"Yes, there among the refugees preparing to move East," pointed Paloma. The great mass of creatures gathering up to move were carrying what materials they had of any value, pulling it along on makeshift travois or carts or (in some cases) carrying it upon their shoulders as best they could. Centaurs were easy to spot among them, stomping around in groups. "There aren't many elderly centaurs. Most die before they reach any great age, and they aren't as numerous as one might expect anyway. If you'd like to speak to them, you could approach them...but be sure to be very respectful, Finodborn. The centaur hold nothing more sacred than their elders, and even the most slight offense to one of them would be catastrophic for you in the future."
Sure enough, Finodborn could not help but notice the collection of aged centaurs among the refugees. They were all large, hooved creatures...but they were colored in rarer shades of grey, slate, or white colors, signs of great age among the centaur people. They had not yet begun their own exodus from Gatetown, instead gathering around in a loose collection watching as the adhiels and humans gathered up their possessions and joined the departing column.
"There are no signs of approaching Westerners yet, Finodborn. If you wish to speak to them, you have the time," offered Paloma, her eyes glancing over in the direction of her own humble cottage in which her meagre things were stored. It could not be seen from where she stood, but she only then came to understand that in another few marks, everything she had ever owned could be lost.
PI: Gatetown Center (Samheen 29th)
Until recently, Finodborn hadn't seen a centaur. It was very hard for him to imagine being forward against these impressive creatures of Pan. He had a hard time opening his mouth against a person of his own kin, even if only to engage in a truly necessary conversation. Images of being stomped into the ground became rather lively for his taste; overall, he thought his chances of pulling this of without being brutal were substantial.
However, his brief stay in the Citadel had acquainted him with the problems of etiquette: the same behavior that was customary amongst the nobles in one place, could very well be an insult for the most filthy peasant in another, and vice versa. Finodborn could only hope he wouldn't become prey of such accidents, considering the quite large difference in muscular volume between him and even a single of the centaurs.
"Right," he said, paying little more attention to the band of refugees and the kind priestess. He took his arm of her shoulder and slowly approached the centaurs in his customary way of approaching people, things and life in general: his eyes turned to the ground, his posture humble.
He hoped they understood some adhiel; otherwise this situation would become even more awkward. He greeted them in the way customary of greeting elders amongst the adhiel, and asked whether they could spare a moment to speak with him.
However, his brief stay in the Citadel had acquainted him with the problems of etiquette: the same behavior that was customary amongst the nobles in one place, could very well be an insult for the most filthy peasant in another, and vice versa. Finodborn could only hope he wouldn't become prey of such accidents, considering the quite large difference in muscular volume between him and even a single of the centaurs.
"Right," he said, paying little more attention to the band of refugees and the kind priestess. He took his arm of her shoulder and slowly approached the centaurs in his customary way of approaching people, things and life in general: his eyes turned to the ground, his posture humble.
He hoped they understood some adhiel; otherwise this situation would become even more awkward. He greeted them in the way customary of greeting elders amongst the adhiel, and asked whether they could spare a moment to speak with him.
Verum et factum convertuntur.
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Avatar by the Artist Currently Known as Eira.
-
Maeve
- The Dragon & Game Designer
- Posts: 15536
- Joined: Thu Oct 03, 2002 1:29 pm
- Location: The Netherlands
One of them stopped, scrapping his hoove. "One wishes to speak to me?" he asked in archaic human, looking him over and then gravely nodding "You may. What is on One's heart?" His hair was not so grey yet, but he stood proudly. Some of the other centaurs stopped what they were doing, observing the scene, clearly alert, raising their head above the pack.
[i][b][color=orange][size=92]Smile and carry a big stick.[/color][/b][/i][/size]
Right. I guess I should be happy that they know some human. It's far from perfect, but at least it won't require me to improvise a centaur language on the spot.
"Thank you," Finodborn replied, putting his hands together in what he hoped to be a universal sign of gratitude. "You know many things we don't. The Hooved One has told me to bring back together Brother and Sister. Do You know who the Brother and the Sister are?"
He decided to keep things simple, not boring the Elder with irrelevant detail in the matter. Not that his grasp of the human tongue allowed him to make a lot more nuance.
"Thank you," Finodborn replied, putting his hands together in what he hoped to be a universal sign of gratitude. "You know many things we don't. The Hooved One has told me to bring back together Brother and Sister. Do You know who the Brother and the Sister are?"
He decided to keep things simple, not boring the Elder with irrelevant detail in the matter. Not that his grasp of the human tongue allowed him to make a lot more nuance.
Verum et factum convertuntur.
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Maeve
- The Dragon & Game Designer
- Posts: 15536
- Joined: Thu Oct 03, 2002 1:29 pm
- Location: The Netherlands
The Centaur frowned, swishing his tail softly. He did not question Finodborns statement, remaining very serious "It may have meaning. It may have more than one meaning. What more did the Hooved One say. He does not go amongst his children often anymore."
[i][b][color=orange][size=92]Smile and carry a big stick.[/color][/b][/i][/size]
Despite hooves, tail and the rest, the elder's calm made Finodborn feel more comfortable than he had done in conversation with many more averagely shaped creatures of Tazlure.
"I was in His temple in the Citadel. I prayed for the Arts, Joy and Blood. And then I heard an emissary. He told me to come here. To take up arms, and to bring 'Brother and Sister together again.' He said that only together they can drive away the Mad God from our Isle. That is all I know. I have told the priestess Paloma. She had a vision, and she repeated the words. But she knows no more."
He looked at the creature and wondered how old exactly this elder was. He hoped he would be able to shed some light.
"I was in His temple in the Citadel. I prayed for the Arts, Joy and Blood. And then I heard an emissary. He told me to come here. To take up arms, and to bring 'Brother and Sister together again.' He said that only together they can drive away the Mad God from our Isle. That is all I know. I have told the priestess Paloma. She had a vision, and she repeated the words. But she knows no more."
He looked at the creature and wondered how old exactly this elder was. He hoped he would be able to shed some light.
Verum et factum convertuntur.
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OOC: Thanks for waiting. A short post now to get started again, but more to come later! 
"I will think upon One's words." The Elder said serenely. Know that One's message has been delivered, and that we do not take One's words lightly."
The Elder Centaur held something in one large, meaty fist out towards Finodborn. He turned his palm upward, and revealed what he had been holding. A dragonglass or onyx arrowhead with a bit of the shaft that it was still tied to. The bits were once bloody, and were now stained deep crimson.
It was a message in return of some sort. Still a mystery and as of yet unrevealed, but some sort of message nonetheless.
"I will think upon One's words." The Elder said serenely. Know that One's message has been delivered, and that we do not take One's words lightly."
The Elder Centaur held something in one large, meaty fist out towards Finodborn. He turned his palm upward, and revealed what he had been holding. A dragonglass or onyx arrowhead with a bit of the shaft that it was still tied to. The bits were once bloody, and were now stained deep crimson.
It was a message in return of some sort. Still a mystery and as of yet unrevealed, but some sort of message nonetheless.
OOC: Don't mention it. I know how much work for how little hands there is right now, and appreciate you jumping in 
IC:
Okay. That doesn't really help a lot. If I'm supposed to bring them together, I have to do something. And there may be little time left.
Of course, Finodborn nodded in recognition and kept silent his disappointment for the aged being.
Until the second part of the reply followed. Perhaps he'd been to fast in his conclusions. He examined the revealed piece of a killing tool closely.
"May I?" he inquired, indicating cautiously that he wanted to hold the object to get an even closer look. It looked like some kind of dark glass. It reminded Finodborn of the morbid statues the Hollow One had created out of living beings and desert sand. He looked at his sword, which had a piece of this glass worked into it, and compared.
"Where is it from?"
It wasn't clear what the elder meant by showing him this. But he thought that the arrow had not been made by Panlings. Perhaps he had to ask people with more knowledge about fletching.
IC:
Okay. That doesn't really help a lot. If I'm supposed to bring them together, I have to do something. And there may be little time left.
Of course, Finodborn nodded in recognition and kept silent his disappointment for the aged being.
Until the second part of the reply followed. Perhaps he'd been to fast in his conclusions. He examined the revealed piece of a killing tool closely.
"May I?" he inquired, indicating cautiously that he wanted to hold the object to get an even closer look. It looked like some kind of dark glass. It reminded Finodborn of the morbid statues the Hollow One had created out of living beings and desert sand. He looked at his sword, which had a piece of this glass worked into it, and compared.
"Where is it from?"
It wasn't clear what the elder meant by showing him this. But he thought that the arrow had not been made by Panlings. Perhaps he had to ask people with more knowledge about fletching.
Verum et factum convertuntur.
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The Centaur Elder nodded.
"One can keep it until One discovers the meaning of it."
The Elder looked at the Adhiel quizzicaly when Finodborn asked his question.
"The Dragonglass comes from dragons. The arrow itself was made by others. It was used to kill. The Wanahton remembers those that do us harm. The Wanahton do not forget. The Wanahton will avenge the deaths brought about by those of the Great Eye."
"One can keep it until One discovers the meaning of it."
The Elder looked at the Adhiel quizzicaly when Finodborn asked his question.
"The Dragonglass comes from dragons. The arrow itself was made by others. It was used to kill. The Wanahton remembers those that do us harm. The Wanahton do not forget. The Wanahton will avenge the deaths brought about by those of the Great Eye."
This was progress. Even though the fearsome seer couldn't or wouldn't tell him all he knew, this was a solid clue that in some sort of way would bring Finodborn closer to what he was looking for.
The Centaur elder seemed to imply that this arrow had been shot at his people by followers of the Great Eye, which Finodborn thought to be the symbol of the Crazed God.
The meaning of the statement was obscure, though. As the goal was to drive the army of the Eye from the Isle, it would be very strange if this very army were either the mentioned Brother or Sister, even though this arrow head seemed to refer to it.
But there were other people that could be asked about this. The Bowmaster. The Shaper. He'd try the priestess Paloma first, of course.
"I thank you very much for your help ," he said to the Elder. "May Pan protect You and yours, and may we share some marks in a better time. Have You any idea where I should continue my search?"
The Centaur elder seemed to imply that this arrow had been shot at his people by followers of the Great Eye, which Finodborn thought to be the symbol of the Crazed God.
The meaning of the statement was obscure, though. As the goal was to drive the army of the Eye from the Isle, it would be very strange if this very army were either the mentioned Brother or Sister, even though this arrow head seemed to refer to it.
But there were other people that could be asked about this. The Bowmaster. The Shaper. He'd try the priestess Paloma first, of course.
"I thank you very much for your help ," he said to the Elder. "May Pan protect You and yours, and may we share some marks in a better time. Have You any idea where I should continue my search?"
Verum et factum convertuntur.
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Avatar by the Artist Currently Known as Eira.
"This one does not," replied the elder evenly, his deep, booming voice quaking through the ground and into Finodborn's far smaller form. "May the Mother guide your path," he offered as a form of farewell...the closest to a farewell that a centaur ever offered, judging by Finodborn's limited knowledge of their culture. Turning, the elder paused and glanced back over his shoulder...over Finodborn...and into the town a short distance to the West...
"They come now. Go with haste," advised the elder centaur, before he quickly stomped off with the other refugees to the East. Not a few flickers after this, the first of the warning shouts came from the town...shouts of an approaching army.
"They're here! They're here!" came a small, distant voice, no doubt one of the many scouts placed around Gatetown to warn of the approaching army. All at once, the remainder of the refugees clearing out of the settlement began to rush past, fleeing away from the approaching Westerners...and what defenders remained charged Eastward as well to protect them. Finodborn couldn't see Paloma, Eilish, or the shapers...and it seemed unlikely that he would spot any of them now given the chaotic confusion that erupted once the approaching army had been spotted.
Gatetown was just at hand...Finodborn was still within the outskirts of the town, near the shaper forest...and while most of the locals had moved away to safety, he could see the Gate itself flaring to life once more, proof that someone was coming into the settlement at just the wrong time.
"They come now. Go with haste," advised the elder centaur, before he quickly stomped off with the other refugees to the East. Not a few flickers after this, the first of the warning shouts came from the town...shouts of an approaching army.
"They're here! They're here!" came a small, distant voice, no doubt one of the many scouts placed around Gatetown to warn of the approaching army. All at once, the remainder of the refugees clearing out of the settlement began to rush past, fleeing away from the approaching Westerners...and what defenders remained charged Eastward as well to protect them. Finodborn couldn't see Paloma, Eilish, or the shapers...and it seemed unlikely that he would spot any of them now given the chaotic confusion that erupted once the approaching army had been spotted.
Gatetown was just at hand...Finodborn was still within the outskirts of the town, near the shaper forest...and while most of the locals had moved away to safety, he could see the Gate itself flaring to life once more, proof that someone was coming into the settlement at just the wrong time.
Maeve: It starts with ambition
Meridiuz: It ends with Grant
Meridiuz: It ends with Grant
Finodborn's regard followed that of the sage, as if he felt something was out of tune. Like a swarm of bees swiftly filling a barn with their chaotic song, the feeling of panic filled the scene around him. Flashes of the battle against the Rafao's army got mixed with what his eyes and ears actually perceived.
Go with haste? he thought, where to, in Pan's name?! He pulled the cumbersome sword he carried around everywhere. He'd only practiced with it for a few tides, when he had last stayed in Gatetown, but it gave him a false sense of security that cooled his nerves.
He was about to run for Gatetown - he needed Eilish to tell him whether or not to call the Faerie Host to aid - when he noticed the shimmering light from the gate itself. More driven by some sort of instinct than by rational thinking, he cautiously moved to the gate. He held his sword ready to strike, but more as a means of directing his mental focus than with the intention to slice anything. As long as its tip remained in the centre of his attention and between him and the unknown, he could suppress his feelings of panic and fear.
Go with haste? he thought, where to, in Pan's name?! He pulled the cumbersome sword he carried around everywhere. He'd only practiced with it for a few tides, when he had last stayed in Gatetown, but it gave him a false sense of security that cooled his nerves.
He was about to run for Gatetown - he needed Eilish to tell him whether or not to call the Faerie Host to aid - when he noticed the shimmering light from the gate itself. More driven by some sort of instinct than by rational thinking, he cautiously moved to the gate. He held his sword ready to strike, but more as a means of directing his mental focus than with the intention to slice anything. As long as its tip remained in the centre of his attention and between him and the unknown, he could suppress his feelings of panic and fear.
Verum et factum convertuntur.
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The Portal towards the center of the ruins...at the center of Gatetown...flashed to life and then faded away, much to the dismay of the centaurs guarding the settlement while the refugees fled East. Of Paloma or Eilish, Finodborn saw nothing...but as he moved down towards the Portal, he did see a few people still moving among the tents and shacks that made up the once-populated village.
To his right, he could see a pair of purple-clad people racing away from the center, moving quickly towards the rim to possibly join with the other refugees...perhaps later arrivals that came at the wrong time. Fin could see them split up, with one of them racing NorthEast to the denser trees beyond. The other purple-clad soldier raced to join the refugees and the small group of centaurs collecting there.
On ahead at the center of Gatetown, Finodborn could see another collection of people including a large half-giant struggling to remain upright as if he were wounded. The travellers...a centaur, a child, a few adhiel, and the wounded half-giant...were at Paloma's tent, near the center of town...and they did not appear to be fleeing the settlement despite the anxious, imperfect urgings of the centaur.
Beyond this curious group...past them and to the dense forest beyond...Finodborn could see a large mass of people advancing from the trees beyond approaching Gatetown from the West. While he couldn't make out any details, he could see uniforms of red and white, with banners of Red, White, and Gold raised up above. In another few burns, the Army of the One God would be upon them.
To his right, he could see a pair of purple-clad people racing away from the center, moving quickly towards the rim to possibly join with the other refugees...perhaps later arrivals that came at the wrong time. Fin could see them split up, with one of them racing NorthEast to the denser trees beyond. The other purple-clad soldier raced to join the refugees and the small group of centaurs collecting there.
On ahead at the center of Gatetown, Finodborn could see another collection of people including a large half-giant struggling to remain upright as if he were wounded. The travellers...a centaur, a child, a few adhiel, and the wounded half-giant...were at Paloma's tent, near the center of town...and they did not appear to be fleeing the settlement despite the anxious, imperfect urgings of the centaur.
Beyond this curious group...past them and to the dense forest beyond...Finodborn could see a large mass of people advancing from the trees beyond approaching Gatetown from the West. While he couldn't make out any details, he could see uniforms of red and white, with banners of Red, White, and Gold raised up above. In another few burns, the Army of the One God would be upon them.
Maeve: It starts with ambition
Meridiuz: It ends with Grant
Meridiuz: It ends with Grant
Finodborn somewhat lowered his sword, sighing of relief. He looked at the surroundings and the choices he had.
He was frustrated. Why had Paloma been able to simply vanish in a mere few flickers? Why had she not at least called him?
The sight of the advancing army was frightening, and his eyes searched his red bird companion. For a moment, he pictured this force being annihilated by the fae, even though he had no idea how exactly this would happen.
Apparently, however, the chosen tactic was total retreat. Once again, he didn't understand why he hadn't been told in advance. It could be interpreted in two distinct ways: "Finodborn, you let the fae kill them mad soldiers while we duck for cover" or "Finodborn, let's bide our time." He absolutely hated responsibility.
"Whimsy!" he called, a grim look locked on the advancing army. "Whimsy! I'd like to make use of the help the Light Host has promised me. I know not by which means your folk can intervene. I'd like to see as much Blood as possible from those mad soldiers, and as little possible of those who are friendly to this Island, it's Lord and our peoples."
Maybe he was acting too soon. But he had many things going for his choice. Apparently, the defences of Gatetown were still being reinforced. Maybe help from the Citadel was arriving after all. So even if this wasn't the total force of the One's army, it would buy them time. And every dead enemy was one that wouldn't return. Moreover, since the Oneists had no way of knowing the fae had promised only one intervention, maybe they'd think twice before returning.
Then there were the refugees, unwilling or unable to leave the camp. And there was the time he needed to decipher Pan's message.
Above all, there was a vision of the moon, drenched in red, agony and anger, joy and lust combined.
O Horned One, let there be no despair, for here, the Empty One shall never prevail. Instill us, all Your children, with Your passion, so that we may cleanse Your realms of the filth that calls itself purity.
He was frustrated. Why had Paloma been able to simply vanish in a mere few flickers? Why had she not at least called him?
The sight of the advancing army was frightening, and his eyes searched his red bird companion. For a moment, he pictured this force being annihilated by the fae, even though he had no idea how exactly this would happen.
Apparently, however, the chosen tactic was total retreat. Once again, he didn't understand why he hadn't been told in advance. It could be interpreted in two distinct ways: "Finodborn, you let the fae kill them mad soldiers while we duck for cover" or "Finodborn, let's bide our time." He absolutely hated responsibility.
"Whimsy!" he called, a grim look locked on the advancing army. "Whimsy! I'd like to make use of the help the Light Host has promised me. I know not by which means your folk can intervene. I'd like to see as much Blood as possible from those mad soldiers, and as little possible of those who are friendly to this Island, it's Lord and our peoples."
Maybe he was acting too soon. But he had many things going for his choice. Apparently, the defences of Gatetown were still being reinforced. Maybe help from the Citadel was arriving after all. So even if this wasn't the total force of the One's army, it would buy them time. And every dead enemy was one that wouldn't return. Moreover, since the Oneists had no way of knowing the fae had promised only one intervention, maybe they'd think twice before returning.
Then there were the refugees, unwilling or unable to leave the camp. And there was the time he needed to decipher Pan's message.
Above all, there was a vision of the moon, drenched in red, agony and anger, joy and lust combined.
O Horned One, let there be no despair, for here, the Empty One shall never prevail. Instill us, all Your children, with Your passion, so that we may cleanse Your realms of the filth that calls itself purity.
Verum et factum convertuntur.
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While Paloma had disappeared in the chaos of Gatetown's withdraw, Whimsy had not. She had always been circling just nearby, having taken the shape of a strange, red bird with a black beak and a lovely, arrow-straight plume angled rakishly back from her pointed skull, a cardinal with dark eyes that, to the watching eye, appeared fast, fearless, and breathtakingly vibrant. Fluttering down to land close to where Finodborn stood, the bird seemed to tear itself apart leaving nothing of itself save for a small patch of red feathers...and one tiny, childish figure of the faery Finodborn remembered.
"I'm here, Singer...and they stand ready to come at your command. But we don't know who might be friend and who might be foe...we know little of mortal affairs...so you must be CERTAIN before you send us to battle," piped the tiny voice, her face somewhat flushed with the excitement of what was about to happen. Gazing up at Finodborn's face, the little faery smiled, her bright eyes void of pupil or iris. "The Host gathers. Do you want me to give the order, Singer?"
There were still figures moving around in the center of Gatetown...but they would have precious little time as the approaching army came into view. The army could be clearly seen, filling the opposite side of the Gatetown glade such that Finodborn could clearly count them now.
There were perhaps three hundred, all told. Their center was anchored by a one hundred man column of mixed foot, each bearing shield and pike, and all wearing a red tabard thrown over their shoulders. They were mismatched, marking them as conscripts or mercenaries. Anchoring their left was a rank of perhaps fifty priests, all wearing thick armors, large shields, and close weapons. These were the Confessors, and in front of these stood a tall Inquisitor carrying the Unbroken Circle of Silver...the All-Seeing Eye...of the One God, raised high on a pole some twenty feet in the air, with tassels and ribbons streaming around it. Anchoring the right were the most dreadful of opponents: the Paladin foot, each man wearing a full suit of articulated plate armor and carrying mixed weapons that included two-handed swords, halberds, and war axes. Behind these three ranks was a squadron of mounted Cavalry, each one bearing a long lance and shield, prepared to charge enemy cavalry or foot alike. They waited behind the lines, in reserve, to provide whatever decisive strike might be necessary to end the battle quickly. Finally, a thin rank of perhaps fifty archers were arranged in a single file in front of the entire army, each one carrying an arcballistae armed with a single flaming bolt. The archers were wearing simple serf clothing, but each one featured an arm-band of red to mark him as a conscript.
Leading this force was a man on a tall, white stallion. He wore a set of long, red robes decorated with a shining, gold scapular and intricate gold thread work over his entire length. He raised his hand to bring his army to a halt and turned his horse to slip behind the lines. The West wind picked up, blocking out the setting sun and casting the battlefield into a gray gloom that smelled of rain and lightning. The battle was about to begin.
"I'm here, Singer...and they stand ready to come at your command. But we don't know who might be friend and who might be foe...we know little of mortal affairs...so you must be CERTAIN before you send us to battle," piped the tiny voice, her face somewhat flushed with the excitement of what was about to happen. Gazing up at Finodborn's face, the little faery smiled, her bright eyes void of pupil or iris. "The Host gathers. Do you want me to give the order, Singer?"
There were still figures moving around in the center of Gatetown...but they would have precious little time as the approaching army came into view. The army could be clearly seen, filling the opposite side of the Gatetown glade such that Finodborn could clearly count them now.
There were perhaps three hundred, all told. Their center was anchored by a one hundred man column of mixed foot, each bearing shield and pike, and all wearing a red tabard thrown over their shoulders. They were mismatched, marking them as conscripts or mercenaries. Anchoring their left was a rank of perhaps fifty priests, all wearing thick armors, large shields, and close weapons. These were the Confessors, and in front of these stood a tall Inquisitor carrying the Unbroken Circle of Silver...the All-Seeing Eye...of the One God, raised high on a pole some twenty feet in the air, with tassels and ribbons streaming around it. Anchoring the right were the most dreadful of opponents: the Paladin foot, each man wearing a full suit of articulated plate armor and carrying mixed weapons that included two-handed swords, halberds, and war axes. Behind these three ranks was a squadron of mounted Cavalry, each one bearing a long lance and shield, prepared to charge enemy cavalry or foot alike. They waited behind the lines, in reserve, to provide whatever decisive strike might be necessary to end the battle quickly. Finally, a thin rank of perhaps fifty archers were arranged in a single file in front of the entire army, each one carrying an arcballistae armed with a single flaming bolt. The archers were wearing simple serf clothing, but each one featured an arm-band of red to mark him as a conscript.
Leading this force was a man on a tall, white stallion. He wore a set of long, red robes decorated with a shining, gold scapular and intricate gold thread work over his entire length. He raised his hand to bring his army to a halt and turned his horse to slip behind the lines. The West wind picked up, blocking out the setting sun and casting the battlefield into a gray gloom that smelled of rain and lightning. The battle was about to begin.
Maeve: It starts with ambition
Meridiuz: It ends with Grant
Meridiuz: It ends with Grant
The sight of his unusual companion was the only thing that gave him some sense of hope or security while the army was walking his way. He thought of Tseh, a fae not so very different from Whimsy, who had been killed while protecting him. Somehow, it seemed like it didn't matter too much; Tazlure had become a hostile, ugly and unfriendly place. Finodborn knew for certain he wouldn't ever be able to go back to the old life he had enjoyed. In this sense, it was all too late and in vain.
However, the idea of seeing these retarded zealots meet their end gave him some lust. Perhaps it could have been more satisfying if he had been able to slay them single-handedly, like the heroes of his tales. But regardless how, today would be a day of Blood.
He looked at his friend with a heart full of friendship. He spoke to her through her mind: I myself don't understand this world anymore. But I am certain; it is not so difficult: everybody who's moving towards Gatetown with weaponry is an enemy, save those who are already in Gatetown now, as we speak. They are most probably friends. Worry not too much about innocent casualties on their part, but do mind the safety of your own people.
He paused. And in particular yourself. I suspect some of them may be able to harm you.
Can you see the man on the horse, his dress a pathetic mimic of the cloak of feathers you were wearing until just now? He is their leader. If he is taken out, the others will not know what to do anymore. They can speak only through spoken words, you see. The one who carries the Arse of the One, the circle the pole, is a leader too.
He looked at the impressive force gathering before him. They wouldn't leave anything or anybody standing.
Pan be blessed that you've decided to help us. All would have been lost without you. I consider my self infinitely in debt to the Host if they can cleanse these lands of this filth.
The khukri firmly in his fist, hatred firmly in his eyes, he nodded. Give the orders, Whimsy.
Not knowing what to expect, he hummed a bit of the Song of the Oasis.
However, the idea of seeing these retarded zealots meet their end gave him some lust. Perhaps it could have been more satisfying if he had been able to slay them single-handedly, like the heroes of his tales. But regardless how, today would be a day of Blood.
He looked at his friend with a heart full of friendship. He spoke to her through her mind: I myself don't understand this world anymore. But I am certain; it is not so difficult: everybody who's moving towards Gatetown with weaponry is an enemy, save those who are already in Gatetown now, as we speak. They are most probably friends. Worry not too much about innocent casualties on their part, but do mind the safety of your own people.
He paused. And in particular yourself. I suspect some of them may be able to harm you.
Can you see the man on the horse, his dress a pathetic mimic of the cloak of feathers you were wearing until just now? He is their leader. If he is taken out, the others will not know what to do anymore. They can speak only through spoken words, you see. The one who carries the Arse of the One, the circle the pole, is a leader too.
He looked at the impressive force gathering before him. They wouldn't leave anything or anybody standing.
Pan be blessed that you've decided to help us. All would have been lost without you. I consider my self infinitely in debt to the Host if they can cleanse these lands of this filth.
The khukri firmly in his fist, hatred firmly in his eyes, he nodded. Give the orders, Whimsy.
Not knowing what to expect, he hummed a bit of the Song of the Oasis.
Verum et factum convertuntur.
Avatar by the Artist Currently Known as Eira.
Avatar by the Artist Currently Known as Eira.