Author: Lazarus, Posted: Mon Apr 1, 2019 11:17 AM, Post Subject: Riddle of the Bayou [P, R]

Lazarus had taken nary a step towards the village when the answers he sought were flung headlong onto his doorstep, so to speak. The voice of a young girl calling out to him grabbed his attention, though he had felt something before she had spoken, a familiar pin-pricking sensation up his spine. She had an air, a scent to her that seemed dreadfully familiar that he could not adequately place. It trailed off with her as whom he presumed to be the girl's mother or sister, given their similarities, drug her away from him. This pair was distinctly foreign, and stuck out like a sore thumb. Perhaps more so than himself, in his regalia that vaguely mirrored the swamp dwellers' fondness for morbid and primal charms. He was so distracted by the girl's amicable wrongness that he had not reacted nearly as quickly to the presence of undeath as the more mature of the two.

Having been quickly and skillfully dispatched, the drowned dead that rose from the fetid depths was already being cut into for samples of its necrotic flesh. No doubt for alchemical purposes - something that the cleric could appreciate. As he approached the familial pair, so too did a rather disheveled-looking warrior, trudging through the marsh towards the village. He'd hailed them and introduced himself, and Lazarus would have as well, but he put manners aside for the time being. There was more to be done after the abomination had been slain. Its enthralled spirit had been freed from its prison, and could easily be put to use again. Leisurely stalking past these fellow supporters, he knelt by the water's edge in a stance of prayer.

The air around the cleric chilled noticeably as he projected just enough to perceive any stagnating spirits in the area. Bodily, he was conscious enough to withdraw a small silver bell from beneath his cloak, and gently toll it….soundlessly. There was no clapper. This action, though seemingly of a deranged mind, did bear subtle fruit. The waters before him and the wight to his rear visibly shuddered, and a sound resonated in the air that was akin to a room full of people simultaneously exhaling an echoed sigh. Instantly the weight of the atmosphere around the spot tangibly lightened, the presence of lingering energy gone.

Following this dramatic performance, Lazarus stood, and turned to face the company of help. "The stench of curses in this neck of the woods is so thick, it could knock a dog off a gut wagon!" he gruffly exclaimed, muffled beneath the deer's skull. After some pause, likely considering how he must appear to his fellow outsiders, he removed the helm, letting it hang by a strap over his back. He ruffled his dark, bronze-highlighted hair, which feathered out messily to resemble the cloak he wore. Looking at each of the people in turn with his fiery Autumn-tinged gaze, he sized them up. Each one of them, including himself, was an island. Each likely with specific goals and intentions in mind. Even if glory or coin was among them, he was determined to work with all of them for the greater good.

"Y'all can call me Lazarus. It really is a boon if we're all here for the same thing. In the time it would take me to run all over Hell's half-acre on my lonesome, the folks here would be in a real pickle. I have a feeling things here are only fixin' to get worse. Someone's gone and really tanned this devil's hide."

Author: Raize, Posted: Mon Apr 1, 2019 8:51 AM, Post Subject: Riddle of the Bayou [P, R]

You’ve gone and done it again, Rhenakos. You’ve killed her again. Pierced her heart with the very blade you swore to protect her with. And the child….

“Shut it,” Rhenakos growled. He glanced back to see the silver haired demon in his elegant, black clothes. Piercing red eyes stared down the hunter, a cruel smile spread across the demon’s face. “You’re not even real…” He turned his gaze back to the problem at hand.

The current problem at hand was that he had decided against paying for a ferryman to help him get to the location listed for the job at hand. It was because of this lack of forethought that the hunted found himself stuck in one of the many river paths that lead to the village at the heart of the marsh. The good news, though, was that the village was within sight, and it wouldn’t take much time to walk there. The bad news, was it was a walk in the marsh. One wrong step, and he’d be soaked to the bone for weeks, at best.

Still, the thought of a demon in the marshes drove him to take his first step outside of the small boat he had rented out with the last of his coin. His stomach made a small rumble of protest at the work he was about to do, but he simply ignored the feeling. He could eat once the job was done and he had more funds.

“Just one step in front of the other,” he said to himself as he trudged through the wetlands, almost knee deep in the cold, muddy water. Disgusting. As his foot dropped for the next step, he felt his heart and stomach lurch as the mud beneath him gave away, and he tumbled head first into the brown water. Although it didn’t take him long to recover, he splashed about for a few moments trying to regain his footing, the foul tasting water forcing itself into his lungs and throat.

“This is just…too much.” He pulled himself onto a dry patch, and laid back, panting to catch his breath. His coat was weighed down by the bog water, and so he rolled to the side to strip it off, leaving it in a pile to his side. He laid there for a moment longer before his ears picked up the sounds of a fight off in the distance. He bolted up, reaching for his blade. The village was much closer now, but he couldn’t see any signs of combat from where he was.

He noticed two figures, though. A tall figure dragging something, and a slightly shorter one. They were just on the outskirts of the village. I guess that’s as good as any place to start. It didn’t take him long to walk to them. He didn’t try to hide his presence, and as he approached, held his hands up in a show of peace.

“A wight?” he asked as he noticed the second woman carving it for materials. Not a demon. But as far as I’m aware, they can be a symptom depending on the circumstances. He glanced between the two for a moment.

“Rhenakos,” he introduced himself. “Are you locals here?” He noted their darker skin and eyes. He had met a few Rosenites past Osiria in his time, and they all held the same eyes.and skin tone. “No. Rosenite?” He wondered what their relation was to Osiria. Great…another Rosewe- A shiver ran down his spine. Even just the thought of the word might had Osiria after him.

“What brings you here?”

Author: Hazel, Posted: Sat Mar 30, 2019 2:52 PM, Post Subject: Riddle of the Bayou [P, R]

“Mama?” Hazel turned her mercury eyes to the very tall woman behind her. Bryony was a stunningly tall woman at six foot even. She looked no older than the girl next to her and often they would be told they were sisters rather than parent and child. Hazel held up a rather large blossom in her hand that she pulled from the bog. “Do you think that this might help?”

“This is your show, Hazel… Keep your wits about you though.” Bryony’s blue eyes scanned the area. Hazel was offered a job from an acquaintance. It was a job that only someone like Hazel or close to it could do.

Hazel was rather tall herself and much more curvy than her mother. She took only four or so inches shorter than her mother. Both of their skin colors were darker in comparison to a lot of the Rosenites that lived in Sularia. The main difference was it appeared that Hazel was a shade or two lighter than Bryony. Not shocking when one thought about her father. Her hair was unruly black curls that seemed to almost afro but not quite. It had gotten rather long down her back and she spent hours brushing it at points in the morning.

The most abnormal thing about Hazel was perhaps her shadow, the way tendrils came off of it and moved as if it had a mind of its own. The second most abnormal thing about Hazel was the squid plushie that was tied to her belt. It would growl and make conversation though the only one who could remotely understand it was Hazel herself. “Hush Jack,” Hazel would say as she put a dried sardine in a rather lively mouth of the plushied creature.

They docked and Bryony took a lantern. Hazel could see better than her mother in the dark thanks to the being inside of her but the Rosenite Oracle was unnerved. Hazel saw the man first and knew that he looked a bit out of place even for Onnen. Still, the girl was steadfast in her walk once they got docked and out of the boat they had borrowed. “Hazel…” Bryony sighed as she moved faster to keep up with her wayward daughter.

“Excuse me!” Hazel raised her normally timid voice as she approached the cleric. “We’re looking for the village here. I’ve been hired for a job.”

Bryony looked around neglecting to say hello to the stranger. “The dead lurk,” the phrase escaped her lips. The man’s body twisted and Bryony grabbed the back of Hazel’s tunic before launching her towards some lights in the distance. “GO NOW,” Bryony commanded her daughter as the marsh’s water came to life.

It didn’t take much for Hazel to start to run off towards the village. Once she reached the middle she finally stopped running and put her hands on her knees so she could breathe. “Help! Please! There are dead attacking on the outskirts!” She waved for anyone but stopped dead when she saw her mother lagging behind at the edge. “Or… not…” She squeaked it out a bit.

“It’s a wight and it’s dead now.” Bryony was dragging what was left with her. “You might want to make use of the parts.”

“But… I thought.” Hazel looked to the wight and back up at her mother. “You needed help.”

“I just needed you out of range so I could attack.” It wasn’t cold perse but even Hazel knew she would get in the way of Bryony being able to attack at full force in a marsh. “Either way… We’re in the village now."

“Oh…” Hazel looked down at the Wight and nodded before pulling out a dagger. It was rather fancy looking more like a ceremonial as she began to cut up the creature. Bryony put her hand on her hip and the other was used to hold and support her glaive, which was leaning against.

“We best find out who is handing out this job. I don’t know a lot about it but the fact it is perfect for you.” Bryony smirked a bit down at Hazel. “Did you get spooked?”

“Only because I thought you were in trouble.” Hazel pouted a bit as she finished up what she was doing.

Author: Lazarus, Posted: Sat Mar 30, 2019 2:15 PM, Post Subject: Riddle of the Bayou [P, R]

Beneath the skull of a great stag, Lazarus surveyed the bleak landscape that unfolded around the ferry on which he stood. Cool evening breezes swept across the marshes, blustering through the dark feathers lining the cleric's heavy cloak. Distant croaking and clicking could be heard for miles as the rivers gently guided the boat to eventual mooring at the city in the heart of the great swamp. An inordinately numerous throng of water moccasins slithered alongside them, which made the ferryman visibly agitated.

"'Preciate you a-comin' this afar, ay," the cleric's dreadlocked companion praised, breaking the uneasy silence. Indeed, the tension that hung in the air in this locale could almost be perceived as easily as the thick mists that rolled through the roots of the moss-covered mangroves. The occasional fisherman or trapper along the banks of the rivers eyed him cautiously as the ferry passed. Though his arrival and the unorthodoxy of his being had been discussed well in advance, the locals were nonetheless suspicious of the odd outsider. "Ain't a thing at all," Lazarus' gritty voice echoed beneath the bone mask. "'Tis no trifle. That's the true true," the ferryman insisted in earnest. "Words of your vexation over the Shambalah have legs, strange one," he mused in his curiously mingled and broken Common.

Lazarus' mind could not help but grasp at fleeting and unwelcoming fancies as the boat approached the city. He had been to far corners of the lands before where denizens and customs had want of isolation. These people, as he had seen so many times before, had heart…had purpose…a strong sense of self. Yet, they were all inexorably drawn to a lifestyle such as this, to havens where the forgotten and forlorn should belong. Would this be his fate, as well the last of his line…to eventually fade into nothing? Seldom did any soul care to know what transpired in these far-removed civilizations, aside from the occasional like-minded philanthropist. He found it tragic, truly, to fathom the reasons for refusing to integrate into any mainland society, to choose to be an afterthought.

Did he not do the same…?

It was places like this that always harbored the most abhorrent of legends, rituals, and creatures. Thus was he inevitably drawn like a moth to the flame. There were others that came to the Copts' aid as well. The ferryman had mentioned it, but little else was said on the matter, and he had yet to spot them midst the locals. Their immediate concern would more than likely be hunting down the reason for his own presence here - the Copts was plagued by a venomous devil of sorts. Some claimed it was a hag, that dwelt deep within the marsh. The hazy details of the creature were largely unimportant to Lazarus. Principally, it stuck out to him that these attacks had been happening within the past year or so, and progressively worsened. Men and women alike were often found dead, bundled like an infant, or with a small doll. This displayed some sort of intelligence and fixation on the demon's part. This part, he consequently surmised, was a piece of a much larger puzzle.

The dead Lazarus could tend to, if need be. It was the living he was more concerned with, however. Those that survived the monster's onslaught, only to slowly waste away from some sort of insidious toxin. Even the locals' shamans, with all their knowledge of toxicology of the flora and fauna of the area could not ascertain how to treat it.

Heavy boots finding footing upon the fastened logs of the docks, the cleric turned to pay the ferryman, to find he had somehow already gone. It seemed he would have to find his own way from here. If there was an Elder, he or she could direct him to the shaman's huts and the scene of the last attack.