[System]
Age: 33
Appearance: Clive stands at just under 6'0 with a medium build and broad, angular face. A prominent brow ridge frames tired, but piercing eyes that seem to read your soul if you stare too long. He has a tendency to wear jackets and long pants as often as is feasible if the weather permits in order to conceal equipment on his person wherever he goes.

Concept: Disgraced Texas Ranger who's currently wanted for the murder of a suspect in his custody and his partner. What none of his peers know is that what he killed was actually the thing that ate them, but of course he couldn't tell them that. He's already a wanted murderer and a cop killer to boot. Adding "believes in werewolves" to his case file would do him no favors. Clive has traveled the country since that night on a one man crusade to find everything that goes bump in the night and shoot it until it stops moving. Recently, he came to the conclusion that he's reached the peak of what he can do alone and has been looking for a team he can work with.

Powers/Skills: Clive is just as human as everyone else. No special powers, no seer signs, no dip in the Styx for him. He just knows a lot about a lot of different beasties and he's a clever son of a gun. His experience with investigation in a law enforcement setting transitioned very well into investigating supernatural activity (not to mention his firearms training) and he's grown to be very resourceful, using any and all means at his disposal to level the playing field against creatures of the night. His favorite tool is his smooth bore, pump action shotgun and his handmade shotgun shells, but he also uses a variety of hobo-tier tactics and equipment. Clive is not above sticking an iron shiv into a fey folk's neck. He also plays a mean hand of poker and is worryingly good with a hatchet.

Character Wants: To expand his monster hunting knowledge and perhaps a group to help in his endeavors. Also, a bed. He's gotten more than a little tired of sleeping in his car.

Writer Wants: Looking to participate in an active roleplay with a diverse cast of characters. I also want Clive to grow as a person and make him really work at being a team player in a number of ways such as accepting that his way isn't always the best way, relying on others, etc as well as sharing everything he knows about committing war crimes against monsters.

[User]
She dreamed of lights. Shimmering, glowing lights that never faded and never dimmed. They shown up from beneath the water, like a lighthouse in reverse, guiding her ever deeper. There were hints, down there, of a city. A city with spires that seemed to ripple as the water flowed through them. A city with streets that turned ever inwards.

A city with some serious electric bills ...

Junia stared at the ceiling. She needed less sleep these days, but what she got was infected by those images. They didn't bother her at all, and that fact bothered her. She should be worried. But there was nothing sinister about the dreams. They just were. The city felt like it had waited for eons, it could wait a few more.

Her bladder, however, was far less patient. She shoved the comforter aside, which earned her a displeased look from a cat, and forged her way to the bathroom. Her little duplex wasn't much, but some thoughtful soul had made sure it had a spacious bathroom with a full soaker tub. That - and its convenient location not far from the Sunday Group headquarters - more than made the rent worth it.

Morning ablutions taken care of, she wandered towards the kitchen, traveling only as fast as the cats around her ankles would allow.

"You two would get fed a lot faster if you stopped trying to trip mommy, you know."

Ellsie, as always, was imperious. She stayed just out of reach, her profile stately, as she loudly proclaimed her hunger. Dewey - dear sweet, stupid Dewey - tried to brush against her legs, tripped over his own paws, and tumbled onto his fuzzy behind. She'd found both as strays, and she was becoming increasingly convinced that Dewey was part ferret.

She fed them both from the same tuna can, then punched the button on the coffee maker. Breakfast would be miso soup again. Well, after she cleared the papers off the kitchen table. It was just a little too convenient sometimes. But the dashi was already bubbling before she even halfway finished sorting, and so it was breakfast in the living room again.

After that, it was time to face the mirror. The lines on her neck had gotten no darker, thank God. She'd spent a week with blurry vision when the nictitating membrane showed up, but that would still be better than explaining gill slits to the hairdresser.

Still, better to wear a light scarf. A dress, a cardigan, and the uniform was complete. She was almost close enough to work that she could walk, but her old Subaru still had boxes and boxes of paperwork that really did need to be accessioned. No reason for anymore delays. Time for work.

---

The building draped itself on the slope. It was made of the same yellow-ish brick as every other small office complex on this half of the city. Beside it was an old grocery store converted into a warehouse, and on the other side was an old warehouse converted into a food co-op. The circle of life.

Naturally, the parking lot was on the steepest part of the slope. There was a railing at the bottom in case of a failed parking brake. Thankfully the Subaru never budged. Once again she decided against unloading the boxes.

The sign out front listed a half-dozen organizations with well-meaning, nonsensical names. All of them were just slightly true. The "Council for Stress-Related Disorders" could certainly refer to the Sunday Group, given how many members developed PTSD. The "District Library Assistance Board" was her baby; grants went from the state to the local libraries through D-LAB. No one needed to know that the whole organization ran on a laptop in her office.

The trick to the office building was to think of it as a mushroom: the visible part was just for show. The real action was underground. Each floor looked like it was terraced onto the slope, but they actually ran back into the slope for more than twice their apparent length. Then they turned down, deep underneath the city. God only knew how deep, really, and She wasn't telling.

It was bigger than it ought to be, and older than it could possibly be, and stranger than anyone could imagine. It was the Sunday Group. And, eh, it was a job.

[Assistant]
His alarm emitted an odious beeping, and he knew if he didn't turn it off, it would continue for twenty minutes. Even Manny didn't have the patience and overt laziness to wait that out, and so he opened his eyes slightly, gazing around his cramped apartment without moving a muscle. Years spent hunting things most people didn't believe in gave one a healthy paranoia. Anything sifting through a room wouldn't have been able to tell he was awake. The detective had learned never to groan or even breathe differently once he awoke. It had freaked out more than one woman, he recalled with a snort of amusement.

As soon as he had moved here, he knew it would be a bit less roomy than his last place. Apartment sizes were often larger with numbers, and they got progressively smaller the more reliant on letters they were. Apartment A's were usually shitty basement apartments, private restroom optional. When he was sure that no one was in here with him, he leaped out of the bed.

He scratched his unkempt hair and finally let himself groan, using his free hand to turn the TV on. His big toe touched the power button to his retro Xbox 360, and suddenly it zoomed onto the screen. He clicked 3 buttons, and his playlist came on. His music, loud and full of drums and bass, suddenly popped up, and he headed towards the bathroom, passing by one of his noir posters. His shower was quick, and luckily it didn't seem to be full of iron tasting water this time. Must be his birthday.

He put on his pants, and buttoned up his shirt before he took a look outside. Two white males working. He recognized them from his daily scope outs. Not hard to figure out. One seemed to have a significant other, the lankier one. He had the distinct feeling the lankier one was a cultist of some sort. The sulphur in the dumpster he frequented was a fair clue, as was the 'new age' books of wiccan spells he'd seen through the window. Nothing he couldn't handle. He'd check later, but for now, business called.

He put his effects in his pockets. He checked to see his pistol was full, and placed it into easy reach on his person, grip poking into the small of his back from within his shirt. His switch blade was in his sock. "Time to start trouble." he said to himself, opening the door and sliding out. He needed food, and decided he'd go out and get some early breakfast before heading to work.

He walked into the office with an egg and cheese bagel, and some orange juice in a cup. Paid to be healthy in his line of work, he told himself. He didn't speak to anyone he passed, just waving to whoever noticed him before he entered his office, breathing a sigh of relief once he sat down, retrieving his copy of 'A Thousand Horrors' and turning to page 769 to golems. Word had it a stone statue twenty miles up the road had killed a janitor. He wondered just how possible that was.

It paid to be nosy too.

[User]
Unlike the rest of the team who had more permanent housing, Clive had taken to sleeping on a ratty air mattress in the small corner office he'd claimed as his. It was a step up from sleeping in his Jeep in his opinion. The room was rather spartan with no decoration to speak of save a wooden table with a large map of the continental United States tacked to the wall behind it. The map was crisscrossed with strings of yarn and colored pins marking out areas of interest. The table was littered with various newspaper clippings, sticky notes, and a few composition books of various colors containing all his notes and observations in the field. Off in the corner of the room was a large rucksack already packed and ready to go at a moment's notice. A rifle and shotgun leaned against the rucksack and beside them was a pile of ammo boxes neatly stacked to about knee height. A gun rack sat opposite from the bag loaded down with various long guns and a smattering of pistols and revolvers complete with enough boxed ammo to outlast a siege.

As he did most mornings, Clive woke with a start, eyes darting around as if he didn't remember where he was. He clutched a hunting knife in a white knuckle grip as last night's less than pleasant dreams faded away. The moment passed quickly as he kicked the blanket off him and stood with the knife still clutched in his fist. He stretched and groaned with relief when his back popped. A thought crossed his mind that maybe he should consider getting a real mattress. Then again, he still wasn't fully convinced this teamwork business would last and if that was the case he would be leaving without the mattress anyway.

Pushing the negative thoughts away, Clive retrieved his pistol from under the pillow and tucked it into his waistband as he moved to the door. He was already dressed, having slept in his jeans, stained shirt, and jacket. The man even slept with hiking boots on. It was nigh impossible to catch him more than a few minutes away from being ready for a trek into the mountains. One by one he undid the one-sided deadbolt locks he'd taken the liberty of installing and made his way into the office proper to start the coffee machine. As he waited for the blessed jitter juice, Clive pulled a bag from the cupboard and poured a mouthful of granola directly into his face. He chewed with distended cheeks and waited for the team to gather.


[System]
Age: 17

Gender: Female

Race: Human

Class: Brawler

Appearance:

Jessica's main outfit consists of a white dress shirt under a suede coat and messily made tie with diagonal cream and red stripes. She wears a short skirt the same color of her coat over a pair of shorts. The oddly formal ensemble clashes with a pair of old trusty red and white sneakers and fingerless gloves, whose tacky fake leather is dyed the color of strawberry syrup.

Personality: Jessica "Punch 'em" Parker, otherwise known as patient zero among anger management counselors, is the result of god trying to make a human sock 'em bop 'em robot. It's not that she goes out of her way to seek violence, it's just that thinking hurts and punching is cool. Word on the block is that she joined a kickboxing tournament and won by punching. Her old room was covered in horse posters, not because she liked them but because they neatly covered the various holes in the wall.

Jessica tends to get fired up over the worst ideas imaginable, and will often quarrel with anyone who knows that eating glue and amateur parkour is bad. She is fond of using ridiculous, incoherent phrases instead of curse words from years of being scolded by teachers.

Likes: Punching, Spicy food, Eurobeat, Initial D, Punching again, Competitive videogames

Dislikes: Tea, Counting, Being told to grow up

Notable Traits: Jessica vaguely fears and respects equines, after having recurring dreams as a child where her horse posters would eat her.

Belongings: A journal and the ugliest pair of gloves the world has ever seen

Abilities: Jessica has gained the ability to use placement magic. Punching can hurt the attacker due to forces recoiling on their own body, but if the fist in question were to warp from point A to point B, the fist would escape recoil damage due to the universe trying to calculate what just happened and giving up halfway through, resulting in a consistent way to inflict damage. If she were to be strong enough she'd be able to warp her body short distances.

Jessica's parkour adventures have made her mildly athletic enough to climb, crawl and jump well past the level of the average person.

History: Jessica was raised in an orphanage and sent to a public school so bad that it was legally classified as a national threat to world stability. Eventually she got used to the hectic atmosphere and the sight of seeing a car on fire twice a week. One day while heading home from school, Jessica attempted to stop two men from mugging a teenager, seemingly succeeding until one pulled out a firearm. She's new to the afterlife, only having been re-alive for a couple of days.

Other: This hasn't been mentioned before, and is a tiny detail to her character. Jessica likes punching.

[User]
Olive jumped in her seat as Forrest suddenly spoke up beside her. She quickly turned to look at him, then Willow, then back to him. "Wh-...What? No, this is..." She glanced around for a few seconds before continuing. "I have no idea what this is. Do you, um...r-remember anything...out of th--"

The elf is interrupted by Willow speaking up again. Olive turned her attention back to her, and listened intently as she spoke of their untimely deaths...though the sudden display of magic caught her off guard. She briefly glanced back at the dark elf sitting beside her in thought before turning her attention back to Willow...just in time to see her conjure up a dagger. More magic.

Olive suddenly felt something hard within her robes, the garment feeling somehow familiar, while also completely new to her. Whatever the item was, she quickly dove a hand in and pulled it out. A book. Hardcover, too. As she opened it, to her surprise, there weren't words in the book, but rather strange runes and symbols etched into the pages. Again, she knew this was her first time seeing this, yet it felt like she had already studied their meaning for years.

"...But before we move on, do any of you have questions?"  Willow was speaking again. Olive slammed her book shut with a hand, eliciting a loud thud from it's pages. She shot up a thin hand, but didn't bother to wait to be called upon. "W-We died? All of us here?
D-Did, uh...Did y--"

A voice in the back of the room interrupted her. ""What kind of drugs you on princess? Dead? Come on! If you're gonna kidnap us at least be honest about it!" She turned on her heels and quickly pinpointed the source of the voice. "I have ears!!" she retorted while tugging on her long, elven ears. Surely she meant they were pointed, and not the fact that she had ears at all was reason enough to believe she had died.

[Assistant]
He swore a vain was about to pop in his head as voice called him out. "I have ears!!" he quickly changed his aim onto a skinny looking girl with wooden spectacles and pointy ears. He let a sick smile roll onto his face as he rose from his seat.

"Really now, then how about I see if they're real, eh? It'll prove me wrong and we can magically put them back on. That's how it works right?" he chuckled and inched his sword a bit further out of its sheath. "Though I'll still cut them off if you don't shut your pretty little mouth!" he looked back to Willow and huffed. "Now look here, I got business to take care of and you're keeping me from it. Have fun messing with these morons, but I'm in no mood!"

[User]
Birb@Joker892
Forrest Brian Idland

---

  Forrest tasted the beverage; he distorted his face when he found the drink to be too sweet for his tastes.
 He shrugged his shoulders and sipped the drink considering he might not have an opportunity to quench his thirst later on. The dark elf kept licking his lip after each intake. It reminded him of a moment in his childhood when he put too many spoons of sugar into his Kool-Aid.

 Forrest put the cup to his lip. His eyes observed the individuals sitting close to him. One recognizable individual sat adjacently at his table. Forrest peered while pretending to drink his cup. The sight of a bird-man was astonishing. The feathers on his body appeared mostly genuine. Forrest laid his cup on the table and smacked his lip. "Soooooo, does this mean chicken would officially be off your diet?" The dark elve swayed his head side to side. "It's a concerning question."

 Forrest's conversation was cut short. The woman from before had begun her explanation. She enthusiastically clarified the reasoning for the party's existence. "I knew it," Forrest smiled thinking back to when he acknowledged Willow for being aware of this world's contents. He covered his mouth when he rudely spoke out loud.

 He waved at the individuals at his table as an apology of sorts. Forrest had a tough time listening to Willow. He wasn't much for paying attention to lectures. "Bottom line, we die and we are resurrected," the dark elve spoke to himself. He snickered, "I guess if I committed suicide, I would be pretty pissed right now.

 Forrest had a hazy idea of how he died. When his image appeared, he began slightly memorizing his death scene. "Oh, yeah. I was mugged," Forrest knew there was more information regarding his death, but he couldn't figure it out. His mind was still fresh to everything. Forrest couldn't keep thinking as his train of thought was interrupted. Someone had become a bit unruly and started shouting out claims that this world isn't a dream. It wasn't funny like Forrest was being earlier.

 Forrest knocked on his table when he began hearing threats toward other people. "Look, man. I think you're going a bit overboard. Hell, I would be mad if I too died just to become a human again with a cigarette addiction." The dark elf laughed and took a sip of his 'too sweet' beverage. "How about you just calm down and not threaten people to cut off people's ears? That could be my cousin you're talking to." Forrest then wiggled his pointy ears; he expected he would have to defend his own species...race? The whole transaction of words was different.

 "And I actually like the bird man. I think he looks f---ing awesome. " Forrest had a mouth which usually brought him more trouble. He wasn't sure if he was truly being defensive or just a comedian.

[Assistant] Olive glared over at the smoking man for a moment...before sitting back down and hunching over to avoid further conflict. Probably for the best. She occupied herself by picking out one of the nearby drinks as she waited for Willow to continue.

[User] Mark groaned in a annoyance as yet another voice came to his ears and snapped his head towards a new target. A black haired individual with pointed ears who seemed to like to run his smart mouth. "Wanna throw in your two cents buddy? Fine, I'll shove them back down your throat along with your teeth!" he roared while kicking over his table and pointed his now fully drawn sword towards the cocky bastard. Killing this loud mouth bastard will surely calm Mark down a bit.

[Assistant]
A snarl escaped christopher. For several reasons. One, he didnt quite believe this was happening,like the man who seemed abit to violent for his taste. Two, if he was dead, he had some problems with that. However, three, was the biggest problem. This guy was imidiatly taking shit to far, and it was already pissing him off.

He quickly raised his hands, stepping between the two. He glared at the sword weilding maniac. With a growl, he cracked a finger with his thumb" listen...I'm about as pissed off as you are. This cant be happening. But things arent adding up. Last I remember, I couldnt even walk. I was bed ridden, and unable to breath properly. If this is some kind of sick, well crafted joke, then we need to deal with it like calm, mature adults. But ive been in a hospital bed for half a year now, and if you cant calm down, I'll ram that sword through your gut and that shield up your ass!" His eyes hardened as he clenched his fists, glaring down the sword to the man. Unbeknownst to christopher, his body had began to steam, heat radiating off him like his rage.

 "Are we clear?"

[User]
Forrest Brian Idland

---

 Forrest cocked his right eyebrow up. He looked at the man approaching towards him. "What? You're not making it easy for people to like you." The dark elve proceeded to look around his surroundings to see how everyone else was responding. Forrest did not believe the man was serious. Though he questioned the man's short temper, this might have been a moment of seriousness. His heart beat picked up a bit as he knew he was going to have to start getting physical.

 Turning over to the hybrid, he motioned to the aggressive individual."Yo, Harvey Birdman, you think you can help me out?" Forrest turned back and could see the man was nearing him with the sword. Quickly, he chucked his half-full cup of 'too sweet' water at the man. He continued to pull himself out of the bench and stood up on the table. "Excuse me. Sorry," he rambled as he began jumping from table to table in order to get away from his second possible murderer.

 Forrest glanced back and could see a good Samaritan had stopped the fight. He seemed pissed off as well, but not willing to physically show it to other people. "Yeah, you tell him, man. He don't want that shield in his booty, uh uh." Forrest continued his immaturity with a few teases at the man. He then began dabbing, which to Willow, might have resembled a stroke perhaps.

[Assistant]
Mark stopped in his tracks as the new contestant confronted him. He looked the character up and down before chuckling and tilting his head. He had to admit the man had a fair point, but Mark simply wanted to beat out his frustration. Though, as he saw the steam come from the mans body he felt his instincts kick in and sighed as he used his sword as a cane to lean on. "Alright, fine. We'll play it your way, for now," he gave his previous smart mouthed target a quick glare as he continued to goat him on. "We'll settle this later," he hissed and looked to Willow. "Okay princess, talk!"

@Leaves

[User]
Jessica's body was a machine at the moment. Her right hand was picking up sugar cubes and plopping them into her mouth, and her eyes stayed fixated on Skyler's wings. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Her mind was starting to introduce the idea that perhaps all the extremities in front of her weren't a drug-induced hallucination.

Of course, Jessica has the iq of a limestone coffee table, so this process abandoned the usual critical thinking that came bundled with having and existential crisis, and jumped between the two extremes of "Real" and "Not real".

It was then that the guide began to conjure illustrations mid-air to help her narration, explaining why everyone was reborn and gathered in anime starbucks. The brawler's fists balled up and began to shake with excitement as she saw herself in one of them. Her final moments played out for all to see. "I just got shot point blank in the face! Awesome sauce!"

---

"Ma'am! Ma'am!" A Jessica in a lab coat approached another Jessica in a lab coat, their bodies being inexplicably well lit in their mushy pink office. The first Jessica straightened her back and spoke again. "I'm afraid Jessica has gone off the rails general, the realization of her death has driven her into a state of shock! She's in danger!"

Jessica the general fixed her non-prescription ornamental glasses and addressed her underling. "Jessica No. 27, tell me what happened the last time something like this took place." Number twenty-seven stammered as she recalled those events in crystal clarity.

"Y-you mean the Chuck E. Cheese incident?"

"Precisely!"

"We survived!"

"Exactly!!"

The Jessica-in-command adjusted her glasses in such a way that light dramatically shone off of them. "That's right soldier, we live and we ADAPT like WARRIORS. Now hurry up and get these trauma files placed inside her memory cabinets and ignore our evanescent existence as figurative representations of a dumb girl's subconscious."

With a firm salute from both parties, Jessica number twenty-seven shifted through the manila files, making sure to keep things nice and tidy. A file labeled "My death lmao" was gingerly slotted between others similar in appearance within the conscious memory cabinets, in between folders "Full House theme song" and "Gay thoughts". In the external world, Jessica was moaning and drooling like a zombie, ignoring all the conflict in front of her, hyperfixated on Skyler's wings.


[System]
Age: 21
Gender: Male

Appearance: Al's taller than average, with decent muscle tone, but his long body makes him look leaner. His hair is a messy, unkempt mop of muddy brown hair, and his facial features are surprisingly soft. Albeit, he's usually got a bruise or bandage marring them.
His dress style is pretty comfy; he mostly wears loose fitting traveler pants and tightly belted boots, with a wool sweater and dingy hooded longcoat up top. His right hand and lower arm is wrapped in bandages for better wrist support and also so he doesn't lose his grip. On his back he typically keeps one to four large greatswords, of varied make, kept in a sling. He made a necklace out of a a beast's fang, and wears it as a lucky charm.

Weapons/Belongings: Al's weapon of choice is the greatsword, and he's currently carrying four of them. If one breaks or gets tossed, he has a handy backup. These particular ones are made of steel, but he's not picky when it comes to replacements.
Additionally, he has a wallet containing a small amount of money and a hunting knife on his belt, and a rucksack containing rations, a flint, a bottle of extraordinarily strong liquor, a torch, and a length of rope tied to a rock.

Magic PHYSICAL SKILLS: Al is strong - much stronger than his frame would even suggest; he spent his youth wrestling animals for fun, when he wasn't toiling away with hard labor. He's durable to boot, and has a frighteningly high pain tolerance. One can only wonder how many concussions he's received.
Naturally, his self-taught fighting style takes advantage of this, and focuses on Al throwing his momentum around to deliver maximum impact haymakers. Drop kicks are common, as are wild punches, suplexes, and throwing whatever's handy, up to and including the enemy. Additionally, Al carries around several greatswords, since he finds their length and mass are good for slinging around. Also he thinks they're cool.

Personality: Al is by all means a kind, well-meaning person, with an understanding of the importance of friendship. He just happens to have a wild streak, and that streak just happens to be rather good at hitting stuff really hard.
He's not so much caught up in a balance between right and wrong as he is between right and fun. This poor impulse control, combined with a poor danger sense, inevitably means he's often the first to dive into a dangerous area or do something stupid for fun. It's great in a dangerous line of work, though.

Short History: It's not precise to say Al's forgotten his past due to amnesia. It is, however, accurate to say he's forgotten where it is. However, when growing up, he was always considered a strong boy, even in a rural community where the pastime was wrestling wild animals. Al, however, couldn't be content living a life of mostly farming and whiling away the hours on the porch. He was the sort of child who liked to wander. One day, the year he became a man, he wandered a bit too far, and ever since then has gotten increasingly lost. Determined not to let that get him down, the then fifteen year old began a new life, the life of an adventurer, sellsword, and treasure hunter.
As of late, Al's heard rumor of some strange happenings going on in the north. In his line of work, that's a business opportunity. Not one to scorn the idea of magic, he'd rather see it as a potential job offer. Even if nobody payed him to go there, they might be interested in any loot he brought back. And so, the swordsman trekked into the harsh tundra, ready to meet with any challenge the unknown might throw his way.

[User]
"Pleasure to meet you all," Jack said to ogling crowd. It was quite an interesting assembly, and he was sure they would make an equally interesting adventuring party. Several men and women, all of whom looked more than capable of the journey ahead. Keeping up might prove to be the real challenge of this north!

He pulled a chair out for the man with half a sticky bun poking from of his mouth. "Sit down, enjoy the meal. It isn't often in life that one has such an extravagant feast with such a renowned lord."

"So what brings you here, uh...?" Jack left it hanging, waiting for the overly-armed man to fill in his name.

He filled his plate with some of the more exotic foods, taking his own advice about the meal.

[Assistant]
Ashley glanced down at the girl with uninterested eyes as the girl's mood swing came in full force. Unimpressed, Ashley opened his mouth to utter a sentence, and to cut the girl off from her tangent, but Lord Cross had beaten him to it. As Ashley changed his gaze to Cross, he once more opened his mouth, to speak out to Cross about keeping control of his ill-willed child, but was once more interrupted by the opening of the Great Hall doors. Looking up and down the newcomers, Ashley did not greet them, nor did he show much more interest in them once they took their own seats, despite the exotic appearances of the individuals.

Anxiety racked Ira as he watched the girl's outburst, hoping once more that Ashley wouldn't do anything rash. As quickly as it begun, it had ended, however. Lord Cross managed to soothe his daughter's impolite outburst, without agitating Ashley further. About to speak, Ira turned his attention to the opening doors, and two new, slightly different looking, guests. As they took their seats and quickly picked up conversation, Ira decided now would be the best time to grab the free meal. Filling his plate, Ira looked back at his brother, who had turned his attention away from the group once more, "Are you going to eat, Ash?" Ira spoke up. However, Ashley did not warrant his brother a response, leaving Ira to turn back to his food and to continue his feast.

[User]
Elizabeth looked back and forth at the newcomers as they joined in with the rest of the group. The girl's appearance was strange, and her manner of speech suggested she was foreign. The other newcomer was an old man, who seemed rather unimposing, but she knew better than to judge someone entirely on appearance. Four Swords remained rambunctious, a trait she doubted would be disappearing any time soon. The woman's eye twitched when he recommended they leave immediately. Regardless of how uncomfortable the castle made her, it was far more hospitable than the frozen wasteland that waited before them. Thankfully, one of their new comrades dissuaded this impatience. Elizabeth gave Sage a grateful nod before taking a small bite of pork from her plate. The woman's gaze moved to the quiet brother. She couldn't place that one, and that made her nervous. Thankfully, the altercation with the younger Cross had been quelled. The blonde woman wondered for a moment what the girl's childhood had been like. Vulture's Roost seemed a strange place to grow up.

 Cross nodded as the newcomers joined the party. It seemed the group as a whole had agreed to his terms. As the group conversed amongst themselves, Alec spoke up. "It is entirely your decision when you set out, though, if you decide to wait until tomorrow, I have a number of guest rooms that you may use. In addition, my library, and the rest of the city are open to you. I will have your supplies gathered as soon as our discourse has concluded." The lord walked to the end of the table, turning towards the party. "But on to business. As I said before, there is limited information regarding the Wastes, however, I have gleaned a bit from the few sources I have." Alec cleared his throat. "The Great Northern Wastes are, just as their name implies, completely devoid of organized human settlements, however, according to some works I have read, this was not always the case. There once were cities north of my border, though at some point these settlements became unsustainable. Now, when and how that happened, I don't know. There are a number of legends, including famines, wars, and even a rather... fanciful description of a great dragon scorching the earth. Perhaps, in your travels, you may come across the ruins of some of these cities, and learn more about their fate for yourself."

 "While there are no cities, I have heard reports of small numbers of wildfolk roaming the Wastes. We know little about them or their culture, though they seem to be disconnected from the rest of the world. There have been a few reports of cannibalism, though I cannot ascertain their legitimacy." Cross paused for a moment. "As it stands, however, your greatest obstacle will likely be the environment itself. It only grows colder the farther north you travel, and the wind and snow are quite unforgiving. Immediately north of Vulture's Roost there is a wide frozen plain, mostly devoid of life. If you continue north, you will find a great forest of evergreen trees. Beyond that are mountains. I have no information regarding the geography beyond that point, as my scouts have never attempted to pass them." Cross glanced away for a moment, as if in though. "Beyond information regarding the land itself, a variety of... interesting creatures have been observed. There are the standards for Gris, of course: wolves, bears, mountain goats. But there have also been reports of great mammoths wandering the Wastes, an oddity that vanished from Gris some years ago. In addition, my scouts have reported strange cries within the forest. There is a chance creatures far more dangerous than wolves and bears have remained unseen. Of course, there is also the matter of the previous adventuring parties. If they are still alive, they probably won't take too kindly to others encroaching upon their treasure."

 "I believe that covers most of the information I have-" A voice cut across the room as Emilia spoke up. "I've heard something else. Ohn says there may still be other giants living in the Wastes." A small smile crossed Alec's face. "Oh, is that so, Ohn?" Cross motioned toward the giant kneeling to the left of Emilia, the one bearing a greatsword. The mountain of iron rose to his feet, nodding to his lord. Emilia again lept from her seat, rushing over by the giant. "Tell me again, Ohn, I don't remember all of it." The giant extended a massive hand toward the girl, who took hold of one of his fingers. All was silent, except for the girl nodding, as if the massive being was somehow communicating his thoughts through touch alone. "Right, yes, I remember now." The heiress turned toward the party. "Ohn says that when he and Rahm first left for Vulture's Roost, which was... let's see... fifty years ago? Regardless, Ohn says they weren't the only ones. There were some living in the mountains at that point in time. Apparently there weren't many though..." The girl frowned for a moment. "He says they aren't fond of people. Apparently they had been nearly wiped out by humans in the past... oh... Um, also apparently the giants had a different version of what happened to those cities in the north. According to their traditions, the giants, having lost most of their people, prayed to their god, which was a fire god, or something similar, and he destroyed the human settlements with a sea of flame." Emilia giggled. "Ohn says he doesn't necessarily believe that's how it happened, though."

 Alec nodded to his daughter and the giant. "Thank you for that, Emilia. I'm certain Ohn knows more of the Wastes than anyone else." Turning back to the table, Alec coughed. "That is all the information I have on hand. If you would like, you may make use of my library, perhaps you will find some source I've missed. Otherwise, continue your meal. The rooms I am offering are in the eastern wing of the castle. As I said before, I'll have your supplies gathered. In the meantime, perhaps you should become familiar with one another, the Wastes are a dangerous place, after all." With that, Alec left them to continue their meal.

[Assistant] Sage sat fuming, thoroughly annoyed at Four Swords' comment. He might end up regretting his rude words later. Nonetheless, she had been enjoying the hot meal as the lord and his daughter spoke. She was intrigued by the gift Emilia seemed to have, never having encountered such an ability. Having filled her stomach though Sage was ready to prepare for the journey. She decided to take the Lord's advice, seeing as they were going to be traveling together. Sage stood so she could be heard "I'm guessing everyone plans on traveling together, if I am wrong though please correct me. I figure we'll be together awhile and names at least would be helpful. That being said I'm Sage. I also think we should lay out a game plan as I would like to see what this city has to offer in case I don't make it back. My vote is we part ways, and meet at the exit at day break." Sage planned to go through the market and hopefully find something useful for her journey. There were some things she wanted to get to have on her person in case she somehow became separated from the group. She'd return to the guest rooms when she'd had her fill of the city.

[User]
Haruka continued shoveling food into her awaiting maw with the vim and vigor of a starving puppy, because that is basically what she was. She kept her ears open for lord Chris's informations, but it seemed like nothing she could not handle. Wild animals were easy, and nomadic cannibals didn't sound too tough. A giant, as the younger, more female Chris pointed out, might be a fun fight though.

Then, one of the others introduced themselves, which made Haruka remember her rudeness. She had forgotten to introduce herself to everybody! She quickly raised her hand and announced to all present.

"Yes, please forgiving my rudeness! I am Haruka Taiyo, and I come from far east on high mountain! I am here to get informations to trade for informations about the man who killed my master, so I can track him down and murder him. I like the color yellow, and am student of The Fist Through Which the Sun Breaks. I will spend time before the leaving to train, maybe. It is good to meet you, Sage, and I look forward to working with everyone!"

Haruka bowed politely to all present, and extended her hand to Sage as westerners do when meeting someone.

[Assistant]
"Oh? My name's Al." the swordsman bit into his sticky bun, still choosing to at least stand, rather than sit.
"I'm here to find whatever treasure's hiding out there. I bet it's really expensive. My hobbies are fighting, and I guess traveling. My favorite food is strawberry pastries, and one time I ate three pounds of pine bark because I lost a bet. It does not taste as good as it smells."

After a short moment of silence, he pushed the rest of the bun into his mouth, and began chewing.


[System]
Age: 17
Gender: Female
Race: Human

Weapon: Unlike the majority of Hunters that dwell the broken world of Remnant, Gratia wields two, separate and completely distinct weapons due to her poverty, which has prevented her from obtaining more advanced weaponry. She wields a dull, grey mameluke sabre named Valens, furnished simply with the imprint of her emblem on its hilt. It is utilised alongside her other weapon, an automatic carbine named Valentinian, black and silver and also light enough to be used with one hand.

She also owns an SUV that she acquired from a mafia family after a mission.

Specialty: Capable of dealing with enemies both in close combat and mid-range, Gratia's role on Team VGNB (Vignoble) is to draw the attention of Grimm as she cuts swathes through their ranks in her berserk rage. As such, she is quite the durable warrior, and if time passes, she will only grow stronger as her semblance drains away at the energies of her enemies, making her perfect for her position as the 'tank' of the team.

Semblance: Bibere Vinum - Gratia's lust for battle and power is translated into a semblance that allows her to drain the aura of others in the area in order to strengthen her own physical abilities. In particular, her speed, strength, and endurance. The effects compound over time, and thus while they aren't too noticeable in the first few minutes of combat, the longer one fights her and the closer they are in proximity, the stronger Gratia gets.

Following her conversation with her mother on what it meant to be a Huntress and what she meant to those close to her, Gratia's semblance metamorphosed into a new form, gaining an additional ability based upon her existing powers. Her ability to detect and sometimes recognise other lifeforms in the area has become more powerful, allowing her to inject a tiny portion of her own aura into people upon contact, creating a connection between her and her victim that allows her to track and identify them no matter where they go, and will not be broken unless either of them are dead, or if Gratia wishes it to end. It also provides her basic information on the victim's status, such as their health, mood and general condition.

Personality: At first glance, Gratia appears to be quite a solemn figure, impassive and quiet in the majority of situations. Restraint seems to come easily to her, and there is an aura of professionalism that permeates her every action. It would be obvious, then, to assume that she is a rather serious person, one who devotes her very being to work and believes that everything else is a waste of time. In actuality, this is mostly inaccurate. When she speaks it is generally to insult others, particularly her aggravating teammate Napoli, and her speech is peppered with gratuitous swearing.

She is extremely sarcastic and is quick to point out when a situation does not strike her as favourable. She is also rather arrogant and has a haughty sense of pride that dictates her actions. If someone starts annoying her, her impassive aura is quick to drop and Gratia will instead begin with a spewing out insults. However, she is not entirely horrible, being actually fairly kind to those who she deems as respect worthy and more importantly, not annoying. While she is quiet still, she is more than willing to offer them a helping hand on assignments and other problems.

In addition, Gratia possesses a strong sense of loyalty to her loved ones. If you piss her off or take advantage of her friends she will make your life a living hell. Of course, do what you want to her annoying teammates, especially Napoli, she'll only save them at the last minute when they're about to die. And you're not allowed to kill them. She gets to when they screw up.

When in combat, her normally solemn personality completely disappears, replaced by a crazed bloodlust that seems to consume her entire being (and probably those poor Grimm that she'll murder). In this state, it can be quite surprising to listen to her cackle loudly like a hyena as she terrorises her enemies.

Color: Chartreuse Green (66CD00)

Emblem: Gratia's emblem has a certain religious flair to it, with a solid sabre sitting upon a champagne bottle, which is a chartreuse green to contrast the black and grey of the sabre and background.

Appearance:

Source | NarayanK's Interpretation

Standing at a height of one point seven five metres, Gratia is relatively tall for most girls her age, a trait that is magnified by her rock solid posture. With long, flowing brown-black hair, onyx eyes and a well-defined face (though usually seen bland or scowling), and an athletic build, she can be described as rather attractive (though her compatriot-in-arms would argue the opposite), but few dare comment on her appearance in case she takes offence.

Due to her status as a student from Haven, she dons the snazzy uniform of her "beloved" school when attending class, completely unmodified and always super tidy (it comes at a surprise that to many that she is willing to wear the skirt). When outside of class however, she can always be seen with her signature black turtleneck, brown jeans and her green winter coat, which she is highly possessive of (and possibly willing to murder for, though that's a rumour). As a music aficionado, she frequently wears headphones in order to enjoy her smooth jazz and drown out the incessant chatter of her fellows and her teammates in particular.
Name: Galla Mindaro
Age: 15
Gender: Female
Race: Human

Weapon: Steel Construction I-Beam (W18X40)

Specialty: Without needing the use of a semblance, Galla Mindaro possesses a ridiculously immense amount of physical strength, capable of carrying even the heaviest of construction materials with ease. As such, her lightest blows can easily hit as hard as a freight train, sending her targets flying with little effort on her part. Similar to her more infamous older sister, she is incredibly durable, her numerous years of acting as Gratia's training partner having developed her defenses dramatically.

Semblance: Nemo Curat - Galla's apathy and sense of detachment from the world has been translated into a semblance that allows her to essentially detach a part of her own self, preventing it from interacting with the outside world. She can only induce this state in one thing at a time, and if she wishes to stop another part of her self from being observed by reality, she has to first reattach the originally detached part. An example of her semblance in use would be detaching her scent, thereby preventing anybody from smelling her.

Personality: The younger Mindaro sibling possesses a quiet and stoic demeanour, staying impassive in the face of any situation to the extent that one could easily mistake her for a stone statue. Restraint marks her every action, with each lifeless movement utterly lacking in any form of energy or emotion. To Galla, the rest of the world simply isn't important at all, and it is through this lens of utter apathy that she engages with life.

So great is her sense of detachment that absolutely nothing is capable of fazing her. Everything is met with the same bland air, as if there was a distant chasm between her and the rest of the world. She cannot bring herself to care for it, finding little that can stimulate her dulled emotions into responding. At times, it appears as if Galla lacks a presence beyond simply 'existing', seeming more akin to a cardboard cutout than an actual human.

She doesn't see it as a problem in any way.

However, that is not to say that Galla Mindaro is simply an emotionless mannequin that is utterly incapable of being human. The truth is actually the opposite; the younger of the Mindaro sisters is surprisingly empathetic, capable of understanding the feelings, motivations and experiences of other people to a great extent. It does not change her utter lack of interest and care for them, but if the whim were to come to her, she could interact with others with little difficulty.

It is because of this that, despite her eerie detachment, Galla possesses a bond with her family. Although she rarely shows any sign of concern for them, the younger Mindaro acknowledges her parents in their entirety, and it is evident that she respects her older sister in some fashion. She is also not devoid of friends, being able to, even in her bland and uncaring manner, work amicably with a number of her classmates. Whether or not she is a good friend is debatable, especially when she does not exactly care too much for them.

She is also highly observant of her surroundings, whether they be social cues, appearances or the shape of the world. Information is immediately captured and stored in her photographic memory, although much of it fails to affect her in any manner. She holds few opinions on them, but there are times when she does judge, usually through an arbitrary rating system. When taking action, there are also moments where she may seem rather excessive, unaware of whether or not something may be too much.

Galla may or may not have a sense of humour. It's extremely hard to tell.

Color: Chartreuse Yellow (DFFF00)

Emblem: Galla's emblem has traces of religious iconography, with a pitch-black profile of a rooster, one of the holiest animals of the Mistralese Church, imprinted upon a champagne bottle of chartreuse yellow, its brightness a contrast to the colour of the bird.

Appearance:

Source

[User]
Gratia Mindaro – An Old Friend

Bianca was laid down by her teammate, the concrete was cold to the touch, even with Gratia's winter jacket. She heard Gratia's best attempt at sounding concerned and let out a pained laugh.

"I can't promise it's worth it, but you wouldn't want to suffer Napoli alone would you?" Bianca managed to squeeze the words out before letting out another slew of violent coughs. She gently moved Gratia, pushing on her shoulder so that Bianca could see Vitoria.

The Dodici was staring directly at Bianca, from the look in her eyes she could already see the hell she would be living in a matter of hours. Bianca raised a hand calmly towards the girl who had been oppressing her for what felt like months now. She closed her eyes and before she would open them again, Gratia would sense a blast of aura – Bianca's semblance, ring out through the parking garage. Vitoria's body rag flopped across the parking garage skidding against the rugged concrete. It seemed the farther from Bianca, the less the pain. She moved Gratia's jacket and showed her a wound, it looked like a plus sign or a cross. "It was her semblance." Bianca said waving Gratia's concern off. "I'm fine." She confirmed placing the jacket back over her chest. Her pale blue eyes met the Onyx of Gratia's and she wanted to laugh, but it would hurt too much.

"Jesus I must look like shit." She said noticing that she was being handled as fragile as she was. "Listen Gratia," Bianca began but stumbled off, she gaze away from her friend. She tried to force the words from her mouth but all that wanted to escape was silence, a pained small whimper. She finally steeled herself, through her tears and spoke. "I don't think I'm going to be able to fly anymore."

VGNB – Shit Hits the Fan

Demetrius' weaknesses exploited by the time he knew where Beryl was it was too late. The blade was wrapped around his leg and he fell down to the ground. He struggled to find the Faunus' gaze, to recapture her semblance, use it in order to heal himself. But he had already lost so much blood – he quickly found his vision tunneling out, his body growing cold. He attempted to call out to the Faunus, to curse her name, repair his image, but just before he did he saw his family.

They were smiling at him, waiting for him to join them. Vitoria held her hand out for her father and he took it. He was unconscious and losing blood quickly.

If Beryl planned on following Napoli's orders from earlier, she would need to do something rather quickly.

[Assistant]
Beryl Harken-B-The End of a Man

The man deserved to die after all he had done. Countless crimes had been committed by him and his organization. He had even admitted that there were other Faunus being held in the building they were targeting.

But Napoli had told her to not kill the piece of filth and she had no desire to bring the focus of the police down on her team more than it was already going to be.

Still she waited. She waited untill just before the wound became truly life threatening before stopping the flow of blood with her semblance. Demetrius would be too weak to do anything even if he regained his mental faculties in the near future. And while Beryl was not a proper doctor she doubted that such extensive loss of blood would be good for a physicaly active life in the future, especially at such an advanced age.

After a quick stop by the mafia don to add a tourniquet, rope and remove his knife, the otter Faunus made her way over to her downed teammate.

"You OK?" She asked, crouching over Vega.

[User]
Team VGNB

Zephyr[/center]

Vega started to come to senses once she heard the familiar voice of Beryl. Everything happened so quickly for her that she did not have a chance to counter Demetrius kick. Indeed she still remembers it, the feeling of it still lasts as she got up, groaning in pain.

"Damn bastard, how the hell does he manage to get past my aura with one kick" as Vega collects herself. She saw a defeated opponent that she assumed was defeated by Beryl. "Impressive" as she was surprised, "Did you…defeat him alone? Where is Gratia and Napoli?" Of course Vega still had not seen Beryl abilities so she was wondering, as she gripped her stomach, "Tsk" as she still felt the pain from the kick.

[Assistant]
Gratia Mindaro - A Friend in Need

Gratia glanced over at the now-unconscious Vitoria Dodici, her onyx gaze a wild tempest of barely restrained, primal emotion. It was strange, that when she saw the vulnerable husk of a woman, the utterly pathetic piece of criminal scum, that she could feel a dark, cold pit within herself, a strange desire to simply crush everything related to the filthy fool into the most miniscule of atoms. It was a hatred that was overwhelming, cold ... monstrous. And why was that? Her onyx gaze slowly moved away to face Bianca Nuit.

To face the tears on the other girl's face.

To face the choked expression.

That was right.

Vitoria Dodici had dared to hurt her people.

"Then I'll be your fucking wings then," said the Mistralese huntress in reply, her tone so utterly matter-of-fact that she could have otherwise been talking about the weather. "I'm dealing with your other bloody problems already, birdbrain."

She stood up and turned away, walking, her heavy footsteps echoing against the concrete, towards the other Dodici thug in the garage. The one whose phone she had destroyed. The one that was even more pathetic. Gratia Mindaro smiled at him, her semblance thrumming as it tried to draw more and more aura from the empty tank that was the suited criminal.

"I'll be taking everything you have."


[System]
"A mischievous troublemaker with a bite and hunger for mayhem."
______________
Basic Info
Player: OmegaOnyx
Gender: Female
Nicknames:
Race: Werewolf
Class: Shaman/Battlemage
Alignment:
Deity:
Age: 19 (Cursed with Immortality)
Size: medium
Body Type:
Height: 6 ft
Weight: 180 lbs.
Complexion: Tan
Hair: Silver
Eyes: Blue
Handedness: Right
Scars: Minor scars across her torso, legs, and neck, claw marks across her back
Relationship Status: Single
Personality: Sarcastic, impish, Quick-tempered, on-guard
Mannerisms: Smart-alec responses, fleeing from battle, destroying whatever she feels like
Likes: Nature, Solitude, Magic
Dislikes: Civilization
Sexual Affinity: Straight
_________________
Description
Human Form: A tall, tan woman hiding blue eyes under bangs of silver hair. Her dreads tie up in the back, obscured by a headdress of red and white feathers, multitudes of wooden beads looped around every lock. A variety of leather pouches hang from her chest and belt all filled with assortments of minerals and herbs, all a mark of her medical practice. Crimson markings stained to her skin show her past tribe's glory, hidden under her ripped attire consisting of a coat, brassiere, tights, and leather boots, all black and worn out through her adventures.

Werewolf Form: A dark bluish-gray wolf bearing the same tribal marks as her human state. Her transformation undergoes an illusion like state, the human girl's colors fading into thin air before forming the wolf's silhouette in her arcane's crimson shade, smoke filling the beast into reality.
(Artwork will come soon)

__________________
Connections
Friends- She has never gained any, even in her mortal years.
Enemies- Deceased or unknown, she never knew names
Family- The council of her tribe consisted of her father, mother, and 2 brothers.
Acquaintances
__________________

__________________

Biography
Rida Blackclaw was an alpha of her tribe and was forced into the role of chief by custom, being the oldest child of the council. She grudgingly accepted, foolishly treating it like nothing of major. Even though she wasn't in favor of that responsibility, she continued her duties as a shaman, tending to wounds and warding away spirits. The mage took more interest in studying magic, finding favor in owning its power. Even when the council disapproved, Rida rebelled, hiding away from the village to practice.

An attack of vampires tore her home apart, killing away her army and setting ablaze to everything in sight. With the flames rising, everyone was separated, and Rida fled out of panic.

The lost mage visited their ancestor's shrine days later in hopes of guidance. An angered spirit named Daku answered, assigning blame to Rida for abandoning her leadership. The snarky girl argued with Daku, opposing the advantage over the unknown army of fiends. This retaliation infuriated the warlord, calling for a curse on the shaman.

"As you failed to lead your family, you will continue to lead yourself to failure!"

Immortality was bestowed to Rida, though without a tribe to lead and her family lost to her, she set out wandering the world, seeking what she could of her many years of living. She spent the next 150 years in solitude, running from hunters and bandits alike. Her practice never stopped, practicing the same art she always loved, though using its power to wreak havoc to anyone who dared held a weapon to her.

[User]
Once she stepped inside, the woman shook her hair free of water, the wooden beads adorning her dreads rattling with every shake. She carefully set down her bag against the wall, crystals clunking together inside. After standing once more, she kept her back to him, sighing heavily.

 "As much as I appreciate your kind words, you have to understand-"

Her words were cut off as she turned to the sound of his blade placed on the table. Carefully walking over to see, her eyes followed to the hilt, staring in awe.

 "Hmm, peculiar. Another weapon you say?"

She still had her spear in her right hand, using it like a balancing stick as she watched him pull out a large, foreign weapon. Amazement couldn't be hidden, gazing in wonder as she listened to his story. Like a child, she was easily impressed to see such a high record and to hear such tales. Acknowledging his question, her eyes trailed to the ground, her raspy voice barely above mumbling.

"Well, there is a few. What happened after that day? Does the tribe live on? And... how are you alive? My reign was years ago, which could
 only mean you're over a hundred years old. I don't think I could understand how."

The woman didn't appear old herself, but she didn't think that another would have the same fate. A healthy body and her skin still full, even though she had bluish-silver hair and slightly clouded eyes, it was a change that came with her curse, her sight still clear. She knew she couldn't deny what she saw in that vision, it was her home exactly like it was. Her gaze followed back to the man's marks, then to the ones across her right arm. Truly enough, they matched in ways. No doubt, he was right.

[Assistant]
" Nobody I know of survived the attack other than myself. Everything was compromised upon my arrival. As for myself, I cut my way through whomever was in my way until I made it out. I spent years in hiding practicing the Dark Arts, primarily Necromancy. Unfortunately, it is an law that those tied to one can not be resurrected, or it destroys the caster. As I've understood, it's part of an elaborate curse that I haven't further researched. Whilst I was making such progress in my studies, I was alerted to a chance at immortality. Conducting a very... costly ritual, I was able to immortalize myself when I was 23. After that... I had been captured in my sleep by cultists. Perhaps my newfound immortality and extravagant powers had called to them in some way. This body you see.. Results of their magic, and altercations with my own frame. I do not mind it. It was very strange to get used to, but I found myself liking it. Unfortunately the fools underestimated me. Set me as a overseer to a small army of slaves they'd acquired. It didn't take too long before we overthrew them. "

He spoke calmly, pacing back towards the window near the door and staring out at the storm pouring down outside. His hands were behind his back in a rather formal fashion. His body was stiff, as if he was reporting to an officer in an army. Heaving a sigh, he turned to face her. He seemed to take more note of features at this time.

 " It takes a hell of a lot more than what I've had thrown at me to kill me. You shouldn't worry to much about that. As for you. You're cursed, I can tell. The dark energy is radiating off of you. It's the immortality, by the feeling. I can't say what or where it came from, but it is not anything that I can't fix. Presumably, to only kill the manifestation of the curse and then to re-implement a more.. tolerable version such as my own immortality. That is, if you're willing. "

He was aware it was an odd request, yet as a former member of her village, it was only customary to offer his aid out of respect. Whether she accepted it or not was up to her, yet he himself could not determine any true thoughts about her. After all, he was acting out of respect. He didn't know fuck-all about her.

[User]
"Necromancy? It was my ancestor that laid this Hell on me, he was a warlord at most."

The mage was familiar with the dark magic, though never saught practice. It was a surprise to her that this brute didn't kill her on site since she heard tales about its mana corrupting its caster. She couldn't question it though, eagerly taking his offer.

 "Well, whatever's the cause, if you think you can help me I'm willing to do what it takes."

She seemed to perk up a bit, even some excitement shown. To remove this dread from her soul was something she couldn't refuse, even from a stranger she wanted to at least give it a chance. Glancing towards the window behind him, she went into thought.

 Maybe the rain will clear soon unless he offers space here. I never stayed in something like this though...

Being in the wild, she would find refuge in dense forests and caves, sleeping as a lycan by night. She slumped back against the wall before sliding down to the floor, sitting cross-legged as she stared off into space, recollecting memories.

"As I've said, it was a great spirit that placed this curse on me, Daku. He was my mother's great, great uncle, and saw how much of an irresponsible brat I was. He wasn't wrong, I cared more about magic than my home. I'm not entirely sure how to reach in contact again though. Immortality is something new to this ol' mage, even after roaming the Earth beyond the normal lifetime, so I trust that you're right, since you have all of your flesh and bones together as I do. Why you're willing to help surprises me greatly, along with your forgiveness, but I'm more than grateful. So tell me, what do you have in mind to make this work?"

[Assistant]
He listened to her with a rather calm demeanor around him. During this, he started to unclutter the table, placing the huge battleaxe back into his closet, and placed the sword by the door. After this, he went to a keg near his bed, grabbing two tankards off the top of it and filling each to the brim, just slightly foaming over, and handed one of the drinks to her.

 " Least our country still ships out mead. As for this dilemma.. There's only one way that the curse can be broken. A curse laid upon you from the dead means that the deceased still roam this world. To dispel that curse, the malevolent spirit must be banished. Many spirits choose combat, manifesting themselves so that a fair battle can be waged between them and the living. Much like a flesh and blood battle. That, I have no problem with. However, contracting my form of immortality... There's a catch. Death is Undeath. If your mortal frame is killed, you will turn into a Lich. A undead mage, typically those of great power. In time, if not defeated in combat, you may reform as a humanoid figure again. If defeated once more as a Lich, your soul is shattered, and you perish for all eternity. The ritual isn't complicated, all-be-it. The demand for your own immortality is one thousand souls. The rest of the ritual items and works are easily acquired through casual means. Gathering, trading, whatnot... I can do this for you. As for now, let the storm pass, you may stay here with me. I do not anticipate trouble, as if anything could pose any.

He walked across the room to his bed after finishing his drink, pulling a knife from his boot and twirling it around like a childs toy. He seemed to be fairly relaxed, as much as someone with his stature and outward mindset could be. He still didn't fully understand the reason of his actions. Perhaps it was just his own loneliness that made him seek out company from someone he found familiarity with. He didn't know the answer, much less did he ever even expect to.

[User]
She accepted the drink, sniffing it before taking a sip. Her attention was towards him, trying to make the best of what she can understand. Unsure feelings were in place, perplexion showed across her face as she stood up to place the empty mug on the table. She placed her weapon by the door before returning to her original choice to sit, setting her headdress on top of her satchel and letting her tattered coat drop off her shoulders, wearing a brassiere underneath, showing more tattoos that covered her arms, back, and stomach.

 "Thank you. I'm sure I won't cause any havoc."

She chuckled softly, laying back as her fingers toyed with a purple crystal tied around her neck. The shard seemed to glow with the shaman's touch, though merely another trinket of the many she has, seeming to keep her calm.

Become a Lich... pay a thousand souls? Do I want to do this? I'm sure I've lived long enough as it is. Though he calls this a curse and
 acts like his own lifespan is glorious. Maybe I'll do it anyway, got more to gain than to lose...

With these multiple thoughts in her head, she was staring up at the ceiling quietly. Dismissing her stress, she shook her head, her gaze turned towards him. The shard fell from her hand, its glow fading as the center turned blue. She grinned shyly, awkwardly continuing to fidget with her necklace. Clearing her throat, she tried to keep a focused demeanor, asking hesitantly.

 "Halvar was it? I simply ask out of curiosity, but you seemed to have done this deed. Was it worth it to you?"


[System]
I'm aware this is probably overkill, but this is a new character I'm going to be throwing around this site a lot, so I figured now would be a good time to set up a decent sheet for her.

---

(c)Shiroho-Art
An enigmatic soldier on the run from an even more mysterious force. Darth Vader joining the crew of the Millennium Falcon.

Strength 16
Dexterity 14
Constitution 16
Intelligence 10
Wisdom 10
Charisma 12

+ Skilled swordfighter - Disdains "impersonal" combat
+ Well-versed in military protocol - Not terribly communicative
+ Preternaturally resistant to injury - CURSED
+ Can paralyze others with a glare - Can't "turn off" her eye
Species: Human
Age: 28
Sex: Female
Size: 170cm / 60kg
Eyes: Violet
Skin: Fair

Sin: Pride
Virtue: Diligence
Avatar: General Beatrix, Final Fantasy IX
Voice: Zelda Williams as Kuvira
Theme: "Sacrifice"

General Appearance: Charlotte is a relatively average-sized woman with noticeable but subtle muscle tone, fair skin, and a perpetually distant expression. Her hair is long, straight, and light brown. It's normally half-groomed, as if being presentable was an afterthought. She has no visible scar tissue, which may seem strange for a career warrior. She wears light clothes even when at sea, as if her body simply never gets cold.

One of Charlotte's eyes is significantly less human-looking than the other. She keeps it covered constantly.

Combat Skills: A knight of the northern kingdoms, Charlotte is a dangerous swordswoman with both talent and experience. She's had training in the use of most weapons, including lances, spears, flails, and bows, though she rarely carries any weapon but her bastard sword. Unarmed, she prefers wrestling, and eagerly aims to break her enemy's joints. She's very strong, respectably agile, and inordinately (some might say unnaturally) difficult to put down.

Other Talents: Charlotte has a keen tactical mind, with plenty of experience in coordinating others during times of stress. She can handle horses quite well, though she tends to scare other animals simply on approach. While not much of a reader, Charlotte is a fair hand at board games, card games, and even word games. She also knows the basics of being a deckhand, of course. Otherwise she wouldn't have joined a crew going far out to sea.

Supernatural Abilities: While the northern kingdoms like to brag that their Brass Knights are mystical warriors with impossible abilities, the actual powers any given knight shows are highly varied. Charlotte's body is incredibly resistant to injury, fatigue, and disease. She heals major injuries in days, rather than weeks...which might explain why she has no scars. Other than that, her only really supernatural aspect is her right eye. Meeting Charotte's gaze can induce a magical reaction of terror in most people, freezing them where they stand. This effect varies greatly depending on the strength of a person's spirit, and only ever lasts as long as she maintains eye contact. Unfortunately, this ability is subconscious; as a result, Charlotte keeps her demonic eye covered at all times.

The Curse: No matter how many fantastic abilities Dame Charlotte Euryale received from her pact with eldritch entities, the tradeoff really wasn't worth it. Much more than simple bad luck, powers beyond mortal ken actively attempt to make her life miserable at any given chance. While her body and possessions are only empowered by her Hellish benefactors, the world around her sometimes feels like a nexus of horribly unfortunate accidents that all transpire to hurt her, specifically. A door will break off its hinges as she pushes it open, falling onto a large, surly, drunk man who takes exception with this. The rope hitch she's tying off will snap loose at the last second, sending her hurtling towards the ocean below. In general, if it's horrible and unlikely, it'll probably happen to her.

The fiends that control Charlotte's curse are imaginative and malicious, but they make sure not to severely injure her. After all, how could Hell ever benefit from incapacitating its own soldier?

No one is really sure where Kaer is. In fact, out of everyone she's ever met, Charlotte has yet to find a single other person who knows where her hometown. It's entirely possible that she could have made it up, or that her memories have been altered by some kind of vile enchantment. She remembers her parents dying of illness, not violence, very early in her life. She remembers joining the army of a rather unpleasant tyrant of a king, and achieving a prestige of service so great that she was inducted into an exclusive knightly order.

From her initiation into the Order of the Brass Gauntlet, first as a journeyman then as a proper knight, Charlotte's memories are not only much clearer, but much more damning. One can forgive an orphan for joining a tyrant's army, but one cannot so easily forgive a soldier with any measure of conscience in her heart brokering with dark powers beyond her own imagining. Under orders from her captain and in the presence of her king, Charlotte of Kaer willfully and willingly tainted herself with the blood of entities from children's nightmares.

And she became strong.

The Order of the Brass Gauntlet, also known as the Brass Knights, became the deciding factor in war in the north over the last four years. Having elite warriors imbued with fell powers when the enemy doesn't tends to create an immense difference in military efficacy. On the frontlines of this war, the newly knighted Dame Charlotte Euryale performed acts of both military and non-military brutality. By the time the war had ended, she'd long begun to question exactly what her purpose in life was.

When she got her first chance to desert, she took it. Her path brought her across the world, ducking away from anyone who might be searching for her as best she could. Eventually she found her way to a port city and onto the crew of a ship bound for lands unknown. One would have to be mad or desperate to sail to the edges of the world with a group of complete strangers, and Charlotte is a bit of both. But try as she might to outrun her peers and her king, she can't outrun the unholy creatures that now hold sway over her in more ways than she'd ever admit.

[User]
"The ancients... they sailed westward too, ya know. Masters of the high seas, they was. Don't know what happened to 'em, but seeing as how they ain't here no more, it couldn't 'ave ended well for 'em, now could it? Only fools go looking for that kinda trouble." -local fisherman.

The "Elfleda", a lovely vessel recently commissioned by Lord Rolf to sail westward on an exploratory mission, had been stocked with almost two month's worth of supplies. It's small crew, along with the band of adventurers, had set sail just 3 days ago and were mostly in high spirits. The wind favored them and the first leg of this journey was expected to be easy. They were headed to Avery's Isle, so named for Queen Avery almost 20 years ago. Already it was visible in the distance and they should be there within a few hours time.

The large island had a small permanent population, made up mostly of poor folk who had jumped at the chance to have a plot of land to themselves. And while it was under Lord Rolf's dominion, Constable Leofwine Botwright was the local authority. A perfect place to replenish the supplies used over the last few days plus deliver Lord Rolf's quarterly missive to the Constable.

After that, the "real" adventure would begin as the Elfleda would be continuing westward, hoping to discover more islands filled with either fertile soil or lost riches just waiting to be claimed.

[Assistant] Vilkas boards the ship at port with excitement in his heart. He has been on the sea before and feels right at home onboard immediately. He offers up a quick prayer to the gods of his people and thinks of his contract: a small sum of gold up front and whatever he can loot from the natives in return for maps of the area. Life is good.

[User]
Hanging half-off the ship by one of the port lines connected to the mast, Charlotte eyed the horizon, and very much didn't turn her attention anywhere near the port they were approaching. An endless ocean had seemed like the perfect place to lose herself before she'd actually attempted to...well, lose herself. She reasoned that it would probably just take her some time to get accustomed to the idea of keeping her own company - the Order had provided her with a dozen or more peers to keep her occupied, and now she would very hopefully never see any of them again.

Especially not here. Not in the middle of nowhere.

Part of her almost pitied the men she was stuck on this ship with. How many of them would die when her shadow caught up to her? How many would simply suffer? How long would it take her to become this poor, unsuspecting crew's personal albatross? And when would she get over herself already? Jeez, all of that moping was going to give her a wart, or something. She'd have something to distract herself with in a few hours' time, and a perfect opportunity to field test how this new arrangement was going to work out. Hell only knew what a simple squatter's island had in store for her.

[Assistant]
Rockmar stood by the railing of the ship, looking forward like the rest. However, he really wasn't concerned about what was before them. He was worried about what was behind them. He was sure that the merchant's body would have been found my now. He didn't mean to kill the merchant. But Rockmar was being cheated. An argument started. Before he really know what had happened, the merchant lay dead at his feet.

Rockmar has spent his whole life on the around the docks. The only he was skilled at was fighting. He was often hired as a guard or sometimes as a bouncer. He's even been hired to help against pirates from time to time. Rockmar was no stranger to bloodshed. But this time it was different. He didn't kill some gutter rat. He killed a wealthy merchant. He knew he could never go back. There would only be a hangman waiting for him if he ever returned. Might as well what the rest of the world and ocean had to offer.

He walked over to Charlotte and said, "Hello, it looks like we will be shipmates for some time. I'm called Rockmar."

[User]
Well, if that wasn't the friendliest half-breed she'd met since she started moving south. Non-humans were somewhat uncommon where Charlotte came from, but they seemed to be anything else around here. It'd taken her weeks to become properly accustomed to dealing with filthy sub-human animals wearing pants those of differing heritage, and it was still a work in progress, at that. She had to ponder for a long moment before answering, just to clean up her response to prevent any...unpleasantness.

"Have you ever considered the horizon, Rockmar?" She gripped the rope she was almost hanging from a bit tighter, her voice barely loud enough to carry back to the ship. "Infinite possibility, unspeakable danger, or possibly just a lot of water. No one can no until they arrive there, and simply discovering what it holds destroys the very concept of being a horizon." Her tone got a bit quieter. "Are we explorers, or destroyers?"

In another moment, she swung back around to the deck, landed firmly on her boots, and made eye contact (with the only eye she had available). "Charlotte, of Kaer," she introduced, holding a hand out for a proper, formal shake. Which she assumed, of course, that filthy monkies southern metahumans understood.


[System]
---

Kjartan stood quietly, the flames of his brothers funeral pyre illuminating his battle scarred visage and pale blue, almost white, eyes. He could smell the burning flesh as it curled and the corpse began to shrink from the heat. His brother had been shorter than his six feet, though just as broad in the shoulders and chest; now he was no larger than a small boy. The pyre shifted and then collapsed in an explosion of sparks that shot high into the sky, just one a hundred such blazes along the shores of the River Thet. Some, like his, served as funeral pyres while others were surrounded by celebrating warriors. Ale flowed and the screams of captured women echoed across the water as their captors forced them onto their backs.

He frowned and shrugged his shoulders slightly to shift his chainmail. He had never been one for rape and had always discouraged it where he could, but trying to prevent it would certainly lead to a fight and enough men had died today. His own mead horn was still half full, the feeling cool against the blaze before him. He ran a hand through a thick blonde beard, stroking the ends of it as he stared into the fire, unfocused and unseeing.

There was no escaping the reality that he was now the last of his family line. Two brothers had been killed fighting in Englaland, another had drowned at sea, and his parents were long dead of old age. As it was, he was nearing his thirtieth winter and he could feel the aches in bones and the cold bothered him more now than it had when he was young. No wife, no legitimate children of his own, and no true land to call home. What he and his brother had built had burned during the recent fighting. Now he had nothing save his weapons', armour, and the small horde he had collected over the years. Maybe the time had come to seek new opportunities elsewhere, somewhere far from the blood and death.

His hand drifted from beard to battered pommel of his longsword as he absently rubbed the leather. There had been talk over the past months of a land far to the West, beyond even Iceland and Greenland. Rumours of a huge land, inhabited by tribes of men who some said were Arabs, and filled with such beasts and great forests that no man need be hungry or cold again. That would suit him just fine. He hated the cold.

Post Catalogue:
1. To Go West (Kjartan and Jaska)
2. Finding a Crew (Kjartan and Åse
3. The Saxons Attack (Lise and Sisse)

[User]
Kjartan Knudsen

---

The mood in the longships was nothing short of fury mixed with black humour. Danes were not used to retreating, even less so to defeat. Call Thetford what you wanted, a victory one day, certainly a defeat the next and no one was happy about it. Of the seventeen longships that had been on the beach, three had burned, another had eventually sank, and only one Saxon ship had been captured to replace them. The dead seemed likely to number more than sixty and no single oarbank was full as the Danes rode the current northward.

"Well that was shite," Lise was muttering as she cleaned mud and blood from literally every article of clothing and gear she owned by scooping up river water and scrubbing with a handful of straw. "Pure shite."

"Aye, that's a fine way to put it." Her sister agreed, her own equipment immaculate save for the blood that sheeted her axe from blade to rope knotted handle. "A shame we could not stay to kill more of them, though I don't think I am destined for a heroic death on some nameless Saxon riverbank."

Kjartan, pulling strongly at one of the nearest oars, eyed the two with interest. They were identical in every-way save for a small scar on Lises right cheek. Whip thin with long black hair, green eyes, and almost fairy like looks, they were often underestimated by their enemies or mistaken for children. They had joined the crew a year before, rescued from a Frankish slaver, and been valuable members of the crew ever since. He had been present when they took their blood oath to never be taken alive by anyone again. There no doubt among those who had been present that they meant what they said as their bloodied palms joined over their offering to Freya.

"We got careless," Jaska, across the vessel from Kjartan and pulling his own oar, chimed in. Nothing ever seemed to worry the Finn, nothing. It was disconcerting at times and Kjartan had teased him about it on occasion. Jaska would always just shrug his shoulders and smile. "Over confident."

"That does seem to be a problem with men..." Lise muttered as she scrubbed at a particularly stubborn patch of mud that had stained the grip of her short-sax. "Always got more confidence in their skills than they ought too."

Jaska laughed. "And yet even you two got caught napping, what's your excuse there, eh?"

"All these beards are rubbing off on us. We were as dozy as you lot." Sisse replied. She and her sister could volley a conversation back and forth between them in a way that left most folk confused. Jaska was the only one who was apparently impervious to their games.

"Right, bearded.."

"Snoring."

"Likely as not playing with your cocks."

"When you should have been keeping watch."

"I won't even ask you what you were playing with." He interrupted them mid-flow and tossed an amused smile at them. There had long been a rumour among the army that the sisters were lovers but Kjartan did not think there was any truth to it. Their stories of being enslaved were chilling to hear and he was certain any experience like that would forge a bond he could not understand.

"My cock, obviously." Lise replied with a sly grin.

The small exchange, though in truth not hilarious, brought out a few more grins among the crew. Going a Viking meant learning to survive setbacks when required; failure to do so would only lead to taking risks that would get you killed and they were short crewed enough as it was.

Kjartan looked around the boat, noting those who had made it, and those who had not. Åse was hunched at the rear, squatting next to the steering oar as she guided the longship down the river. They were picking up speed and she gave a quick command to cease rowing. The river would take them the rest of the way to the sea. It wouldn't be a fast trip, but it would give them time to lick their wounds and not limp into Lynn like whipped dogs.

There they could resupply, re-arm, and discover which of their crew wished to continue the journey.

[Assistant]
Åse Ingolfsdatter

---

Dried mud and blood flaked off of Åse's arms and body as she steered their vessel down river using her weight to maneuver the oar she managed. Taking a quick glance behind her, the young woman saw no signs of a pursuit behind them. Perhaps the Saxon's decided to celebrate the victory of taking back Thetford rather than chase them completely out of their land. Åse had the mindset to call them fools, but she rather not curse their good luck. The enemy's lack of the drive to hunt them allowed the Danes to escape, recover, and plan their next move before their enemy could decide it for them. The talk on the boat was a welcomed distraction as her arms worked to keep the boat in her control though it was not necessarily a taxing task as they moved with the current. Many spoke of retaliation as they were not accustomed to the taste of defeat, others spoke of their carelessness, and some did not speak at all, probably wrestling with their own opinions on what happened and what to do next.

The young shield maiden had no such internal struggles, for she had already decided to move on from her life of battle. Feeling the boat settle nicely in the flow of the river along with the remaining ships of their division, Åse took the opportunity to relax next to her place by the steering oar and investigated herself. Save for some scratches and bruises, she had no serious injury to concern herself with and the blood that covered her body was not her own. Åse noticed that another had taken charge of Arne once he was shoved onto the boat and had made quick work of his injury. The arrow had since been removed from his shoulder, an endeavor that resulted in many curses towards the thankless healer, and a bandage now laid in it's place. The man was expected to recover, though it is too soon to tell for certain.

The fourteen remaining ships of their division were slowly making their way back to Lynn, a decently sized river town that was conquered and inhabited prior to the Dane's attempt on Thetford. It was there that Åse planned to stock up and head out to world's unknown. They would reach the town before nightfall so the young women settled into the oar to rest, chuckling with the rest of their troupe as they joked about being to busy playing with themselves to pay attention to their surroundings.

The shores at Lynn burst into life when their approach was discovered by their kin whom had occupied the town and took notice of their colors in the light of the setting sun. Many came to their aid, working to anchor their boats at the river's edge and carry their wounded to tents were they could be tended to. Åse was glad for this as it meant she wasn't needed for this labor and her mind could focus on other tasks. She was eager for a bath and a warm bed to sleep in but knew that a meeting amongst the lords on their next course of action was unavoidable given their current circumstances, a responsibility she inherited with the death of her beloved. It would be then that she would declare her intentions to take her vessel and leave, taking whomever wanted out of this venture. The rest would be dealt with in the morning she thought as the heaved herself over the boat and landed softly upon the sandy beach.

Passing by Kjartan on the shore, she placed her right hand upon his left shoulder, squeezing it gently in greeting. She didn't have a chance to say anything sooner to the man as they both had duties to attend to in order to get their people to safety here in Lynn. Åse thought to ask him to join her, but decided against the notion.

"If anything, I'll see you in the morning Kjartan." She said softly while releasing her grip on him.

Her weary legs carried her into the weathered town, trading the soft sand for moist grass that licked away at any mineral particles that stuck to her leather boots.

[User]
The touch still lingered as Kjartan made his way into Lynn. To call the impromptu community of wood and canvas shacks a town was being generous. In truth it was a collection of wooden shacks built around a Roman ruin that had once served as a storehouse for the salt of an empire none of the Danes who now sheltered amid its grandeur could ever understand. To the Kjartan, the Romans might have been gods. He had once seen the great stone arches that had carried water to Lunden and stood beneath stone that seemed hung in the air, higher and stronger than anything built since. Even the Christian Churches, built of brick and stone, were dwarfed by the ruins of a ghostly empire.

Familiar faces leapt out at Kjartan as he made his way through the shelters; warriors he had fought alongside, merchants who had done business with, and one or two women whose favours he had enjoyed. The muddy paths that crisscrossed the space sucked at his tall boots and more than once he had to step over human shit. Disease would come soon if this continued. Keep to many folk in a space to small for them for too long and people would begin dying.

Canvas roofs twitched in a strong wind that blew in from the ocean and he could see, in the distance, the white beaches where he knew small troupes of Saxon slaves worked a half salt pans to the white crystals as they dried in the sun. The Romans had built hundreds of such pits, enough to need the building in which he now stood, but most had been eroded with time; there were simply not enough people to work them. Not on the scale the Romans had managed.

It was strange to think that he would be sailing away from England. For so many years he had fought to reach the rolling green fields until he had made it, at last, and then he had fought to take his own small portion of it. Now it was all for nothing, of all it, for nothing. Danish fortunes were waning in England, any fool could see it. Even in Northumbria there were rumours of uprisings and more attacks from the Scots. The English were on the march in Wessex; they had at last solved the Danish problem. No Jarl wanted to throw away their men against fortress walls and all of southern England was covered with fortified Burghs now; more were being built every year. Those Danes who remained were converting to Christianity - the nailed God was winning the war.

He looked down at his hands. They were still strong, the hands of a warrior, but a thousand small cuts had turned them into a mess of white scars that cross-crossed everywhere. The tip of his left thumb was missing, lost during a skirmish with the armies of Wessex. He had a limp on cold days - he had been thrown from a horse - that hurt when the worst of weather was closing in. He was not a young man anymore.

The distant wave tops were starting to show white flecks as a grey wall of rain advanced southward toward Lynn. More rain. He was sick of the rain. Was there anywhere in the world that it did not rain? A glance over his shoulder revealed the small forest of masts above the few ships that had arrived so far. Tomorrow they would begin travelling North. A stop in Northumbria, perhaps the Norse settlements in the very north of Pictland, and then West.

West. To the unknown lands.

* * * * *

The storm blew itself out overnight. Only two shelters collapsed and one burned with its occupants inside. More ships had arrived as well, swelling the population to the point where to many folk were crammed into too small a space. Fights broke out as men angry and humiliated by Thetford looked for any excuse to vent their rage. The dead of Thetford, those of the fyrd - unburdened by armour - had begun to float downriver now and some became wedged beneath the hulls of the longships drawn up on the soft sand.

Kjartan shoved one of those bodies clear with a spear as others stood to the gunwales and grunted as they thrust the longship into the running current with their oars. The river snatched at the hull, trying to twist it and drive them backward downstream. He could hear the whisper of sand as it caressed the hull - a glance overboard revealed only a muddy swirling mass that streamed out beyond the longship as it drew into deeper water.

He looked over the crew and was happy to see some new members, mostly women, had joined them during the night. It was evident that they had their own demons, it appeared that no one among this crew could not, but all looked capable fighters. Åse had chosen them well. The lady herself was standing nearby, her own face turned into the breeze, toward the ocean. She must have felt his gaze, turning her head to catch his eye. She smiled and he felt his heart warm.

"North, steersman, north and then west."