[open] fear and then nothing
Chaele Omriwin
Shaman

Age: 28 | Height: 5'9" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Nomadic
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#1
in tenebris est veritas.
Fear.

Some say animals are not complex enough for emotion, that they are ruled by instinct and incapable of sympathy. Some say the complexities of animal emotion are beyond human understanding, the shapes of their neurons neither simpler than nor similar to the experiences we share. But there is, at the very least, one sensation which can be shared between every mind in the world.

The swamp rat’s blind, milky eyes are wide with it. Its comrades fled through the splashing muck for it. And in that quiet night, beneath the twinkling terror of the stars above, Chaele’s hands shake with it.

They could not say why. Perhaps it is the darkness itself, pervasive and close in the faint light of the sliver of a crescent moon. Perhaps it is their own instinct, perceiving some hidden watcher in the bramble. Perhaps it is simply that ill-adapted sympathy that plagues them as they loom over the dying creature. Its claws scrabble at the wet dirt as it chokes on spit and blood, its spine twitching with the throes of a torturous death. It was a sloppy kill. They are not proud of it. But there is an easy enough solution.

Long, bony fingers protrude from their sleeve, reaching for the dying beast. An inky blackness drips down their wrist and coalesces between their fingers, then seeps over the sticky fur. There is a moment of suspense, of that prickly static of magic. And then the shadow is sucked abruptly upward again.

A tight sigh is loosed from the mouth behind the skull-mask. Their shoulders lift with a fresh invigoration. But the sympathy remains, like a disease, as they watch the creature’s face fall still.

Fear. And then, nothing.
Talyson Seawright
the Messenger
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#2
Mud from the Feverlands, the goddess had asked of him, and so Tal set out in the middling days of Leafchange with a padded satchel of sturdy glass bottles, carefully packaged in ningo down.

It seemed right to gather it under the starry sky, though the courier hadn't really considered how hard it would be to see that sky through the foetid jungle overgrowth above. Child of Halo, he knew clean snow and brilliant ice, and the wide open spaces of Sea and Tundra except where the barren rock of the Fangs struck upwards towards the sky.

This... this swamp was new and thoroughly unpleasant for him, and he scowled as he eeled past some hanging vines that had the smell of rotting meat exuding from their pale, fleshy flowers.

"This place is fuckin' dismal," he grumbled, and the pale dragon questing ahead of him - the size of a wolfhound but with a mastiff's muscular build - snorted amusement as she picked her way through the muck.

She stopped suddenly, blunt-muzzled reptilian head lifting to scent the air, and Tal paused before gliding forward to rest a hand on her broad shoulders. The pair of them moved cautiously after the scent until a person came into view holding... a really big rat?

Tal's nose wrinkled as he straightened, scratching the roots Boreal's horns reassuringly. "Oh. Uh. Hey," he spoke up, with his usual eloquence, trying not to startle the strange... person.
Chaele Omriwin
Shaman

Age: 28 | Height: 5'9" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Nomadic
Level: 1 - Strg: 10 - Dext: 10 - Endr: 14 - Luck: 12 - Int: 0
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#3
in tenebris est veritas.
They reel toward the onlookers in a sudden, swift movement. The giant rat, finally limp, squelches gently in their grip as it tightens on the slick flesh. But one of the long antlers on their mask trips a little on a low-hanging branch, pulling it off-kilter and forcing them to reach up and steady it in another sudden, now more awkward movement. A dark streak is left behind there, as they take a step back with a huff.

Immediately their attention dips toward the scaled creature, shoulders hunched and fingers curled in a defensive posture. A moment's observation seems to reveal that it is not a threat, but this only makes their head tilt at an angle of confusion.

"Hello," is the initial reply, like a growl in their throat which is not accustomed to speaking. The rat continues to drip warm blood onto the cool, moist soil at their feet as a long silence passes between them, both apparently equally confused. Chaele's eyes move cautiously within the shadows of their mask to examine the texture of his furs and the color of his eyes. "You... do not belong... here."
Talyson Seawright
the Messenger
Courier

Age: 27 | Height: 5'10" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: King's End
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#4
Tal just took the scene in, absorbing it in all its glory: dead, bloody rat; bone-wearing human(?); dark jungle, lit only by filtered star-and-moonlight.

Pale, sea-ice green eyes danced between skull and rat and eventually settled on the skull, a faint scowl pulling at the corners of his mouth. More of his tanned skin showed than usual, here in the sweltering heat of the Feverlands. It wasn't as hot as the Climb but it was far more humid, and his linen shirt and muddy trousers clung with sweat.

"Yeah, well, pretty sure no one 'belongs' here," he grumbled, pulling his shirt away from his chest with a grimace of distaste. As soon as he let go, it immediately stuck to him again. "No one human, leastwise. Unless you're a lizard Attuned or something, I guess." And even that would be pushing it.

Without waiting for a reply, Tal bluntly asked the first question the skull-like mask brought to mind. "Are you a cultist?"

Boreal's eyes narrowed and she sniffed the air again, large head swinging from side to side as if following a scent, though she didn't move from the courier's side.
Chaele Omriwin
Shaman

Age: 28 | Height: 5'9" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Nomadic
Level: 1 - Strg: 10 - Dext: 10 - Endr: 14 - Luck: 12 - Int: 0
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#5
in tenebris est veritas.
Perhaps they belong less, since they insist on wearing a long cloak that covers all but the arm that holds the dripping rat away from it. It is surely uncomfortable, but perhaps also ceremonial, like the mask that gathers sweat beneath its tight-fitted straps. Their shoulders roll in a lopsided shrug as Talyson voices his speculations.

"That depends entirely on your definition of the word," they reply evenly, though their hidden mouth is stretched into the shape of amusement.

Then their head tilts upward and, though it is perhaps futile to attempt to read the stars through the shadowed canopy, they seem to decide on a direction. They lower their gaze to the root-knotted ground and begin to abruptly walk in the same direction, continuing in the assumption that the man and dragonling will follow. The large rat drips a trail behind them as they clarify over their shoulder, "I have no cult leader to answer to. I am but a lonely shaman. Are you a cultist?"


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#6
A sudden bout of mist begins to swirl rather charmingly around your heels. It’s gone nearly as quickly as it came, followed by the indistinct sound of faraway laughter.
Talyson Seawright
the Messenger
Courier

Age: 27 | Height: 5'10" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: King's End
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#7
Tal's scowl deepened at the non-answer - and he irritably slapped at a biting fly that landed on his arm. By the time Tal looked up again and opened his mouth to reply, the very strange stranger was walking away shocking even the notoriously awkward courier with their casual disregard for courtesy.

"Hey--!" But whatever else he might said was interrupted by a swirl of mist (not terribly unusual in such a humid swamp) and the faint sound of laughter. Tal's eyes widened and he looked around jerkily, swearing under his breath as the dragon growled and swatted at the already-disappearing mist. "Fuck! C'mon, Boreal."

In spite of his better judgment he headed after the shaman-maybe-cultist a little faster than he might have otherwise. "The fuck was that?" He demanded of the mysteriously robed person.
Chaele Omriwin
Shaman

Age: 28 | Height: 5'9" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Nomadic
Level: 1 - Strg: 10 - Dext: 10 - Endr: 14 - Luck: 12 - Int: 0
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#8
in tenebris est veritas.
Their long cloak and skirts drag heavily in the layers of mud that collect in the wake of their progress, kicked gently by quiet steps between gnarled trees and stagnant pools. They do not seem perturbed by the insects that buzz around the matted fur on their shoulders, nor the humid heat that seeps into their sweat-lined arms despite the inadequate chill of night. They do release a small sigh of relief as the cool mists roll in and disperse, pausing to try and detect the location of the laughter.

Inevitably they resume onward. "I am told it is a spirit," they reply without looking back, trudging to one side as they seem to spot something of interest. "Futile to communicate with, though far from unintelligent. Perhaps it watches us still."

In a single swift movement, their free hand shoots out from within their robes and grabs hold of a branch on a leaning tree. It jerks back just as quickly, snapping the limb off with a clean cracking noise. The leaning trunk rustles a little with the force of the extraction, revealing that it is long dead and drying. Carefully they lean their sagging quarry to one side and grab hold of another brittle branch. "Help me get some of this kindling. I will build a fire."
Talyson Seawright
the Messenger
Courier

Age: 27 | Height: 5'10" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: King's End
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#9
"Told by who?" Tal asked suspiciously, trailing in the robed figure's wake as he sent a silent signal through the bond with his companion. Boreal's silent steps slowed, eyes reflecting the little bit of light that penetrated to the swamp floor like twin moons locked on Chaele's back.

When the stranger didn't turn back to check, Tal scowled harder and trotted ahead, letting the dragon fade into the settling gloom of the night. "Yeah, well, it can watch this," he growled, flipping a rude gesture into the air for whatever spirit was fucking with him. Mud clung to his sturdy boots, but his steps were light and sure across the mucky ground.

The courier jerked in surprise and dropped his hand to his axe at the crack of the snapping branch. "Who died and made you Warden?" Tal glared and inched a little closer, but didn't move to help. "Fire, I can do on my own. Still not sure why I should trust some skull-wearin' weirdo. What d'you even do as a 'shaman'?"
Chaele Omriwin
Shaman

Age: 28 | Height: 5'9" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Nomadic
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#10
in tenebris est veritas.
Chaele busies their hands with the stripping of the dry tree, a rare treasure of its own in a land that is otherwise wet and alive. Their arms are carved in meticulous patterns, what might have once been a dark and bloody ritual now simply a series of raised lines on their skin. After the easily stripped branches are retrieved, they take to the slender trunk itself by peeling away its outer bark.

They glance at Talyson only after he has spoken his final question, the sharp nose of their mask moving liberally in search of the dismissed familiar for a few moments. “I read the wilderness for its signs,” they answer, though not without a short pause to assess whether this stranger was worthy of her simple truth. But what could it harm? “The land, its animals, its spirits… I protect them, as I can, and in return I take from them what secrets they may offer. Healing, visions, knowledge, divinations.”

They pause to inspect a piece that has begun to decompose beneath a small swathe of fungal growth, raising it to the narrow space between their nose and mask to take a discriminatory sniff. After a moment’s consideration they tuck it away beneath their cloak, then set to their lonesome work once more.

“I have not asked you to trust me. You are wise not to. But you are right to trust your curiosity. Your instinct to follow. Perhaps you know more than you seem to, about what it means to commune with the wilds.” His first question rings in the back of her mind, but its answer feels irrelevant alongside the memories of the long gone laughter and disappearing dragonling. Her jaw, a sliver of it visible behind the mask, tenses as she finds herself surrounded by phenomena that she knew too little about.

Then, with an uncanny candor, she clears her throat. “At the very least, you will eat.”
Talyson Seawright
the Messenger
Courier

Age: 27 | Height: 5'10" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: King's End
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#11
For something so big and so pale, the dragon had completely vanished into the dark swamp, much like a spirit herself. Tal watched the shaman working on the tree a little longer, then shrugged and slung his pack around, rummaging in it until he'd freed a glass bottle. He kept one eye on the robed maybe-not-a-cultist as he knelt to scoop it full of Feverlands mud while she spoke.

"That's some 'protection,' alright," he muttered, glancing at the dead rat. After a suspicious glance around to make sure there wasn't any other mist around he stood and carefully tucked the bottle back in its padded box before sliding his pack back into place and testing the straps.

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her weird compliments, but she was right that she hadn't actually asked him to trust her; which only made Tal scowl harder. "Yeah, well, in Halo, sure." Though he wasn't sure about doing any 'communing.' "Don't count too much on the spirits, though. Or anyone else, for that matter." Family, dogs, and dragon aside, of course. But sisters didn't really count, anyways.

"Wait, you want me to eat the rat?" He wrinkled his nose, looking the rat over dubiously. "Look, lady, if you're that hungry you can have some of my jerky and apples. Or maybe just something with fewer fleas..."
Chaele Omriwin
Shaman

Age: 28 | Height: 5'9" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Nomadic
Level: 1 - Strg: 10 - Dext: 10 - Endr: 14 - Luck: 12 - Int: 0
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#12
in tenebris est veritas.
The last of the kindling, or at least whatever seems to her to suffice, is thrown into the mature pile at Chaele’s feet. She produces a wrap of twine and sets to bundling it, loosing a few grunts of exertion that might sound strangely human coming from her alien form. Only as she is tying the final knot does she reply.

“Protection is about more than preserving life. It is about the connections that sustain life. The cycles of death and nourishment. The violence of birth and predation.” Then she hoists the bundle up by its bindings with one hand, clutching the scruff of the rat in the other. “So too is a quarry used for more than its meat. Tonight, I will glimpse its connections to the land that bore it.”

Her gaze lingers on the pack which holds the box which holds the bottle, curiosity stifled by hesitation. It would not be the first time she saw a strange thing gathered for an abstract purpose, but this indelicate creature did not strike her as the ritualistic type. “Your advice is noted,” they say in response to a number of things, turning toward the narrow wildlife path to resume their onward trudging. Their attention swings around them: over their shoulder toward Talyson, toward his feet in search of the still absent companion, through the trees to scout for a proper location to rest, and ever vigilant for the return of the fickle mists.

“What properties does the mud have?”
Talyson Seawright
the Messenger
Courier

Age: 27 | Height: 5'10" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: King's End
Level: 10 - Strg: 44 - Dext: 46 - Endr: 50 - Luck: 52 - Int: 1
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#13
Tal just stared at the woman as she rattled on. Finally, when she wound down, he shook his head with an indelicate snort. "Lady, that's exactly the sort of weird, pretentious shit I'd expect a cultist to say. He glanced around uneasily as she packed up her sticks and rat, making sure his own pack was secure before he dropped his hand to rest lightly on the axe head at his hip.

Spiritually awakened, Tal was not.

"Huh? I didn't give you any--" He groaned, realizing that she'd misunderstood that he'd been talking about himself, but-- "Never mind. It's true enough for everyone, I guess."

He watched her walking away, and there was a clear weighing of options in his open expression as he considered cutting out now. If she'd stayed silent he might well have left her to her own strange devices, but the question drew him on as he shuffled his feet into motion, trailing behind her with a scowl. "It's from the Feverlands," he explained, as if that answered everything.
Chaele Omriwin
Shaman

Age: 28 | Height: 5'9" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Nomadic
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#14
in tenebris est veritas.
A rattling sigh escapes them, one which could have been mistaken for mere exhaustion considering the awkward burdens on either arm. But so too is it a noise of tested patience. There is a sort of solace in having company for such a chore, but Chaele finds themself in a similar dilemma as Talyson: they have not yet decided if this particular companion is a worthwhile diversion or a tiresome distraction.

“And what is a cultist, to you?” They rejoin, more to fill the silence than to challenge the word. “I follow no leader, worship no god. One could argue that pretense is all we are. Mine is made of masks and lectures, yours of fuss and bluster.”

Socially adept, Chaele was not.

Finally a suitable clearing rounds into view, a small but dry-enough hill risen by the roots of a particularly large tree. It must have shaded out its brothers in the daytime, long branches and thick, drooping foliage blotting out the stars where the shaman drops their load. Immediately they begin to gather what muddy stones might be found into a small fire circle, presuming the man will stick around. “Will you help me prepare the fire?”


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