Past of Many

[black379]

Adeney thought he would go alone, in spite of the protesting from Aaliyah and Elohim. Yet if the other mercenaries had no faith in their own ability to survive, then he might as well trust them to die. The doctor had no intent to embarrass the others, as the sole survivor, and in fact he needed at least Talea to live. Even though he wouldn't likely find what he was looking for in the graveyard, it was in his best interest to remain with the party.

Since he couldn't rely for the others to be stealthy, and as the veil of night cast over the sky, they were in need of torchlight. Adeney procured his lantern, lighting the area ahead for the party. His eyes peered past the edge of the warm light, trying to make out shapes of stone, or tree, or shambling undead.

[The Carrying Blade]

Mithra didn’t like the look of the church, or any church for that matter, her own religion forsaking stone fortresses in favor of the old trees who’s age is lost to time itself. A testemate of nature’s survival. If a simple tree could survive longer than the eldest warrior with less, and handle more, then what stone building which crumbles with heavy weather hope to win? Better to pray with wood than rock,, let her gods deal with what those of her tribe do not dare try to fight against.

“Splitting up would be valuable if only half our comrades didn’t have twigs for bodies, especially if more spirits approach us we only have one who can find them so we can deal with them.” She remarked, heading left with the rest of her comrades, letting Adeney know the biggest flaw in his plan. They had no hope of surviving if half of their group left without the one who could deal with spirits, for even Mithra knew without Talea she wouldn’t know what to do Incase the next one was dangerous.

She never trusted shadows, keeping her hands tight on the pole of her glaive, moving ahead of Adeney and Aaliyah but staying behind Elorit and Talea. Ready to fight but at the same time with the stench in her nose and the oddity of this place she wondered if retreat would be there only option, it would have to be if Talea went down now that she thought about it.

[EtherealNoire]

Cerulean aura swathed Talea's passage, attenuated as the star's gleam within the waning sky above. It gathered on fingertips and pooled within each dimple of her steps pressed tender into the earth, a specter's pathway that ebbed into the night. So too did the Lamenting hound the twilight, colored by hatred and wanton greed. Her blood drew halted beneath their touch, gelid, and her heart's compassion fell wrested from its refuge.

Weary, she cast one forlorn note to them, pleading calm, before frosted lips closed to the spirits. Spiteful bites marred her virtue with emotions too sullied for the grave.
In the hollow left by silence, tainted auras echoed her cries. She knew not their voices nor the spirits of realms undead.

Yea, though her heart quailed to hear such groanings wrenched from the earth's tired bones, her fingers dipped past leather to enclose algid spheres within her palms, each a comfort and power dear. Dare she need such foresight?
Footsteps unwavered, cloaked in the miasma of death, she led them deeper amidst the graves, ever striving towards the trail's end.

[EloHim]

The siluets in the dark seemed ever familiar in their plastic movements. As if actors performic some pantomime, forced by a hand much more powerfull than they were.
Elorit knew that he was hallucinating again... For the Bird sat right at his shoulder, as small as a chess piece. Talking to him and him alone.

"Interesting actor this girl. Like that other one... there is a second mask following the first. This Play in its aspiration to resolve itself calls upon actors from far and wide, from high and lo~... We ought to bet carefully, you an' I. For participation in some scenes might cost us...dearly. And unlike me...you may actually die."

He followed the group, not showing any sing of hearing anything.

[relentless]

The heroes would advance down the path to the field of dead, buried beneath dry earth, with gravestones fractured by time and embraced by the nectar of nature, through moss and weeds. The way there would be unhampered by that of wet mud or anything unusual, the gate to the large section of land composing mostly of gravestones of varying sizes, condition and quality would be open to enter. The air around them would become colder, the hold of winter seemed to be upon them, biting at the cheeks, bringing the warm blood to the face and stinging exposed ears.

Grass, leafs and stone would be partially frosted over by this otherworldly sense of coldness, though that would not be all that seemed to be effected. As the heroes began traversing down the thin path of naked dirt, a corpse sat to the right of them along the row of gravestones. A human, but its sex seemingly inconceivable to the eye, as its skin was the color of snow, thin as a branch, with every section of its body shrunk to the bone, appearing almost skeletal. There were patches of frost and clear preservation upon its tight flesh that clung to bone and sinew, and despite being a corpse, the corpse of a human had eyes that seemed to react. However, before the corpse could be inspected further, the silence of the mist would break, and to the left of the party, another corpse-like human sat against a tombstone. The corpse let out a whistle of a groan, pained, perhaps tired as it rocked its head forward, then back into the stone. Clearly, it was trying to end its existence.

As the thing sat there, seemingly weak and on the brink of death, a light of ocean blue, flickering a dark red would begin to grow in contrast in the mist. As it drew closer, and closer, the warping of natural sound became apparent, the whistle of wind seemed to distort like static as it rapidly changed colour, the flourish of grass appeared more sharp to the ear.

From there on, the light was now visible; a depiction of a robed, skeletal thing, standing there in the path in front of them, its back turned to the heroes, twitching as its hue changed shape, and as it did so, so did its appearance. From its blue, it appeared as what seemed to be a constable of a local town, drab in police uniform familiar to that of Britannia, the land of the Queen. Of course it was shown in a skeletal state, with the ghosts living appearance not being shown, but as it turned to red, it would be shown for a couple sporadic seconds that it was not what it seemed. A deformed depiction of what role this deceased spirit once had, instead of constable clothes, they were torn down, ragged and generally deformed, appearing more like a malicious phantom in the uniform of ravaged authority than anything else.

For all that's it worth, the creatures that lay on the floor did not seem to react. Yet the one against the tombstone, began to bash its head against the stone quicker, without any show of urgency apparent in its posture.

[EloHim]

“This is not right...not right at all.” - Elorit said, as if would change anything. The whole scene turned his stomach upside down, making alchemist wanting to puke. But the gut-wrenching didn't seem to stop. Moving corpses and now... ghosts. Visible one's, not just voices on the wind. The local god got a bag of tricks that seemed to be bottomless.

“Get used to it. He tries occasionally to bring down the very order of life and death. Bodies are not rare, this land has it share of necromancers… But souls… That sacrilege is appalling even for my tastes.” - the Bird uttered somewhere near him.

How was a man supposed to deal with this kind of thing? Run? Not an option, no more. Cleansing by fire came to mind... Burn the whole graveyard till naught left but ash and burned tombstones. Some might say there was no respect for the dead in that course of action. But respect for the dead went out the window the moment someone or something decided to get the dead out of their graves and use them as the freaky decoration for the purpose of instilling terror. One need but one torch to start the whole thing.

"Burn it all. We should burn the whole graveyard. Dead bodies can't rest in this cursed land.And then hope the poor souls be free from whatever is controlling them..." - Elorit uttered, getting the dagger into his right hand.

"Im not opposed to the idea. And we have you to send poor sods on their way afterwards... dont we?" - The Bird desided to whisper directly into Talea's ear, its beak lightly tapping her shoulder.

[The Carrying Blade]

Mithra would heartily agree to burning the entire place to the ground, it would easily solve a lot of their problems and leave them to sort through the ashes only. However, the more troubling aspect came from the possibility of if they burned it to the ground would the spirits stay there or go off to terrorize them without a barrier anymore? Not to mention their true priority would become troublesome with having to shift through flames to retreat.

She tried hard to stare at the ground, not caring for the bodies and spirits around them, she did not want to go mad from the sights.
“It would be quick, but troublesome, starting a fire for the entire place to burn in is not an easy task. As much as I want to, it is not a good option.” She said sadly, noticing stagnation would be worse than action.

[EtherealNoire]

An essence, a spirit of quietus, seemed to reside within Talea, as if the Angel of Darkness itself had marked her as its own. Rare to speak. Ethereal in motion. Melodious and melancholy, her voice was only given to those who sought it with a fervor unknown to most mortal ranks. Yet as she gazed outwards at the carnage before her, and lamented in silence, the stars painted their light in silver beads down her cheeks, where they cascaded like forgotten wishes to the cold earth below.

A song of sadness lingered in the twilight, one she knew from times foregone. One of sleep and standing stones kissed by moonlight's frost.
Threats of fire were lost to her as she wove her lullaby within the bittersweet air, however another voice, acerbic against her skin, awakened the Shadow nestled in her soul.

She turned as if underwater, her hair billowing in tangled threads despite the wind's bated breath, and faced the aura with eyes haunted further than the berms beyond. Beneath her voice, for those sensitive to the ways, another voice threatened to spill. One as smooth as ink yet dripping ebony deeper Stygian than the nethermost realms of Death.

"Question not our motives, or seek answers darker than thou suffer to endure."