Private Loud descends the Storm

[kristofer]

Camp Hvithelm, Hillfort
Disputed Territory​

“ Baron Lekander riding in! Clear the way, you curs! “

There were shouts and hassling coming from within the walls and haphazard palisades as the camp ahead roused to attention. They’d been delayed to do so for how late the evening was, dark with clouds that threatened another miserable night. Nothing to see but the surrounding blackness, nerves taught as everyone kept alert for the watchman’s call through the rain and the thunder. Hours of it — would they be able to sleep, with how noisy the woods and the surrounding villages had become?

They haven’t even gotten the gate up yet.

Baron Lekander may have lamented it out loud, had something equally acute not worried her more. There was a body, hanging off the side of the yet unfinished archway ahead by the rope around a broken neck. You could tell by the way it’d stretched, a little too far for nature. Devils’, Hvithelm—

“ What did I say about getting off the way — Scram! “

With another round of shouts and a man’s flailing, they passed into the fort at a brisk trot. The mounted men and some two wagons at her wake spread out like a parting river to opposing directions, claiming space in the outer bailey where they would remain. Herself and the Boneknitter she had instructed to ride alongside approached the man come meet the procession, stopping to where the hill rose onwards. To have called what waited ahead an inner bailey would’ve been an exaggeration.

Some construction site. Her gauntleted hand reached to push up the visor of her closed helm, revealing a stern face that appraised the camp like she meant to summarily execute someone for the state of it.

Construction shite.

“ Baron Lekander— “
“ Where’s Baron Hvithelm? “ She interrupted, dismounting in a crash of plate. The man-at-arms approached to hastily take the reins of her horse. “ And what is this goddamn racket? “
“ Uh— “
“ Are you drunk, soldier? “ Her brow drew into a wide-eyed frown, more surprise than disappointment.
“ Well— “ The way the man squirmed, mouthing something incomprehensible beneath his breath, she hadn’t but one conclusion to draw. Weary disgust clear upon her face, she turned on heel.

Her march rounded behind one of the wagons, where a bunch of men were unloading the wagon. They appeared to all be keeping more or less conscious distance from a specific personality she’d recently earned into her retinue — an elven man of a particularly haggard appearance, but not in the traditional sense. Nay, this variety was more belongs to actual corpses, than the living.

The horse she’d meant to offer him to ride upon had agreed with the assessment, every toss of its head and turn of its ears and wanton shifting of hooves deeply unsettled. So, the back of a wagon it was for him — she only hoped he may have even preferred it, the scholarly type with their books and their notes. And thoughts — Whatever the ones in the head of a man this peculiarly aged, she’d perhaps wonder over wine sometime.

Once the war is over.

“ Netherwisp. With me. “ She ordered in a quick wave of a gauntlet. Upon her return to where the soldier yet hovered with the horses as if petrified by her visibly simmering temper, she gave the Boneknitter a glance.
“ Iasis. “ And and inviting cock of the head, red plume fluttering. One gauntled off, she begun fiddling with the buckles of her helm on their way up the brief incline, able to have it underarm by the time she had to bow her head slightly to enter Baron Hvithelm’s tent.

The man was drowsing in the chair cushioned with pelts and a cloak, elbow on the armrest and cheek rested against knuckles. Breath taut with anger, Lekander approached the table in front of him and slammed her gauntlet down next to the yet half full goblet of wine.

“ Fuck! “ Baron Hvithelm awoke in a start, palm slamming to his chest. “ Bastard! “
“ Your men are rowdy with drink. “ She spoke in way of one woman inquisition, hand planted on the table as she leaned at him.
“ We are celebrating, you humourless tart. Just because you don’t partake— “
“ What’s the occasion? “
“ The war might well be over. Rosthall calls. “ He announced, settling back to his lazy lounging. The expression upon his ally grew less pressing, if no less disappointed.

“ Quite the welcome you’ve strung up at the gateway. “
“ Our second cause for joy. “ Hvithelm explained, picking up the goblet and toasting her. “ Frej fucking Henriksson. “
“ Taken pointers from Rodhan — executing people? “
“ Calm your tits, Nat. He’s worth more to us dead. Alive, he would’ve just been waiting to be broken out of here. “ Just like IIvo Koskela. Old man Rodhan losing his touch, one should hope.

“ Some rare beauty you’ve brought with you — A homecoming gift? “Hvithelm inquired in a breach of subject, braving the dangerous little silence that’d descended betwixt them. He could just about see the small woman behind Lekander’s broad pauldroned shoulder.

“ Careful how you speak to her — She is faster with a knife than I am. “ Natalya Lekander sneered, withdrawing to stand tall. “ And her talents can pull your balls out through your throat. She only has to think it. “
“ Fits your whole deal then, with the red hair and all. Not so much the looks. “

Natalya had to laugh at that, planting her helm on the table and rotating in place. This allowed Baron Hvithelm to cast a better glance past her at the dark shape that hovered there, his face twisting like he’d caught whiff of a sepulcher.

“ The fuck is that? “
“ My guest. Isambard Netherwisp — “ She smiled, satisfied reverence in her voice as she glanced at the elven man. “ He is a scholar concerned with a subject that much interests myself as well — The war geists. “

Baron Hvithelm gave a sheer little haha at that, burying his amusement into a swig of wine. Like it was some prime joke.

“ It is possible their approach and appearance could be foretold by omens, I'm told. “ Lekander continued, a little gesture offering that her two companions help themselves to the pitcher of wine set aside by the table. She wouldn’t have any herself, as didn’t her men, but she’d allowed it to mercenaries and other retinue. Perhaps some bread from that basket, though—

“ Alright, then. “ Hvithelm relented, straightening a little in his seat as if to listen. In truth, he was getting quite ready to handwave another ghost story, just as he had thus far. No matter how much of a wraith this man appeared.

“ What sort of omens? “

 

[Isambard Netherwisp]

Wave of gauntlet did send Netherwisp to heel. Column of black, trinkets silver chiming and glamoured. His place serving the need, attentive, patient, and foreboding with the prestige of gallows. Poised his hands, which did not reach for wine or food.

The moment for his profession to justify the need for oration. Wild men and prophets were oft dismissed for their fervours. Cold as granite stone his voice, no melodrama in his panache, the facts etching out in all grave seriousness. This was not a theatre of fear. This was life and death, for all it's overtones given to sober and rouse the doubtful.

His voice intoned, his movements exacting. No pleasure in his voice in his regaling, no theatrics in his gestures. Yet the touch of what he had seen in portents and his prideful profession did cast their hollow light unwitting, yet guiding path across his voice.

“The omens are bountiful crops. My skills are in the harvest. Let me provide what knowledge I have concerning the wheat and the chaff. May it sustain you against the everlasting.”

A pause for bread to pass between hands, an inhalation through the mouth that harboured some rasping. More effective than a cough to address a crowd, such signs of crucibles upon his body to speak true and thusly. Yet confident was his delivery, failing not in any way despite the recent acid against his spirit, held close so that he might speak of it thusly.

“Never have the restless dead refused their stillness as much as they, no melancholy finds them slacking, no lethargy clings to them as other malignants might indulge. Their sands of time serve their cascade of malice as they strive to make the field full fallen of those who draw to combat's call. Mistake not their consignment of their mettle for any mercy. Mistake them not for myth with calloused imagination. They seek out those with those with fight in their soul to clash and smother that warlike flame with cold conviction. Their intent is in the sight of those that See. If successful in their conviction to lay low the valiant, for other denizens of the Dark to prey upon the meek in their passage. Providing of course, if omens are not heeded, and those dutiful with courage do slumber, and those possessing understanding do falter, doing naught but rest and glower. Such is yours all to defy. Such is yours all to strive.”

Netherwisp closed his eyes for a heartbeat, allowing the portents to breathe again through him. A shudder of the shoulders suppressed yet evident in his wide padded Necroseer jacket, a spasm in the neck faint but unnatural. Eyes fluttered open again, words delivered on to redeem his own exposure to the Dark, to the grinning and spiteful side of Weave.

“The Dark holds this particular manifestation in prideful regard. Capable, intentful, consistent to it's cause, champion to it's tempo. A tempo that does not relent or pale to the surge of tempers of living furies. A thicket of melee overgrowing and encroaching constant. Ferrous fear given boots to crush and foes to best. It is a unyielding manifestation, but the omens and knowledge state this. They might be bested. They can and have before. Make not your preperations scarcely. Make much and good of your courage, present the best of it our side of living have. A perfect foe to make champion a legend in securing it's defeat. Or fodder for the volleying formation, well drilled, and dedicated to knowing it smothered with violence, given gold laced banner for their refusal to buckle and cower. Such Barons amassed are without doubt capable of bestowing such worthy accolades. Such is what is gleaned and scryed from moon and scribe, from the mists of times and the annals of my ways. Such a crop is yours to devour, my noble and true Barons. Such is what is and seen.”

His hand went to chalice, numbed. Blinking, he did find himself dry of lip, and poured remedy. A snifter of wine, whetting what was now bidden to silence, as his heart did ache, finding itself rueful for Dark drum beat gone within him, echoed in his words, for others to march with or against. No trembling in his hands. Rigid and raking ligaments, as wine was supped soft as medicine. His eyes flittered, looking to Iasis, gaze stern to his own complaints, bidding her good fortune with a sympathetic brow, one colleague bidding good to another.

 

[Moina Iasis]

This was the furthest contract Moina had ever taken north, but the distance was well worth the cost. A Baron of Altalusia had been the one to procure the services of a Boneknitter of Crorefell. Either she expected an upcoming need for such healing skills as the Knitters did provide or she was scared. Even perhaps a little of both, such things were never mutually exclusive after all. The healer had been at the Baron's side for more than a few days now, quietly observing the movements of those involved. This wasn't her fight, not in the way that a mercenary company was normally employed. No, her job, always her job, was to make sure the holder of the contract didn't die. That was her primary goal and up to this point it had been a relatively simple task as armies gathered and prepared to march.

If all Baron Lekander's preparation showed the woman to be a skilled leader who thought through each move with a critical eye. Nothing like the mess of a camp they rode into. Baron Hvithelm didn't appear to care one whit about the layout of his camp or how the soldiers within behaved. None of the Storied of Crorefell would have tolerated such lax behavior. The woman's eyes were drawn to the drawn figure hanging from the gate. Flies already buzzing about the body and a crow sitting on the makeshift wall as if trying to decide if the meal in front of it was worth it.

The party rode through, someone from Hvithelm greeting Baron Lekander on entry. The older woman dismounting and immediately demanding an answer to the chaos of camp. Moina couldn't help the smirk on her face as she watched the man squirm under the Baron's harsh gaze. Disgusted enough, Baron Lekander turned marching down the line toward the wagons and Moina dismounted, dropping her reins into the hands of the man-at-arms who just gaped like a fish at the baron's retreating back. Lekander returned momentarily with the other odd companion in tow. An elf who'd looked like he'd seen many more days then even his kind were capable, but really she just imagined his appearance had something to do with whatever he did with the shroud. They'd yet to have a chance to discuss exactly what that was, but she wouldn't be all that surprised if it involved the dead in some way.

On command, the Boneknitter followed the Baron into what could have possibly been called the command tent. Possibly. The man asleep in the chair certainly inspired no inspiration in her. Lekander slammed her gauntlet on the table awakening Baron Hvithelm. Moina waited silently, arms crossed over her chest, smirking at the woman's description of her talents. She hadn't ever tried to pull a man's testicles out through his mouth, but she would be happy to oblige with this particular specimen if he leered at her again. She gave a gentle shake of her head at the offer of wine, while she would drink, now was not the time.

The Boneknitter wasn't particularly familiar with all the details around the war geists and so the answer to that particular question to the elf, who like many a scholar seemed happy to hear his own voice and expanded on the geists in more than a bit of detail. The mercenary was some what aware of the creatures formed on the battlefield that just seemed to eat at all that was there. Swords, armor, the people within the armor. A terrifying tale that had been woven by one of the instructors at the Brahman Magisterium that had served in aside a Legion when he was younger. A beast of a creature the decimated an entire legion, leaving none alive except for the old women who traveled as cooks and maids to the Primus Khashatrii. The only ones who lived to tell the tell.

Netherwisp finished speaking and Moina spoke up. "One of these things once destroyed an entire legion with ease. Don't overestimate their ability for destruction and the bloodlust that drives them." She looked over to Lekander. "While I'm fairly confident in my abilities to heal, going against such creatures means facing death. I can't save you from that." The words were more word of caution than anything. If Lekander chose to go against one of these creatures with her men, then Moina would ride alongside her, at least until the woman went to meet her gods. Fighting against a war geist would need a solid strategy to take one on.

"I might also suggest doing something about that body on the gate." She added in almost as an after thought. "Would be a shame if it were to reanimate in the middle of the night, get loose, and run amuck through the camp." Or perhaps it wouldn't be so much of a shame to be rid of this idiot.

 

[kristofer]

Baron Hvithelm blinked, his face having screwed up with willful incomprehension. As the elven geist stopped speaking, he let his stare drift back to Natalya.

“ You’ve brought me a poet. “

Ripping a small breadroll in half, Baron Lekander merely smiled at his remark. As one did when a pathetic child said something stupid, but not particularly harmful. Neither was this — just a weasel trying to assert his dominance by lazy ridicule. It was nothing to her, for she’d endured it the whole time she’d been courting his sister.

The immaculate plate about her flashed with lanternflame when she turned to attention upon Iasis’ addition to the topic. Slipped a torn piece of the loaf in her mouth, all in a lopsided smirk for how the Boneknitter appeared to make a point to not speak at Hvithelm at all, but above and past him. Women’s eternal wisdom. And she would accept the lot, nodding respectfully once silence descended.

“ The blight doesn’t reach that foul power here. “ Hvithelm managed to remark dismissively, tossing a hand whilst the other rose the goblet up in a swig. Oblivious to the way Lekander rotated in place, gauntlet curling up.

“ My men deserve to keep the prize, hard-won as it— “ He was interrupted as metalclad fist crashed against the table, making him jump and nigh spill his wine. Balls.

“ You have to stop doing that, Nat. “
“ I’m going to take down your little trophy. “ She announced, shoving the ripped up half of the bread in her mouth. Jaw working as she left the rest on the table, gleeful determination in her eyes and fire in her gait that went to exit the tent. Gesturing both of her companions to follow.

“ Don’t forget your helm. It’s dangerous outside the wall. “ The man left behind called, too weary to challenge her otherwise. Natalya Lekander tossed her head and barked a laugh at it, loud and openmouthed.

“ I don’t need my helm. I have a Boneknitter and a Necroseer. “ She tapped her temple, not bothering to even look at him. Unlike you, sleeping in your armour.

The tentcloth flapped. First with her blazing exit, then the hillside gust. The chill of clouds and rain. In the dark, yet some miles from the fort, thundergiants cracked their knuckles.

*​

The wind was picking up. And the damn rope was stuck, the ladder that’d been used to secure it up top missing. Or hidden. Baron Lekander stared into the absolute darkness that surrounded the hillfort and the road leading up from all directions. No lights, no sound beneath the flap of banners and the occasional sounds of revelry. Shouts, clink of cups. Someone's stumble.

The dry groan of rope as the body rocked, softly, unassuming and expressionless as any creeping death. A shiver prickled her shoulders, plate rising as she planted both hands on her hip.

“ Fire. That is your other talent, yes? “ She begun, attention drifting to the Boneknitter. “ Can you burn it from this range? “ Indicated the hanged with the keel of a head. Doesn’t matter which, rope or man. One would take care of the other, sooner than late.

“ And, Netherwisp. “ Turned on heel to see the elven man in the eye, fast. “ If any of them do come back— “

Paused, remaining stern lest she betray her genuine concern, idly regarding the empty blackness where fields, forest and things that were neither lay. Men or worse.

“ Have I understood correctly that you can take care of them? Whatever that means. “

 

[Isambard Netherwisp]

What wine been indulged gave faint reminder of the endothermics of life, the alcohol did warm Isambard where the spirits had chilled. Each vessel served their purpose.

When gauntlet had crashed against the grain, his fingers had placed the cup to sup against thin lips, wordless and silent to the downward motion. No jolt from bash of gauntlet did conduct him.

Natalya Lekander did brandish the titles, arms to wield by one who did lead, as one might seek to wake those who sleep within their armours. This did instruct and demand him, a glad reprieve from slowness.

Netherwisp rose, fingertips pressed and pushed into armrest with a viciousness as if he was digging into eyes. Standing, he was aware of the ground through numbness, but made no sign of the distance unfelt. Memory and training kept himself in the world with focus. The wine did thrum, and the leader he had unto provide service of his title did walk with purpose, out, out and beyond the eyes that did not believe.

The chill and rain was a worldly cold, and somehow brought Netherwisp to appreciate the path ahead in the feeling. A contrast between the warm of wine and ways of weather did as light and shadow remind him that the speech of the null and willful had truly left him. To live again in the considerations, to guard in warning by virtue of his grave calling. A welcome return from a place he owed himself.

The darkness enveloped. The cloak of conspiracy surrounded by sound of coping cups. Sound of corpse that rocked in the cradle of death, by mother wind that swayed banners with that same love.

A question under the shroud of pitch from noble leader.

A pitch the same as it in reply as Netherwisp did answer, a nod of the head from a face that was all sallowed, that favoured the depths of shadow in sharp angles. Flat his facts. Sincere and simple.

"I guard you from the dead, and your cause."

A single first digit, raised to the sky around a hand that curled around his bicep. Replaced to himself, complete against his flesh. His face seemed to become more natural now, his words speaking without the possession of oracle. But rather, dark invention. His words hushed, as if he spoke of assassination, or breaking treaties. Without a slither of guilt or shame in the suggestion.

"But if you wish more to guard themselves against the Dark, to take this serious as you, I have a way that serves that does not wait, if it suits you. There are many ways to rally. It all depends on your stomach to cause a fitful dream in those noble you call...ally. The imagination coaxed does run the waking world, in defense of what is seen in fitful sleeping dread. I can make that impression. No harm caused. No pain within the flesh. Fear given flashes to the minds eye behind closed eyes and doubtful ears. So that when they wake, they know."

He raised his head to reveal more window to the necklaces about his neck. Some symbols of the dreaming sigils making themselves apparent, purple sheen to things that would infect the dreams to inspire more caution in the host of nobles. Such a raise of the head was given to show such things, and was too a mortal gesture. Perhaps, somehow, inviting the one who did command him to embrace the audacious act of causing nightmares to prevent inaction in the days to come.

As the first words of affirming the defense, the next words lowly spoken, flat, and sincerely saying.

"This is possible, should you wish it."

A gesture of the hands, fingertips to the necklaces. A shrug, a small jangle and dance of light from the metal that amassed about his throat. A whisper.

"There are many ways to rally."

 

[Moina Iasis]

Moina shrugged as the idiot in question seemed to think he was above such worries as the undead, despite having just been warned that the very things that took the dead on the battlefield were roaming the lands.

Can't save stupid. She thought as Baron Lekander banged her fist onto the table. At least one of them was smart enough to recognize the danger. She followed as soon as the Baron left, glad to be out of that tent, not sure she would survive being in there much longer.

Outside it felt like a storm was picking up. The wind causing hair and clothing to flutter, even wet as they were. They moved to the front gate and they found the ladder that had been used to hang the body gone. Word had gotten out fast about their plan to remove the corpse. The wind rocked the body as Moina looked up at it.

"Talent no." She said as she looked up.
"But I'll see what I can do."

Starting a fire enough to burn the rope likely would have been easy if the rain hadn't soaked the fibers, but focusing on the length of fabric she snapped her fingers like one might snap steel and flint. The rope smoldered a moment, smoke curling from where the flame had burned before it had gone out.

She clicked her tongue against her teeth and tried again only for the same result. With nothing left for it, she pulled her bow from her back before knocking and loosing an arrow that flew through the rope hanging the body. The strands of the rope split and the body fell with a rotten splat, bones and ligaments popping and cracking as it landed.

"It's down. Probably should be burned. Too wet for my minimal ability with flame to take care of." She said interrupting the conversation slightly.

"Educing fear hasn't been the best way to get people to follow. It just makes them more likely to run in my experience." She cautioned. In the end it wasn't her decision and her contract was to follow Baron Lekander no matter her choices.

 

[kristofer]

As voice composed to whisper, Natalya Lekander stilled to listen close. An offer and a plan, should she wish it. There for the taking at her word — she smiled, a dark little thing, an intrigued quirk to one brow. It grew temperate at the Boneknitter’s addition, all in the wake of a completed task, which she afforded a resolute bob of her head even as she stood firm.

“ Ways unhallowed, even roguish. “ She started, without judgement, bent to respect the boldness of the suggestion. To go against ones own with deception — many ways to rally, for sure. “ To be kept in mind, for sure. “ There could be a time yet when she’d want that donkey of a man to run — would spare her fists, if it came to it. She smiled a little wider and put palm of gauntlet upon the man’s arm in a spirited pat, a warrior’s thanks before she turned to regard the dead.

The soft of the eyes and belly had been the first to go, picked apart by carrion birds. Her face twisted more for the smell erupting from the shreds of spilled guts than the actual grotesque sigh of it.

“ Thank you, Iasis. We’ll have to see— “ Before she’d even proper begun, she trailed off as if by distraction, the rivets and joints of her steel suit aclick as she shifted. Towards the dark again. “ If— “ The words died to a flash of pale light, the rumble of thunder following a couple seconds behind. The wind howled.

Nay, not the wind. A call? Her hand sought the grip of her sword, movement slow and tone measured.

“ You hear that? “

Someone was coming, grass and mud sloshing somewhere on the slope. And suddenly, a flicker of flame that revealed a wicked smile, accompanied by a shrill little laugh. The warm glow died as fast as it appeared, but it was enough to announce a man. Make shape of him.

Hvithelm had no weavers in his troop.

“ Identify yourself, soldier. “ She commanded regardless, the lightning at their backs illuminating too much for so little. Though the man come up stood lonesome, there was something more in the edge of the wood. Quiet for now, hidden properly beneath the night and the storm.

“ Not soldier, dear Baron. Your adversary, unkilled. “ A chuckle bloomed in it’s wake, just about audible beneath the rain that pattered heavier against her plate and the dirt. Outrage flared on her face for the claim and the stupidity of her lone ally. Gullible fucks.

“ What do you want. “ She spat.
“ To negotiate. For your life. “

The man seemed serious. She wanted to laugh, head inclining, horrible expression on her face framed with windswept strands come loose from her military plait.

“ Even if you were able to level threats at me. Your word— “ She pointed. “ Is worth fuck all to whomever has half a brain, witch’s son. “

An amused huff came from the dark, the very unimpressive and plain outline of someone just about visible within it. A soft pacing that shifted the ground beneath soles, leisurely.

“ Then cursed be the earth beneath your step wherever you go, Natalya Lekander. “
“ Wind take you, wraith! “ She barked at the sound of laughter that begun anew, then sidelong at the Boneknitter.

“ Put an arrow in him. “

Lost to her was the gurgling behind her back, the spill of bile and foam from a mouth that gaped like that of a shored fish.

 

[Isambard Netherwisp]

Isambard took reassurance that the one he served had words to send to those who did haunt with such fierceness. Banners did not stand for long for those who quail, he knew. Houses did not stand when fear was given succour, he had seen before.

The rain did trickle down the sharp ridges of his face, no sign except his withering eyes to note any hardship. Leathers dappling with the pouring, drumbeat soft of droplets pattering. Talisman and trinket gaining further sheens for the offering of rains. His fingers went to those talismans as if were a soothing action. Checking the ridges to see if the unkilled brought malice direct with this talk of curses. No rising tension or burning in the metal, no sigils pressing sharp against his spirit. Not yet. Not yet at least.

The order to issue arrow given. Isambard did grow puzzled at the sound of falling rain did muddle with further curdlings. Eyes sharp to the interloper. No rush of feet to attend with knife or shove from Isambard. Quicker this action, and swifter the movement to waylay the shambler. Fingers against the circular pane of silver that was nestled particular to his neck, another hand to tiny whistle that when pressed to that pane gave sound that none would hear.

From the pane did the dweller pour to meet the need at Isambard's request, quick as the need demanded.

Mist ivy green forming into spectral companion emerging out elegant and dutiful, working out from vapours of weave. A hound, slick and drenched, a thing of haunting to assure the haunted, forming as rapid as the master's call to action to his heel. At once the dog so summoned did point as if the trail had been gained on the wind.

A nod from the Necroseer, the summoned hound sent to the guide the shuffling lost in quick bound.

No snarl, no bark. The old dog looked and moved toward the thing that did ignore it as it spewed and stumbled towards Lekander. Dashing quick as it knew it needed to. As expected of it. The old dog seeming more suited for lazy retirement on a farm than to set the undead bone to stillness.

Unafraid, the spectral hound, drenched in wetness and manner full of softness, placed paw upon the shambling. As if asking for attentions, tap tapping for affections.

At once, the footfall stilled. A paralysis caused by clarities. The soothing of the grim was instant and enrapturing, even as biles did trickle downwards. The lost soul had found a guide, and was hushed in it's vigours. Struggled against the calm now before it.

The hound did give nud with muzzle, as if guiding the blind to turn from danger. Further stillness, an odd sound from carcass. Arms swayed against the ghostly fur. Further solace. Rotted fingers found the collar, hooked by movement of the hound.

The hound looked to Isambard. A further nod from the Necroseer, soft words as if honouring an accord. As if the words were an imposition, yet authority was held by the asking.

"Ten day. Then return. Go on."

The hound made a movement with it's mouth at Isambard. A bark silent, but Isambard did wince at the feeling it did make. He knew what was being declared.

"A little while longer. Be good grim. Be good," Isambard said, voice firming for fear of straining. His own eyes looking into the hound's. The beast with imploring sadness. And something else that grew fiercer each time they met again. A hint of something else, a want to bark relentlessly at him, a hint of a rippling snarl growing in that muzzle growing more bold each time their eyes did meet. No bearing of teeth. Just the need to protest.

But all obeyed the need. Isambard could not afford to release the hound from his service. The shambling dead had found a guide stronger than it's wanderings. The grim was loyal, but was growing dissatisfied with the accord it had been given. Patience grew thin, and tolerances were straining for it's existence.

A final look from the grim, until the next beck and call, until the next command.

Into the rain. Into the dark. To send another home. While it still remained.

With dead flesh intertwined in collar, the grim did walk, head down, into the distant rain, where rest would find those boots in the Serene Walk it was being lead upon. Dredging feet. Paws planted in the final walk. The draperies of rain concealing that which would fade from vision and the living's worries.

Isambard looked out to the rain longer he knew he should. The hound did not return his look. He had done once.

The necroseer ran cold palms against his face, anguish and irritation at himself smothered by pale hands that dragged his angles. He shuddered at the cold he now felt, felt no satisfaction in the job of protecting with such means still. Folding his arms he lingered in his peering. The rain did flow down him, as if he were but a statue.

@kristofer @Moina Iasis