The Dark One shifted ever so slightly on his throne of skulls. Something unexpected had caught his gaze, causing him to stare deeply into the scrying mists.

His attention piqued, he considered this unexpected development. Slowly, his normally baleful expression morphed into a terrifying rictus of a smile.

This situation was promising. More then promising, in fact... it opened all sorts of delicious possibilities.

One of the Eyeless Ones gestured, wondering if it should inform Her of this new discovery. For the slightest of moments, the Dark One pondered, but shook his head, causing the Eyeless One to melt into the shadows.

No, there was no point in informing Her yet. Furthermore, if things worked out to their full potential... well, the possibilities were very interesting, indeed...

11th Sempore (Thirkday), 453 E.R.
Woods near the village of Crandel (west of the Indigo river, near the Sendrian border)

Summer was in full swing, with the countryside a recent recipient of a major heat wave that had held strong now for two full weeks. This afternoon had finally witnessed the accumulation of clouds, and while the farmers blessed them, the group of travelers trudging down the dirt road did not necessarily share that sentiment. As evening fell, it had begun to drizzle. Rather than alleviate the heat, the precipitation had simply driven the humidity through the roof, causing clothing to become damp, sticky, and altogether uncomfortable. Slowly, a mist rose in response to the drizzle, which further choked away the visibility offered by the dying light of the day.

The companions expected to make Crandel by nightfall, and most - if not all - of them were looking forward to the chance to get in out of the weather for a bit. Indeed, the prospect of a dry bed and a hot meal was enough to quicken their pace.

As they walked along, the mist seemed to grow almost oppressively thick. Talcanaiion Aldavathar, sylvari pathfinder, began to feel uneasy. He had spent years out of doors, had experienced many types of weather, had witnessed the fury of nature firsthand... but this, this simply felt unnatural. Wrong.

Soon, every member of the party could feel the same things - the stifling atmosphere seemed to carry strange sounds, as well as cast strange shadows. More than once, one or more of the travelers were certain that they saw something in the mists, but the shapes always faded away, and never quite seemed to become fully visible.

The road (if one cared to use such a generous term for a dirt track in the middle of nowhere) took a sharp bend, and once the group reached the other side, they lay eyes on another group of travelers ahead. This new group - comprised of six or seven individuals on foot - was headed in the opposite direction, and though they were surely close enough to see the companions, they made no sign of recognizing this fact. Instead, they slowly shuffled along, heads down, seemingly oblivious to their surroundings, and continued to head directly for the party. If one had to wager a guess, one might speculate that these pilgrims were quite old, wounded, or ill - they were quite slow, indeed.

Hammerfoot's ever-present smile seemed to fade into the mists that evening, but this did not prevent him from performing his clerical duties. He kept up a calm, peaceful conversation with his fellow adventurers, and took note of Talca's unease, sure to ask him about it later in private. He marched along - a champion of Khord stamina - never tiring, never stopping to take a rest. During the lulls in conversation, he peered into the mists, his hand resting on his warhammer's head, and he swore to himself that he detected movement. When, eventually, these shapes manifested themselves into a group of pilgrims, he checked for other Khords, and when he saw one, he silently prayed for the Dwarf's safety and fair travels.

It was a simple truth, but one that wasn't a good one to face. Rae's armour couldn't protect her from everything. The weather was one of those things. She wouldn't consider herself comfortable, but she wouldn't consider herself all too uncomfortable either; she had endured worse during her vagabond days, when she didn't have armour to protect her.

Still, there was something about this that didn't seem right. Everyone was getting restless, nervous, wary. Talca's nervousness in particular Rae paid heed to. It was nothing spoken, yet, just the way that he kept looking around, taking care at being attentive to what was available to notice from their surroundings.

Yet, regardless of if the mist was right or not, they had a destination to reach, and wandering off the road in an attempt to bypass the fog could be more dangerous. Rae steeled herself, pushing that chill at the base of her heart away as she had done many times before. Yes, she was a bit scared. That was just her instincts warning her. Be prepared. Rae gripped the shield in her hand tighter as she saw figures up ahead.

"They walk strangely." Rae observed, "Perhaps an illness has pressed its advantage with the advent of this fog? Though for it to be so quick is peculiar."

It wouldn't have been out of the question. Cold and damp weather could often be preludes to illness. She had seen it before...

The strangest part, however, was that they were not looking ahead. Any traveler paying heed to their surroundings would show signs of awareness, some manner of looking about, because an unwary traveler is asking for trouble.

Perhaps it was the uneasiness innate to the atmosphere around her, or perhaps it was a sense of foreboding from the way the visible figures seemed to barely put one foot in front of the other as they walked, but Rae loosened the sword in her sheath, just in case. It would not do for the sword to be caught in the scabbard if the need to draw it arose.

There's a time and place for everything. Good meals? Break out the fork and burp mightily after. Couple of the gents wandering off to wash? Find a tree, hide, and watch with some snacks. Blistering heat with random drizzle followed by miles of...

"Blech." Pepper grumbled under breath, loud enough to hear on the road among friends. "I feel like ahm' twisted up worse than a man surrounded by belly dancers. My shirt is in knots under this damned..." The rest died in grunts and huffs.

With a series of writhing wiggles and daring arm shoves under her armor, Pepper did the unthinkable, and would have earned a couple coppers for the amusement in Ethryn: somehow unbuttoned and yanked her shirt from inside her armor.

Something was terribly off about everything. No one laughed at her jokes or even blinked as she unbridled herself of a shirt, now still sticky in leather. Rae then punctuated the foreboding with an altogether terrifying proclamation.

"They walk strangely." Rae observed, "Perhaps an illness has pressed its advantage with the advent of this fog? Though for it to be so quick is peculiar."

"Oh that's all we need. Sniffles and disease to go with the foot rot in my squelchy boots." She tied the shirt back around her waist, deftly hefting free Ol' One Eye from a sheath. The long sword had a crude bit of etching in the widest part of blade somewhat resembling an eye. "Want a closer look?"

Don't say yes...don't say yes...do not want sneezing for weeks or my bits falling off later!

The nearer they got to Crandel, the more that the Sylvari pathfinder called Talca felt ill at ease with the weather and, as his discomfiture grew, the distance he typically kept ahead of his comrades dwindled and dwindled some more.

Wrong, he thought, his fingers absently caressing the nock of the arrow he had set to his bowstring as he gazed into the drizzling mist ahead, Simply unnatural,
It wasn't the first time he'd had that thought in the course of these last days, of course, but, this time, it was much stronger than any of the others. Strong enough, in fact, that the ranger had stopped his advance scouting and lowered himself to a crouch in the midst of the path in order to let his companions close the gap between him and them. His sharp-eyed gaze flitted back and forth, now, between his compatriots - who were slowly drawing nearer at his rear - and a new group of travelers who had appeared some distance ahead, moving at a shuffling pace toward them, on the very path they were travelling.

"They walk strangely," he heard the Shield-Maiden of Falloes murmur as he, himself, squinted into the misty rain ahead, and studied the approaching group, "Perhaps an illness has pressed it's advantage with the advent of this fog? Though, for it to be so quick is peculiar."

Perceptive as ever, Talca thought, lifting his bow, now, and adding a bit of tension to the string as he drew back a bit, and sighted the lead member of the approaching group along the shaft of his arrow. The other group was, yet, at a distance where even his eyesight wasn't enough to verify a valid threat, but, his years in the wild, coupled with the peculiarity of the weather had him, perhaps, overly cautious. Much like that weather, the shambling aspect of the "mirror group" set an unpleasant, prickling sensation in the nape of his neck and a certain unease knotted his stomach. When his own party was within ten feet or so of his position, he eased the tension from his bow string long enough to hold up a hand, hopefully signaling his companions to stop or, at least, slow.

"I do not care for the looks of this, melloneamin," he stated, matter-of-factly, when he was sure they were within earshot, "This weather bothers me, yet, these seem to pay it no mind." He settled into a shooting posture, once more, drawing back the string of his bow and sighting along the arrow, again. "What say those of you with access to magic," he queried, settling his aim on the head of the foremost of the oncoming group, "is my concern unwarranted or, perhaps, should we abandon this trail and wait for these others to pass?"

((OOC: Fluff, really, but Talca's not liking this approaching group, is it weather playing with his perceptions? Is it Rae's unease? *shrug* Let me know, Yay, game!!! ))

Hammerfoot stopped his playful anecdote about Sylvari women and said, "Calm yourself Talca. Lower your bow. I shall approach them and ask if they need assistance." Hammerfoot began slowly approaching the other group, a natural looking grin on his face, but his hammer in hand. "Folks, I couldn't help but notice that you seem to be a bit unhealthy looking. Is there anything I can do for ye?"

"Talca, I don't need nae magics to know...those folk are fishy. And not breaded, fried, with taters either." She pulled to the side, balancing on the tip of the sword, to raise her boots from the muck around them.

The Khord crossed forward, calming words, direction taken to reach across to the folk as beraggled as she felt. Did she look like them? Humming to herself, she waited to see how the others would act and steps to take.

The weather had been a downtrodden mess of frustration. The rising mist as eerie as you could get. The reflecting of sound, or worse some headless bodiless whispering thing out there, frogs even. Kith'jora be damned, she hated frogs. Rather a wight from some wronged man hanged along the road wanting them to pay some toll than a bullfrog.

She waited, judged, eager to slink off into the mist to join it if the Khord screamed or was pin-cushioned with arrows or what not.

Aedan was trying to do several things at once. He held his journal with one strong hand, while the other jotted notes about the weather. The trick of keeping one eye out for gullies, low-hanging branches, and potholes while keeping the other firmly on his writing was one he had mastered, but not quite fully. As a result, the young bard lingered at the back of the group, occasionally stopping his note-taking in order to catch up. He had become accustomed to this kind of adventuring, which to be honest was the way he preferred it. Let the heroes be heroes, he was just there to chronicle their exploits. Of course, he'd gotten them out of a spot of trouble awhile back, something Aedan was sure to leave out of his notebook. Those bandits were nasty fellows though.

Fog ~ Oppressive. Tyrannical.
Party ~ Uneasy. Troubled. Paranoid?
Gr./6 ppl. ~ Downcast. Ill?

He looked up from his notes. Something wasn't right, certainly. This fog seemed worse than a usual fog. More biting, somehow. He snapped his fingers and wrote down "biting" next to the entry "fog" in his notebook. The people were off as well; they seemed like shades drifting in the fog. Aedan hastily scribbled another note. Was the party right to draw arms on these people? Aedan wasn't sure, but he was certain that he wouldn't be the first to draw blood today. Either way, the mood could certainly use a lift. He swallowed

"This, this tension is too much for m, me. How about a l, little music, folks?" he asked, stowing his journal and pen. Without waiting for a response, he slung his dulcimer off his back and began to play, singing the words almost to himself.

A squirrel in the forest had lost his way
amid the oaks and the locust
he saw Mister Badger and asked him 'Say'
Which way's home? I just can't seem to focus...

It was the absolute least favorite weather for Irel. Damp, damp, obnoxiously damp, until everything and everyone smelled like a dank dog in midsummer. But not enough rain to wash sweat and stink away nor freshen the air. Platinum hair that was normally stiff and spiked hung in limp strands around her face. A irritable scowl on her face.

Her scale armor shifted quietly as she marched at the rear near their bard. The skilled bard, not the "bard" woman Pepper with light fingers and swift sword. Her joints begged for a warm fire and the chance to relax and catch some gossip. There were no antics with undershirts from Irel. Though she had to respect

Maybe it was the mist. Maybe it was the obvious unease keen-eyed Talca. Maybe it was old habits. But these persons on the road with their odd gate of movement, the obvious lateness of these "pilgrims" departure. Why would anyone depart town so very late, if they were truly so obviously unwell or infirm? Their silent ignoring of the armed and armored folk ahead, and the thick mist that continued to gather around them. Her nerves stood on edge.

" 'tiss this really a time for music friend Aedan?" she hissed quietly, the tall fighter stepping forward to help pull their other "bard" from the mud.

11th Sempore (Thirkday), 453 E.R.
Woods near the village of Crandel (west of the Indigo river, near the Sendrian border)

Vengador, the Human Male Cleric of Solanis of the Dawnbringers sect, [for all you Lurkers out there at the Red Dragon Inn, sitting at a table with a mug or tankard of Good Ole Froth ‘N Slosh, waiting in breathless anticipation for the unfolding of another epic tale] squinted with his left eye, as he peered through the damp drizzle, accompanied by an eerie foggy mist, arising from the road to seemingly kiss the light of day goodbye, as he plodded along the muddy road, a few steps behind his six companions.

His duty as a Healer was plain and sure. Keep his companions and himself, healthy and mended, in case any of them were injured in battle, or ailing from disease or accident.

His duty as a Protector was also plain and sure. Keep his companions and himself, safe from harm both known and unknown, lest he be forced to use his Spade to dig a hole to bury their remains.

This is why he chose to position himself a few steps behind his comrades, protecting the rear ranks, confident that Talca the Syl Ranger, would utilize his skills to help prevent the group from blundering into a trap, or walking into a surprise attack from unseen foes.

But the unseemly weather, preventing the rays of the sun from lighting their path along this road, during the final leg of their journey to Crandel, was threatening to envelop them under a cloak of premature darkness, before they would be able to safely reach their destination.

Vengador was also confident that Rae, the Half Syl Paladin of Felloes, would be more than ready to spring into action with her sword and shield, should the safety of the group be compromised, or if Talca gave any indication that something was amiss up ahead.

The drizzle ran rivulets down every angle of his bald head, for the Cleric of Solanis refused to wear either cap or helm, choosing rather to expose the 8 year old scar that ran from the back of the left side of his head, diagonally across the top of his deeply bronze tanned pate, down across both his forehead and his right eye, before ending at the bottom of his right cheek bone.

He wore this scar like a badge, refusing to cover it for any reason, in hopes that some passerby may recognize the wound, as well as the 25 year old muscle man, who had been left for dead on a field of battle, somewhere near the border between Sandria and Drannon.

Vengador knew nothing of his given name, nor his origins prior to his year 17, when an old Priest of Solaris named The Silent One, found him and brought him back from the abyss of death.

For you see, this Vengador, Cleric of Solaris of the Dawnbringers sect, has no knowledge of his past from the day he awoke in the care of The Silent One, at a secluded temple of the Eyes of the Blazing Sun sect, until this very day of heat and humidity and clammy cold drizzle, as he suffers from a form of some type of unknown amnesia, inflicted upon him by the effects of the exposed scar on his otherwise hard head.

He smiled as he watched the ever vigilant Syl, Irel, as she marched along with the confident air of a seasoned palace guard, noting not only her enticing beauty, but the air of a magical aura about her, that gave Vengador an inner peace that the group had yet another Dependable Warrior in their ranks.

His bright green left eye sparkled in the drizzle, as he cast a quick look towards Pepper. Here was a Human Bard who was more than a Bard. Vengador had already noticed her tendencies to relieve unsuspecting persons of their personal possessions.

He was enjoying a quick peek, as she wriggled her enticing body underneath her armor, removing her soaked shirt and tying it around her waist.

Although he was not entirely ready to entrust his possessions to the keeping of this beauty, he was satisfied that she could hold her own in a fight, as he turned his gaze away from what must surely be a prize to be sought underneath her armor, as she pulled her Long Sword free.

Vengador may not have a clue as to the origins of his past, but he learned soon enough in his short life these past few years, to follow his instincts when it came to enjoying the company of a willing woman for a night or more, whether she be Human or Syl, or between one or the other.

Turning his gaze away from the spicy Pepper, the Solanis Cleric viewed the Human Bard, Aedan. Although a mere 2 years younger than Vengador, the lad seemed to have much to learn in the ways of battle with sword.

Although capable enough in a skirmish, the lad would prove to be a much better warrior, should he ever learn to wield his sword as deftly as he could wield his quill or dulcimer or sing a song of valor.

Aeden had already proved himself as an asset to the group, both as a chronicler and an encourager, with his colorful words and inspiring songs of bravery and courage.

Then there was Hammerfoot, the Khord Cleric of Kharos, he of the Weaponized Prosthetic Foot Hammer and wielder of a mighty War Hammer.

The two Clerics were learning to work together for the good of the company, in spite of serving separate deities. For in Audalis, no matter which Kingdom a Party of Adventurers traversed, there were never too many Healers to be had in the ranks, as evidenced by the countless unknown dangerous encounters that were reported in song or exhortation, at every tavern and inn throughout the land.

Especially on days like today.

Although his Khord War Hide was hidden beneath his Syl War Tunic, the Cleric of Solanis could feel the sweat of his chest meeting the dampness of the drizzle throughout his Syl War Shirt, but he refrained from trying to extricate the shirt from beneath his armor, as Pepper had done earlier.

He was aware that something was amiss with their surroundings. A strange foreboding steadily gnawed at his memories. Sounds and Shapes seemed to mock and threaten the adventurers from behind the mists that rolled in upon them from either side of the now miry path that served as a road in name only.

His 6'2" muscular 200 lb frame served as a mini watch tower from behind the group he was sworn to 'Heal and Protect'. In mere moments, he saw Talca freeze in his tracks, crouch low in the mud, as the Syl Ranger notched an arrow to his bow, while motioning his companions to proceed with caution.

Vengador saw them in the distance, a group of shuffling strangers, heads low in the drizzly mist, plodding along in the muck and mire; at such a slow gait as if they be old, wounded or ill.

Perceptive as ever, Talca thought, lifting his bow, now, and adding a bit of tension to the string as he drew back a bit, and sighted the lead member of the approaching group along the shaft of his arrow. The other group was, yet, at a distance where even his eyesight wasn't enough to verify a valid threat, but, his years in the wild, coupled with the peculiarity of the weather had him, perhaps, overly cautious. Much like that weather, the shambling aspect of the "mirror group" set an unpleasant, prickling sensation in the nape of his neck and a certain unease knotted his stomach. When his own party was within ten feet or so of his position, he eased the tension from his bow string long enough to hold up a hand, hopefully signaling his companions to stop or, at least, slow.

"I do not care for the looks of this, melloneamin," he stated, matter-of-factly, when he was sure they were within earshot, "This weather bothers me, yet, these seem to pay it no mind." He settled into a shooting posture, once more, drawing back the string of his bow and sighting along the arrow, again. "What say those of you with access to magic," he queried, settling his aim on the head of the foremost of the oncoming group, "is my concern unwarranted or, perhaps, should we abandon this trail and wait for these others to pass?"

Vengador took immediate heed to the words and actions of the Syl Ranger. Striding forward towards the front of the party, lifting the Black Eye Patch with the Silver Stitched Holy Symbol of Solanis, exposing his purplish red right eye from beneath its hiding place, as the Cleric of Solaris was wont to do when preparing for battle.

Reaching into his Syl War Tunic, the ever vigilant Cleric of Solanis withdrew his Spy Glass, seeking a better view, in spite of the drizzly mist, as the strangers slowly shuffled towards the alerted party.

Yon Strangers are either Plague Carriers or Shamblers, the thoughts bombarding the young mind of Vengador reminded him of his past failures and mistakes!

More than once in his early years as a Dawnbringer in training, the young Cleric of Solanis had drawn his weapons to eliminate a group of Shamblers, only to discover that his targets were suffering from the ravages of a rampant plague sweeping through the region.

While at other times during his past training, the young Dawnbringer had rushed headlong to aid a group of wayfarers, intending to minister healing to their apparently disease ridden bodies, only to barely escape the clutches of a group of Shamblers that were terrorizing the region.

Solanis be praised that other more mature and discerning Dawnbringers had accompanied him during those times of terror, lending their aid and eliminating the threat of the group of Shamblers that sought to prematurely end the life of the young Cleric of Solanis.

Then there were the times that Vengador had hesitated almost too long, not wanting to mistake Plague Carriers for Shamblers, or Shamblers for Plague Carriers; endangering the lives of those he companied with during his past times of training, long before being sent out on his own by the Elder Dawnbringers.

Vengador had learned valuable lessons from his past mistakes. He replaced his Spy Glass and withdrew his Syl War Sling, stooping momentarily in the muddy path to select 3 appropriate stones that had caught his eye, not wanting to waste any of his 50 Sling Bullets, before drawing closer to both the motionless Talca and the Shield-Maiden of Falloes.

Hammerfoot stopped his playful anecdote about Sylvari women and said, "Calm yourself Talca. Lower your bow. I shall approach them and ask if they need assistance." Hammerfoot began slowly approaching the other group, a natural looking grin on his face, but his hammer in hand. "Folks, I couldn't help but notice that you seem to be a bit unhealthy looking. Is there anything I can do for ye?"

Vengador had but mere moments to make a decision, as the Khord Cleric cautiously advanced towards the approaching group of Strangers, who seemed to be escorted towards them by the drizzly mist.

Aedan hastily scribbled another note. Was the party right to draw arms on these people? Aedan wasn't sure, but he was certain that he wouldn't be the first to draw blood today. Either way, the mood could certainly use a lift. He swallowed

"This, this tension is too much for m, me. How about a l, little music, folks?" he asked, stowing his journal and pen. Without waiting for a response, he slung his dulcimer off his back and began to play, singing the words almost to himself.

A squirrel in the forest had lost his way
amid the oaks and the locust
he saw Mister Badger and asked him 'Say'
Which way's home? I just can't seem to focus...

Vengador momentarily turned his head to the left, catching another glimpse of the Bard and the Guard.

There were no antics with undershirts from Irel

Maybe it was the mist. Maybe it was the obvious unease keen-eyed Talca. Maybe it was old habits. But these persons on the road with their odd gate of movement, the obvious lateness of these "pilgrims" departure. Why would anyone depart town so very late, if they were truly so obviously unwell or infirm? Their silent ignoring of the armed and armored folk ahead, and the thick mist that continued to gather around them. Her nerves stood on edge.

" 'tiss this really a time for music friend Aedan?" she hissed quietly, the tall fighter stepping forward to help pull their other "bard" from the mud.

The spontaneous song by the young Bard behind him caused a surge of clarity to flood the mind of the indecisive Dawnbringer.

Stepping forward and to the right of Talca and Rae, the booming voice of Vengador sounded out from the Dawnbringer with the same single word:

First in the Khord tongue!

Second in the Syl tongue!

Third in the Drannese tongue!

Fourth in the Apanonese tongue!

"UNDEAD"
"UNDEAD"
"UNDEAD"
"UNDEAD"

((OOC: Vengador stands his ground for battle, his 6'2" muscular 200 lb frame striking a determined pose, by first sticking the end of his Mace in the mud, to free himself to hold the 3 stones in his left hand, while he grips his Syl War Sling in his right hand))

Do you remember the first time you encountered them, Gret? The first time you smelt their dead breath, felt their cold, clammy touch, heard their desperate, undying, horrible wails? Do you remember how hopeless they made you feel? How empty and soulless they are? Do you remember how they killed and devoured Sapper Danfre right before your very eyes? Do you remember how that fear slowly turned to hatred, violent and primal? Do you feel that hatred now, welling up inside you, filling you with strength and adrenaline? Protect your charges. Destroy the filthy walking corpses where they stand!

-------------

Hammerfoot shook his head vigorously, clearing his thoughts. He heard his fellow cleric's shout, which had dislodged a voice in his head that he tried to keep under lock and key but always managed to slip out... He calmly said back to Vengador, "Calm yourself, Laddie! I'm sure they're just travelers..." Yet at the same time he deftly drew his shield and took up a combat pose, shield raised and slowing his approach, and restating his prior question, "Folks, I'm gonna ask ye again, is there anyway I can assist ye? Ye look ill. I can help ye, but I'll need ye to respond to me and tell me what's wrong." He stood his ground, right foot mounted hammer prosthetic planted back in the mud, left foot firm, ready for anything, outwardly hoping that the travelers were just that, travelers, but inwardly hoping that they were the shambling corpses of the undead, that he could let off some steam and find an outlet for some of his more violent impulses...

11th Sempore (Thirkday), 453 E.R.
Woods near the village of Crandel (west of the Indigo river, near the Sendrian border)

Vengador's immediate fear for his fellow Cleric was that Hammerfoot might well rush in to help alleviate the pain and suffering of a group of dying pilgrims ... only to discover too late that he had become the unsuspecting prey of something more foul ... cut off from immediate assistance from his comrades ... who had stopped far behind the compassionate Khord.

Hammerfoot shook his head vigorously, clearing his thoughts. He heard his fellow cleric's shout, which had dislodged a voice in his head that he tried to keep under lock and key but always managed to slip out... He calmly said back to Vengador, "Calm yourself, Laddie! I'm sure they're just travelers..." Yet at the same time he deftly drew his shield and took up a combat pose, shield raised and slowing his approach, and restating his prior question, "Folks, I'm gonna ask ye again, is there anyway I can assist ye? Ye look ill. I can help ye, but I'll need ye to respond to me and tell me what's wrong." He stood his ground, right foot mounted hammer prosthetic planted back in the mud, left foot firm, ready for anything, outwardly hoping that the travelers were just that, travelers, but inwardly hoping that they were the shambling corpses of the undead, that he could let off some steam and find an outlet for some of his more violent impulses...


Vengador let out a momentary sigh of relief.

At least his friend Hammerfoot had come to a stop, drawing a line of defense, rather than further distancing himself from the group behind him.

Vengador held his ground, waiting in almost breathless anticipation, relieved that he would not be standing there ... sling in hand ... watching his friend rush headlong into a nightmare ... from which the Khord Cleric might not have had the time to escape from ... without paying for it with his life!

What if you are wrong again? What if they are not Undead? You have been fooled many times before! What if they are just sick? Your friends will no longer trust you! You are Just Crying Wolf Today! You Have Failed Your Vision! They Will No Longer Trust You! They Will Laugh at You! Your Error Today Will Cost All of Them Their Lives Tomorrow ... or in the Near Future!"

These and a multitude of other negative thoughts bombarded his brain in a matter of seconds.

Vengador took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

He would rather be wrong and shout out a warning to the group ... than to be right ... and remain silent ... at the cost of watching a friend die needlessly ... because he had remained silent ... for fear of being wrong!

Vengador was ready to face the ridicule of his friends ... if he were indeed wrong this day!


((OOC: Vengador continues to stand his ground, ready to use his Syl War Sling and the 3 stones he has plucked from the muddy path, to aid the Khord Cleric from afar, in case the slowly shuffling group approaching them really are Undead foes!

He also quickly surveys his other companions, to see how they have reacted to his hasty warning!

Vengador is also prepared to uproot his Mace from the mud, aided by the sure grip of his Khord War Gloves, in case he must enter a battle face-to-face against any unexpected foes!))

"UNDEAD!" The forceful call came from the walking mountain with the impressive if frightening skull scar. Vengador might block doorways just by pausing, but the girth and brawn did not mean he was without thought.

Strong arms of Irel plucked her from the mud.

>SPLORCH<

Such a loud and obnoxious sound to punctuate after such an odd battle cry? warning? Maybe he suffered from old man Withers syndrome? He always screeched out random words, rather funny at dinner gatherings.

Hammerfoot made short work of his cry, taking his place, implacable as always. He groused of being calm, while making a pretty grand gesture of standing firm and trying to rouse the people again.

She glanced up to the elven guard, this whole situation really unnerving her. How many times had she been yanked up off her feet by the town guard. She started counting. But the rest of her mind was far more stuck on this word.

Undead. Mostly dead? Sorta dead? How many flavors of dead could there be?! Then again, maybe Vengador knew. He must have been one of those rumored Saved. The ones that pretty much HAD to die from a wound but then were graced by the 'god's holy light' and 'brought back'. Malarky and horses***, gods can't do that. Then again...there's a right many here god loving not fearing in this group. Maybe there is more to it than I thought."
"If I was feelin' poorly and out in weather like this, I'd be the same... wait... they be comin' from Crandel? Ye think the whole lot of 'em be sick in that city?"

Her right ear twittered and itched. Aeden must have plucked a string, which brought a smile. When he played, it changed everything about a fight! Besides, he played far better than she.

Getting back to her feet, she kept Ol One Eye ready. Out Back would soon loose from its sheath to join it if there was real trouble.

Rae didn't answer to Vengador's cry, not vocally, but she had questions, questions that he couldn't answer. For what reason would creatures that were living but not be on the road? It almost certainly isn't to get to the next town. For that matter, why are they here in the first place? I thought most eschewed the outdoors.

"I'll stand ready. Everyone, be prepared to defend yourselves, but we should not let fear cause us to deal an unwarranted first blow," Rae spoke back to those behind her as she raised her shield, before advancing to give a bit of space for movement between her and the others.

I pray that you are wrong, but you might not be. If these beings are beyond the realm of life, Falloes give me the strength to send them where they belong. Rae prayed.

If they were indeed creatures from beyond the grave, then Rae would do her part in providing them with an immediate target to attack. Better her, fully armoured, alert, and shield ready than Talca or Pepper, or really anyone else in her mind. It wasn't that she doubted their capacity to take a blow, but she would rather not take that chance.