?"

"A trifle, a trinket, a forgotten gift of a bygone age, a beloved item that was offered up to me over the ages with the face scoured clean and nothing left but the void that I so love," he pauses for a moment, silencing wreathing the shrine before he speaks once again. "My mark."

You have emoted: Areka fishes the coin from her pocket, examining it further within the firelight. "Who or what are you, to associate such a mark?" She ventures to ask. "Or do I simply call you 'voice of frustrating obfuscation'?" Though it takes her a moment to clearly annunciate the last word, clearly not one aligned with her preferred tongue's dialect.

There is a long, lengthy pause and silence hangs heavy in the air before the figure speaks once again, now distant in the gloom far ahead. "I am known by many names and many forms, but all know me as the Walker."

You have emoted: "Right, right. Walker. Concise. I can do that." Areka mutters to herself, gilded horn-tips glinting in the flickering light. "Dare I ask your motivations or designs on my people? Beyond seeking something interesting. Are we simply a staged performance to you?"

"You are little more than passing figures, dying as you are born, but perhaps more than that," another pause, then a breath of cold, chilling air that all but snuffs out the flickering light. "No, you play great roles only to be overshadowed by your beloved, would-be gods."

You have emoted: Areka's spine straightens with the blast of cold, her own form darkening like banked coals, her very joints loosing some of their flexibility. "Near-immortality can do that, as well as our understanding of Them. Why do you call Them would-be?"

"They do not walk these lands, but I stride their own. Why is this, Pentarch?"

You say, "Something to do with the Shadow Mother, I believe. I do not rightly understand it. Self-confinement to Their other works, may-be."

"And what of me?"

You say, "I do not know if you are a God, Demon, or something other. You could be the former, though from what I have heard, the Gods here are dead, save may-be the Shadow Mother who could be one from here, though confined. O-thing."

Something settles heavily in front of you, little more than a wreathe of shadow and inky, black cloth in the gloom that spreads outwards like a living thing. "Many are worshipped in these lands, Pentarch. A multitude that yet still strain against their bonds as I once did, but they are remembered and they are loved and they are honored. Your Arion? Dead, a fading memory. Your Niuri? Murdered by Her own. Such.. cruelty within Their hands, Pentarch. How can you stand these slavemasters?"

You say, "If the Gods here are so just, what of the Dreikathi?"

You say, "Or Delve's neglect of Helba, which are not new strifes or struggles?"

You say, "There is cruelty, but there is also love and sacrifice. I was there when Lleis threw Herself into Dendara."

"What of the Dreikathi?" The chamber grows dimmer--colder--as dark, hollow eyes look down upon you.

You say, "You speak against cruelty and slavemasters yet such dominates this continent. Or is that different? An exception? Since they are not Gods it is acceptable?"

"They are uninteresting. Dull. Without the burning brightness that I so enjoy. No." There is a pause. "The cruelty of mortals is not beyond my understanding, Pentarch, but it is your undying devotion to these divine that I find so very.. enthralling," the figure finishes with a soft, whispering sigh.

You say, "I do not understand your stance. So it is only Divine cruelty and conflict that you take issue in, not the principles all-together. That the Divine should be excluded from such, or pure?"

"A question, first, Pentarch. Your people of Moghedu. How long did they suffer?"

You say, "Many generations."

You say, "As did the Orcs and Ogres, the Trolls, though my people also found redemption through the Divine, as well as their folly."

"Why were the Mhun not afforded such?" The voice is crisp, light. "Were they not worthy of the divine's adoration and love?"

You say, "They shun the Gods and look only to their spiritual ancestors. They were not ready to accept anything outside of themselves."

You say, "Though even now they revert back to a rather toxic insularity."

"I would expect no less of them," a soft, almost faint chuckle echoes in the chamber. "They are a proud people, but they do not forget the centuries of cruelties visited upon them. It is rather refreshing. A shame that others were easily saved but the more troublesome they were, the less loved they became."

You say, "They do not forget, but they also repeat and find no break in the cycle. The Orcs offered, and strove, to end the enmity despite reservations and history, but the Mhun reverted back to the destructive conduct they learned under the Indoron."

"You hold little forgiveness in your heart for these Mhun, Pentarch. Did your gods teach you this?"

You say, "The family of one of mine was killed in their home, despite the agreed upon peace accord. When we went to the Mhun to learn of what happened, we were dismissed and it was justified as 'right' because the Mhun had changed their minds and could not be bothered to use their words, after many of us died, repeatedly, to try to help them. Forgiveness is irrelevant in drawing attention to the fact that their insular toxicity is a risk to the rest, and that they have not learned or grown, merely preserve the same cycle."

You say, "There was a chance to move forward in a healthier fashion and they chose to revert. It is nothing about worthiness, but choices."

"Mm, I remain.. fond of them."

Shrugging, you say, "As is your prerogative? It does not change it though. That they repeat their own cycle of their own choosing, regardless of what the Gods offer them. And those of the Cousins that become less-loved despite redemption is equally due to their conduct, and while prejudices may not always be fair, or deserved, for a race as a whole, there is never smoke without some ember."

"You yourself heavily tread a repeating cycle under the tutelage and guiding hand of your divinities," he murmurs, giving a slow exhale as the air clouds and shifts in a whorl of grey-tinged smoke. "Let us hope it doesn't come to pass, Pentarch. It is a dangerous road and terrible things gather in the dark places of this world."

You say, "In general as a society or personally? What are we looking at repeating?"

You say, "Or, what am I repeating?"

You have emoted: Areka's gaze sharpens in the eddying smoke, brow furrowed and lips drawn into a taut line.

"Their eyes are upon your cities and they hunger, Pentarch," he murmurs. "Your divine have forgotten them, but the Dreikathi.. they do not forget."

You say, "After their attack on Helba, I would not think them to have forgotten. My childhood was the aftermath of their bombings."

"It would seem I have given you two gifts, Pentarch. I am kindly, are I not?"

You say, "I will withhold that judgment for the present time, for good or ill."

"You wound me yet again, Pentarch. I am sad to hear you find my warning not to your liking."

You say, "Your warning is appreciated. Whether or not you are kind is another matter and warrants more information and experience before I can cast that judgment."

An oppressive silence hangs heavy in the air for several long moments before the hooded figure leans forward, just enough to remain shrouded in the gloom, before holding an open hand outward to you. "I look forward to our next visit, then, Pentarch. You are a delight."

You have emoted: Areka eyes the hand for a few moments before grasping it in her own calloused one. "I have had worse such encounters." She replies, though for the first time there is a note of hesitancy in her voice.

At the god's touch, your skin BURNS with a blistering cold, radiating up your arm and down deep to your bones that snuffs the very fire out of you with a veritable roar throughout your muscled frame. The eyes of the Walker, dark and hollow, shift into oily pools of eddying shadow. "My mark is upon you, child of Sapience, and I will be watching. Impress me." The chamber seems to tilt, as if there is a hole in the world, and you are tumbling head over heels throughout it before landing heavily within the confines of reality once again.

You have emoted: Areka gasps with the sudden pain, steam roiling about her form as the flames are snuffed, save the tiniest spark kept ignited with Auresae's essence. Her gaze darkens and she indeed tumbles away, heavy body stiff with cold and the disorienting senses and pain. When she lands, she is askew, haft of her weapon snapped beneath her weight and arm throbbing and crackled with sores and frost.

---------

> Areka hunches nearly in half, cradling her arm against her chest and trembling, finding herself in the Temple District, though she can little recognize it. In this time, Aisling tries to gather Areka's attention, and soon help arrives.

Aisling steps up behind your towering frame, gently placing a hand at the Azudim's back, as to get her attention, "Areka?" She asks in the woman's language.

Melantha enters from the west following Tenshyo.

Tenshyo jogs over to you "What happened".

Melantha follows closely behind Tenshyo, brows knit in concern.

You have emoted: The Azudim's usual forge-like warmth and glow is snuffed, her form dark and her movements heavy and jarred. Her gaze has dulled as she lifts her head to glance about the room. Her left hand, scarred with frost, still clutches around the broken haft of her glaive. Areka draws an uneven and chattering breath as she repeats, "C-cold. F'f'fire please."

Aisling steps back, eyes wide as she looks over the Azudim. The shock takes a long moment to pass, the Yeleni's attention shifting to Melantha, "May I go with?" She asks, voice a few pitches higher, nearly a squeak.

Tenshyo kneels down next to you and looks to Aisling "That is fine".

Aisling maintains a distance, her own form hardly lending to heat, brows knit in concern as she watches.

You have emoted: Areka opens her mouth to speak, though the intense tremors along her rocky body and the protesting of her jaw mangles the words into an incoherent garble, even for a Troll. She slowly struggles to lower her wounded forewarm, though cannot seem to loosen the grip of her fingers.

Tenshyo rests a hand gentle on your shoulder "Vanguard, hang in there. You'll be fine" he says to you warmly before turning to Melantha and Aisling "Help me get her up?"

Melantha extends her on flame-shrouded hands toward your affected limb, carefully placing them both upon your hand.

Softly, but with authority,, Grand Mistress Melantha, fio Raimuv Cyraeni says, "Thaw."

The air around the Azudim is chilly, and a stirring steam mixed with flecks of frost rise from her left hand, centered primarily around her palm.

Shaking her head, you say, "N'need bi-big fire."

Aisling approaches at Tenshyo's request, taking care not to touch the colder side of the Azudim, hands grasping at cloth rather than skin, "The- The Crescent." She manages, taking a deep breath, "Please?"

Tenshyo nods his head emphatically.

Melantha nods her head emphatically.

You shall now speak in Troll.

Grand Master Tenshyo Tanarian, fio Unarhete Iahulo says to Grand Mistress Melantha, fio Raimuv Cyraeni, "Go. I'll bring them."

(Tells|Aisling): In Troll, you tell Aisling, "T-thank y'you d-d-d-ove."

Grand Master Tenshyo Tanarian, fio Unarhete Iahulo says to Grand Mistress Melantha, fio Raimuv Cyraeni, "They cannot open the gates, I'll have to prism us in."

Melantha grasps your hand more firmly, placing her right hand upon your wrist for stability and levering you to her feet.

Melantha nods her head at Tenshyo.

Tenshyo stands with you.

Melantha glances briefly southwards and dashes off into the distance.

(Tells|Aisling): Aisling tells you, in Troll, "You're fine, we'll get to the fire soon."

Grand Master Tenshyo Tanarian, fio Unarhete Iahulo says to Lady Aisling Morrog, Winter's Warden, "What happened?"

You have emoted: Areka awkwardly lurches forward onto her feet, though the deadweight of her joint-locked body would be enough to threaten Aisling and Tenshyo's balance as well.

- Prism to the Crescent -

Aisling yelps, nearly losing her footing at the sudden weight, though she manages to hold on, keeping the Azudim at least more or less upright, "I don't know. I saw her stumbling through the streets." She replies.

Tenshyo looks to Melantha gravely before returning his gaze to you and Aisling "That worries me."


This crescent of fire burns white-hot at its center, so bright that it threatens to blind any who behold it too directly. Shooting off sparks, heat, and tongues of cooler flame that range through blues, violets, and ember reds, it holds its shape nonetheless, steady and confined in spite of the immense power contained within.

You have emoted: Areka tears away from Tenshyo and Aisling, stumbling towards the crescent's warmth and energy and near collapses like a heap of rocks at its base. The grating sounds of her body's tremors continue to rattle, though after some time, make some progress towards calming, even if slowly.

<>----------- Nesvenai entered from south -----------<>
Tenshyo turns towards Nesvenai, places his palms together in front of his chest, and bows respectfully.

Aisling watches from a distance, hands idly fiddling with the edges of her shirt as she waits, eyes never leaving the Azudim.

Nesvenai places her palms together in front of her chest and bows respectfully.

Melantha turns towards Nesvenai, places her palms together in front of her chest, and bows respectfully.

You have emoted: "I-I w-was in'inve--vest-vestig...nngh" Areka begins, though gives off on the speech as the syllables prove too much. She exhales a long breath, though it looks like the fog in winter rather than her usual steam. "G-Godspit, cold."

Nesvenai's head inclines to one side. She stares at you with curiosity, and a kind of muted concern.

The Crescent flickers briefly and brightly, illuminating the Hall.

Tenshyo hunches down by the Crescent, just off to the side of you "Easy Vanguard. Easy. Was this related to that Firebrand earlier?" he asks softly.

This crescent of fire burns white-hot at its center, so bright that it threatens to blind any who behold it too directly. Shooting off sparks, heat, and tongues of cooler flame that range through blues, violets, and ember reds, it holds its shape nonetheless, steady and confined in spite of the immense power contained within.

(Tells|Aisling): Aisling tells you, in Troll, "Take your time, sweet, go slow."

You have emoted: Areka's head rises and falls in a nod. While colour does not return to her as it should, her tremors slow and her joints loosen enough to speak more steadily. "It r-rode me. We sp-spoke, and it left. S's-said to visit in the Crags, that I w-would know."

Despite proximity to the Crescent, the frost-marred arm remains cold, the fracturing wounds stark against the woman's dark skin.

Slowly flapping her other arm, you say, in Troll, "I a-am well. J'j'just cold. I-it is a God, b'but not ours."

Tenshyo looks at those around him momentarily before closing his eyes. After a few moments he opens his eyes.

Grand Master Tenshyo Tanarian, fio Unarhete Iahulo says to you, "Pardon?"

You have emoted: A rough, grave-grating bark of laughter airs as Areka says, "Sh-shook hands."

Nesvenai winces, gently, still examining you.

You say, in Troll, "O-one of theirs. De'debate on o-our faith-th t'to cruel G-gods."

"They will kill you," his voice rings in the back of your mind, cold and clear. "As they did so many others."

Grand Master Tenshyo Tanarian, fio Unarhete Iahulo wryly says to you, "I'm sorry Vanguard, I do not know Trollish."

Lady Aisling Morrog, Winter's Warden says, "Ah, I may."

Tenshyo looks to Aisling "Do you?"

You have emoted: Areka seems to have some greater ease in speaking the rougher tongue. She looks to Aisling and nods, though pauses, for a moment, as if hearing something farther away.

Aisling steps closer, keeping a small distance still, "She's saying she was led to the Crags, and met a God, though not one of ours." The Yeleni translates, voice faltering once or twice, eyes on the frost crackling along Areka's skin, "That they... Ah.."

Lady Aisling Morrog, Winter's Warden says, "Shook hands."

You think you have faced Death before, at least in this realm, and served Him. If that comes, it is a shame, but you have not swayed from your faith in your duty.

With a breath, Lady Aisling Morrog, Winter's Warden says, "That they debate on our faith, to cruel Gods."

Grand Master Tenshyo Tanarian, fio Unarhete Iahulo says to Nesvenai, "Nesvenai, does any of this sound familiar to you?"

She is a typical Mhun and is a small, slender, dusky-skinned young woman. Her dark, curly hair has been bound back into a tight, compressed bun. Sharp, angular features define her visage, and muscle cords her form, tempered by the dexterity inherent to most of her race. She is called 'Nesvenai.'
(on her torso) : a white gi shirt of the Daru zealots
(around her waist) : a thick, orange Tekura belt
(on her legs) : a pair of white gi pants of the Daru

Nesvenai says, "It sounds as if she met Cheshehe."

You say, in Troll, "S-she may. Walker l-likes Mhun."

Nesvenai says, "At least there is one God that does."

Lady Aisling Morrog, Winter's Warden frowns and says, "Walker, she said. Likes Mhun."

Grand Master Tenshyo Tanarian, fio Unarhete Iahulo says to Nesvenai, "Cheshehe?"

"Cheshehe. Of the cold, the damp. She gives water to the just." Nesvenai pauses, haltingly, her hands clasped together. "Suffering to the unworthy. It is why Spinesreach is buried in cold, it is said, for their sins against the people."

You have emoted: Areka's movable hand fishes in her pocket to remove a coin, the metal patinated to verdegris on one side.

You say, in Troll, "W-was not sh-she, a'at least in th-that form. B'but cold, and void, y-yes."

Grand Master Tenshyo Tanarian, fio Unarhete Iahulo says to Nesvenai, "What can we do to help Areka?"

You say, in Troll, "W-wonders why o-our Gods do-do not g'g'go to Alb-bedos but he c'can wal-walk here."

You have emoted: Areka slowly sinks back against the floor, the right side of her body seeming to recover more adeptly than the left.

She is a powerful Azudim of Troll heritage, tall and dark. Towering over most mortals, she is broad-shouldered and athletic, strong limbs scarred and calloused. Her dark, charcoal-coloured skin is marred by the creases of its joints and palms, her typical forge-like glow snuffed beyond the barest of embers. Her oddly bestial eyes are dull and dark, the gold cast beneath some weary shadow. A strong chin complements defined cheekbones and nose, while slightly pronounced lower canines emerge past her lips. Their ridging and colour reminiscent of cooled lava, two horns sprout from her crown and curve back along her head, their tips sharpened and capped in engraved gold. Thick, curly coal-black hair has been cut at an angle that is shorter against her skull in the back and nearly ear-length in the front, though is typically combed back away from her face. She walks with the blessing of Dhar.

(branded with a sword's silhouette) : a belt-hung leather pouch
(piercing the bridge of her nose) : a golden spike-tipped barbell
(clasped about her wrists) : a pair of blackened steel manacles
(woven mark boldy-lined) : a gorget marked by the Havothi
(hanging from the shoulders) : a natural-weave ivory burnoose
(comfortably fitted) : an undyed light-duty uniform
(running along her left arm) : a scrawling wound of permafrost

Aisling crouches beside you, refraining from touching. Her ears give a faint twitch, eyes flickering between the wound and the coin, "Was not she, Areka says, at least in that form. Cold, void, and wonders why ours Gods do not go to Albedos, even as he can walk here."

Nesvenai stares down at you, an expression of vague distaste upon her features. "The High Priestess spoke of this one. This one who has judged us, and spoken against our race. Who dares to shake hands with creatures beyond her." This last, stated with something that falls only just short of scorn. An ugly expression paints her features. "The cold may be too great to drive from her bones, if it has so been willed."

You say, in Troll, "S'says we re-repeat poor his'history with our faith in G-gods who use us. We a'are ov-overshado-wed by Them."

Tenshyo looks pained at the words spoken "I understand there are differences. And reasons to hate... But in my Monastery, that can be put to the wind!"

Glaring at Nesvenai, you say, in Troll, "What you k-know of what I h-have said? I f-fought for y'your peace, f-for Mo-Moghedu's n-new home. I f-fought for new l-life with th-the Orcs, t-to b-b-b-reak the c'cycle o-of pain."

You say, in Troll, "E-ev-ven after, I f-fought fo'for und'd'derstan-ding. A-after M'mhun k-killed ch-children in th-their home."

"You are very brave, but not all bravery is so wise, o Pentarch."

You think, "Your heart weighs heavy, though you can do nothing else but speak your truth. Wisdom comes in many forms, some well beyond yours."

Aisling glances up, Nesvenai's words making her pause, "It's not the time to waste your strength on that, Areka." She says, sharply, eyes still on the Mhun, "She said that whoever hurt her says we repeat poor history with our faith in Gods who use us. That we are overshadowed." The translation comes sharply, and then she adds, "Is there anything we can try to do? Any options?"

Nesvenai glares down at you, ugly expression still plainly splayed across her face. She inhales, slowly. She exhales.

"Are these the platitudes of your Truthman? .. perhaps He will hear you."

Tenshyo turns his head to look at Nesvenai in an unspoken conversation.

Still to Nesvenai, you say, in Troll, "Y-your ha'hatred is n-not mine. I h'have s-seen eno-enough t-to not c-cast th-that net. I-it only b-b-rings p-pain."

You think, "No. This is of my making and choice, I bear it. I am not a creature of platitudes."

(Tells|Aisling): Aisling tells you, "Please, sweet, do this when you are able to stand upright..."

You have emoted: Areka utters a grunt at Aisling though nods. As feeling returns to her right hand, she contents herself with trying to pry the haft of her weapon from the other's grip, though her head occasionally cants with some unheard dialogue.

You say, in Troll, "W-was n'not an a-attack. Th-they off'fered th-their hand. I sh-shook it. I a-am n'not a b-being m'm'meant f-f-for cold."

Nesvenai approaches, step by step. A glance back to Tenshyo is given, alongside a tense nod. She leans upward. Her hand glows as fire rises to her fingers, blossoming outward into a purer, steadier heat. Her dark eyes narrow. Then she extends her palm, lays it on your brow between those two, jutting horns. The heat is a paltry thing, but it pushes back, slow and steady, against the cold. The Mhun girl breathes, slowly, and says nothing more.

"Were I to draw the fire from your lungs and burn you to ash, Pentarch, you would burn all the brighter," he whispers, cold length resting heavily once more across your shoulders as Nesvenai places a hand to your brow. "Impressive, this one. She deserves my touch."

Tenshyo nods his head at Aisling.

Aisling nods up at Tenshyo, rising to her feet as to step back, allowing Nesvenai more space to work, and not interfere.

You have emoted: Areka begins to release a relieved breath, though it halts half-way through. She merely grimaces, and nods to some distant voice. Her jaw loosens and banked embers slowly return beneath the cracks in her skin, the cold receding to the affected limb that, while the fingers begin to move, remains otherwise as it had been - cold and marked.

You say, "H'he thi-thinks you impressi've. Y-you deserve His touch."

Nesvenai's hand trembles, her breath coming faster and faster. Her eyes open, she falters, and then she stumbles back, sparks dancing from her fingertips as she loses focus. Hunched over, gasping for air, she glances upward to you.

Breathlessly, Nesvenai says, "Who?"

You say, "The Walker. Y-you felt, yes?"

Tenshyo looks between you and Nesvenai listening, watching.

Nesvenai pauses. Then, slowly, she gives a nod. "Yes," she whispers. "Yes. I felt it." Her eyes do not waver from your own.

Tenshyo raises a hand softly in Nesvenai's direction saying to her softly "Easy, easy. Calm your mind. I know it's hard. Let me in".

Wordless, Nesvenai turns. "I need to go to the High Priestess. I have... questions. Questions none of you can answer." With that, she flees the Hall of Flame, her footsteps muffled by the sand underfoot.

Nesvenai leaves to the south.

You have emoted: Areka nods once to Nesvenai before finally slumping fully to the ground, limbs splayed save the arm draped across her stomach, a lick of steam expelled upon a released breath. "I w'want one of these in m'my house." She concludes, head wobbling towards the Crescent.

Tenshyo smiles at you "Well, I think we all do" he says with a chuckle. "How you holding up?"

Aisling gives a long sigh, shoulders lowering some as she relaxes with your recovering state, "... Silly Pentarch, shaking hands with odd Gods." She murmurs, "Talk to us, sweet."

A lingering thought resounds in your mind: odd?

You think, "A little, though not the oddest I have encountered."

You have emoted: Areka briefly grimaces at some recalled thought, shoulder raising to brush at the nearest ear, though nods. "Just n-need to bask here a while longer."

You say, "I have questions I need ask Awenas. This Walker acts with n-no outward malice, bu-but also seems to enjoy the game."

Grand Master Tenshyo Tanarian, fio Unarhete Iahulo asks, "Awenas?"

You say, "The Truthman."

Comprehension flashes across Tenshyo's face.

You say, "Ger-Varouk, Damariel."

Aisling spares a small smile towards Tenshyo, crouching by you, "Lord Damariel." She clarifies, "You need to rest first, Pentarch."

Lady Aisling Morrog, Winter's Warden says to you, in Troll, "He can leave His temple for You, it's important enough to warrant it."

Melantha, meanwhile, flexes both of her gloved hands restlessly, brows drawn together and lips pursed. Her voice no louder than before, she says, "That wound remains. I'm... hm. Adverse to letting you walk around with it without trying again. That is its mark, yes?"

Shaking her head, you say, "No, no r-resting. B'but I need gather thoughts."

You say to Melantha, "M-may j-just be a matter of time. Or His choice. If it stays where it is, I can manage."

Tenshyo looks about himself, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

Grand Master Tenshyo Tanarian, fio Unarhete Iahulo says, "I do have the Lady's Flame in my haven."

Lady Aisling Morrog, Winter's Warden says, "If he truly means no harm, then we can... Hope, it won't spread."

Grand Master Tenshyo Tanarian, fio Unarhete Iahulo says, "Or, at least graced by it."

You have emoted: Areka croons low note to the spark on her shoulder, releasing a breath towards it as one might try to tempt a shy puppy out from hiding. The little flame slowly grows, and the mote wanders across to her other shoulder. "I do not understand Him." She says, though does not elaborate this time. "But I am a forge."

(hovering above the frosted wound) : a brilliant mote of living flame
(running along her left arm) : a scrawling wound of permafrost

With a small sigh and her frown deepening, Grand Mistress Melantha, fio Raimuv Cyraeni says to you, "It needs some sort of check placed upon it, at least. I've seen Fire-blessed water do much good. Perhaps you can bathe the wound with it?"

Tenshyo stands from his hunched state, nodding at you "Indeed you are, Vanguard. A forge none want to grow cold".

Melantha nods her head at Tenshyo, showing her acceptance.

You have emoted: Areka groans as she works herself up to sit with an undignified lack of grace. "I could eat a buffalo." To Melantha she nods. "I am willing t'to try."

Aisling nods slowly, agreement clear as she watches the Azudim, now silent.

Melantha nods her head emphatically.

Grand Mistress Melantha, fio Raimuv Cyraeni says, "Come, then."

Melantha beckons to those around her.

You have emoted: Areka frowns at the prospect of moving and rolls to one side, then the other, until she gains the needed momentum to stand. She staggers once on her feet, some disorientation remaining about her limbs, though she nods.

--move move banter--

Amid lily pads. (Enorian.) (29049)
The bright sun shines down, blanketing you with its life-giving warmth. The water is cool and clear, and filled with large round lily pads, a perfect haven for water-loving amphibians. A public orchard has been planted to the west, fallen fruit littering the ground around the lake alongside tall tulips, purple lupines, and fiery snapdragons. To the south, a view of the southern city is visible beyond the grassy edge of lake, its white structures glinting in any light. There are 2 monolith sigils here. Resting on the ground is a cube-shaped silver sigil. Eyes watching his surroundings closely, an imposing Luminary stands guard here. Standing loosely in stance, a Daru firebrand is constantly scanning her surroundings. Wielding a glowing aetherstaff, an Ascendril mage watches her surroundings intently. Lady Aisling Morrog, Winter's Warden is here, shrouded. Wreaths of flame wrap around Melantha, the air about them wavering with heat. Grand Master Tenshyo Tanarian, fio Unarhete Iahulo is here.

Grand Mistress Melantha, fio Raimuv Cyraeni says, "The water of this lake is blessed already, and known for its cleansing properties. That makes things a bit easier."

Melantha takes a three-footed iron cauldron from a durable, stormy grey pack.

further. She nods though, occasionally eyeing her darkened limb.
You have emoted: Areka frowns as they step out into the water, evidently remiss to douse herself further. She nods though, occasionally eyeing her darkened limb.

Hefting a three-footed iron cauldron easily, Melantha dips it into the lake water, filling it to the brim.

Grand Mistress Melantha, fio Raimuv Cyraeni says, "Now, the last time I did this, it was just me. Master Tenshyo, will you please take hold of the cauldron? I'd like your aid in invoking the blessing."

Grand Master Tenshyo Tanarian, fio Unarhete Iahulo says to Grand Mistress Melantha, fio Raimuv Cyraeni, "Aye."

Tenshyo reaches out for the cauldron.

In low and fervent tones, Grand Mistress Melantha, fio Raimuv Cyraeni says, "Inesse, Lady Fire, with Your gift, I beseech Your blessing."

You have emoted: Areka patiently stands back from the Daru ministrations, gaze regaining some of its brightness as she observes.

As she speaks, Melantha stirs the flames that surround her hand into white heat like that of the Crescent. Her face sets in conentration, and sweat beads her forehead. A single questing tongue of fire crawls over the lip of a three-footed iron cauldron full of water, sending up wisps of steam but, oddly, nothing else. After a bare moment, an answering glow rises from the water instead.

With a minute nod of satisfaction, Melantha glances at Tenshyo and says simply, "Now you."

Tenshyo nods at Melantha before bowing his head moment in a prayer "Inesse. Ask of You Your flame. Grace us with your guidance." Taking a breath the Idreth turns his head and whips his shoulders and arms around fluidly, drawing a tongue of flame to wrap about his arms before throwing his hands forward. The flametongue lurches forward and wraps itself around the cauldron briefly, propagating the current invocation.

--And I somehow lost the rest of the log but it soothes the wound and keeps it in stasis--

Ishin

Pretty cool read. I like the Walker so far.

Sevarius

Very intriguing stuff. I do hope something comes of this Walker fellow, I was just lamenting the lack of a Divine of dark/cold/etc. I'd be over the moon if he became a viable option of worship for Sevarius!

Also Areka is a seriously tough lady. Like. Damn.

Areka

Glad you guys are liking. There are more interactions I am eager to post, once I clean them up and get something of a go-ahead because I don't now how many SPOILERS it is.

However, in the vein of the first log and this one, there's also just been a lot of commentary while Areka has been about doing things, which has certainly given her a lot to think about (which is hard, she doesn't like all of these complications! Just point her in a direction where she can hit something and she's happy).

I'm really excited about this Walker character.

Ashmer

Very cool.