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Old November 16, 2006, 03:43 PM   #1
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Drum The Walk of the Damned [Group XII]



Into the Eternal Kingdom

The familiar smell of the sea woke Phoebe up, and the salt spray was fresh on her face.

She was lying on her hunches, her arms before her to support herself, though she had no idea as to how she had managed to end up in that position. Before her, in the Sea of Diana, just miles away from Daltice's marshes, was the ominous Storm Barrier, the living wall of hurricanes and tempest that continued to dance sinisterly, tossing and ravaging the seas around it into choppy white foam. The Barrier reached up to as high as she could see, merging with the clouds that were sucked into the same storm that she had just passed through.

She had been one of those that did not suffer the effects of the spell, being untrained in Arcana, and thus unable to be affected by its effect for some unfathomable reason. Her face was buffeted by the sea breeze, each wharf stronger than the other before she finally regained her senses.

She suddenly heard a sound, a splitting, tearing sound as a hole appeared in the Barrier, flickers of blue light racing above her head, South of her position. Piercing wails of frightful anguish echoed in the air, as the radiating impact from the arcanic collision drew even the air in, inflaming it with its magical residue, twisting and bending as they struggle to push through the veil that separates the Plane of Existence from the other dimension.

She was vividly aware of two of those lights that speared through the air, perilously close, landing just several hundred feet away.

One held the Dracon Z'kron, in his finger still the carrot, in tact and unspoiled, his splendid blue eyes blinking as he awoke in a standing position. His mind spun and whirled as the last bit of magic begin to fade away, doing one last jiggle in his head before being completely expelled from his corporeal form. The Dracon needed no one to tell him that something extraordinary had just happened, and as he stared at the Storm Barrier that began to patch back from the violent impact with the blue balls of fire that had brought him here, the entire sky sudden filled with the orbiting spheres that spun around wildly before disappearing from his sight.

The other contained the Halfing Halfpint, who simply floated out of the blue ball as he landed with a soft -plop- on his bottom, the slight shock waking him almost instantly. He too untouched by the mind wrecking effects of the arcana, though the sudden expulsion from the heart of the magic gave him a momentarily lack of physical orientation, and he tripped over his own legs, falling face first into a puddle of boggy water... something that really woke him up completely.

While Daltice may seem young compared to the rest of the Elvish nations, just slightly over two hundred and fifty patters since its founding, the original settlers had lived here since the earliest Human settlements began. Alemnar was its ancient name, the place where the Vysstichi had managed to land their fleets, out maneuvering the Quel'anthasan as they razed the sacred City of Carmelyana from the rear, almost destroying the entirety of Quel'anthasan culture and history.

And so, the three found themselves on an ancient ground, formed by the mighty river that flowed from the Prayers Peak, an archaic land that gave birth to a budding civilization, not knowing that elsewhere in Trelore, the others, like them, had began to awake from the strange sleep, as they regarded their surroundings for the very first time.

Editted: Due to some misconception of Dalticean history.

Last edited by Ragman; November 17, 2006 at 04:44 AM.
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Old November 16, 2006, 07:16 PM   #2
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"AHHHHHHH!" Halftpint came screaming out of the blue ball and bounced upon his bottom. All he knew one moment he was in Prime, walking home from work, and saw this fat purse ripe for the picking. The purse sat so sweetly in the street, not a soul around, that the halfling thought that it was too good to be true. And it was. What is going on?

"AHH-ack!" Halftpint fell into the dirty water and he unfortunatlely swallowed a big ol' mouthfull of the muddy water. The Cether laid for a few moments, face in the puddle, as if thinking that everything was a bad dream. Soon, he'd walk into the Crown and he'd drink ten huge tankards of ale. A nightmare this bad must be counteracted with massive amounts of alcohol...and fast! But it seemed a slim chance of finding a full tankard tonight....

First he needed to wake up. Halfpint rolled over suddenly and pinched his arm.

"OW!" The cether cried out in pain and looked around. Damnation! He was still here! A large bruse began to form on his arm, it looked like he was here to stay, no amount of pain would wake him up now...

Halftpint stood and stretched, taking in the lay of the land.

"looks like I'm camping tonight, where am i?" He began a running monologue, a sort of coping mechanisim for the overwhelmed halfling. He took a couple stiff steps, holding his back as he reaquainted himself to his new surroundings. The three foot high Halftpint grumbled and cursed softly as wiped his face dry with his hands. "Need to get home, or get to a tavern...posthaste! Ahhh....hello, what have we here?" He spied that he was not alone, there seemed to be others camping out tonight.

"Serale! Folks, over there! Does anyone know what's going on? The most fantastic thing just happened to me!" He waved a small arm in greeting.
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Old November 16, 2006, 10:35 PM   #3
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Songstamp: Walk like a man

The druid gave a grin at the young lady as his body emerged from the blue light. His stance was relaxed, but he was quite clearly not entirely recovered from the trip. One leg quivered, threatening collapse, stiffening only with some mental effort. In appearance, the man appeared fairly elderly; in the ageless way of elves. Yet his features were not completely elvish, and his ears lacked the sharp points characteristic of the race. A half elf perhaps? Or perhaps a human with traces of elven blood. Or just a very peculiar looking elf. It was hard to tell.
"Fancy a carrot? Keeps you lucid. And where, precisely, might we be? Ah well."
The words seemed to spill out of his mouth in a rapid patter, his eyes a little glazed as he staggered momentarily before regaining his balance. He shook his head, clearing his mind. Dust shivered free from his fine brown clothing. He smiled at the female who was standing before him apologetically.
"Sorry about that. I'm Z'kron, by the way. And I must admit, I'm a little confused. Though luckily, not contused. Not even a bump from that whole trip."His hand extended down towards the halfling, offering assistance in getting up. In trademark fashion, he wasn't making a fuss about the situation- simply accepting that something unusual had happened, and making plans about how to move on from it.
"Right. Up we get, Cether. Let's find out what's going on around here. No point in laying around."
The druid's eyes widened a little as he watched the lights dancing through the storm barrier. His sapphire blue orbs sparkled in the light, glinting with a degree of enthusiasm inappropriate to someone who had apparently just been ripped from his standard existence and catapulted to some other part of the world. That said, the dracon was rather used to such things. He raised his eyebrow as he continued to watch the event, presenting his hypothesis to the Cether.
"Some sort of mass transit spell, I expect. Something massive. Certainly beyond my capabilities. It doesn't feel like anywhere in the empire I've been before. And I've been practically everywhere. So, Cether...girl... who are we all? "

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Old November 20, 2006, 09:38 AM   #4
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Unaffected by the spell perhaps, yet not unaffected by the experience of being transported without warning from the streets of Nexus Prime to be sure.

It had been a pleasant enough brightening, a time to explore avenues previously untrod and the young half-elf had been strolling about in the winter air, satchel flapping against her hip, occasionally pausing to browse the windows of stores as she leaned against her trusty pitchfork. Life had moved on from the horrors of Kalendryas, the disappearance of the sun, the attack of the vysstichi, the appearance of the glorious dragon which had smited all before its path. True, she had spent the fair remainder of that particular month cowering in a small and stuffy room in some fleapit of an inn. True, she had thought the end of life on Telath had been close at hand. But life had moved on. The ground hadn’t split open to cast them all into Aeternia. Nor had the skies showered the Empire with armies of Cyraxians bearing scythes of destruction. Somehow, life had … continued.

And then – this.

Opening her eyes as the salt spray drew her senses to some state of consciousness, Phoebe became aware of nothing but the sight of the storm barrier. For how could she even think of anything else when there it was before her, mesmerising her and simultaneously terrifying her. She shook, locked into her crouching position, her hands on the ground before her gripping the prone pitchfork, her head snapped back to gaze up at the height of this … this judgement from the gods. A quivering frog, bewildered, nay awestruck at the sight, her mouth hanging open and eyes wild with fear.

She could hear a low, crooning moan and realised it was coming from her own throat; one that increased in volume and pitch to scream in dismal discord with the wails of anguish that tore the skies as the tempestuous wall split to allow through the two blue lights. They were coming for her! She was to be judged. The gods, they were coming to judge her for all her wrongs, all her sins, all her … But Phoebe couldn’t remember exactly what she’d done wrong or why they were coming for her, little half-elf, who’d done no harm to anyone. At least she thought she hadn’t. They’d forgive her for the blood of that orc, surely. And for wishing to tear tongues from sirens. And treasures perhaps not honourably gained. And beating a possessed date to death. And … and … no they couldn’t be punishing her for taking a cleaver that wasn’t her own or … working for a notorious gang. No, so unfair! That last one had been done in all innocence. She was a good girl! She was a good …

Her eyes hurt, what with forgetting to blink, as she followed the paths of the blue lights to the ground, only then really registering that she was on ground, that this ground was solid, albeit muddy and dank. Perhaps not so solid, then. But small matter, for several hundred feet away were the harbingers of her doom; demons, no doubt come to take her to Jalat.

It had to be true for one of them was a Halfling.

She stood up, the pitchfork grasped in her hands and held diagonally across her body, ready for action. So typical of Jalat to send a Halfling – he knew her hatred of these child-men with their tricks and stupid feet and sly ways of sending one in the opposite direction to where you wanted to go. Damn them all! They had plagued her all her life and now one was coming to bring her to her death.

Yet he was still several hundred feet away – although he had spotted her and was waving. She could barely hear what he was saying from that distance, but no doubt he’d be making his way towards her … closing in … springing a trap. Phoebe narrowed her violet eyes, her raven hair buffeting her face as strands danced out from beneath the emerald head scarf tied in pirate fashion, as she fixed on the second figure to emerge from the second blue light.

By Phedos’s toenails, it was her old master from schola come back to chastise her once more. No, it couldn’t be for he’d died. He’d died and … now served Jalat! Bearing some sort of weapon that was orange and … Phoebe squinted trying to make out what the old coot of an elf carried. A carrot was the logical answer but that would have just been too weird. Perhaps it wasn’t her old master for there were a few things different and yet he was grinning at her in the familiar way, just as he used to before he’d haul her up in front of the class to humiliate her for not knowing the dates of when such and such a queen did such and such a thing. A cruel master, and one she’d hated with all the passion she could muster for one with a heart that was small and so unloved.

And now the elf was advancing, and talking although scant words were carrying across the distance between them. The Halfling was by his side and they were coming for her. She could see them plotting, she knew what they wanted. This was her brightening of judgement.

But she was damned if she was going to lie down and take it.

Glancing down, she was almost surprised to see she was still wearing what she’d put on that morning. Brown leather pants tucked into boots, an off-white ruffled shirt and cinching brown leather waistcoat, over which was a large green frock coat with wide lapels and cuffs. Reassuringly normal, with one scarlet scarf tied about her right thigh and the wide belt slung about her hips with … no cutlass. Feth. Still, she had her pitchfork and her satchel of knives and other stuff. Gods, she hoped there was still that leg of chicken in there for she was hungry, but no, she had to focus. Approaching demons and all.

Closer and closer they came with their false amiable faces wanting to lull her into vulnerable weakness. And for what.. what had she done to deserve this? They had the wrong Phoebe!

While still some distance away, she brandished the pitchfork and screamed at the pair. “I didn’t do it!” she raged into the air between them. “It wasn’t me!” Her breath came hard and heavy and scouting around she looked for escape, anywhere away from this pair, anywhere away from the awful sight of the wall of storms. Inland was the only way and turning on her heel, she began to run into the swamp lands of this strange Aeternia, her satchel bouncing off her hip as she scrambled through the mud.

OOC: Took into account the distance of you guys landing from Phoebe – hope it’s okay
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Old November 20, 2006, 03:29 PM   #5
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Halftpint bounced back quick and cheerfully accepted the elf's assistance. It was clear that this fellow knew a thing or two about the hocus-pocus that plopped them all in this unknown location. He felt the air and it said magicky or something about Z'kron. He seemed like a good mate to have an ale with, and that was how the Cether graded people.

"A pleasure Z'kron. My name is Halftpint Naddas. Former pencilpusher and memo crusader from Aelyria Prime. What is the heck is that!" Halftpint pointed towards the storm barrier. He took a couple seconds to settle down, breate a little. Everything was going to be fine, or not. He heard the elf thingy person talk about his capabilities. "Do you know what that is? How capable are you? Where are we if you've been practically everywhere. Holy heck!" The halfling had shifted his focus from the blue lights and onto Phoebe, who seemed clinically insane. "What's her problem!"

The halfling stopped, confused at what the girl was talking about. Not her what? What was going on? He replied, "Look lady I didn't say you did do it! I swear on my Grand-Uncle's grave I won't tell a soul that you did do whatever it is that you obviously didn't do. Really, I'm not a snitch. Not very tall, but not a squealer..." He looked up at Z'kron and whispered out the side of his mouth. "She's daft I tell ya! Say something to calm her or something!" He fingered the studded metal knuckles in his pants, perpared to suggest a second course of action if talking didn't work.
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Old November 20, 2006, 11:45 PM   #6
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Stepping back, the druid blinked once, then twice at Phoebe as his eyebrow arched upwards. Almost automatically, his tone acquired an air of authority. "Calm yourself, girl. We're not arresting you. And put that damnable pitchfork down before I turn you into a carrot, hear? You'll hurt yourself. Speaking of carrots.. here. Take a carrot. Keeps you lucid."
With a flick of a wrist, the druid tossed a well-hollowed, fresh and unusually healthy looking specimen of a carrot at the feet of the madwoman. He gave a sigh, turning his attention back to the Cether, while still keeping a reasonable distance from the woman.
"That? Oh, that's the storm barrier. It separates... wait. The storm barrier's back in existence. How very odd. So that means it was constructed via means that weren't derived from the aethergem... or it's self adjusting. Not divine magic, because then it wouldn't have been affected at all. Imperial magic, perhaps? Hmm."
The druid blinked, his tangential thoughts tapering off. He was plainly still a little confused by the teleportation experience, though his mind was clearing.
"As I was saying. That out there is the storm barrier, which encircles the seas around our empire and prevents access to foreign continents, such as Trelore and empires such as Kattaria. It dispersed with the shattering of the aethergem but, clearly, it's reformed. Being this close to the storm barrier... I would hazard we're on the Trelorean continent. But I'm afraid that's about the extent of my knowledge."
The druid gave a quirked smile. "As for competency... well, I'm the acting Imperial Magus, at the moment. Head mage for the Regent, Empire and such things. Which means I can do the basic magic tricks fairly well- transforming into animals, controlling the weather, summoning nature spirits, healing the sick, that sort of thing. Not quite so useful in combat, but I get by."
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Old November 21, 2006, 09:40 AM   #7
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The carrot Z'kron threw landed, and immediately sank with the quietest of gulps, swallowed whole by what had looked like solid ground. Phoebe had already been far away at that point, in all likelihood she never even heard their replies to her hysterics. Their own unnatural calmness in the face of oddity fitted right in with the eerie landscape in which they now found themselves. The pair were stood on what looked to be a mud bank, the crisp smell of dank, rotting matter filled the air around them, and now began to cling to halfpint's wet clothes. The air was uncommonly still, and there were no ripples in the water around them; water which nearly had them an all sides, except for a thin stretch of quaggy terrain that stretched away towards larger clumps of yet more treacherous land. The cries of unknown birds filled the air, and off to one side, the splash of a marine creature signaled the true abundance of creatures that inhabited this strange land, where land and sea could be one and the same. There were no visible hills, or undulations in the landscape, such as they could see through the rolling mist.

Barely had he finished speaking, when the effects of the sorcery finally made themselves known to the druid. A jagged stabbing pain behind his left eye was the first sign, followed rabidly by a series of muscle cramps that started in his feet, and travelled up his body to his stomach. Within mere seconds of the first bit of headache, the druid found himself retching violently as his druidically attuned body objected to the invasion of sorcery that had transported him here, his knees wobbling. Almost blinded by the pain, as the initial headache expanded and entrenched itself in the whole of his mind. No one likes the feeling of having their brain squeezed by an invisible hand; and now even keeping his eyes open was unbearable torture to the Temporary Imperial Magus.

The mists crept in, dampening the air, and blotting out the sky. No way to navigate by the sun or stars. The storm barrier seemed to be spewing the mist out, though it was hard to tell from this distance.

Phoebe had, of course, scrambled off down this slender strip of land that led to areas that looked at least more solid than the indecisive bit that the magic had dumped them on so unceremoniously. In her haste to get away, she would not see the half-elf male suddenly overcome by the need to disgorge the contents of his stomach. Her impatience, her fear, her hysteria had consumed her, it seemed, and it was not long before her right foot found a stretch of ground that was not what it seemed. It was liquid, it was mud. It was cold, wet, and treacherous; and it had a hold on her equal to the grasp of a giant. With frightening rapidity, she felt it pulling at her foot with a strength that few mortals could counter on their own; even as she stumbled and landed half in the Mire. Not a good situation to be in.

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Old November 21, 2006, 06:09 PM   #8
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Running was good, although Phoebe had no idea where she was running to. It was a damn desolate landscape and nothing like she had ever encountered before. With mists obscuring the distant view and what could be seen appearing like some death mire of mud and dark pools of marshy decomposing vegetation. She scrambled on, with the singular purpose of getting away from the demons sent from the skies in blue balls of light. They wouldn’t take her, not without a fight – although she was favouring flight before fight in this particular moment.

Yet she had underestimated the treacherous plane into which she’d been tossed for this final showdown between life and death. Her foot landed in a spot that closed tightly about boot and held onto her fast. Falling forward with the momentum of her escape, she landed heavily on her forearms with a cry, her face a few inches from the ground, the handle of her pitchfork seemingly welded into her fists. Phoebe pushed herself up, scrambling to gain some kind of balance and move onto more solid ground, yet the mud had taken hold of her right foot and try as she might nothing would dislodge it. Worse still, it was pulling at her, dragging her foot further into the depths of the mud. Finally she dropped the pitchfork and hoisted herself onto her left knee, throwing her weight away from the right and grabbed her right knee to pull it with all her might. It made no difference, and beginning to panic she could feel something sucking her into the mire, almost as if there was some living beast that wanted to devour her. “No, no… fe.. fe.. feth no!” the little half-elf shrieked out.

Quickly she fumbled for her satchel, her hand diving in and clutching the handle of her meat cleaver. She took it out and for a mad instant considered hacking off her foot. The thought of ending up drowning in the viscous slop of mire was terrifying – but still, hacking off limbs was a last resort and even she did not think she’d be able to do such without passing out from the pain before the job was finished. Cleaver was tossed to one side. Hand shoved into satchel to find … leg of chicken. No!

“He-eeeelp!” Phoebe screamed, as she tried to find what she really needed from the satchel. A blade, a knife, for the gods knew she had enough of them in the depths of her bag. Third time was the charm, a straight 8" blade with two cutting sides that had been described as a cossack dagger when she'd bought it in Vortex. Its wooden sheath was hurled to the distance. If she could just cut the laces of her boot, if she could loosen it sufficiently to slip her foot out and let the mire take the prize of a discarded boot. Breathing hard and with clenched teeth, the blade was slipped between leather tongue and laces as she tried to saw at the knot of her tied boot.
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Old November 21, 2006, 06:38 PM   #9
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"Hmmm....Everything has changed."

The halfling shivered himself warm as he repeated Don't Panic...Don't Panic... Over and over in his head. He had to convince himself, trick himself into taking things in stride. Otherwise Halftpint feared he just might wet himself, and that's no way to impress people.

He had learned a great lesson this brightening, never look a gift purse in it's strings. Or something like that. Surely he was punished for his wickedness, probably by some greater wickedness than the small Cether. He, after all, only saw the fat purse on the street- unclaimed even! Was it because Halftpint imagined the run on the dice games he would make with his windfall? Fat coins purchasing drinks and merriment- that was all... Was he being divinely punished? His pious mother always hoped for a more spirtual path for the wayward Mr. Naddas, but as a boy Halftpint spent his time hustling kids for their marbles during recess. Maybe they knew something, like what he thought two brightenings prior... that very was wrong! Was he Panicking now?! The halfling shivered and gloomily thought that he was.

Don't Panic....Don't Panic....
Halftpint didn't even notice his companion's medical conditions until he noticed a fleck of spittle hit his foot. The halfling looked over alarmed at the druid.

"I say old boy! Are you unwell?" He asked, not very helpfully. He awkwardly patted Z'kron on his back.

He heard a scream, it was that crazy girl! Maybe she was being gobbled by some swamp monster or something! Halftpint drew his hunting knife, and slipped his studded metal knuckles on. Not that he knew how to use them all that well, but he bought them for the sense of security they conveyed. At least he was reasssured he might have a fighting chance, even if it was slim. What was making the girl scream? It seemed to be coming from the strip of land Halftpint deduced, he better check it out. If there was a swamp monster he'd have to warn Z'kron, espeically since he was unwell.

Not like there was a lot of actions.

"Z'kon! I'm going to check it out!" The brave (or stupid) halfling announced. "She might need some help or is being eaten, I'll be right back!" He ran towards the sound of Phoebe's voice. He continued to brandish the hunting knife, after all he might have to defend himself from Phoebe herself.
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Old November 22, 2006, 06:50 AM   #10
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The druid gritted his teeth as pain lanced through his body. It was like a shapechange, only worse. His insides twisted as sorcerous magic reacted with the druidic in his system; the bluestone in his blood burning painfully in response to the catalyst. On his hands and knees, he resorted to dry retching.
"Feth. Transport spells. They mess with druid folk. Bad reaction. Very bad reaction." A thin trickle of blue blood slid down from the corner of his mouth, sparkling in the light before his tongue licked it back in. Putting one hand under himself, he lifted himself up off the ground, only to have himself collapse in a slump. Once again, he resorted to mumbling. He could feel his heart racing in his chest.
"Never happens that way when Tito does it. Stupid fething stormbarrier. Feth the fething fethers. And cethers too."
Teeth were gritted once again as he pushed himself off the ground, rising to a kneeling position. The damned halfling was running off. Why couldn't people just stay put and be sensible about it? His next effort to get to his feet was misguided, as he slumped to the ground once again. Nonetheless, the pain was abating somewhat, though he did feel like he had a pair of baboons dueling to the death inside his skull. One foot, then the next as he staggered forward after the rapidly moving halfling. He was moving slowly in a very fast moving world; stumbling through a swamp in a way he shouldn't be. He needed something to help him move. A stick. Yes, a stick would do. Glancing around with blurred eyes, the druid took the best of several poor stick-type matches for something that would aid him with both walking and testing the ground.
"Don't get stuck in the bog, Halfpint." His voice echoed inside his baboon infested skull, and he winced. No more talking echoed the little voice in his head, as he resumed his silent routine of prodding his way towards wherever Phoebe might be.
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Old November 24, 2006, 02:35 PM   #11
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Halfpint perhaps should have waited for the druid to recover, although he displayed more caution than the unfortunate Phoebe. He would never know how close he came to a similar mishap; bare inches from where he passed were deep pools of malicious murk that would drag him to a suffocating end. Z'kron, following at a much slower pace, managed to avoid these with the careful use of his stick. Survival in a swamp, and a salt marsh at that, was not an obvious skill, even if you had reason on your side. The vegetation they walked through was, bizarrely, succulent like. Thick fronds with jagged edges, and tall reeds covered in splotchy purples fungi. Every now and then a waft of strange smelling air was released from the mire, accompanied with the sound of a dwarf passing wind.

An odd background to Phoebe's demise. While Halfpint walked towards her through the thickening fog, she suceeded in cutting the laces on her boot. A sharp pain in her ankle was the notice that the pressure of the murk on her wrist had caused her to nick her own limb with the blade. The ground around her wasn't that firm either, though it wasn't as deep as the clutchin pool around her leg....that crept up towards her knee at a frightening rate. The foul smelling mud was gripping at her wrist now, inexorably trying to draw her in, and then she could see Halfpint approaching. The sounds of Z'kron's shambling yet cautious progress could also be heard, and by the time Halfpint was in reach of her pitchfork, he would be visible too.
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Old November 24, 2006, 10:44 PM   #12
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A cry of pain and frustration as the blade did its work too efficiently, cutting into her own flesh along with the laces. Flaming Phedos! Yet this was no time to squeal over spilt blood. The laces were cut and now she had to haul her leg out and … ‘Noooo, noooooooooo,” she uttered with a low groan of panic as this stinky mud began to grasp at her wrist. Throwing her weight backwards, the little half-elf tried her best to hoist herself out, straining against the treacherous mire that wanted to claim her. Yet the ground beneath her was wet and difficult to get some leverage against. Gasping, she stretched for the pitch fork, and with some difficulty tried to stab the prongs deep into the ground so she’d have something to anchor herself from slipping further into the mire. Of course, with one hand, it wasn’t so easy to do, being that the handle was as tall as the half-elf herself.

“C’mon! Come on!” she shouted in frustration as the mud sucked her leg further into the mire and then the worst happened. The Halfling arrived, no doubt to finish her off. Oh cunning Halfling, demon of Jalat, Master of this Plane! She whimpered and shut her eyes tightly, clinging to the pitchfork handle and awaiting the inevitable. “I’m a good girl, I am,” Phoebe whispered piteously under her breath.


OOC: Wasn’t sure if her wrist is actually stuck in the mire with her foot or not. If it isn’t then she’s using two hands for the above operation regarding the pitchfork!
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Old November 25, 2006, 05:06 PM   #13
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The brave (or was it stupid?) halfling bounded blissfully ignorant inches from the muck that pulled Phoebe down. Perhaps his ignorance pushed the halfing into the stupid category as he hurried along towards Phoebe's yelps. He held out his hunting knife for his own protection, though the half-elf probably couldn't accurately attack with the pitchfork, her delicate mental condition still made caution the best course to follow.

"Hold still lady!" He cried a little too loudly. "I'm here to to save you!" He announced grandly and carefully approached Phoebe. "Don't you try to stick me!" He warned and held out his free hand.

"Take it! Take my hand and I'll pull you out!" If she would trust the halfling he would begin to pull with all his might. If she chose to lash out at him, he'd try his best to get out of the way of the pitchfork. "Trust me!" He cried again.

"Z'kron!" He cried out behind him. "The crazy lady's stuck!"
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Old November 29, 2006, 08:51 PM   #14
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OOC: Sorry for the delay, having some computer problems- be only intermittent posts till Saturday
IC: The druid winced anew as the sound-waves of the halfling's cry pounded into his ears. They really, really hurt. Oh gods, they hurt. Nonetheless, he comprehended the message. And his brain began to tick over, thinking of ways to help. Thinking of water, and air, and sinking. Of the experiments with kettles and such things. And then of how boats worked, with the displacement and the buoyancy principle. Something clicked in the druid's head, caused by the stress. It was an unpleasant grinding click, but it was a plan of sorts, at the very least.
"Save your little hands Cether, you'll topple. Basic physics. Madwoman! Lie on your back and reach for this stick. Then when you grasp it, we will pull you out."
Outstretching his hand, holding the stick, the druid moved it out towards Phoebe so she would be able to grasp it and be consequently pulled to safety. He indicated for the halfling to help him pull; hoping that she didn't interpret the offer of the stick as an attack and attempt to skewer him.
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Old December 1, 2006, 08:12 PM   #15
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With hands grasped about the pitchfork pole, the prongs stuck into the ground, Phobe cowered, waiting for her demise. Unexpected words came from the mouth of the cether though, words of saving her, of pulling her out. Phoebe opened one eye and looked up at the Halfling, pondering why he would save her and not push her into the mire instead. It was very confusing. And then the old geezer arrived, out of nowhere and was telling her to lie on her back and take the stick that he was waving at her. Trust his stick and not the sturdy pitchfork that had been by her side for over an era?

What nefarious plan was this?

With the grip that the mire had on her boot, she doubted she could turn over from her front to her back without twisting her foot off. Stretched out over the ground, one knee on the ground and her other leg in the mud, arms reaching forward to hang onto the pole of the pitchfork, it would be impossible to twist around onto her back. If the mud was so easy to move in, she would have had her foot out before now. The Fiends, what did they want with her? Why did they want to save her? The only possible reason that the little half-elf could think of was so they could have some fun with her, toy with her for longer before taking her soul to Jalat.

So she had to decide. Death by mud monster (for surely there had to be a monster in that mire) or delayed death by these heralds of Jalat.

“Oh feth,” she muttered, realising that a delayed death perhaps was the better choice, and then with a grunt she pulled the pitchfork out of the ground. “You grab the end of this then, if you really want to pull me out.” And with that she swung, the harmless end of the pitchfork around to the pair, and slipped her hands down to grasp the top bar of the forked metal prongs.

OOC: Got the okay from Sarah to have both hands free. Zk’ron, you move mightily fast to catch Halfpint up
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