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 (southwest of Daviena Castle, 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 seen the accumulation of clouds, and while the farmers blessed them, the group of travelers trudging down the dirt road did not necessarily share that viewpoint. 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. Aranwen Galandel, sylvari bladesinger, began to feel uneasy. She 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 eight or ten 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.

Aranwen, ill at ease because of the strange mist and otherwordly feeling, calls for the party to halt. I look at the approaching travelers with distrust. They seem to be moving rather oddly. I try to take a closer look at them to see what is really going on, listening as well for any strange or out of place noises...

Despite the cool expression she nearly always wore, Kithran was not a fan of the weather. Although the half-Sylvari had not voiced her discomfort, her gait was stiff and she occasionally reached up to tug at the collar of her shirt in an attempt to try and let a breeze against her skin. She could certainly have dressed in lighter colors, but Kithran made that sacrifice in case she needed to bleed into shadows. The drizzle did little to alleviate her aggravation. In fact, it only set her more on edge as the wet footsteps and dripping raindrops fought to drown out the world.

The mist made the hair on the back of her neck. It was hard to tell if the shadows that bounced off it were real or a manifestation of the heat and stress of travel playing tricks on her. When Kithran continued to notice them and began hearing strange sounds as well, her hands found her way to the daggers hidden amidst her belts. Her fingers tapped the hilts as if to reassure her that they were still in place. If this mist did bring trouble, Kithran wanted to be on guard now before it was too late.

Upon rounding the bend, Kithran spotted the travelers ahead a moment before Arcanon's call for a halt and she stilled. Her hands remained hovering near the hidden daggers, close enough to draw but not so obvious as if she still held the hilts. If the group ahead meant no trouble, it was no good to scare them. And if they were bad news...

It would be best to get the drop on an enemy, yes? Kithran took a slight step from behind the two in front of her, her eyes trained on the figures ahead.

[Focused on listening for the stiffled buzzing of sleeping stirges that could be hiding in the trees.  Midge keeps shifting his gaze to each side of the trail, scanning where the mist is thick in the trees.  The party halts and he stumbles into the cat-man-monster who doesn't need a cloak to keep off the chill.]

Ooomph.  [Whispers] Sorry, what's going on?  There's too many legs in the way and I can't see.  [He then tries to move to the right side of the road, closer to the trees and mist so he can see around those in front.]

I'm trudging. Or maybe I'm sloshing, Gib considers the proper way to describe his actions. Swimming. I could be... I certainly feel like it. Damnable weather. 

Glancing past the edge of his open face helmet as he moves to peer over his damp right shoulder. Stepping almost sideways, the priest of Therasor jealously considers his feline companion who is walking towards the rear unburdened by swampy armor. 

"Whoa!" His boot heel slips forward in the mud drawing his left leg further out than expected and forcing an uncharacteristically clumsy recovery. Shrugging his shield strap into a more comfortable position, Gib clenches his teeth in frustration and turns his eyes back towards the murky future.

Aranwen has been casually leading the way since the group had broke camp shortly after dawn. Enough days have passed since the glorious eradication of the bandits that their wounds have healed and the healer is grateful that the crazy mist with its ability to make shadows dance has done them the courtesy of waiting to show up until this morning. The dry heat they had been experiencing was instrumental in helping their wounds heal clean. Gib isn't sure they would have been so lucky with the weather they now face.

"By the Blood," he growls for what seems to him to be the fiftieth time that day. "One of these puddles might be deep enough to swallow you whole, Midge. Watch yourself."

Humor in the face of unease. It's a soldier's coping mechanism and one that the priest picked up by serving in the Ertainian army. Comfortable enough with his companions that he doesn't spare them from his humor and this mist is giving him plenty of reason to call upon that soldiering trick.

Slapping a stinging insect that lands on his exposed cheekbone, Gib sighs and returns to his sullen trudging/sloshing/swimming. He's not sure of how much time has passed when the Sylvari calls for them to pull up. 

Focusing in the direction that Aranwen is facing, the priest squints through the gloom and spots the slow-moving crowd. Sensing more than seeing Kithran move off to the side, Gib can't deny the feeling of unease born by the fog seeping into his very bones.

Rolling his shield from his shoulder and back, the Ertainian slips his left hand and forearm through the straps. "What thoughts have you, Aranwen? Trouble?" 

Sylvari have better sight than humans--something the swordswoman had proven in their recent past--and Gib is relying on the woman's abilities now.

At first this weather had struck chords of longing in the heart of the kazari warrior known as Ch’dau; the heat and the damp evoked memories of Capasha’s jungles and made him ache for his homeland. They were fond recollections, to begin with, but, as the rain began to seep from the clouds and coax a thick, clinging mist from the ground, winsome memories of a long-missed homeland became muddled with dark remembrances of a place he’d seen in more recent times. The darkening of the skies, the sultry oppressiveness of the heat and humidity, and the incessant, irritating drizzle of the rain began to remind him of the dark dungeons of Sendria and, the longer he trudged through it, the more his mood soured. He scarcely managed to suppress the low, angry growl that rumbled in his throat as, with an annoyed shake of his shaggy head, he sent the offending rivulets of rain flying from his fur and, flattening his ears, tugged his makeshift hood over his head in vain attempt to shield himself from any more of it.

It is not just the weather, Ch’dau mused, his tail swishing behind him in annoyance as his gaze swept from one side of the mud-laden track to the other, but the entirety of this place. Shadows moving where they should not. Shapes in the mist that allow but a glimpse only to steal from one’s sight an instant later. The rumbling growl welled in his chest, again, and his massive fingers flexed, extending and retracting his claws as he pondered what fresh hell the party might be trudging in to this close to the Sendrian border. Surely the demons that occupied that place would have no trouble finding their way here.

The big cat’s musings and mood grew darker and darker as the party slogged on and, as they rounded a bend in the sorry excuse for a road, he found himself more than ready to lash out at something just to alleviate some small bit of the gloom that clung to his soul the way the mist and rain clung to his fur. It was then that Aranwen called the troupe to a halt and drew all eyes’ attention to the knot of aged and ill pilgrims that approached them. He stopped dead in his tracks at the bladesinger’s command, claws extended and eyes narrowed, intent on the approaching party… at least until the little cidal mage bumped into him.

“Oomph,” Midge grunted, thudding off of Ch’dau’s leg. “Sorry,” the little mage whispered, “what’s going on? There’s too many legs in the way and I can’t see.”

“Trouble, perhaps, little one,” Ch’dau rumbled, “Aranwen sees more than us all. We shall find out soon enough…”

Cedric is marching and thinking how a lighter summer robe might feel better right now.

"This fog! May the Radiant Father shed light on this matter."

Cedric will step aside from the column and see if he can see anything of the coming creatures. Trying not to step on Midge as the party stops. And trying to keep his robe out of the water.

[How do those soldiers keep cool in all that armor? Does that cat thing lick himself clean? How the mind wanders in this fog.]

The party takes up defensive positions as the group of shuffling walkers slowly closes the gap between them.  As they approach, moans can be heard from the slow moving group - moans of pain, of fatigue, at fear of the sight of the well-armed party of adventurers blocking their path.

The travelers are human men, clothed in ratty gray and light blue robes.  They are filthy from the road, damp from the oppressive  drizzle, and half-starvd by the look of them... and they certain;y appear to be in no way threatening.  Several lean heavily on staves, but no other items that could be construed as weapons are visible among them.

Their leader - a slightly less gaunt human with a stringy, dirty beard, calls out in a scratchy voice.  "Block not our path!  We cannot tarry here, not with what stalks this road at ight.  We seek the blesed shrine of Lysora in the Taverton wood; we dare not stop, lest we never reach it."

He fixes the party with a baelful gaze.  "You would do well to be off this road come nightfall.  They are coming.  They never rest!"

His companions groan in agreement, and the pilgrims shuffle past the party, headed south and east at a relentless - albeit it slow - pace.

The young mother to be cried out in agony and fell to her knees as the pains ripped through her abdomen yet again.  Her attendant quickly materialized to check on her, but as usual, the accursed blonde bitch just patted her hand patronizingly and spouted useless platitudes about how "motherhood was hard" and "it's normal to have some discomfort from time to time" before helping her to the bed and leaving her alone.

Discomfort, my shiny arse she mused darkly. 

Even though this was her first child to carry,the young woman was no stranger to babies.  She had younger siblings, and growing up on a farm, had even been elbow deep in a cow's nethers a time or two when the calf wouldn't behave when the time came to make its entrance.  She was no fool, and knew full well that pain that felt like one was being cut open from the inside was not normal - especially not when it was unfailingly accompanied by blood in her smallclothes afterward.   

But the attendant refused to listen, and the midwife had not managed to make it by for two weeks, now. 

She was so alone.  Her family had not visited in longer than she could remember.  The baby's father... the truth of the gods was that she didn't even remember the baby's conception, let alone the father's identity.  Garrock had died on the wall nigh on to a year ago, she hadn't been close to a man since.  She supposed there must have been too much wine at the Solstice, but still...

Her thoughts were interrupted by her own scream.  The pain was back, but far, far worse, with her guts clenching in as if they were trying to turn her body inside out.  She felt the gush of wet warmth soak the bed and pool around her bottom, heard the fluid drip against the floor beneath.

The attendent stepped back through the doorway.  "Ah, it seems that it is time," the woman observed mildly. 

Time? No!  It had not been long enough!  The babe should not be here before Pfier at the earliest!

The young woman panicked, tried to cry out, tried to warn that she should have nigh on two months before the baby arrived... but she found that she could only shriek; coherent words were impossible as the internal tearing began anew with her next contraction. 

The useless attendant was at her side now, dabbing at her her face with a cool, damp rag.  "There, there, dear..." she cooed.  "Some pain is to be expected at the miracle of birth."

Gripped in the throes of an agonizing contraction, the young woman's eyes shot open in terror.  Her gaze had settled on her distended belly, but it was not the mound itself that drew her attention, but the tiny claw that now extended out through the skin, some three inches beow her navel.  Her agonized shrieks took on a tenor of mindless terror, but the attendent merely squeezed her hand and smiled. 

In her panicked state, the young woman tried to get up, tried to call for help, but had not noticed the three robed men who entered her room.  She could do little to fight them as they grabbed her arms and legs and held her down on the bed. 

The claw was soon joined by another, then another.  The young woman screamed and sobbed, desperately begging for aid, but the attendent simply smiled and hummed tunelessly as the contractions truly set in...

It should not yet be dusk; normally, it would be an hour or more before dark began to fall.  But the accursed mist does its level best to choke out the sun, and the daylight fades quickly.

"Sir," Gib starts. "Kind sir," he adds. "Who are They and pray tell, what has befallen you? What should we be prepared for? Please, stop and share your knowledge with us that we may not fall prey to the unknown of which you infer."

The leader of the pilgrims shakes his head.  "We have traveled far, lost most of our supplies and a third of our number.  They come at night - the restless ones.  They never stop.  They never tire."

He stops, and his gaunt face fixes as he stares into nothingness.  "As bad as they are, the laughers are so much worse.  They are cunning, and merciless."  He glances towards Kith.  "And they seek the fairer sex... we have lost brothers, but all of our sisters were taken by them."

The pilgrim shakes his head.  "We have tarried too long!" he wails.  "We must go, with haste!  The Blue Lady's blessings be on you all."

The tattered group makes it perhaps thirty yards or so down the road before the giggling starts.

At first, it seems as if the out of place sound comes from one of the pilgrims, but you realize that it is, in fact, coming from beyond them. Then come the moans - first, the moans of fear from the pilgrims, then the moans of several figures emerging from the dusk.

The pilgrims scream in panic. Their leader cries out. "Lysora save us, they have come!"

At that, a dark shape rushes from among the emerging figures, darting in among the scattering pilgrims who scream in terror.

[Hmmm...fleeing trouble that doesn’t rest and is more active at night sure sounds like the undead. Damn, I hope not.  Well this is part of being an adventurer - time to work the magic muscle and make a difference!]

Midge trots over to the front of the refugee party and loudly states:  I’m not a priest who can heal your ails, however even I know that morale is a critical factor. I can do nothing for the weather, but most men feel better if they are clean. Perhaps that will lighten your step enough that you can take time to tell us of the trouble behind you. 

[Midge then proceeds to touch each refugee and magically clean him of the filth of their journey.  If he sees shoes that need mending he will make an effort to do that too via a second cantrip - “stealing” threads from their socks or robe hems as necessary to aid the magical repair. ]

{Oops not fast enough!}

After listening to the pilgrim leader talk of the "restless ones" and the "laughing ones", Aranwen is empathetic, but still suspicious of these strangers who appeared in our way after the strange mists had set in. I have seen many things in my travels, but none to fit the description of these giggling predators.

As the pilgrims make their way down the road, I hear the faint sound of laughter and at first think I'm imagining it. "It can't be" I mumble, as the first shadows close in on the pilgrim group. 

Without thought, I begin to rush over to the pilgrims, drawing my longsword as I do. I attempt to engage whatever figure is darting among the pilgrims. I put all effort into offense, hoping to dispatch them as quickly as possible, since there are innocents in danger.

Ch’dau’s ears flick and twitch in reaction to the moans emanating from the file of fetid robes. Even from his position at the rear of the column, he could veritably smell the weakness of the haggard bunch… These pose no threat, he judged quietly, Even if they were, they would be no trouble… A faint snort of what could have been either disappointment or amusement escaped the beast, then, and he turned his gaze back in the direction they had come on the off chance that these shamblers might be a decoy intended to distract his companions from something more formidable.

“Block not our path,” came a voice from amidst the moans and groans, “We cannot tarry here, not with what stalks this road at night. We seek the blessed shrine of Lysora in the Taverton wood; we dare not stop, lest we never reach it.”

Stop your mewling and carry on, then, Ch’dau snarled inwardly, glancing over his shoulder at the leader of the pilgrims, you delay us as much as we do your pitiful band.

“You would do well to be off this road by nightfall,” the scratchy voiced monkey cautioned, “They are coming. They never rest!”

A low growl rumbled in his chest once more but, this time, the kazari didn’t bother to try and stifle it. While the priest’s words were far from a direct threat to his companions, something in the veracity of the gaunt man’s words troubled the man-cat and, as the moaning throng of robes shuffled past, he eyed them warily from beneath his hood, one clawed hand moving to rest on the hilt of his blade…

“Sir!” He heard Gib bark, attempting to forestall the pilgrims a moment longer. Then, in a softer tone; “Kind sir. Who are They and, pray tell, what has befallen you? What should we be prepared for? Please, stop and share your knowledge with us that we may not fall prey to the unknown which you infer.”

The leader of the pilgrims shakes his head.  "We have traveled far, lost most of our supplies and a third of our number.  They come at night - the restless ones.  They never stop.  They never tire."

He stops, and his gaunt face fixes as he stares into nothingness.  "As bad as they are, the laughers are so much worse.  They are cunning, and merciless."  He glances towards Kith.  "And they seek the fairer sex... we have lost brothers, but all of our sisters were taken by them."

Another snort escapes the cat, then, more derisive than the last. “Let them come,” he snarled, “I grow weary of this endless slogging and would welcome a battle!” Honestly, he hadn’t intended to speak the words aloud but the priest’s simpering admonition had done little to repress his impatience.

Again, the pilgrim shook his head. “We have tarried too long,” he wailed, “We must go, with haste! The Blue Lady’s blessings be on you all.”

He watched the whimpering pilgrims shuffle away, his ears flattening against his head and his tail now lashing angrily in the air behind him as they went. The ragged group hadn’t made it far when the giggling started…

“The cowards mock us,” he growled softly, reaching up to tear the hood away from his head with one hand as the other, still gripping the hilt of his falcata began to tug the blade free of its sheath.

Ch’dau had taken only a step in pursuit of the pilgrims before he realized that the cackling had not, in fact, come from one of the bedraggled priests but from somewhere beyond them. His ears pricked up, tilted forward, then flattened against his head again when the moaning followed the tittering laughter – first, the moans of the terrified priests, then the moans of several figures emerging from the dusk.

“Lysora save us,” the leader cries over the panicked wailing of his followers, “they have come!”

At that, a dark shape rushed from among the emerging figures, and darted in among the screaming pilgrims who were now screaming in terror and bolting in every direction.

“Lysora be damned,” the kazari roared tearing the sickle-bladed falcata free and charging into the blooming fray, “it is Rrowl you need!!!”

((OOC: Beast-mode activated!!! Ch’dau has the battle he asked for, apparently, and he’s going to make the merciless best of it. He’ll do his best to protect any of the scattering pilgrims, of course, but he’s going straight for the closest enemy with the intent of tearing it apart. He’ll use blade and claw and fang as necessary with no intent of stopping until every last attacker is a quivering pile of meat.))