Open Future in the Fog

[Walter Thornley]

​

1st of Griham, 351 E.O.D, Altalusia
Marshlands.

The padded drumming of the horse hooves rushed across the slick, sodden soil of the marshlands, sending frigid spatter up in quick spurts of gray and gold-flecked glitter. The sun struggled through the weighty clouds, its pallor shining in beams and scattered auras.
In the valleys and across the paths lay the remnants of what pyres could be mounted, and the scavengers have long claimed the rest.
Then, the scavengers themselves were claimed.

War meant death, and much death meant that perturbations of the Shroud turned into hearth of something spreading on the wind like a plague.
Makeshift carcasses of metal moving with the only purpose their constituent parts have known in life - to sow death.
Bodies of rotting flesh still trying to lay claim to the lands they have been marching through, and march on and on.
Spirits of fear, despondent souls, bitter ghosts wandering about, reliving death, seeking for warmth of company, trying to return home.
Worse, less human things, waking up from nightmares and collective daydreams of those who had to trod back.
It was spreading. Even the sunlight did not have as much warmth beyond the veil of the stain.
The villages of Clarant, Arepina and Dzika have already been consumed.

Ahead, westward, lay Arpa - a fortified town that still stood, at least in body, on the border of the warzone.
It volunteered shelter to those bearing the authority of Her Majesty's Edict, if little comfort besides the protection of its walls.

*

​

A day before, a caravan bearing help had arrived, its banner - a a silver fox under a bull-horned crescent crowned by white briar, treading verde mount on azure field. The people of Bremen brought the excess of the early harvest - preserves, grain, cotton and wool fabric, medicinals and armaments to last the settlement a while, and also to provide for the arrivals.
Some people wept for joy at the caravan's arrival. Some had a glint in their eye.

The lord that governed Arpa's lands could do his due no longer, having joined the wraiths out in the field months prior. Most of his family, in search or in attempts to find the token of power granting inheritance, joined him all too soon to care for the commoners left to their own devices, with no logistics and no future.

A unifying order was issued to those serving in Her Name, and others, warriors of chivalry, scientists, and mercenaries of repute alike.
Head to Arpa. Present the Edict on entry. Meet others. Organize.
Help cleanse the land and stop the spread of the affecting Shroud and whatever or whoever may dwell in it.
Armies weren't going to solve what remained.

*

There wasn't an inn, but these days a lot of houses had a hollow-windowed gaze. One of those, a former carpenter's, elevated from the streets glistening with the moisture of the wet season, was turned into a command centre. Inside - a simple hearth, a large table, and quite a few waxed maps and tallies made over the past couple days.

Stood over the wealth of the initial knowledge, broad shoulders wrapped in a heavy grey wool cloak, Lord Thornley traced the feather tip of the quill on the blueprint outlining city streets, cross-referenced it with the elevation map on his right.
Flooding shouldn't have been happening the way that it was. Not unless there was some quirk of the terrain to divert the water into a non-uniform pattern.
Candle light echoed in his eyes in a dim glimmer, making the irises look almost black. He didn't know why this detail in particular had gripped his attention with the intensity that it had. But it had, and proceeded to gnaw at him once all the immediate duties were completed, and in the quiet moments in the murky, foggy nights.

No crickets, no frogs. Everything that could hunt - hunted, and then the things that hunted ran out of things to hunt, and many trod for better grounds.

Even as he was, he wasn't going into the field alone, past hunting down undead on close patrols.
Worse things were waiting a day or two out, things that sat by your fire and stared, and falling asleep on his own out there was tantamount to suicide.
He had the luxury of time, a few days for other queensmen to make their arrival known.
They would be met as heroes, he thought, since Percy was handling the locals. Percy was much better at handling people.
At least there's people in here. We aren't alone in this mess...

 

[Momoshiro]

The marshlands did not breathe.

That was the first thing Momoshiro noticed as he crossed another stretch of waterlogged earth, sandal-clad feet sinking softly into the saturated ground before pulling free again with quiet, wet sighs. Marshes were never truly silent. Somewhere there should have been frogs calling to one another through the reeds, insects humming over stagnant pools, birds arguing from twisted branches. Life was noisy by nature.

Here, there was only wind.

His crimson eyes drifted across the gray expanse, following strands of mist that clung stubbornly to the earth. To most, it was little more than morning fog. To Momo, it was something else entirely. The veil between worlds had worn thin, frayed by so much death that the boundary no longer knew where it was supposed to stand. Wisps of pale spirit-light drifted aimlessly through the reeds before dissolving into nothing, while darker shapes lingered just beyond sight, watching without eyes and retreating whenever his gaze settled upon them.

There were too many.

The war had fed the Shroud well.

He crouched beside a patch of blackened reeds, brushing two fingers lightly across the mud. It wasn't the earth he was feeling for. The ground remembered violence in ways people seldom understood. Fear seeped into stone. Anguish stained rivers. Places where countless souls had drawn their final breaths became difficult for the world to heal, and from those festering wounds came things that should never have existed.

His fingertips tingled.

Fresh.

Not hours.

Days.

The corruption was spreading.

Momoshiro rose without another word to himself, continuing toward the distant silhouette of Arpa. He had passed abandoned farmsteads where doors swayed open despite the still air, villages that seemed to have forgotten laughter ever existed, and roads littered with belongings whose owners would never return to claim them. The dead had been easy enough to avoid. They wandered because they remembered walking.

It was the things directing them that concerned him.

Several times he had caught glimpses of movement through the fog—figures too tall, too thin, dissolving whenever he pursued them. Once, he found an entire patrol of shambling corpses standing perfectly still in the middle of the marsh, their empty faces turned toward the same point on the horizon as though listening to a command only they could hear.

Someone...

Or something...

Was calling.

That thought had followed him for nearly two days.

By the time Arpa's walls emerged through the haze, they felt less like a sanctuary than an island waiting for the tide to rise. Guards watched from the battlements with hollow eyes, their relief at seeing another traveler tempered by the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights. Momo waited just long enough for the gates to creak open, and slipped inside with little more ceremony than the wind accompanying him through the entrance.

The town carried the familiar scent of fear.

People tried to hide it. They busied themselves repairing fences, hauling supplies from the Bremen caravan, speaking in quieter voices whenever children wandered close. Yet fear had a smell all its own. It lingered in homes where families no longer filled every chair, in workshops abandoned halfway through a project, and in windows where people looked outward not in curiosity, but in expectation.

As though they already knew something would eventually come knocking.

Momo wandered the streets without direction, though appearances were deceiving. Every pause, every turn of his head, every seemingly idle glance toward an alley or rooftop was guided by the countless spirits drifting through the town. Most were harmless—echoes left behind by grief and worry—but beneath them lay something heavier, something that made the air itself feel sluggish.

It was here.

Not the source.

A thread.

Something had reached Arpa long before he had.

The trail eventually led him to spirits who were gradually converging on a single destination. They drifted silently through walls and narrow streets alike, gathering around an old carpenter's house overlooking the town. Stopping at the foot of the porch, he watched the gathered spirits. Some circling above, others lounging or floating about.

Something drew them here.

Momo stood quietly on the porch for a moment, tilting his head as though listening to another conversation entirely.

Then his knuckles rapped softly against the wooden frame.

Three measured knocks.

He waited.

Not impatiently.

Simply listening.

Because sometimes...

The house answered before the people inside did.

 

[Agatha]

The land was dying.

One needn't have eyes to see the devastation left behind by passing armies. The voices upon the wind spoke in whispers, warning those who lived not to forget, lest the cycle repeat itself. Burnt villages littered the landscape. Blackened carcasses lay half-submerged beneath the sodden earth. There had been numerous sightings of wild hounds roaming the outlands whilst murders circled overhead.

Not a bad sign, per se. If anything, it proved that there was hope for them yet; the Crown would not have committed so much money to a lost cause, had that been the case. The eight hundred and forty sell-swords that made up the Blackshields' fighting strength would have sought employment elsewhere, had that been the case.

Riding at the head of the vanguard, Agatha had taken to counting the sunken mile markers along their route towards Arpa. Armour rattled and jinked. The giant boars they rode didn't so much canter as trot at speed, heads up, snouts sniffing the air for signs of trouble... or treat.

Of the latter, they found none, though the cadavers they came across were like to make trouble. Nothing a lone rider couldn't handle. Sometimes, they encountered larger groups but they, too, fell in good order.

She had put Mender in charge of the clean-up. Left Hand and Sicko had drawn lots on who got to play rearguard.

Left Hand had won -everyone agreed he had probably cheated, they just couldn't prove it-, and so the Captain had sent Sicko to eat dust whilst the civilian hangers-on played catchup. Agatha did not envy him the detail: wagon wheels caked in mud, mules and men biting at one another, unruly children sneaking off to dig up lost treasures amidst the reeds and abandoned pastures. 'Twas a game they had quickly grown tired of, after the first corpse came crawling from the muck, flesh sloughing from bone, rotted teeth gnashing.

She had broken off four squads to ensure they continued to behave, and to lend Sicko a hand. The rest had plowed on, hooves and hobnailed boots marking their passage to safety. Rather, the illusion.

The sentries manning the palisade didn't even bother asking for their Edict, just let them through, as was wise and proper.

It did not take long for the Companymen to orient themselves in Arpa. Billeting themselves in abandoned houses, Agatha spent much of the first few hours issuing commands to her lieutenants, which they passed down to their sergeants. Patrols were established, guard rotations made known. The local forces were more than obliging; the increase in activity offered ample distraction, convincing those with doubts that they might survive yet.

The smell of rot still permeated the air, alas, and an army of boars, horses and men did little to improve the living conditions about the town. But then that wasn't in her remit.

Making her way uphill alongside her bodyguard, Agatha reached the command centre a few heartbeats behind one particularly fluffy-tailed stranger. Foregoing her black cloak and death's-head brooch, the Captain paused a moment, watching as the 'kin waited. And waited.

'Is he just gonna stand there or what?' Brick asked, pawing the axe riding his hip. 'Some of us actually have shit to do.'

'Patience is a virtue you're lucky I don't pay you for,' replied the she-ork, reaching up to tap the man on the shoulder. 'You going in or staying out, friend?'

 

[Walter Thornley]

Out in the marshlands, once darkness fell, if felt so much like home, in a terrible way that he could not truly describe, because half the horrors belonged in the margins.
The darkness of Bremen nights was like pitch, like a blanket that covered everything within the valleys and forests, a veil that only parted for beasts but not for men. In that darkness, at the banks of smaller rivers, you could sometimes hear paddle on water but see no boat. You could sense someone walking alongside you in the forest, always at a distance.

And then there were wanderers who didn't know or follow the local habits, did not spread salt around the campfires, did not avoid giving things names; they travelled at night, they didn't light the lanterns. They got the worse end of it. Your own voice calling at you when you sleep. Shapes in the fog. A person no one can remember that becomes part of the group until the group is suddenly just you and it and the visceral understanding that this too would not last.

Beasts had a sense for the things, avoided the ones dangerous to them best they could. Mortals had less sense.

In those spaces, the moons weren't giving even a margin of glimmer, even on clear nights. Blind unseeing eyes, hanging in the vastness of the heavenly dome.
As if the spaces beyond the torn up veil fed on any light at all.

*

He wasn't surprised by the arrival of the army. Not because eight hundred on the march was hard to conceal, but because his own Edict mentioned authority over the logistics. He knew then that he'd have more than his sixty seven militiamen and thirty Huntsmen to feed. Negotiations over supplies had been handled long before they reached Arpa.

What he did not fully expect was the size of the 'cavalry'. Massive omnivorous beasts. He studied them on the first day, when they moved through the gate uncalled and starting making themselves at home. The gloved right hand wrapped around the brittle branch railing of the narrow stilted terrace hugging the former workshop floor. The mercenaries would receive directions on asking, and they would come when they were done setting up camp. He could spend the time better than busybodying them around.

Which only meant that people of more social and covert means, such as Huntsmen running under the Head, would keep a quiet watch, and tally up mischief and those responsible. No confrontation until the lord gained a clear understanding of the leadership and their stance in this.

A thought passed him, briefly, that this might have been meant as punishment. Look, an heir who ran away with the mercs in his youth, forced to wrangle them now so better men would not have to bother
But the truth was, this was more like a boon. Not only because Walter preferred the mercenaries of a certain caliber of discipline, but also because there was no noble house behind them to spit poisonous platitudes at him. All in all, a very agreeable affair, and they - collectively - had much bigger fish to fry.
The hogriders could prove indispensable.

He could not help but entertain a... hope?
With a smattering of bureaucracy.

*

But it wasn't hope's latest emissary to knock on the door first.

The scouts reported a white-haired man of seemingly Aetochan bearing, days before he walked through the gate. They didn't offer escort, but kept an eye - it was, after all, suicidally unwise to travel through the marshlands alone and on foot. But he traveled down the mostly trodden route, and could catch the company of supply caravans should any match his timing.

They should not have let him pass through the gate without a clear statement of intent and authority behind him. This was not a county fair, and any stranger with an agenda had to be accounted for.

Galad of the Hunt slipped from the shadows not twenty steps behind the foxman, only to watch the foxman study the improvised strategy room, or at least, the building itself, and head directly there. Galad had express order from Percival not to interfere in such cases, so long as the person acted in the open daylight, as was the case.

The building was silent. Nothing was particular to it save thought and intent, the beacon of faith in it as the new seat of relief and authority for those gathering.
And when Momoshiro stood outside the door, he could feel it, indistinct enough that even now his senses barely caught onto it, much less could figure out the source. Like an odd metallic scent, a sense of things moving where they should but not quite like they should.

There was someone behind that door, the weight of the body making the floorboards creak as he moved about, the shuffle of papers being moved about, the slight scent of white sage, sweet and earthy, like a ghost of incense long burned out.
But there wasn't a presence. A dust mote spirit moved through the wall, floated through the space, gave berth to something, as if carried by an invisible current bending about something, and sank through the floor to somewhere else.

Nothing reacted. Nothing felt out of place. Nothing threw a wood quarter into the hearth.

Walter lifted his gaze to the knocks, and waited a beat - his hearing, already attuned to the ambience of Arpa, especially here on a slightly elevated position, caught the vibration of two more pairs of boots converging up the boards toward the gathering point. He glanced back, at his - not quite a seat of power but one comfortable chair of a few, and the heraldry hung onto the wall behind it. The proper map of the area was already spread on the table and weighted down, pending discussion.

*

Walter could hear lighter steps of leather-clad Huntsman corner the building, traversing the narrow stilted terrace with those branch railings knotty and grey with time and moisture.

Outside, a tall young man of pale complexion and pleasant features, scar indent across the middle of the jaw nonwithstanding, emerged from around the corner of the building and nodded to the three. He wore greys and greens in wool, one of the Bremen folk no doubt. He also wore a pointed hunter's cap of the same tint of dark leather as the rest of his armor, and held a gloved hand on top of a sword. His gaze felt like it was peering under layers as he quickly assessed the gathering and offered, with a faint incline of the head.

"Good day," he greeted all, but the follow-up was pointed at the mercenaries. "You may head in, lord Thornley is expecting the Captain of the Blackshield company or representative." The lord's attendant was coy. He knew the name. "Welcome to Arpa, ma'am."

His attention then shifted to the fox man. They were about the same height, Reginald thought.
"And you, sir? Given this is an uncommon spot for leisurely travelers - would you happen to be here?"

A grey drizzle rain manifested, miniscule flecks of moisture that would permeate every surface with a wet chill soon enough. Reginald's sunny disposition held, and so did his curiosity. The lad must have been in his mid-twenties, no older.

*

The lord stood slightly shorter than the new arrivals. He had a fading suntan about him soon to fade completely into the habitual pallor of a man who did not sleep well at nights nor saw much sun during days. He was clean-shaven, groomed to a degree of dignity. He could not have been too far into his thirties, but the jet black hair that framed his face sported the early silver threads, and there was that look in his eyes.
A sort of slightly jaded, firm stare from slightly lowered lashes, that spun ten thousand miles but never missed a beat nor detail.

Bodily, he had a solid, weighty presence in the room.
The same could not be said for the space where his aura should have been to all that could see it. There wasn't an empty spot there, per se. It was almost like the spirits bent around that space, like debris on the outskirts of a whirlpool.

"Good afternoon," he intoned, dark eyes turning to Agatha. He stepped forth, closer to the map table, fingers resting at the edge of it. Irises caught against the candle light, betrayed a violet-blue hue. The gaze shifted to just beyond the door, catching a glimpse of white tail and yellow robes. Only for a moment.

Of all the Bremen folk, the lord wore the least amount of armor, but beneath the fencer's leather vest was the most beautifully blue shirt of thick cotton, dark and rich in hue. The sleeves ended in an armguard on the left arm, and a full on glove on the right. The heavy gray wool cloak and pointed hat that hung by the door belonged to him, no doubt.

He waited for them to get in. At least, for the accounted ones - Reginald would manage the rest.

"I am lord Thornley, baron of Bremen." His voice was pleasant, with a slight touch of a melodiousness to it, but the tone of it, while it carried a polite degree of warmth, was also slightly flat. He was not trying to placate or impress. He was not trying to get rid of her. He was getting through the pleasantries as speedily as he could so they could start getting things done. "I serve at Her Majesty's pleasure in Arpa as the representative of the Crown and scholar-advisor in matters of the occult nature.

Before we arrive to the crux of the matter - the supply chains and logistics necessary to make our united presence here relatively comfortable have been secured, but men are needed immediately to provide additional security to the caravan down the main tract to the West, due in two days, as we have an amassment of undead on the move across that route, a single iron wraith spotted among them."

He plucked a smaller heap of papers from the table, but did not quite lift it, pushing it towards the mercenaries instead.
"In order to prevent unnecessary casualties, you will also need your men to memorize these additional security protocols in regards to travel and foraging. Nature doesn't behave here, where it is still present. I have had compiled the so-far known deviations in commonly harmless plants here, complete with sketches for better comprehension.

As for travel," his mouth hardened into a line, showing the early lines in the corners, "do not travel alone, no matter how hard or quick you think you are; ideally, do not travel at night at all; if travelling at night, every living person must carry a lit lantern. You will recognize Bremen patrols by the ghost flame lanterns we carry, when lit they burn blue and you can see them from afar specifically in this unnatural darkness," he indicated a small glass and brass sphere on his belt. "Every carrier of such a lantern is well-versed in Shroud deviation phenomena and its extermination, and will be able to provide assistance in the field."

He presumed the drakehorses, the reptilian steeds of the Huntsmen with claws and sharp-fanged maws, thick braided and decorated manes, tails with coarse fur brushes, and beautiful liquid-like sheen on the coats with segments of scaly carapace, did not need introduction.

"Take a seat, if you fancy," he gestured at a bunch of sturdy chairs around the table and by the wall, and paced, restless, to a small murky-glassed window. Might not have been glass at all, he thought, turning back around and heading to his own chair. "I would rather forego the courtesies. We have an enormous work ahead, and much to discuss. Any questions so far?"

 

[Alaric Wulf]

Trekking through marshy wet lands was never a breeze, regardless of the situation. There was ground that went to soft, fog that covered everything in its blanket, and a smell of wet and decay. Still, this was an extreme difference to a normal trot through marshy land. It felt as if the entire area was in a chokehold, like you couldn't breathe here. Even the loyal steed beneath Alaric shuffled anxiously, squealing and tugging.

The Dusker was glad to have found the wake of a small army, it certainly made his travels easier. He didn't know if the belonged to nobility, or if they were a mercenary band but he didn't really care all that much. It made his travels easier, more safe. There were more than just the undead out here, you could feel it in the air, feel it crawling up your spine. He gave them plenty of distance, content to ride their coattails to Arpa.

His goal was primarily information gathering. He would take in the situation and send a report back, then it could be decided if more knights would be sent to aid or if they were content with what help had already arrived. Despite the reasoning of his arrival, Alaric already knew that he himself would also join in the fight. It was not required of him, but he knew his duty well and would perform it to the letter. He was a Knight of Anathaeum after all.

He entered Arpa soon after the company he had followed, his horse still unsettled despite being i the middle of civilization. He slid off the gelding with practiced ease, slipping the reigns to a stablehand. There was a lack of joy here, it seemed to have been sapped from the very bones of the villagers that remained. They were certainly loyal to not abandon their home, something to commend them for.

He pushed his way onwards, finding the command center with relative ease. Hard to miss the imposing figure of a she-orc and foxkin disappearing inside of it. Alaric picked his pace up a bit, slipping in behind them, though his armor gave away his presence fully as he crossed the wooden threshold to the meeting inside.


A hand rested on the hilt of his sword, more a comfort than a necessity. He let his breath escape him as Lord Thornly immediately delved into a speech directed towards the she-orc. Thornly seemed very serious about his rules, Alaric was concerned that his movements would be hindered by such enforcement, but he would figure it out. He certainly wasn't afraid to be out on his own, he had dealt with blight and the undead before after all.

As the she-orc was the primary target for Lord Thornly, Alaric himself waited to be addressed. He would announce himself and the knights when the time came. He was curious about the others in the room as well, but he was certain he'd know them soon enough. They were going to be working with each other for some time, pleasantries didn't have to be rushed right now.

 

[Aelius of the Dawn]

The sun traveled with Aelius. He never truly noticed how sunlight almost always managed to pry its way through whatever clouds hung overhead - the sun's rays were everpresent around him. Even now, clouds heavy over these murky, dark lands that reeked with rot, the sun tore the clouds apart just enough to allow a few bright rays to illuminate the path before the paladin, or to catch on the blade of his glaive or the many trinkets decorating his hair.

The man rode through these dark lands on his golden steed - a powerful beast, decorated in shining golds and reds, glinting beads and talismans lovingly braided into its mane - the both of them a speck of gold that easily stood out amongst the dreary environment. He was not here to hide. He was not dressed to blend in. No, everything about this man screamed 'look at me.' And perhaps what stood out here more than his bright colors, or the sudden sunlight, were the emblems proudly decorating him:

The sun. Symbols of The Heavenly Father, Ko - known to most as a false god of the Arshakan Empire. And sure enough, his horse's caparison was proudly displaying the colors of the Arshakan Empire.

When he wasn't dashing his steed through some stray undead and slicing them in twain with his glaive, he was at times stopped by a suspicious guard or three. A flash of a scroll, ornately illuminated with gold ink embellishments, an official seal of the Arshakan Empire and, particularly, their faith, and... the stunned guards let him pass.

---

Aelius could not fathom what horrors the poor people that lived here had gone through. By the time he finally arrived at Arpa, his heart was heavy with grief for people he did not even know. There wasn't much of a town within those walls, in his opinion, but plenty of warriors were gathered here at least. Surely they would all be able to do some good. Surely, bringing the light of Ko would brighten these dark lands.

It only took two more flashes of the scroll before he finally was pointed to the right place, and found where to dismount and stable his steed. He gave the mighty beast a gentle stroke and pressed his forehead against its muzzle. "Rest while you can, my friend. We have a lot of work ahead of us."

The door to the makeshift command center opened once again, and for a moment sunlight pooled in through the door, cutting through the dim light with ease. But as Aelius ducked in - his build was tall and broad chested - the door shutting behind him, the glow remained. The hearth somehow flared brighter, and the man himself had a faint glow of sunlight about him. His hair, long tight coils decorated with golden emblems of his faith, flickered as if made of fire. Eyes bright, red, yellow, aflame not in the way that they burn but in the way that they warm. His natural glow reflected off all the gilded decor across him, making him glimmer and glint.

The paladin had rich, deep, chestnut skin, though only his face was exposed. Like everything about him, even his face was decorated - at least ten golden piercings adorned his face and ears. Ten piercings that were visible, at least. He wore chainmail with a bright tabard overtop, depicting the bright sun of the Heavenly Father. Ivory and gold gauntlets and greaves covered the rest of his body. In one of his hands, he held his matching glaive.

He... stuck out like a sore thumb.

Aelius offered a bright smile to those gathered. He jingled with each step - not just the chainmail, but all his talismans braided into his hair and dangling from his glaive. "Hail," he saluted. "Hope I'm not late." His voice was, expectedly, warm. Honeyed, deep. The man himself was warm. Any that stood near him would be able to feel the natural warmth emanating off him.

And with that casual greeting, he leaned against the wall and rested his glaive next to him, folding his arms across his chest and smiling.

 

[Agatha]

Agatha acknowledged the guardsman's words with a nod. Brushing past the foxkin, the Captain let herself in ahead of Brick, her lithe frame eclipsed by the orkin's armoured bulk. Welcome to Arpa. Smiling to herself, the she-ork strode deeper into the hut, painting on a more measured expression as a figure materialised before them. A nobleman of moderate wealth, if the quality of his garb was any indicator.

Agatha was more interested in the quality of his character.

Not one for formalities, thought the Captain, listening as the man spoke of the situation developing in the marshlands surrounding Arpa; the matter of logistics, the need for reinforcements, strange goings-on and the like.

Taking the offered papers, the she-ork studied them a moment, her lips pursed, brow scrunched in thought. The Lord's handwriting was precise, and to the point. Detailed, so much so as to border on hyperfixation. Agatha liked that. It meant he was taking things seriously, that he wasn't like to sit back whilst others did all the work.

'Take these to 'Bad, and ask him to wrangle up the Lieutenants,' she spoke quietly and to the side. 'He'll know what to do.'

Reaching over her shoulder, Brick took the papers from her hand with a gentleness belying his strength. Armour plate rattled as he turned on his heel and headed for the door without question. Loyal to a fault.

The door squeaked open, and in strode two newcomers.

Brick eyed them warily as they wandered past, gaze shifting to meet his Captain's once the men had their backs to him. A nod from her saw him continue on his way, closing the door behind him as he went. There was a subtle click.

Making room, Agatha moved closer to Walter as the others made themselves comfortable.

"... I would rather forego the courtesies."

'That makes two of us,' the she-ork smiled, offering the Lordling her hand. 'Agatha, Shield Captain. At your disposal, saer!' Perusing the map and papers spread across the surface of the table, the mercenary pondered a moment, marking the notes left behind by Walter or his officers.

'Any contact inside Arpa so far? Spectres, Wights? The ethereal and material?'

 

[Momoshiro]

Rain gathered quietly upon the porch, tiny beads collecting along the yellow folds of Momo's robes before slipping soundlessly onto the weathered boards below. A stray droplet landed atop one of his snow-white fox ears, earning a brief flick of irritation before it settled once more. Behind him, his fluffy white tail swayed in an unhurried rhythm, more a quiet expression of thought than conscious movement. He remained still for another moment, his attention lingering not on the people who had approached, but on the unseen currents of the Shroud flowing around the old carpenter's house. The tiny spirits drifting lazily through the walls never crossed a particular point. Each one bent around an unseen center before continuing on its way, as though instinct alone warned them to keep their distance.

The soft creak of boots on the porch drew his attention away just long enough for him to glance over his shoulder. A broad-shouldered woman clad for war stood with an equally imposing companion at her side. Another traveler might have tensed beneath their scrutiny. Momo simply offered the pair a small, respectful incline of his head before returning his gaze to the restless spirits. Whatever curiosity they held about him was no different from the curiosity he held toward them.

Only when Reginald spoke did Momo turn fully.

His crimson eyes settled on the huntsman, studying him with the same quiet curiosity he afforded everything else. There was no suspicion in his expression, nor offense at being questioned. It simply seemed natural that someone would ask.

"I followed something here."

His answer came without hesitation, though it offered little at first. His eyes wandered briefly toward the marshlands beyond the rooftops, as though tracing the path back through memory.

"It began in the wetlands. The dead stopped wandering."

His gaze returned to Reginald.

"They were listening."

The words were spoken with unsettling certainty, not as speculation but as simple observation. Wandering souls rarely shared purpose. They lingered where regret anchored them, drifted where memory carried them, or dissolved quietly back into the Shroud. Whatever haunted the marshes had changed that. The dead no longer drifted aimlessly. The spirits moved in unnatural currents, and something hidden beneath the surface of the Shroud was quietly drawing them together.

Only then did his attention drift past the huntsman.

The spirits surrounding the old carpenter's house behaved strangely, but stranger still was the man standing among them.

Momo's eyes settled on Walter almost immediately. Dust spirits floated through the room without care, passing through walls, beams, and furniture alike, yet whenever they neared the baron they curved away without hesitation, their paths bending around him like leaves carried by a river around a stone. It wasn't fear. It wasn't obedience.

It was simply... how they moved.

His head tilted ever so slightly as he watched.

"Curious..."

There was no suspicion in the quiet remark, only genuine fascination.

"Very curious."

The words lingered in the air as Momo continued watching the tiny spirits bend and weave around Walter, each one instinctively avoiding the space he occupied. It was unlike anything he had witnessed before, and for a brief moment the rest of the room simply ceased to exist. Only after satisfying his curiosity did his attention widen to those gathered around him.

His crimson eyes swept over the weathered maps, the scarred tabletop, and the unfamiliar faces assembled within the workshop. A mercenary captain carrying herself with quiet confidence. A huntsman whose gaze missed very little. Others who had traveled from distant lands, each answering the same call for reasons of their own. He offered the room a small, respectful nod—a simple acknowledgment that he had seen them and accepted their presence—before, almost unconsciously, his gaze found Walter once more.

Finally, Momo looked back to Reginald and offered a deeper bow.

"I'm Momoshiro Komori—just a humble exorcist, at your service."

A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth, just enough to allow a fang to peek through.

"I'm looking for whatever is calling the dead."

His crimson eyes found Walter once more. Another tiny spirit drifted toward the baron, curved effortlessly around him, and disappeared through the floorboards below.

"I think..."

He paused, following its path.

"...he's looking for it too."

 

[Walter Thornley]

~AGATHA~​

He watched her set about business with a still face that read as heavy or intense to some, but all it was, was his facial muscles reflecting a semblance of relief. This was the level of discipline that he dreaded would be absent into whoever was sent here to this blighthole to fight and possibly die with him.

Discipline was good. Discipline was taking information into work without prideful puttering. It meant knowing how to be efficient, and knowing how to work with those whose goals paralleled yours. It meant a degree of restraint - a much underestimated thing in a place without so much as a militia.
They were the shield.

He moved forward, a smooth half-step like shadows entreating when the flame wavers, his right hand lifted to hers.
The lord's face went still, he looked her in the face but would just as well move back if a warrior's handshake was not accepted. He could assume too much too quickly, lulled by a bit of nostalgia. If she balked, or moved with malcontent, he would reorient mid-move to a good old bureaucratic squeeze of palms.

"Let's make good work."
She could feel the fingers squeezing steadily, but even through the leather and cloth, that arm felt rough and wrong and dry like kindling, with dips that could only be massive scars.

To her queries, however, he had to pause, attention drifting past Agatha and to the door. The corner of his eyebrow twitched, so slightly that perhaps only she could see.

The drizzle outside quietened a moment, and pallid yellow light drifted through the clouds in a strip, enough to give somewhat of a halo to the one who'd arrived last.

---

~ REGGIE ~​

Reginald had to move somewhat, because the new arrivals refused to stop at the front door and present so much as a name, much less an Edict entitling them to the conversation between lord Thornley and the Captain of Shieldbearers. That said, the guests were also peculiar-looking enough to have been the lord's past brethren in arms and such - so he'd heard from Garrick.

And then one of them showed the scroll with a valid Edict, and Reginald no longer knew whether to clutch the propriety or find something better to do, like identify the Altalusian knight who arrived with the Shieldbearers, or - this beastkin, who was very polite about his intrusion, but just as seemingly spacey with the statements.

Seemingly.

Reggie was a Huntsman trained to the full, and he had a certain disposition towards individuals who seemed to know too much.

He took a pause to pull an inhale in through lungs that felt like they were speedily covering with young oncoming frost.

"We know." A beat of pause, another pull of air through once-broken nose, nicked with the same blow that the jaw had been, and Reggie offered, "A weaver. I see." He pondered another moment. "From your words, it follows that you do not have an Edict from Her Majesty - still, we could use someone of your talents at our employ. It is not my decision to make, however."

The conversation inside had paused for a brief moment, only for the lord to call out, his voice betraying a hint of weariness,
"Admit them. Anyone else is to state their name and loyalty or to present an Edict. Else, the drink house is downhill and along the main thoroughfare north, and unlike here, they have barley beer and swamp lily moonshine."

"Yes, my lord." The attendant opened the path with a gesture of his hand. "Please, good exorcist, and you syrs, proceed to the meeting."

Reggie stepped aside, allowing for the three solitary figures to enter the council room, each carrying their own agenda, and let out the big man carrying papers with a familiar-looking script. Exhaling ever so slightly. Letting his shoulders drop.

And standing in the entryway, barring further admission bodily, as he was bid, with a hint of sheepishness about.
The lord should not have had to intervene. Perhaps, he had to harden up.
Many important folk would walk through these doors, and many more just wanting to gawk that had to be seen off.
Was not his first day on the job, but surely felt like one.

The door closed.
There was a soft click, barring those inside from the dim tiny foyer area, and from the long steps down and round the hill to the thoroughfare.

The drizzle that quietened outside had unleashed into torrential rain that had been gathering for hours as the gravity of the collossal magical inertia of the region where thousands had died - pressed against the one affecting it.

♫ Martia's Muses - Dark Forest​

---

~ ALARIC ~​

Walter couldn't help but notice the young man who slipped into the door before the brightly-dressed exorcist or the proverbial ray of sunshine that followed suit after. Part of Walter's job had been people-watching, but it didn't take a smart man to figure out a local among the crowd of foreigners. It was in how he was dressed, in the shape of his armor and armaments, in the choice and style of his weaponry. For all the diversity that could be provided throughout the kingdoms, training and blade forms had regional connotations, not to mention the ability to meaningfully spar with equally-trained opponents.

And slip in the man did - the quietest, without a single word or drawing much attention besides Reggie's. It was the latter part that made the baron conclude this behavior had, perhaps, a bit to do with the quality of a wall-flower, rather than a serious attempt at espionage. He offered a smile with the corners of his mouth, his gaze flicking over the knight's gear and in the next instant taking in the features of his face.

There were few individuals from a smaller than small handful of guilds and orders who would travel like this. Fewer still well-armed and without a banner of a noble house behind them.
In a small way, this could be troubling. The Crown's true intent for bothering with to-be wastelands was, in the very least for now, concealed, and had to remain so.

That could be arranged.

Only a beat passed for all of these considerations to conclude.
Quick, efficient, routine.

And then, the lord spoke in that tone that did not raise enough to ring with steel - a calm, almost dispassionate cadence, words falling distinct from one another like pebbles into a bottomless pond.

"An ally of the crown is welcome to offer statement of intent and introduction of their loyalties, good syr. Please, step forth and do so."

He waited, long enough for the man to offer a statement. All throughout, his eyes stayed on him with a quiet attention. Assessment. Everything from how he spoke to how he moved to the colors and the scent and the tone of voice. And no small part of it was to see how this knight would react to such a thorough scrutiny.

Perhaps, there was a bit of arrogance and purpose. Perhaps, this lad was just a shy wall-flower trying to seem tough behind a good steel carapace. Either way, he did not judge. Purposeful would serve same as the shy. They would do good work together. There was no other recourse for either of them.

---

~ AELIUS ~​

Attention shifted to the one that shone with gold and radiance, the one whose very presence parted the clouds in his wake like a blade being dragged through the Shroud-saturated dreariness. The Empire, sent one of their own?

The baron's eyes did not narrow with suspicion, no. His gaze remained lax. Eyebrows rose slightly, one just above the other.
And pinpricks of light ebbed into the middle of his pupils, the violet irises attaining a halo on the outer rim consisting of lights tinier than pinpricks, each a hole through the veil of Mother Night leaking faint radiance like distant stars. They faded through the webways of the irises in dying motes.

One would think that he studied the man because the man was quite a feast for the eyes in terms of everything a man could appreciate, from the decorated armor to the build, the daring hairdo and the choice of weapon that perhaps indicated cavalry, meaning high standing - good mounts and good armaments, once more, were hardly cheap and easy to obtain, lest one did certain unseemly things... not so here, the armor seemed made to fit exactly this form.

He wondered if the piercings had meaning. Hierarchy markings? Status symbol for the wealth amassed?

This one had the air of someone travelling with a purpose, and carrying religious paraphernalia to boot.
A noble would have brought at least house guard. So would an invader.
A mercenary travelling so far to find work in this world would have had a banner, local or otherwise.
A missionary, then, armed and armored to prove his god's blessing would befall all who listened?

And there was that other thing worth tipping his hand in regards to his own... relations with the Shroud.

The man was a weaver. There was a radiance barely contained in the personal distance tied to the body, bright with hues of autumnal amber and pale gold that seemed almost white. But it had no etherealness of a spirit flame. It was a wildfire contained, controlled. It was a flame that obscured no worse than darkness. Behind it, he could sense, there was a heavy, thick tether, a handle to the luminescent cover.

No earthly binds were a matter of concern compared to that obscured core. Who knows what holds the leash in so bright a self-made pyre? What happens when it snaps? The radiating warmth could probably become a scorching heat of energy finding an expression in the material plane as fire. A blast outward, a blazing column? Walter. hoped it would not come to that in Arpa, at least.

"To what do we owe the presence of an Empyreal, and with an Edict, no less?" The words fell quietly. Not an admonition. 'I do not know where to place you despite the paperwork', unspoken, 'I do not know whether my observations are correct'.

Yet.

---

~ MOMOSHIRO ~​

Those eyes lingered on Momoshiro, after, but not on the clothing or the features. The gaze bore into the exorcist's eyes, unblinking, direct, for a beat equal to the time it took to assess the others.

There it was, the ephemera he'd felt about. A weaker, paler, steadier radiance that had a lightness about it, pressing against tethers upon tethers that were trying to deform it into something darker, eating away at the corners. Not a new sort of binds and tethers. A risk he'd have to consider, but just as much a potential help.

"You, one from the east. You have questions and I may not deign to answer, but you will ask them still, and I will ask some of my own - and that will come later, as this meeting takes precedence over any curiosity. Name yourself, state your specialty, and stay if you are ready to work with the rest of our colorful assembly, to the best of your ability and by the blood and sweat that will be required." A command and an invitation, wrapped in one with impeccable flow.

He waited for the answer.
Eyelids fell for a moment, as if in a slow blink of acknowledgement.
Once they lifted, there was only the velvetine darkness in them, and the echoes of light from hearth and candles.
The spirits drifted around him, but never through, like motes of dust.

---

♫ Micah Butler - Can't Turn Back​

Walter clasped his hands together, producing a dull clap of bare palm against leather of the glove, marking the introductions over. Strode to his seat, and landed, gesturing for everyone to do the same.

"Now then, back to the organizationals. Logistics and supply routes are established, but need security. Outside, nature and threats of the aether are as prevalent as the physical undead - and to answer your question, Captain, Arpa is safe.

We have warded the place upon arrival, and I have personally seen to the wayward and the hungering. The wards will have to be regularly reinforced - unfortunately, this place had amassed quite a burden that presses at them at all times of the day - and my men with aptitude can only be in so many places at once. For a tenday now, we've had no trouble, though stretched very thin.

The locals also advise against disturbing any local soil within the city's limits.
They burn the dead, according to tradition, in special kilns, so as to collect the ashes, and mix them with clay into effigies.
Those effigies seem to be a part of a long-standing protective ritual that covers every home of the locals where they are enshrined and should not be disturbed."

He lifted a gloved index finger, indicating the next topic.

"We have completed amassing rumours and points of interest for outward expeditions. They will be posted on the morrow at dawn."

The middle finger joined the index, a hare's point.

"There are also architects and waterway engineers present from Bremen, and ongoing talks with the geomant-masonry guild outside of the region, in order to further expand and fortify Arpa in its glory as a survivor, in Her Majesty's name."

Three fingers up, a crow's claw.

"Internally, we are lacking for healers as supplies are underway with an estimate of four days to arrive unless misfortunes prevent it."

A twitch touched the fingers, and Walter lowered his hand against the tabletop.
"And then, of course, there are threats outside Arpa. Among the most benign we have the shambling former soldiers, sometimes mutants where the Shroud was used in war. The iron wraiths are a problem, as you'd imagine. There aren't too many flying threats, mostly because heavy crossbows with acidic ammunition do the job on the wings, and the rest is much easier a fight. The worst comes at night, I wish the ephemeral ended with wailing ghosts. The marshes themselves are death wanting to become, at night, understand. Directions and distances may no longer make sense. The less disciplined the mind, the more it reflects on, hm... folklore, and fears... it seems to feed on that, too, somehow. And try to mold itself. Hence, travelling alone is forbidden - these things don't need an invitation, and some of them may know your name and deceive your senses with no one there to course correct. I do not want more bodies than absolutely cannot be helped."

He voice finally cracked, dryly, and the lord swallowed, casting a glance across the table.

"Any questions?"

 

[Aelius of the Dawn]

Bless his heart, Aelius was not the most intuitive man. He locked eyes with the Baron for a few moments, took note of how the man took time to look him up and down. There was no clear confusion or stony defensive expression, something he'd gotten used to since traveling outside his home for the first time, so clearly this meant the Baron was checking Aelius out.

Aelius responded with a quirk of the brow, a tilt of his lips, and a not-so-subtle once-over with those bright red eyes. The man was certainly handsome - though, Aelius had to remind himself he wasn't here to flirt, and quickly locked back in.

Once addressed, the paladin pushed off the wall and strode forward, jingling with each step. He reached into a pouch at his hip and retrieved the elaborate case that contained the same scroll he'd been producing during his trip. Smiling that bright smile, he handed the scroll over to Walter. Once it was taken, Aelius rested a hand on the table and leaned close to the man (the proximity to the golden boy felt like sitting close to a hearth), as if to read over his shoulder. He wasn't, of course. He was taking a closer look at Walter.

A single glove. Bad scars, perhaps? Fine clothes, but the Baron was organizing things directly rather than hiding away in another, safe city. A pale, cool-toned complexion (that and the man's cool clothes contrasted greatly with Aelius' shining golds and rich, warm brown skin, which he found amusing). Beautiful eyes - incredibly unique eyes. And... nearly a foot shorter than Aelius.

The scroll itself was... perhaps a quite surprising olive branch offered. Or, as close as they were going to get. It was illuminated as beautifully as any holy script, just as ostentatious as Aelius himself. It was direct, concise, to the point.

The Empire knew of their petty troubles, and of the damage it caused, the danger it poses. The Empire has sent a single man to help clean up the mess, and to bring the light of the Heavenly Father: the son of Ko himself.

It was signed and sealed with the official insignia of the Arshakan Empire. Glittering and gold.

"Aelius of the Dawn," He offered with a smile, still leaning close to the Baron. "Son of Ko, Radiant Flame of the Empire." It was spoken with pride, but not in such a way to embellish himself. He held a gauntleted hand out for the scroll. "Please, you owe nothing. I am simply here on the good will of our Heavenly Father and the Empire. You need help, and I am here to return the light of the sun to these lands."

With the scroll returned to him, Aelius rolled it back up and slid it back into its case. He offered a wink before allowing the poor man some space again.

As introductions wrapped up and the meeting officially began, Aelius took one of the seats by the head (just by instinct rather than intent). The chair was spun around and sat on backwards, the tall man resting his arms on the back of the seat and his chin thus on his arms. Typical bisexual behavior.

"I can heal," He chimed in at the end, perking up as his smile returned to his face. "And I can fight, of course. So tell me wherever you need me to be." It was not a question. No, he did not have any questions. Just happy to be useful.

 

[Enid]

Meanwhile...​

"This is too wet," Enid firmly stated of the twig of white cedar dripping in her palms.

Left Hand's girl huffed in response, bottom lip thick with disappointment as much as it was with waxy pink balm. She cast her eyes to the sad pile of deadfall she'd collected at her feet, as though seeking approval of it. Sprigs of local balsam and larch, thinner than a child's wrist, added their rainwater stains to the many that storied the boards of this old abandoned house. Moss could spring up at any moment and it wouldn't be a surprise.

"Those are also wet," Enid said with a confirmatory sigh, tossing the twig down and wiping her hands on the sides of her half apron. "Marg, you don't have to collect firewood. Gone and ruined your dainty little hands, n' for what?"

"I wanted to help," Marg said, bashfully picking at a broken and dirty crescent of fingernail.

Enid's laugh in reply was not cruel. In fact, she'd been told many times over that it was the most beautiful sound a person could hear -- sunshine, harp strings in a marble hall, bell chimes, birdsong, streams, the trees stirred by wind. She knew all of it couldn't be true at once. If anything, she knew her laugh as its own unique sound that never mocked anyone, and perhaps that's why it sounded so beautiful to her patrons when she parted her thighs for them.

"My darling," she cooed, sweeping up the girl's hands in her own and rubbing gently at a blemish. "This is not helping, this is idle wandering. Are you bored already? Shall I find you an Arpan widow to console? Perhaps a wight handsome enough that even you couldn't deny them?"

Margella acted offended by the offer, snatching her hands back and turning to face the cold, empty hearth with another huff and groan.

"It's worse here than the fuckin' 'Fel, Enid. Tiphany told me that Lilliana's daughter overheard a lieutenant say unless we have an escort we're not to go outdoors, like, at all."

"Well, why would you want to?" Enid traded, pacing slowly over to the window -- little more now than a punched-out frame, with bits of greening broken glass scattered across the sill.

The hazy rainlight, so tinted with shroud, failed to fully find her features, only slightly catching the redgold of her waist-length hair, and glancing off the roundness of cheeks and nose. She suppressed a shiver beneath her sable furs as the drizzle transformed into torrential showers, and a thin streak of lightning cracked in the far distance, over hill and treeline.

"Frowning like that will give you wrinkles, Marg," she chided without turning, knowing well the expression she couldn't see. "Guard your worries, don't wear them. Once the company is settled in, n'Agatha is confident in the terms n' arrangements, we'll have a longer leash." Then, she receded from the open space and drew her furs closer. She still had travel mud to rinse from the others.

"Come, help me make this place look less like a tomb for our darling Captain, hmm? Shouldn't be long 'til they've wrapped up business next door."

 

[Walter Thornley]

As Walter's hands unraveled the scrol, his attention flicked back to the paladin. The right eyebrow twitched ever so slightly at the man deciding to taunt him, or perhaps it was expression of interest in regards to his prolonged staring. Oh, right.
His face, other than the irksome quirk of the brow, did not change, tracked the movement, the eyes raking over him. For a moment, he considered disciplinary options. Eyes downturned to the scroll, Walter had to keep from quickreading the way he was used to. Had to make sure that every syllable bound the luminous man in the room here. The Empire sent their best, hm?

He kept his ground, back straight, shoulders down. He was not going to balk. He was not going to give space in response to this intrusion. Jaw knit a little.
You never relax, a different voice whispered in his mind.
Not when I am carrying the day, no.
"Sit." A single word, an indication that came close to an order. "The paperwork is in order."

*

And, in time, his eyes would flick to Agatha.
"In the spirit of all of us knowing potentials of our comrades. Empyreal Aelius is a powerful pyromancer, straight to the point, if healing is also involved, I see him invaluable. One Momoshiro Komori is a very attuned spirit-tether weaver and I will converse with him separately after this meeting. A flow-magus and a weaver-magus, roughly rubedo-magus and albedo-magus both in terms of power. To be prudent: among useful Shroud-related things, I have the Sight to reveal and negation to shield from some magical abilities that is mostly tied to myself with limited sharing. I can also be more tenacious than I should be, and faster than I should be. No outward power or its measurement. Consider this in your tactical assessment."

He inhaled, exhaled, straightening his thoughts and trying not to look at the shining beacon of warmth that occupied the seat to the side. "Healing would be very welcome, so long as there would be no proselytizing attached. We will share what resources we can. Then, everyone will be expected to link up in groups of at least two, and be on the field until we get word back from the builders. Rotations to be determined."

 

[Agatha]

'Good work's the only kind we do,' smiled the Captain, accepting the subtle change in stance with the grace it was intended, and grabbing Lord Thornley's forearm just as his own fingers dug into the fabric of her pourpoint. A warrior's greeting. Not much muscle on him, thought the she-ork, holding the man's gaze a moment. Strong grip, though.

Still smiling, she returned to pouring over the map, keen eyes taking in details that her own map lacked.

War had changed the land, as it always did. The tear in the Shroud had only served to worsen matters. Entire sections had been redrawn to properly reflect topographical changes in the surrounding area. Roads were marked with 'X's' where they had ceased to exist; even more had symbols next to them, denoting additional danger or other such calamities. Agatha made a mental note to go over them with the Lord, before her departure.

Outside, the drizzle had turned into a downpour. Rain battered the roof of the carpenter's hut. No wonder the locals are so miserable, if this is all we have to look forward to. At least it would help clear the air.

A sudden warmth bade the Captain raise her head. One of the strangers had approached the table. Aelius of the Dawn, a paladin haling from Arshaka. The she-ork felt her body tense as she resisted the urge to reach for her dagger. The Company had never been on friendly terms with the Empire, primarily due to their attempts at northern expansion. The mercenaries had done some good work, keeping the southern wolves at bay.

The Senate-elect weren't like to forget their actions anytime soon, nor the Primus of the Eleventh Legio. Ko, however, might.

'Well met, Aelius,' she heard herself speak. 'I have no doubt your contribution to our cause will only be matched by your considerable might.' Agatha gazed up at the paladin. There wasn't much difference in height between them. His mass, however... If he proves false, I shall have to send for some axemen to cut him down to size, mused the she-ork, offering him her hand, as she had done Walter.

Momoshiro Komori seemed a strange fellow. In Agatha's experience, most Weavers were. They wielded powers and abilities beyond the average mortal, and, like with most forms of power, it came with its costs.

'How do you fare, Saer Humble Exorcist?'

Remaining afoot, the Captain turned to regard Walter as he went into greater detail about the nature of their companions. 'Quite the gathering we have here,' she remarked somberly, casting about herself at the others.

'I have no further questions. With your leave, I would return to my people.'

 

[Momoshiro]

Momo had remained quiet through most of the introductions, listening with the same patient attention he gave to everything else. His eyes wandered from one speaker to the next, lingering on each face for a moment before moving on. He had little to add while names and titles were being exchanged, though Walter's words drew a little more attention from him.

A spirit-tethered Weaver.

Momo's head tilted slightly.

He knew the difference between someone who could simply touch the Shroud and someone who had learned to work with it. There was a weight to Walter's presence that felt different from the others in the room, though Momo could not quite decide what it meant yet. The man's description of his abilities only made him more curious.

Especially the Sight.

Momo's gaze remained on Walter for another moment before shifting back toward the map.

The information about Arpa was easier to understand. Wards. Supplies. Healers. Places that should not be disturbed. Threats that changed depending on the time of day.

His fingers rested lightly against the edge of the table.

“Don't disturb the soil,” he repeated quietly.

His eyes moved toward Walter.

“Because of the dead?”

There was no fear in the question. Only curiosity.

The warning about the marshes drew a little more of his attention. Momo's expression grew thoughtful as Walter described how the land could distort itself around fear, folklore, and the minds of those traveling through it.

“That sounds like a spirit.”

His eyes lowered toward the map. He did not sound certain. Momo rarely did when something was outside the limits of what he could sense himself. But there was a quiet seriousness beneath the words.

“If it can change when people are afraid, then being afraid probably gives it more to work with.”

His gaze lifted again.

“And if it can make people hear things that aren't there…”

A pause.

“Then we shouldn't trust what we hear.”

Simple. Matter-of-fact.

He glanced toward Agatha when she addressed him, and her question finally drew a small smile and a nod.

“I am well, Captain.”

His eyes dipped briefly toward the hand that had earlier greeted Walter's, then returned to her.

“Still learning.”

There was something almost amused in the admission.

“But I am happy to help.”

He looked around the table again, taking in the collection of people gathered there. A paladin from the Empire. A captain and her soldiers. A lord who could see things most people could not. Strangers from different places, all gathered in a dead town because something had gone wrong here.

Momo found that strangely comforting.

Nobody here seemed to belong.

Perhaps that meant they could understand one another.

His attention returned to Walter.

“You said we will work in groups of two.”

He glanced briefly toward the others.

“Who should I work with?”

There was no hesitation in the question. No preference.

He simply wanted to know where he was needed.

Then, after a moment, his eyes settled once more on Walter.

“And you said you wanted to speak with me after.”

A small pause as thunder cracked in the distance.

“I can do that, too.”

 

[Walter Thornley]

He knew she'd noticed. Better than his bones being tested by the squeeze on the hand. The weather was a bully already, and he'd have to stomach much worse soon. He huffed under his breath to the remark, smiling, but lowering his gaze for a moment. He understood the mercenary way, coin and survival before contract. But there were few with a more particular mind left to argue the 'always'.

As she distanced, he moved to his spot, too, but eyes lingered on the exchange. Tension was there, in a way that a person pulls a knife from behind a smile to jab it into the stomach. Walter's own expression fell into neutrality. There was no incident, but now something to address - mercenaries from the Free Cities in numbers and terrifying efficiency quite competing with his own, and the radiant and holy Son of Ko and the Empire by extension, seemed to have a history.

"Last point on the agenda, monthly rotations, can be established later. Leave granted," he offered to Agatha with a respectful nod. "Tonight will be the last night before we march against death in force and make the pressure impossible to ignore - so, I hope that most of us partake in what few comforts we can enjoy before then."

His comfort would be somewhere dry, warm, by he tall white cliffs, on the pallid ivory sand of the beach, writing a new song. A heavy drink would not change the landscape much, but it at least would take the edge off.
"Meeting adjourned. At ease, until the square on the morrow."

His gaze found the new colleagues in turn. The glowing radiance of Aelius, glimmer of hair reflecting in every fleck of gold of the piercings, the garnet eyes that felt like their expression was the only measure of restraining the flame to pleasant warmth. He should be tested for an outing, the baron thought. He would take the risk to see how resilient the son of Ko was to things that consumed the warmth.

Fingers drummed a brief staccatto on the tabletop.
He looked at Momoshiro, last.

"Not quite," he echoed, belatedly, to the question that heavy, unmoving stare pinning the foxman down through the pupils, like it was trying to see through the man. "It is not the same ephemera, they are as numerous as the restless dead, like stray thoughts and such. Stay."

---

He waited for the rest to leave, for Reginald to peek inside for stragglers, receive a barely noticeable tilt of the head, and leave, too - all the way to the outside.

The rain ceased, briefly, with Aelius' departure, lessening to a drizzle then a foggy stop. The drizzle resumed shortly after, but the rain was winded down the marshland, due to end sooner than the two days that would take it otherwise. And that meant, the sun would pierce the clouds more often, and shine down on all the people starved for warmth and light.
What that meant for the nights, remained to be seen.

With Agatha taking her leave, the paperwork diminished slightly. He could commission her resident scribes to follow dictated reports, as well as engage his own, for distribution. The gargantuan machine that operated on coin and applied violence was slowly maneuvering itself into position.

The knight had left, too, and Walter hoped that the mostly silent observer was handy with a sword and true in tumults to come, even if they didn't see each other on the field.

"What we are dealing with here," the baron started, "is worse than horrors of war. You are correct, they are listening. I am at no liberty to divulge some of what I know, for everyone's sake. Do not disturb the ground nor try to peer through it until we secure Arpa sufficiently. Do not tell anyone else of this restriction."
Walter fell into his seat again. When did he stand? He didn't remember, pacing seemed a second nature by now.

Looked about, as if to offer something to drink, only to recall that he himself ordered for the strategy room to be clean, at least, this time.
"You are free to choose who to work with, based on the mission and abilities that would be most beneficial. I can see you hold many tethers, what are those? Would you be able to add to our wards?"