conversations: human
conversations:  You have been walking south for weeks, barely making it to safety each night as the sun begins to set. You have passed the border of the USA almost two days ago, and are heading south, always south, through the desert that makes up much of Mexico.
  
  Climbing up a ridge, you see the sparkle of lights close by. Opening your pack, you find your waterskin only a quarter of the way full, your down to the last three meals of beef jerky and trail mix, and you have not yet needed your medical supplies.
  
   
   Spoiler 
  Medical supplies are 5 uses, heal 1d6 per use and gain a +2 bonus on saves vs poison and disease.
   
conversations: Grimsage Matt:
conversations: human
conversations:  Thank... Well thanks, at any rate.  Lights.  Lights at the very least mean something, a settlement, some sort of civilization.  Too long in the desert with only that sound, those images running through his mind.  He'd tried simply not sleeping at first but after a little while they had begun to intrude on his waking hours, the endless silence of the sands interrupted by the rhythmic hiss of water crashing against ice and sliding back into the sea.  If anything the visions had been getting worse. As he crested the ridge the scent of salty brine had begun to fill his nostrils.
  
  Washed away by the lights.  Moving at a careful trot he heads for them, hopeful of a brief respite.
conversations: Obscurejones:
conversations: human
conversations:  As you approach, you hear chanting. Not English, not Spanish, but something older, something native to the sands. The stars above seem dimed, but the shadows beneath your feet, cast by moon and fire. In the middle of the camp there is a giant smoking mirror, and from the corner of your eyes you see jaguars of darkness, owls of moonlit silver and turkeys of opal.
  
  As they stop their rite, the one in the fanciest costume turns to you, his eyes pits of obsidian, with clouds of smoke trapped within. His eyes, which seem as if they could not see, pierce you into your mind and soul.
  
   "Greetings fellow servant of the true gods. What brings you to camp of the desert wanderers?" 
  
  His words are firm as iron, but soft as smoke, and it sounds as if he knows things that you do not. As if he knows your purpose better then you do.
conversations: Grimsage Matt:
conversations: human
conversations:  For a moment the mouth goes dry.  But then that... Thing.  It's been wriggling and writhing in the pit of his stomach and for a moment it rears up, passing through the mouth and darting past the lips.  And it feels disgustingly right.  Like if you let it you'll never have to speak again.  It'll do all the talking.  It'll do all the work.  But with a gagging choke it's swallowed again.  At least its passage moistened the mouth.  And words bubble up instead of ichor.
   "I'm travelling.  South.  Heading for ice and... Antarctica.  I'm headed to Antarctica.  If memory serves it's a straight shot.  Not sure what I'm going to do when I hit Panama... " 
conversations: Obscurejones:
conversations: human
conversations:  He nods, somehow grim, yet welcoming at the same time.
  
   "You follow the call of your god, as we follow ours. Walk with me cousin, though we follow different paths." 
  
  Following him through the camp, there are only a few more people, though the stars seem bright overhead.
  
   "The Gods of the Antarctic wastes are hungry gods, born to blood and battle. You have been called to walk the path of stars, a path drenched in blood and littered with bones, sacrificed and follower alike. But, you have been called. It is an honor to serve the gods, and from the shadows around you, you have already given your master your first offering, yes?" 
  
  As you walk through the camp, as he talks, things appear in the corners of your eyes.
  
  To your right, where the Priest walks, jaguars made of the night sky, and giants of smoke, appear and fade, stalking the words, even as smoke traces arcane patterns in the air.
  
  To your left, eyes are watching you, a thousand locusts, a thousand tentacles, reaching out to you, mouths of fangs, made from screaming children, making promises and comforting words.
  
  But, it is not something you can really see, but your shadow grows long and great behind you, and bloody stars appear where the eyes should be. A mouth of tendrils with a proboscis in the middle, hands replaced with claws, skin with pulsing rot and darkness. Somehow, you know your shadow looks like that, even as you turn, to catch a glance, you see nothing, but hear dice rolling, and mocking laughter.
conversations: Grimsage Matt:
conversations: human
conversations:  He stumbles a little at the question.  Can't help but crane his neck around quickly, catching nothing but shadows.  Snaps back to the Priest.
   "A man in my slum.  He didn't know when enough was enough.  Not much of an offering if that's what it was." 
conversations: Obscurejones:
conversations: human
conversations:  The Priest chuckles.
  
   "Ah, but cousin, you follow the path of stars. Each death you bring is an offering, the blood you spill is drunk by greedy mouths. Besides, all must start somewhere. I have seen champions of Krom full of purpose, tearing out the hearts of their foes and making temples of their bones, feasting on flesh and blood. I have seen the sly servants of Onyxia, manipulators the lot of them. I have seen the cruel paladins of Melekeith, carrying out their masters orders of conquest. And then we have the one you follow." 
  
  You stand before a great mirror made of obsidian, with smoke churning in the depths, but you do not yet cast a reflection.
  
   "Do you wish to know what your path is? Do you wish to gaze on what your god has in mind for you? Few survive with their minds intact. Just say the word little cousin, and you shall find a truth." 
conversations: Grimsage Matt:
conversations: human
conversations:  The scent rises up again brine, but now tinged with blood.  He looks deep into the smoke.  With a slight chuckle he waves his hand over it, imagining trickles of smoke running between his fingers.
   "I have nothing to lose but my mind.  And I suspect it's already on its way.  Show me what you can." 
conversations: Obscurejones:
conversations: human
conversations:  Suddenly, the smoke within the mirror shots out, wrapping around you and dragging you into the ebon depths. The last thing you see is the old priest smirking at you, with a mass of tentacles and eyes behind him, formed of shadows.
  
  
  But then, you open your eyes to a paradox. There is no ground, so sky, no light. But, you stand on something, and can see clearly.
  
  For days you walk, in nothingness, across nothingness and towards nothingness. And then you stand face to face with yourself. But, it is wrong. The  thing  is fully out, and wings made from tendrils sprout from your shoulder blades, your skin is like that of a deep sea creature, covered in barnacles, and leathery with salt. But it is the eyes that are the worst of all. Soulless yet alive, they glare into and through you, searching your very soul, seeming to read your every thought.
  
   "Greetings my human half." 
conversations: Grimsage Matt:
conversations: human
conversations:  "...Greetings, I suppose.  You're... What I'll be?  What I could be, by the looks of you." 
  He glances around.  Looks for something to sit on.
conversations: Obscurejones:
conversations: human
conversations:  Out of nowhere a chair appears, the same one you used to drink your morning coffee in.
  
   "Both are accurate, but not quite the complete truth of it. Rather, I am a creation of the psionic energies being leaked into you, several interesting recessive genes from both sides of our ancestry, and several supressed memories. Though I wonder why you think they died? Perhaps that was the only way you could deal with it." 
  
  If it could, you would swear it is smiling.
  
   "If you want, I can show you. Your children were quite happy about their choice after all." 
conversations: Grimsage Matt:
conversations: human
conversations:  "...You bring my children into this and we have a problem.  One that ends poorly for you and yours.  Last man who spoke ill of my children isn't around any more.  But I suppose you know that." 
  He drops into the chair and lifts his coffee mug to his lips.  Smiles slightly.
   "Bit bitter.  Got any sugar?" 
conversations: Obscurejones:
conversations: human
conversations:  It raises an eyebrow..... not that it has one.
  
   "Granted, your children were chosen and given the blood-gift, but from a fatherly standpoint, is that so bad? So they had to give up a good bit of their humanity, they gained job security and an extended lifespan. Still, considering how you think, your children becoming Dhampir would be them dying, wouldn't it?" 
  
  On the table, all of it just resting on nothing, the sweetener appears.
conversations: Grimsage Matt:
conversations: human
conversations:  "Aye. It's close enough." 
  Getting the little shakers of sugar he frowns for just a moment. Gives a quick shake of his hand and pours the resulting honey into the cup. Takes another slow sip.
   "You got a point to this meeting? Because so far it just looks like I read Macbeth too much in my teens and Lovecraft too much in my twenties." 
conversations: Obscurejones: