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behindthesemasks · 1 month

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It's time to get some answers...

Mel and Klaus stood arguing about her safety while they waited for Ambrose and Nic to make an entrance. He wanted her back in the suite at the hotel, she wanted to get to the hospital or help at the dig site. Melania was tired of being treated like a china doll by everyone around her. While he understood that, he couldn’t get her to understand what that drive had just felt like to him; knowing that if the asshole in the passenger seat of that SUV had been a better shot, she could have been hurt or killed. It had felt like being on that plane when the bullet had gone through Grant and hit her during the extraction in Peru.

Finally, tired of arguing with him and getting nowhere, she had agreed to go back to the hotel, but not for the reasons he would have wanted. She didn’t tell him, but she planned on getting every drop of information from Andreas she could. His final disposition she’d leave to Klaus and Eric, but she was going to make that man hurt…a lot. Being shot at while going on archaeological expeditions was something she was seriously becoming tired of. Ever since she’d landed in Peru last year, she felt like she’d had a gun pointed at her every damn day. Whether it was because they were keeping her safe, or because they were considering taking her out…it mattered little to her at this point.

Klaus was relieved that she agreed to go back, even if he didn’t trust that his thoughts and feelings on the matter had any bearing on her decision. He could tell there was something more going on behind those crystal blue eyes of hers, but if she was out of the line of fire, he could at least focus on taking out the threat to her and their friends. When it was all said and done, he knew there would be a reckoning to be had over this, and the incident in the hallway at the hotel. That didn’t bother him; the possibility of her being hurt bothered him. He could take her anger. Seeing her in a coma in a bed again, that he wasn’t sure he could take. Twice in less than six months was too much for him.

When they showed up in the Quonset hut, looking frustrated and ready to commit great violence, Nic and Ambrose agreed with Klaus about Mel going back to the hotel. They hadn’t found anything of use in the SUV. Whoever was funding this was good, very good. Ambrose already had calls out to people who technically didn’t exist. The word was being spread that there was a price, a high one, on the head of whoever thought to try and take out the heir to the Meyers fortune. There was to be no expense spared in finding out who did it. Ambrose was calling in favors in spades, and he knew that in the end he would get what he wanted.

Tossing his keys to Case, Ambrose told him to get her back to the hotel. After seeing the man’s driving, Ambrose was sure that he could keep her safe and in one piece if there was another incident. He considered sending Gabe back with them as well, but decided to keep him with the team for the moment. With Cam and Erik back at the hotel in addition to Case, that should be enough. With the warning going across the wires, anyone attempting to harm his granddaughter did truly have a death wish that every man in that building would gladly grant. From the look on Klaus’s face and the missing rear window of the SUV they had been in, he had no doubt that retribution was going to be swift and brutal from him.

Following Case and Mel out to the SUV that was parked alongside the one that they had arrived in, Klaus hated that she was going back without him but also wanted to go hunting for those responsible for what just happened and wanted her safe. He was pissed, beyond pissed. Cupping her face in his hands, he gave her a look that spoke volumes about the warring emotions that were inside him. Her hands rested on his hips before she went to her toes to kiss him.

“Go get ‘em killer. I’ll be fine.” Her voice was low and sexy, her lips brushing over his. There was something more in her eyes though, something feral and lethal. Damn if it didn’t turn him on. She was going to be the death of him someday, but damn he’d die a happy man.

He looked over to Case as she got in the vehicle and nodded. Shutting her door, he headed back into the building and the waiting team. His strides were long and purposeful; it was clear from his gate that this was a man on a mission. He was going to find out who put her in danger, and eliminate them with great malice. Maybe he’d even let the others help.

“Dez, get to the hospital. That SUV had run flat tires. They had expected to take fire, they were on a mission. Alexander and Sasha aren’t safe and Cade isn’t enough backup in this situation. I don’t want Mel leaving that hotel and the only way to keep her there is to get Alexander back there. As soon as it’s dark, get him back to the hotel and keep his ass there.” Nic was talking when Klaus walked back in. He nodded over to him as he joined the others.

“Klaus, Gabe, Donovan…you’re with us. Grandfather just got intel. We’ve got a visit to make to a mansion just outside of town that’s being rented by a mysterious Australian. Seems there have been some rumors of the resident being a relics dealer. Seeing as how we have one archaeologist down and another as a target, I think we’ve found who we’re looking for.” Nic smirked as he looked at his men. Damn he had a good team; he trusted every damn one of them.

Both groups headed out to the two remaining SUV’s. Ambrose had gotten the keys from Case for the one that was missing the back window. Klaus took up position in the back of it as the other males got in the front. Then they followed Case and Dez back to the main road towards town. Just outside of the city, they turned off on another road, heading in the general direction of the manor. They weren’t going to just roll up to the front door, they might have before someone tried to take out four of them. Too late for being polite now.

When they were within a quarter mile, and on a road that didn’t lead directly to the house, Ambrose pulled the SUV off of the road onto a turn in that was rather overgrown. Pulling past the tree line so that the rear of the vehicle was at least partly hidden, everyone slipped out as quietly as they could. Doors were left slightly ajar and the tailgate was left up. Silence was the name of the game now. The sun was up and that meant that they would stay low and in the trees as much as possible.

That quarter mile seemed to take forever to cross. If whoever was in the house was responsible for the attack on Sasha, and the price on Alexander, they didn’t want to give them warning that hell was about to come down on them. They were as silent as possible, making sure to stay undetected and hidden the whole time. Once they reached the tree line, they were no more than 50 yards from the main house. There were no guards that could be seen, but there were people inside. While the windows did reflect some of the surroundings, shadows moving inside could be seen.

Each of the men took up observation positions to try and determine how many were inside and their locations. They would wait till the cover of darkness to move in any closer. There could be no more than two or three hours of daylight remaining. Klaus and Donovan had shotguns, Ambrose and Nic were brandishing pistols, and Gabe had an AR. They were ready for whatever lay inside that house.

As dusk was beginning to set, Klaus’s phone buzzed. Pulling it out, he looked down at the number and sighed as he swiped to answer it. “Yeah?” His eyes closed tightly, then he responded curtly, “not now,” before hanging up. Turning his phone off, he stored it in one of the pockets on his pants before returning his attention to the house.

No one asked who it was or what they had wanted. For him to answer it right now meant it was Mel or one of the other men on the team. His response told them this wasn’t a good time to start a conversation on it either. But they all did pull out their phones and turn them off. Last thing they needed was a distraction when they were raiding the house.

Soon darkness had fallen. The men emerged from the tree line and headed towards the house. Hand signals guided the entry to the house, 3 through the back and two through the front. As Klaus, Donovan, and Nic headed around back, they were careful to avoid being seen through the large windows that each room on the bottom floor seemed to have. While they had seen people inside the house earlier, no one was seen in any of the rooms now. They could only hope that this meant that they hadn’t been spotted.

At the back door they paused and listened. Seconds ticked by slowly till they heard the distinctive whistle that meant it was time for entry. Klaus and Donovan brought boots to door at the same time to break the lock and swing it open. Klaus took point with Nic bringing up the rear.

There were no sounds on the first floor when the teams made entry, but the sounds of the scraping of chairs could be heard upstairs. Neither group delayed in heading up, where they were met with two armed bodyguards that were quickly dispatched. The other men in the room looked surprised at first, and then fearful when Ambrose’s tall frame rounded the corner to enter the room they were in.

“So gentlemen, you’ve decided it was a wise thing to take out a hit on members of an expedition team on a archaeological dig that I’m financing. You’d better have a damn good reason that you just put my granddaughter in jeopardy because I don’t take kindly to her being shot at.”

This is where the stammering started, first from one then another of the men. All seemed to be claiming that they had no idea that Ambrose was financing the dig nor that Mel was one of the archaeologists on site. If it hadn’t been abundantly clear they had found out who was behind the attack on Sasha and the hit on Alexander, Klaus might have found their stammering amusing. As things were, he found it irritating and annoying.

“Boys, restrain our hosts. I think they’ve forgotten what it means to do their homework before starting a job. A refresher on exactly what happens to anyone who crosses me might be in order as well.” Ambrose smirked as the color began to drain from the faces of the men who were facing him.

Four hours later the men emerged from the house. A little blood splatter here and there, but only the two bodyguards had ended up dead. Now they needed to get back to the SUV and to the hotel. Hopefully all the rest of the team would now be there with information from Andreas.

As they got to the SUV, everyone started pulling out phones and turning them on. Most likely there would be texts or calls with updates to at least Ambrose and Nic. Klaus knew he needed to return the call he’d gotten to, but he wasn’t exactly sure how to do that with everyone in the vehicle able to hear him.

“Shit! How the fuck do I have over 100 missed calls.” Nic growled as he started to flip through his call log.

“I’ve got 50,” Klaus replied, not really wanting to look through his log.

“What, did I get the jackpot with only 3?” Gabe joked as he tried to figure out who was calling him from the 228 area code.

“FUCK!” All heads turned to look at Ambrose. In the dim light of his cell phone, pure anger showed on his face. He hit a number on his phone and the soft sound of ringing could be heard in the stillness as no one else moved. “What is so god damned important?” His voice left no room for misunderstanding that he was pissed. “What do you mean she’s missing?”

Klaus’s heart dropped through the floor and Gabe almost dropped his phone.

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thetalesofno-one · 2 months

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Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 1, Ch. IV -Deadman's Path-

D&D Campaign Retelling Part 1/? Chapter 4/5 ~4.8k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk

Summary At the fork in the road, the Deadman's Path is chosen. The messages of tallies and arrows followed like a promise into the mists where the land drinks of their spirits. Read Previous Chapters also available on AO3

Evie stares at the empty air where Roshan and Evrrot should be. Where any sane person would still be if they hadn’t fucked off into the crazy weird fog without a thought for how sound an idea that could possibly be. The fog is exactly what started this mess and she doesn’t think getting home will be as easy as walking right back into it.

She doesn’t so much as blink, searching that creepy slithering fog for any signs of the fools. There’s nothing there. Literally fucking nothing. No little angry swirls where they passed, no blurry shadow of their silhouettes being eaten alive. Nothing.

She hopes the bastards beyond are still alive to hear it if for no other reason than to let them know she will chew their ears off next she sees them. Who looks at a wall of churning, slithering fog that swallows all like a damn hydra and goes, ‘Let’s go this way’.

Evie catches the giant ponce looking at her with that long suffering look that’s becoming more and more common between them. She hates that she’s wearing it too.

A string of curses creative enough it would’ve raised her father’s brows from his grave face find their way to her lips, but under her breath because she’s still a temple girl even if she’s not exactly sure where she stands with that. To his credit, the tree of an elf beside her doesn’t so much as raise one of his immaculately sharp brows. She wonders a moment if he shapes them himself or if he’s just born that way. Probably the latter. Pure blood elves and their useless handsomeness. She hopes he can swing that broken glaive as well as he fondles it. She swears his hand never leaves the busted thing. Oh he hides it well enough beneath that dark cloak of his, the worn rag draped over one shoulder to hide his blade arm. But she’s short enough to catch a glimpse here and there when he walks and sure enough, his hand hasn’t left that thing since he strolled into the barn with his lifted chin and judgy eyes, looking down on them all.

He looks down on her now. Granted he’s about two feet taller than her, but that’s beside the point.

Evie sighs, “It’s not like we don’t both know we’re just going to follow them.”

He stares at the fog a moment, watching it writhe and swirl in strange patterns before their eyes. For a moment she thinks he’s going to turn back and abandon her—wouldn’t be the first person—but he seems to resign himself and steps into the fog without looking back at her readied glare. She expected him to put up a small resistance to walking ahead of her in his strange, quiet, if misguidedly protective way. Waste of a glare.

She follows in his shadow immediately, not taking any chances with fucky fog in weird forests. It swallows everything, even threatening to swallow each other despite their proximity. She moves closer and feels him tense as her arm brushes his gloved hand, but even right next to him, he is difficult to see through the thick haze, half gone from her sight. It is far too easy to lose each other in this mess and any sign of the others mere moments ahead of them is entirely impossible.

The mist paws at them, crawling over their skin, and sweeping through their hair. The more they breathe it in, the more it feels like something is being stolen away. Evie forces her lungs full, but the choked air only tightens her chest leaving her feeling more empty than before. The strength seeps from her bones like blood from a wound. Even Emet seems more slouched.

The air is too thin, her head growing heavier with each laboring breath. Exhaustion floods them and Evie is reminded of her early days in the temple. The first time she put on armor, it felt like she’d drown in it. The first time she carried a weighted casket, she thought she’d be in the grave herself if she had to take one more step. They made her carry that weight daily until she could bear it. And not just physically. But in this mist she feels like she’s back on that first day, fighting for her life to get the casket on her shoulder even with the aid of another, the familiar strain burning in her lungs and filling her legs with lead.

She and Emet—the moon elf bent and slouching, suffering quietly as he tries not to look like he cannot breathe either—trudge through for what cannot possibly be longer than a handful of minutes, and yet when they finally exit the blinding and sapping fog into the normal unending mist, they feel as though they’ve both run the length of a city in full plate armor.

She pants and catches her breath shamelessly. Emet finally gives up the ruse of not suffering and sinks his back against a tree, leaning far too heavy for someone who’s not dying with her. They both spare a lungful to curse out Mr. “I think I’m so sexy” tiefling and the crazy old man for abandoning them. But their misguided leaders are nowhere to be seen.

“This was a mistake,” Emet snarls, breathing in deep, trying to fill his lungs. It is taking too long for the burn to fade, “Never trust dead men.”

“It’s taken you that long to work that one out?”

“No. There simply wasn’t much other choice.”

Evie takes one more lungful, savoring the strange bitter sweetness of this air. Cemetery air. Air of cold stone and faint rot, sharp and empty with a lingering taste of sorrow, the same air she’s breathed since Daggerford fells into the mists hours ago. The same air that told her they were far, far away from home. But at least it isn’t choking away her every breath. Her strength slowly returns.

“There’s always another choice,” she whispers.

Somewhere else beyond the vampiric mist and lost in the forest, Evrrot and Roshan fight off the same drain on their body and spirit. The fog doesn’t so much as pull away from them as simply end between one step and the next. One moment consumed and blind with the air stolen from their lungs and the next beyond the slithering snakes of fog into the slightly less slithering fog of the deadwood forest.

Roshan quickly spins behind him to check on the others, his loose white robes swishing around his ankles. Evrrot pants heavily beside him with hands on his knees looking as though he just outran the guard. That seems like a thing the devil boy would do. He acts like someone who has outrun many a guard and not just because of the horns. His personality tells a story all its own.

Gulping in the mildly stale air like a parched man finding water in the sands of Calimshan, Roshan puts on his best grin for his next joke before realizing that Evrrot is the only one with him. He spins in a circle, searching along the fog wall’s edge.

“Where are the other two?”

“Probably lost in the mist,” Evrrot pants, gulping loudly.

He lifts his glowing staff, “But I shined a light for them to follow.”

“I don’t know.” Evrrot tosses up his hands and leaves down the path without a second thought for those missing. “I’m gonna keep going, you good to keep up?”

“I am not old,” he says by way of answer.

Roshan’s brow furrows, looking again to the place where the others should appear any moment if they are not lost. But they do not come and Evrrot is already walking away.

“Should we not try and find them?”

Evrrot’s steps end and he sighs.

“If they are in the mist, surely they will come out soon,” Roshan continues.

Though he is stopped, devil boy does not turn back. It is as though he hoped Roshan would simply forget about the people who were just with them and move on. The tiefling chews his lower lip with an air irritation, tail swishing as he impatiently settles his weight from one foot to the other. Roshan wonders if Evrrot must actively force his feet from walking away. As though waiting for others goes against his very nature. Devil boy stares pointedly ahead with the longing of a starving man restraining himself from a hot meal. It is like watching someone decide between cutting off their own hand or taking a slice of honeyed pastry. The choice is no choice at all. Roshan doesn’t need to be a seer to sense Evrrot’s struggle to find a reason to care about the others is a difficult one for him.

“Numbers are better in this sort of situation,” Roshan offers gently.

Evrrot continues to stare pointedly away from where they came. He bites his lip a bit more, devilish fangs worrying the edge before clicking his teeth together.

“Alright, fine.”

He clenches his jaw then loosens, shaking off the tension and grabbing hold of Roshan’s words to force himself back. At least the boy’s mind is capable of seeing the practical and logical value in having a few more bodies between them. It is a start.

Roshan pats Evrrot’s shoulder like a father does a son’s head, “Good lad.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Why are you so angsty? Do you have a bad relationship with your father?”

“No, it was a pleasant one, but…” Evrrot glares, “Why are we even talking about this?”

Devil boy storms off to go find the missing people he’s been told he’s supposed to care about and Roshan sighs. It is a start, he reminds himself.

“Can’t believe those guys went off without us!”

Evie sets her fists on her hips and sneers as she mocks the assholes who left her with the giant ghost. If she can’t tear them a new one, then she’ll settle with complaining about them to Emet instead.

“I thought we were supposed to be sticking together! And yet I can already hear the sound of that damned Evrrot walking away and fucking off into the mist like a twat. Probably thinks he’d do just fine without any of us. Wankers.”

Evie chews a nail then stops herself, “We weren’t that far behind were we?”

She hates how she can hear the worry in her voice when the anger burns itself away. As if all there really is—all there’s really been—is worry. But worry is fear, so she sets it aflame and calls it rage. Because she doesn’t want to be afraid. She wants to be angry.

Emet runs a hand across his face, the metal gauntlet getting tangled in the loose strands of his long white hair a moment. He shakes them free, “No, a few seconds at most.”

“Maybe they’re hiding or some shit.”

“I swear, if one of them jumps out of the mist, I’ll stab them.”

She doesn’t think he’s joking and some part of her respects that. Evie begins calling out for ‘old guy’, making it very clear this isn’t very funny and daggers will be involved if they jump out at them.

She’s about to get more creative with her threats when a strange noise fills the space between her calls. Something like metal whirring and spinning wildly against glass. Evie turns to Emet first wondering if the towering bastard has gone and done something, but his eyes are cast down at her hips. She’s about to curse him out when he wordlessly points and her eyes follow the line of his finger to her pocket. The compass.

The strange sound grows louder as Evie removes the tarnished copper thing. The needle—once erratic and stubbornly refusing to point North—now whirls in a frenzy as though caught in a storm. The sharp red needle now a blur beneath the glass. Small scrapes cut the surface from underneath.

“Well, that’s great. It’s even more useless,” she says.

Evie shoves the broken thing back in her pocket and goes back to loudly and obnoxiously calling out for ‘old guy’, not quite wanting to say her nickname for sexy tiefling out loud since he’d probably ignore the sarcastic nuance and take it as a compliment. No one replies of course, but she and Emet wander aimlessly around the border of the sapping mist in the hopes the other two haven’t actually abandoned them.

She hopes not.

Expects so and yet still hopes not for some stupid reason.

One stolen glance at Emet and she can tell he’s already given up on the others—if he ever expected them to come back for them at all. Abandonment issues isn’t something she wants to have in common with him. It isn’t something she wants at all and yet believing they’ve been left behind is an easier pill to swallow than thinking anyone would come looking for her…them. Come looking for them.

“…get very irritated very quickly. Who hurt you?”

The sing-song melody of Roshan’s accent carries through the still air. Not close, but not far either. She glances up at Emet silently wondering if he hears it too, or if the mist is playing tricks again. But he’s staring off in the same direction she heard the voice. He heard it too then. They pick up their speed, Evie half trotting toward the sound of Roshan’ melodic voice, the human asking something about why Evrrot does not like authority figures as the tiefling trudges into view alongside Roshan. Evrrot wears the expression of someone deeply regretting a decision.

Relief floods Evie like a cool drink on a hot day. Warmth poured over her heart and bones in a brief flicker at seeing them. She almost smiles. Almost. And out of the corner of her eye she catches Emet’s mouth quirk up into a faint grin as though he’s about to make some sarcastic comment before he glances over to her and the smile falls into something else. Like remembering something lost.

She senses the softness on her face before he can say anything, her expression open and unhidden behind the sharp barbs she set in her heart to keep moments like this from happening. To keep people from realizing she still has one. Evie’s eyes sharpen into knives. She’s about to cut Emet first for that look before Evrrot finally spies them, offering a fake smile and an impatient tap of his foot saying, “Alright, we got everyone? Then let’s keep going.”

That’s it? Let’s just go like you’ve been keeping us waiting. No question of what happened or are you alright? Evie wants to snarl at Evrrot and give that tapping foot of his a trim with her short sword or maybe pry out a fang or two from that fake ass smile. She wants to scream and roar and cut something—anything to get away from that moment of letting her mask of steel slip.

Roshan halts his psychological analysis of Evrrot, “Where have you been for the past three minutes?”

Evie blinks, hearing the exact words she wanted to hear but her anger has gone too far already. “Where did you go? You just fucked off!” Evie bites back, venom sharp.

Evrrot’s fake smile turns into a frown matching her own offense as though he has any right to be offended at all.

“We’ve been here!” He yells loudly, “Waiting for you two.”

Evie is about to tell him exactly where he can wait for her booted foot before Roshan starts patting the air like he can put out the flames, “No, no, no. We walked around for a bit hoping to find you.”

“We were right behind you,” Emet gestures to the mist, a little irritated himself if Evie is hearing that faint sharpness in his tone correctly. “Barely a few steps between us.”

Something like concern crosses the holy man’s face, and at least when he wears it, Evie believes it.

“It was more than a few minutes for us,” Roshan answers, “We waited a few minutes and you were nowhere to be found.”

“Minutes?” Emet scoffs, “We were seconds behind you. How could you have had minutes to wait?”

A day and night’s weariness of travel and strangeness wears at the ends of Evie’s nerves with a faint building static. She’s tired. She’s hungry. And all of them are at the very edge of whatever hospitality they had to begin with, which wasn’t much. Roshan tries to explain how time went for them a little better, but his story and their just don’t add up and as tired as they all are, it probably never will. None of this does.

Emet runs a hand through his hair, resigned and looking twice as tired as the rest of them. She wonders if he always looks tired, but the thought is cut short as his eyes catch on something beyond them. Evie turns and spies an eerily familiar tree, with 43 tallies and an arrow. She isn’t sure if she should be glad or furious.

“Either we continue with these endless trees or we risk the fog again and try to find our way back. So which is it,” Emet says flatly, as though he knows that whatever he chooses the tiefling will likely decide the opposite for no other reason than spite. Or perhaps it’s some weird kink for control and this is how he flirts. She doesn’t know anymore and doesn’t care. At least for now, they need to stick together and preferably that will happen someplace away from all this damned fog.

Roshan shakes his head, “The fog is a bad, bad place.”

“All of this is a bad, bad place.”

Without anyone having really decided, they all trudge through the muddy path toward the tree with their feet heavy and minds burdened by the frustrations this day has brought upon them.

Evie’s fingers wander absently over the brooch about her neck, twisting it back and forth on its black velvet cord knowing she can never take it off. Can’t take it off. Her fingers trace the familiar shape of the smooth surface, the last time she’s seen it outside of a mirror or reflection being when her father put it on her. Before, she never cared to take it off. And the first time she tried only weeks ago, she couldn’t. No one could unlatch it or cut it. And soon after her father left, it started to tug at her. She might not know where this heirloom of her father’s is leading her, but she never would’ve guessed it would be to a barnful of strangers forced to rely on each other in some strange land. And without any kind of rest.

Tensions are high.

Sleep and food. That’s what they need. Something hot to fill their bellies, something warm and comfortable to wrap around their shoulders, and something soft to lay their heads upon. Maybe things will make a bit more sense after that. But for now they’re still lost on this cyclical path with heavy eyes and frayed nerves, teeth bared and ready to latch onto each other’s throats. Only the old man seems to have any sort of calm about him as though this is just a casual stroll through winter woods with friends and not a bunch of tired and angry strangers thrown into some kid’s messed up bedtime story.

Sexy tiefling and old man find their way to the tree first, though this one is slightly different than the rest they have encountered. Stabbed into the gnarled and cracked bark of the tree, an old dagger of a style unfamiliar to any kind Evie has seen rests above a crude carving of a man atop a horse. The phrase ‘The horseman rides, the Seer spoke true’ carved below, and once more another 43 tallies with another arrow.

“Well, that’s not ominous,” Emet growls.

“Do you think the horseman is that man we found dead?” Roshan studies the carving a bit closer, “Or that silhouette of the man with the flaming horse? And who is this Seer?”

Evie’s eyes widen, “Oh shit, do you think it’s the same guy? His horse wasn’t on fire though.”

“No, but horses are not usually on fire.”

Fair enough.

“Which one do you think it is then, old guy?”

“I think that man is dead. He is not the problem. He is probably the one who gave this message though. I think we should find this Seer and that we should follow the arrows.”

Evie eyes him. That’s a lot of ‘I think we should’ for someone she just met hours ago. All she wants is to get to some semblance of safety, figure out what part of Faerûn the damned mist spirited them off to, and then be on her way.

“I don’t see why any of this is any of our business.”

“We do not know where we are, any help would be grateful.” Roshan looks around the mist again, nodding to himself, “This place is bad. Bad, bad.”

“I’m with you there.”

The weariness of the day—days?—sets in. Roshan is the first to search the sky for any sign of what time it could possibly be since they entered the parasitic mist. Not like Evie expects anything. Since the air turned from the sweetness of Daggerford celebration to misty cemetery air, they’ve been wandering for what must have been five or more hours by Evie’s estimation, and yet the sky remains a stubborn endless dark grey somewhere between night and day. Only faint greyish light filtering through the tangled barren boughs of the gnarled trees indicates that it might be daylight somewhere above that low blanket of clouds.

“Surely the sun should have risen or set by now, no?” The holy man rubs the burnished metal sun hanging about his neck as though the action might summon the sun emblazoned on it. With no tangible response, he adjusts his robes and points after the next arrow.

“Right, come along children. Let’s go.”

Children?

Evie rolls her eyes. Being twenty-five doesn’t make her a child no matter how young she looks with her half-elven blood. And sexy tiefling has got to be in his thirties with the way he seems to still prize being an asshole. Too old to be smooth faced and full of lies and too young to have gained any maturity or wisdom, clearly. And poncy boy the seven foot giant elf? The man may look like an untouched by time young thirties, but he’s a pure blood elf. He could be 300 years old for all Evie knows and she’s only partially certain the old man doesn’t have quite so many years under his belt. Evie finds herself assessing Roshan once more, trying to determine his age.

“I thought you were 32?” Evie asks.

“Yes, but you keep calling me old one, so I might as well accept it.”

“There’s just something about you,” Emet adds, “You must have an old soul or something.”

“I have never heard that one, thank you,” Roshan says with such a deadpan expression, Evie can’t tell if that’s sarcasm.

The group, all wishing in their own way for a bed and some sort of hot meal continue along the muddy footpath with less and less motivation to bother. How many more trees with 43 tallies will they pass? How many more cryptic signs carved in bark with no sun or hint of where or when the hells any of them are?

Evie hangs her head with a dramatic sigh, groaning loudly incase anyone has any doubt about how done she is with this endless day, when she stops in her tracks. They’ve been walking this muddy foot path since Roshan decided with his magic feather that this was the way to go, but Evie never really gave the path any kind of investigation. Why would she? A path is a path right? Unless the path is worn by only one person.

She stares into the mud, hoping she is wrong. But whether she looks behind where they’ve walked or ahead where they’ve not yet trampled some of the tracks, it is the same.

“I’m starting to get a bad feeling, guys.”

“You are only starting?” Roshan asks.

“No, a new bad feeling.”

“Ohhh.”

“I mean I’m not the smartest but other than ours, I’m not seeing any tracks that were made by more than one person,” she points at the hoof prints, “and one horse.”

Evie squats down on her thick platform heels, fingers tracing above the footprints that came before theirs and the ones that lead further beyond, “This path was made by one man. Look, these are the same shoes over and over.” Her finger finds hoof prints next, “And this is the same horse. The horseshoe has that knick in the metal in every track.”

Emet seems to make the connection first as she lays out the points. The deadman and horse made this path, wore it into existence with endless repetition. Forty-three times, Evie would hazard to guess. Forty-three times through that draining patch of fog before they finally had nothing left.

Evie stands up from her squat, wiping the mud off her hands, “I don’t know, this seems wrong.”

“But it means we will likely make it back then, no? If it is a circle?” Roshan asks.

“I hope. We should have followed the other path.”

“When we make it back, we will go the other way.”

“If we make it back,” Evie bites back, but a little more gently, “The dead guy didn’t.”

Evrrot slings his bow across his back and steps up to one of the taller trees, kicking his boot into the trunk to test for any softness or give.

“I’m gonna see if I can get a better vantage point.”

Look who’s taking some initiative.

“Do not fall,” Roshan calls out as the tiefling swings himself up to the lowest dead branch and begins scaling the tree with familiarity. Evie half wishes it would break under his weight and drop his ass in the mud. It holds, to her disappointment.

It doesn’t take Evrrot long before he reaches the higher canopy, the tree full of easy branches to scale and most of them still strong enough to support his weight—unfortunately. A few close calls as weaker dead boughs snap beneath him, but always another branch not far from hand.

Balancing himself against the thinner and weaker boughs near the top of the tree, Evrrot carefully stands above the canopy.

“Well that’s fucked,” Evrrot calls down.

“What?” Evie calls up.

“There’s nothing. It’s just fucking fog everywhere.”

Evrrot calls out his view. All around him, a sea of endless tangled branches pierce the fog like thorns. And behind, where that wall of vampiric fog tried to sap them of what little energy they have left, a massive roiling pillar of white climbing endlessly into the overcast skies still stubbornly caught somewhere between night and day. Seems there is no escape from that impenetrable fog. Even from above.

He carefully, if a bit angrily, makes his way back to the ground. If there’s any sort of settlement in this place, the fog hides it well. They have no choice but to follow whatever damn path they can find. Roshan is quiet as Evrrot explains the situation, closing his eyes a moment as he grasps that burnished sun once more in his calloused hands and whispers something beneath his breath. Evie’s sharp ears only catch the last word, “Are you there?” Whatever he is seeking, Evie knows he did not find it. The old man’s shoulders droop almost imperceptibly.

“Does he typically answer?” Emet asks softly.

“I usually feel his warmth. Now there is only cold.”

He nods as though expecting as much, “That must be the way of gods.”

Roshan’s eyes are dawnsteel.

“Not this one.”

Emet quietly assesses him, perhaps seeking a weak point to exploit. Perhaps looking for any waver in his conviction, but finds none and keeps his silence.

With nowhere left to go, they press on to follow the arrows in the hopes that they will cross the abandoned wagon trail once more.

Several minutes and several more 43 tallied trees pass before all breathe a hesitant sigh of relief. There, ahead of them, the lonely wagon trail that started them in these misty lands cuts across the deadman’s path. But that relief is quickly overshadowed.

The deadman—once still and rotting, nothing more than a feast for crows—is gone.

#dark fantasy #gothic fantasy #gothic fiction #curse of strahd #barovia #d&d campaign #dnd campaign #vampire #vampire fiction #ongoing fic #fantasy fiction #creative writing #fiction writing #my fiction #adventure fiction #writers on tumblr #writeblr #my writing #Tales of No One

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browngoblin · 1 year

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#michiko malandro #michiko to hatchin #a #michiko e hatchin #femme fatale #black anime characters #anime aesthetic #black anime girl #michiko & hatchin #anime #manga #animatedblackgirls #2000s anime #old anime aesthetic #animation #action fiction #adventure fiction #anime woman

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zou-pa · 2 months

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katnewman96-blog · 1 month

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Encounter in the Arctic

I hear a low growl. I slowly rise to peek over the car, towards the sound. To my horror, I see before me a great big polar bear. Curious and calm, but I know that is what makes polar bears so dangerous. If I want to live, I must make it back into my car.

#creative writing #writing #writing advice #writing exercise #wildernessencounter #suspense fiction #thriller fiction #survival fiction #adventure fiction

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who-canceled-roger-rabbit · 2 years

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So I'm listening to She: A History of Adventure by H. Rider Haggard. It's funny how "white woman ruling a remote tribe in Africa or wherever" was a whole thing in colonial adventure fiction, but the only echoes of that trope that normies are likely to encounter in modern culture are Katy Perry in her "Dark Horse" video and possibly Miss Piggy in Muppet Treasure Island.

#time keeps on slipping slipping slipping into the future #tropes #race #racism #colonialism #adventure fiction #h. rider haggard #h rider haggard #miss piggy #the muppets #muppet treasure island #katy perry #shower thought #shower thoughts

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sandoku · 1 year

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Fiona Shaw - Carolyn MartensCarolyn in Killing Eve, Marnie Stonebrook in True Blood - last starred as Maarva Andor in the Andor Star Wars series. I always adore her performance, but it seems you have to be a geek of the Star Wars' Universe to understand what's going on there. Watched because of the cast💖

#fiona shaw #star wars andor #True Blood #tvshows #tv shows #tv series #star wars #star wars series #sw andor #andor series #andor thoughts #forest whitaker #alex ferns #diego luna #maarva andor #sandokub #killing eve #disney+#adventure fiction

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bookishlyvintage · 1 year

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CR: The Light Pirate, Lily Brooks - Dalton

(out 12/06/22)

#the light pirate #lily brooks dalton #adventure fiction #domestic fiction #cr #current read #bookblr #booklr #books #arc #new books

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whimseysthrone · 8 months

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Portals and the hero's journey

I figured out what I like about isekai and portal fiction—and why some of it feels so bad. The portal fiction I love most plays with the hero’s journey. It is, at its core, about characters traveling into the unknown and experiencing growth through trials and tribulations. It’s the same pattern that so much adventure fiction I love adheres to. The hero’s journey puts a big emphasis on coming…

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#adventure fiction #Anime #character growth #confrontation #emotional arcs #empowerment fantasy #hero&039;s journey #isekai #personal growth #popcorn lit #portal fiction #resolution #wish fulfillment

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whatsomalfoy · 2 years

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~~NEW MULTI CHAP DRAMIONE FIC ALERT~~

It's here, it's finally here. My new WIP that I have been teasing on and off for over a year. Chapter One has just gone live on AO3, but first, you'd like to know a little bit about it, right? How about a summary?

Distract. Dodge. Disarm.

The three D's of successful combat had been ingrained in Hermione's mind since she started fast-tracked Auror Training the year before. She'd never guess that she'd need to apply them in her personal life as well.

With her heart lying in shards on the ground before her, Hermione realises that she needs an escape and a timely yet mysterious job offer far away from London sounds like the best way to escape her past and focus on her future.

Only, Hermione didn't account for having to share the position.

Interested? You can find it on AO3 here. Mind the tags and warnings.

Thank you to @meditationswrites for the gorgeous cover art.

Thank you to @caitlincheri28, @mimifreed and @winkywrites for their friendship, support and amazing alphabet job!

#dramione wip #newficalert #dramione multichap #adventure fiction #an attempt at slow burn #enemies to lovers #aurors #auror academy #aurors in training #undercover mission #underground crime rings #fake dating #there was only one bed

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pulpsandcomics2 · 2 years

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Assignment Tokyo by Edward S. Aarons (Fawcett, 1971)

#spy novel #adventure fiction

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behindthesemasks · 5 months

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“Whose gun was that?” Case asked looking at the rest of the team members still assembled in the room after Mel had left. All heads turned towards the table where the weapons had been laid.

“Fuck! Mine.” Gabriel growled before heading to the door to follow the petite brunette who had left the room stunned by her actions. None had ever even thought she’d do anything like she had, let alone use that kind of language. She had always been more of the quiet and reserved type of person. Now Gabe worried what she might do, and who else she might shoot, with his gun.

“Well, that was exciting!” Cam chuckled as he reached down and flipped the chair with Andreas in it back upright. Everyone was pretty much ignoring the whimpering of the man in the chair, although his groans when the front feet of the chair hit the floor again did make Cam chuckle even more.

“Come on; let’s keep her from killing someone. Erik, Cam…you two play nice with our guest here and see what he has to say. If he stops cooperating, let me know and I’ll have my granddaughter come back in.” Ambrose grinned and winked at Andreas. He was quite proud of Mel; he wouldn’t have suspected she was capable of such violence. One should never judge a book by its diminutive and graceful exterior though; it was all just a mask that hid what lay underneath. “The rest of you, come on. We have some work to do.”

Ambrose and the others left the room, leaving only Andreas and his two interrogators. The reduction of people in the room didn’t make him feel any better though. He was quite sure he wasn’t leaving the room alive and that one of his two cousins would be the one putting a bullet in his brain in the end of it all. That Mel would be back and inflict more pain also seemed to be a foregone conclusion in the man’s mind as well. He had known her for years, and never had he seen her like that. When she found the one that hired him, he did not envy what she or those around her would do.

Back in the suite, Mel had changed out of her dress and into a black tee and jeans. She was just pulling on her hiking boots when Gabe came in. “If you’re thinking of trying to stop me, I still have the gun and I’ve just proven I’ll use it.” Her eyes were hard and full of fury, but her expression also said that she didn’t really want to hurt him, which made Gabe relax some. He honestly didn’t blame her for her reaction to Andreas. She wasn’t the only one who wanted to shoot him; she was just the one that had.

“I’m not here to stop you Mel. I’m here to make sure that you don’t kill a friendly or get yourself hurt while you lash out in this anger.” Years of experience allowed Gabe to keep his voice calm as he spoke to her. Inside his heart was racing. He knew there was no way that if she went for the weapon that lay on the couch beside her that he could stop her in time for her not to get even a poor shot at him, and at this distance that meant a world of pain for him. Never had it crossed his mind while they’d been in the other room that Mel would take any of their weapons. All of his years of training and attention to detail was now nagging in his brain that he was an idiot for giving her the chance.

“I’m not going to hurt anyone. I’m going to the hospital. Alexander and Sasha are both there. I don’t know who that third man is, but someone needs to be there to keep an eye on them, and not just Caden.” Mel stood after tying the laces on her shoe. Picking up the pistol, she unscrewed the suppressor and tossed it to Gabe. “I don’t need that part. You can either come with me or stay here, but I’m not giving back the gun Gabe.”

Catching the suppressor, Gabe nodded. He wasn’t going to argue with her. “I’ll go with you, but will you give me a minute to go get another pistol. You happen to be holding mine and I don’t like being at a disadvantage.” Gabe gave her a half smile that was a little sheepish.

Nodding, Mel lifted the back of her shirt and slid the weapon into the back of her jeans, after making sure that the safety was on. As he turned to leave the room, she started to follow him. Their path was blocked by Klaus, Case, Nic, and Ambrose. The four of them looked at the pair expectantly, eyebrows raised.

“And you’re going where?” Nic asked, his eyes alternating between the two of them.

“The hospital.” Mel’s tone was flat and her gaze even.

“I’m going with her, but since she has my gun, I have to get another one.” Gabe followed up with a look of resignation on his face and a slightly sarcastic smile on his face as he held up the suppressor.

“I don’t think so.” Klaus challenged her, earning raised eyebrows and amused expressions from Nic and Ambrose. Had he just watched what they had? Did he really want to challenge her right now?

One eyebrow rose and Gabe stepped back as he saw the woman tense. “Excuse me? I don’t remember asking your permission. And what’s more…I don’t need to.” The challenge in Mel’s expression and tone of voice said that if thought he was going to stop her that he was severely mistaken.

Growling, Klaus’s jaw ticked. How had things gone so sideways? “Fine,” he ground out, clearly displeased. “But it won’t be just Gabe going with you. Case and I will be too.” It wasn’t a request, it was a statement. A flat out statement. His expression was a stubborn one and as set as hers was. It was going to be a meeting of the wills and the other four standing there weren’t sure who was going to win.

“Fine, you two can have a pissing match later. I need a gun.” Gabe sighed and started to move forward. He had a new respect for the female, but that didn’t mean he wanted to stand there and watch as she had a stare down with Klaus. He’d seen enough people do that over the years that he knew that it was better to just carry on and let them catch up later.

Ambrose reached behind him and pulled his weapon, handing it by the barrel to Gabe. “Take mine. You,” he pointed to Mel, “don’t argue and take all 3 men. You,” he pointed to Gabe, “keep them from killing each other. You,” he pointed to Case, “be the lookout, take up a sniper position when and where you can. I want you to be the ghost of the operation. And finally you,” his eyes met Klaus’s with an expression that said he was in control here and wasn’t going to be challenged. “You are going to make sure that she gets out of there exactly like she is right now. One bruise and we’ll have words. Got it?” Klaus nodded, as did the others.

Mel smirked and went to her toes to kiss Ambrose on the cheek. “You got it boss.” She gave him a wink before grabbing the front of Klaus’s shirt and started to pull him out the door to the suite. “You heard him, make sure I don’t get myself killed. Your job is to watch my ass, and I doubt you’ll have a problem with that.” She had mostly gotten her way, if she was going to have an entourage; she was going to give them hell.

Case about choked as he laughed and Gabe rolled his eyes as he followed the pair. They could both see the tick in Klaus’s jaw. Neither was exactly sure what he was restraining himself from…throttling her, or kissing her senseless. Knowing Klaus, it might be a mixture of both.

“Who’s driving?” Mel’s voice came from the front.

Case and Gabe looked at each other for a second before Gabe answered, “Case. You get to play pampered princess in the back seat with me and Klaus.” He slowed up a bit, half expecting her to come round at him.

“At least you have it down what my position is in this.” The sarcasm was thick in Mel’s voice and this brought a full on laugh from Gabe. She was going to give them hell every step of the way, he was sure of it. Not that he really expected any less of her.

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” There was no missing the resignation in Klaus’s voice that she was not going to give an inch and be in charge.

As they waited for the elevator, Case and Gabe took up positions on each side of Klaus. They were ready to block anyone coming from the back and shield anyone coming off of the elevator. Given they were taking the entire top floor of the hotel, the first wasn’t really too great a possibility unless it was another member of the team. And since this floor required a key to get to, the same was true of the elevator, but one never knew and you always planned for contingencies.

Mel turned to face him. “I’m going to do what needs to be done. That’s what I’m going to do. They’re after Alexander, Klaus; do you really expect me to sit her on my hands and do jack shit? It’s your cousin in there, who shot one of the nicest people I’ve ever met and would have put the red dot on Alexander’s head too. So, no, I’m not going to make it easy. You’re going to tell me when you run and op that it’s always easy? Of course not…so if you can’t handle things…”

Mels’s words were cut off as she found her back against the wall and Klaus’s face in hers. His eyes were hard and even she saw his jaw tick. “If I can’t handle it, what? I can walk away. NOT.FUCKING.HAPPENING. Feel me, doll? You can try to push me away all you like, it ain’t happening again.” His breathing was heavy and it was clear she’d hit a nerve. Still her face didn’t relax, she was defiant as ever and he found it sexy as fuck. Watching her when she’d been sad and meek had broken his heart, this was the woman he had fallen in love with all the years ago. The one who was ready to take on the world.

Before she could stop him, his lips crashed into hers. One hand was next to her head, against the wall, and the other was holding the back of her neck, his thumb by her ear. His kiss was rough, demanding, and possessive. All truth, he wanted to pin her against the wall and do much more than kiss her, but he knew this wasn’t the time or the place. His cock straining against his pants wanted to argue that point though.

There had always been something about his possessiveness and dominance that was a turn on and that was no different now. The fist holding his shirt tightened, digging a small pearl button into the palm of her hand. She kissed him back with the same passion, not caring about the two other men who were standing there. They were big boys, they could deal.

Finally Klaus broke the kiss, keeping his forehead against hers and looking into those clear blue eyes he adored. “I’m not gonna back down, doll. You want to take out my cousin? So do I. He’s gone too far. And I want to make sure Alexander is safe too. But you going off half-cocked and getting yourself hurt, or worse…it isn’t going to help a damn thing. So be pissed we’re with you if you want, but it ain’t changing. So we can have the rest of this discussion later.”

As the elevator dinged, arriving at the floor. Klaus’s lips curved into a smirk and he kissed the top of her nose. “Now get that sexy ass in line and let’s do this.”

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thetalesofno-one · 2 months

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Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 1, Ch. III -43 Tallies-

D&D Campaign Retelling Part 1/? Chapter 3/5 ~5.3k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk

Summary Forced together by the mists and lost in a strange new land, our four strangers run into a grim omen along their path and a fork in their road. The Ghost, the Rebel, the Charmer, and the Holy Man finally reveal their names where the deadmen carve their messages on the bones of trees. Read Previous Chapters also available on AO3

Time seems timeless in this place.

No light wanders behind shaded skies, no sun, no stars. All the heavens diffused entirely behind grey skies hung so low the tops of the barren trees stretch their fingers to touch the clouds. A heavy shroud without breath, suffocating the land. Grasses greyed and withered, thin as straw, dry as hay. Their stalks rustle lightly in the rain with an endless shifting that carries the mind to places beyond. Luring thoughts away from the land like a dream.

Left in the rustling silence, Emet’s mind wanders.

The dim dissonance with the world bringing back memories of a darkened shop thick with the scent of paper and leather. Of a worktable scattered with various tools and thread, half sewn signatures left in a neat stack beside a half drunk and forgotten glass of wine as he remeasures a board and pares the edges of supple smooth leather, the scrapings curling across his fingers. Of candlelight flickering long through the sunken day, windows ever cast in the shadows of spires. Of night slipping over the city like a thief, light fingers pocketing the sun in velvet black without so much as a blink of notice from the little shop. The candles burning ever bright, the day’s end only realized when the flame flickers thin and the darkness steals the workman’s light.

Fingers pricked with needle thin scars and paper thin cuts lighting another candle. Hair loosely tied back, a few strands always slipping free as he smooths the marked tape along a new edge and carefully notes the measurements with a tailor’s precision. Of a guillotine blade sliding through a stack of vellum and trimming its edges to a fine point, a perfect block to be folded. Of the smooth texture of bone between his fingers, the gentle scrape as he runs the folder across the edge of a bent sheet, turning a bowed page into a sharp crease. Glue sticks to his wrist from a missed spot on the wooden table, the book shaping in his mind before its pieces are folded and glued and sewn together.

And all the while, the quiet loneliness whispering at his back with a phantom silence. Not of presence, but absence. Empty. The weight of a space where someone should be, infinitely loud in its stillness. Its siren voice chased away by the endless work. Its words unheard and yet unignored. Every movement his, every breath slipped through his teeth with no other lips to catch it. Scarred hands reaching for tools no other fingers brush across. And all the while knowing when he finally stops, the kitchen will be empty, the home devoid of spiced currents in the air, the bed cold. The bitterness left in tasting the flavors of an old life when you know now the sweetness of another.

“There is a scent of death.”

Emet’s attention snaps from lullaby memories. The holy man stopped along the muddy road, bent nose turned up and sniffing the air.

“Maybe undeath.”

The blades are in Emet’s hands before the old human even finishes his sentence. The broken glaive hanging dangerously from his hand, vicious tip polished to perfection and flashing brilliantly in the dim light. A stark contrast against the dark bloodstained cloth wrapped around its shattered haft.

The charmer knocks an arrow into his charred longbow with the fluidity of someone who has fired it under dire circumstances. A faint scent of smoke whispers past as his fingers tug the string lightly, ready for trouble.

“I don’t like this,” the rebel whispers, slipping her arm through a shield—a small round thing of black and gold painted metal. A coil of whip hangs from her belt but she reaches for metal instead. The short blade slips free of its sheath with a faint hushed breath.

The all too familiar stench of death doesn’t yet reach Emet’s nose, but he has no reason to doubt the holy man in this. Eyes flickering through the mist, resentment wraps itself around Emet’s chest and burns through his scars. But there is no place for spitting out what has been earned because of the hand that offers it. Not when it comes to undeath. Emet calls on his forsaken power. Soul reaching out beyond himself with clawed grasping hands ready to take what might be denied, he stretches out his inner self toward a god he isn’t sure will answer. Toward a god who heard his screams and turned away.

Power floods through Emet’s irises in a dim display. Pale grey light ignites his faded eyes in a hollow glow burning with ghost fire, and though they do not shine with the brilliant white of beacons as they once did, the divine sense is not gone entirely. Not yet.

The rebel glances up at him with an unreadable expression, but he ignores her and scans the mists around them. If anything undead or fiendish in nature lurks nearby, the divine power flowing through him will draw his attentions like someone taking his chin and gently pointing him toward unseen dangers. But no phantom fingers grace his scarred jaw or pull at his divinely heightened senses. Whatever smells of death here must then truly be dead.

Giving a nod to continue on, the holy man presses forward with the slow and quiet feet of a hunter stalking its prey. The faded light falls from Emet’s eyes after a moment and he feels the divine slip away from him with a cold chill. The rebel still stares at him with narrowed eyes and uplifted brow, but her lips remain sealed. Whatever question lurks in her mind, he suspects she no longer needs to ask it. A curiosity that seems less about the ability and more about the person wielding it.

Though he no longer wears his holy symbol or any sign of faith emblazoned on his person, no trace of a past better left buried, it is not uncommon knowledge to those of faith that only paladins—knights of gods—are blessed with such an ability. And Emet realizes he’s let something of himself slip in front of knowing eyes.

The rebel’s lips part—

The scent finally reaches them.

Sickly sweet and turning the stomach with a heavy wave of bile. Both enticing and revolting in that way only death can be. Corpse rot. There’s no doubt. Not but fifteen feet down the road, a human body decomposes half off the path with arms outreached toward the road as though it breathed its last in a desperate crawl. A young man once, clothes torn by brambles and thorns with flesh pockmarked by the beaks of birds feasting on an easy meal. A tarnished copper compass spills out from that outstretched hand, its red needle trembling and twisting uncertainly as though unable to find North.

The holy man kneels beside the body and looks it over without touching the overly soft and rain sodden flesh. The boy’s skin shifts across his bones with gelatinous ripples as the old man accidentally shifts the mud in taking a knee. A slimy sheen has already settled over the pale flesh like melted fat. Long strips and sharp pecks break through the wet surface to expose the black and purple insides, dark as a bruise, the blood long clotted and rotting. White bone peaks out from cheeks a fingertips, the nose half consumed. The birds have eaten well.

The holy man narrates his findings softly. Scratches from branches and brush, gaunt flesh, sunken eyes—what remains of them, at least—but no visible mortal wounds. The young man died from exhaustion of all things. The holy man’s eyes take on a dark and certain stain when he says the word.

Exhaustion.

How the holy man knows, Emet isn’t sure. But he never was the best at healing during training. Healing required not just blind faith like those outside of holy orders assume when they beg healers to fix their every ailing, but also knowledge of medicine. A bone cannot be knit together without knowing how its structure is woven together. A crushed hand cannot be reconstructed if one does not understand the pattern of nerves and vessels, tendon and ligament. Or rather, it will heal with faith alone, but it will never be the same again without knowledge behind it.

Emet has always been better at the unmaking…perhaps that’s why they were put together during training.

Him and Azemir.

Wrapped eternally like wax around the cold stillness of Emet’s heart, his name brings warmth to the hollows of Emet’s soul where nothing grows. Ever a flame without shadow, a sun without night. Healing and warmth have always been more of Azem’s specialty and Emet wonders how long it will be before he can touch those healing hands and feel their warmth. How far he must go to set things right again. When they will talk without so much distance between them. Or if whatever has happened in these mists will delay his journey. He will walk a hundred lifetimes seeking a way back if that’s what it takes. He will carry the weight of that name forever.

Sickening chills drift and trail cold fingers across Emet’s body snuffing out the thin flame of Azem’s name within his soul—always touching, always grasping. He shudders and crawls within his own skin wanting to shrink away, wanting to claw them off. They touch and grasp and choke and scream—

The calming coolness of one washes away all the others for but a moment. And Emet can breathe. Just one breath. Before they drift back like the sea and cling to him as algae on an anchor. But it’s enough. Why they grow restless, he doesn’t always know. Perhaps a reminder of the promise he made them so it doesn’t settle unfulfilled.

Emet’s eyes follow the old man’s ministrations with that name balanced delicately on the tip of his tongue. The way the old man’s rough and calloused hands move light as feathers over the boy’s corpse as though the kid can feel anything anymore. Pain is beyond him now, but still the old man moves gently. Emet isn’t sure what he is searching for. Perhaps some other answer than the one he already knows and something in the holy man’s expression settles like wet sand over a stone when he finds no other. The warm candle flame in his eyes dimming beneath a cold and familiar wind.

The old man rests a hand over the boy’s rotting one in a strange gesture of comfort. Bowing his smooth shaved head, he whispers blessings beneath his breath. Emet isn’t sure why the old man bothers. There’s nothing left to save.

Nudging the broken compass after his prayers and looking to where the boy’s hand falls, the holy man quirks his mouth sadly. Perhaps seeing another blessing where there is none.

“The boy was going this way,” he points to the opposite side of the wagon trail toward a tree bearing faint tally marks—43 of them. An arrow carved into its bark points away from the muddy road toward a thin path cutting deeper into the woods. A jagged knife cut through the trees, all but unnoticed if it weren’t for the arrow to point the way.

“You want to follow the dead’s path,” Emet asks incredulously.

“Why not?” The charmer steps over the rotting corpse’s outstretched arm to get a better look at the path behind the body rather than ahead, “He’s probably a criminal trying to leave, so I’d say follow where he came from and we’ll find civilization.”

“Why would you say he’s a criminal?”

“Why else would he be out here?”

“Why are we out here,” the rebel counters.

The holy man looks up from body, “And we are not criminals.”

The rebel gives the holy man a nod, “What the old man said.”

“I am not that old.”

Emet looks over the kneeling holy man. Crows feet spiderweb out from his eyes into well worn paths, tracing old channels. Deep lines folding into the leather of his human face, ripples and cracks where great emotion has marked it forever in memory. The echos of pain and joy held forever in weathered lines. Calloused rough hands scarred with the burden of much hardship dust off his knees as the holy man stands from the corpse. But no light cracks and pops fill the air as his bones settle. And he springs back from his crouch with ease, not even bothering to lean on his shepherd’s staff. The skin past his toughened hands bears much scarring and yet a youthful smoothness.

If he is not old, then he lived a life full of immeasurable hardship.

The holy man quirks his head to the side and returns Emet’s stare, “Why are you looking at me like you are reading stones in the sand?”

“Human ages are a bit difficult for elves to determine,” Emet admits.

“I am thirty-two.”

The charmer and rebel both snort.

“Nah, mate,” the rebel crosses her arms and grins, “You’re at least sixty.”

“I am not lying.”

She smiles, “Whatever, old man.”

The holy man scrubs his scrawled salt and pepper beard, gesturing off to Emet, “I am not old, he is old. Elves are always old.”

Emet concedes that with a shrug. He’s already lived more years than most of those with him could hope to ever reach and lifetimes before that.

“Yet he looks closer to thirty-two than you, old man,” the rebel continues, picking her nails with a sly grin.

“That is because he is an elf.”

“And I’m not?”

The holy man sighs.

“Ah, I’m just fucking with you, grandpa” she chuckles, “I know I’m half human.”

“You are half—what are you doing?”

The charmer barely pauses his light-fingered search of the dead boy’s pockets, finding more interest in stealing from the dead than their idle chatter. The holy man is about to admonish him further when the tiefling carelessly flips the body onto its stomach and continues his search through pockets.

The holy hand throws up a hand, all conversation on age and good looks forgotten.

“Eh! Eh! Devil boy! Respect the dead! I already took his compass if that is what you are looking for.”

The charmer ignores him, his hands continuing to wander across the ragged clothes and slipping into the pockets and folds as though it is a dance they have performed many times before. His fingers wander with a speed born of practice, seeking whatever the dead may hide. But his search is fruitless, the tiefling finding little more than a small pocket knife like used to carve the tree with its 43 tallies. He turns the small blade this way and that in his red hands, dark nails tracing the edge before pricking his thumb atop the tip. No blood flows along the blunted edge.

With one quick toss, the useless blade flies over his shoulder, “I’m a bit too far gone for respecting the dead at this point.”

The holy man frowns deeply, those ancient lines creasing in old paths. He turns away from the grim display and takes out his feather once more. Whispering more quiet words meant only for the far reaching ears of gods, the old man holds the brilliant feather out before him like a candle in the dark. After a breath, he releases the stem and watches it flutter listlessly to the wet ground. The stem settles first in the mud, its tip angling lightly toward the deadman’s path.

“I think we should go this way.”

Emet’s lips curl into a faint snarl, “How much faith do you have in that feather?”

“A lot of faith.”

“Do you honestly trust that more than the actual, factual compass you have in your other hand?” The rebel asks with no small amount of skepticism, the moment of warmth shared between them only a moment ago blowing away with the breeze.

“It has never lead me wrong, nor has my god. Besides,” the holy man tosses the tarnished bronze compass to the rebel, “this does nothing. It is broken.”

“I can’t fucking map-read,” she growls as she snatches it from the air with a loud clang as the compass hits the edge of her shield. The rebel palms the bronze and glass bauble in her hands, watching it a moment and expecting the needle to settle. But the sharp red spine continues to wobble and spin as though unsure.

Her eyes narrow, “I don’t think it’s meant to do that.”

“I have never had a compass,” the holy man shrugs, “but I did not think so.”

“Hey, poncy bloke,” the rebel looks up at Emet, “You look like you know how to use this kind of shit.”

Emet arcs a sharp brow at the nickname. In the absence of anyone having offered up their names, it was inevitable they’d all call each other something. But poncy bloke? Not exactly his first guess. Most people went with ‘giant’ or ‘tower’. He’s even heard ‘statue’.

The rebel’s arm swings out with the compass and all the world slows. Emet’s breath catches and his eyes lock on that approaching hand like a blade plummeting toward his gut. For a moment he can’t see, his vision crystalizing on that hand and blurring all the world around it as he instinctively steps away before he’s even realized what he’s done. His body moving without thought, shifting back as though about to be skewered in a fight before the moment ends and only an open palm offering a compass hangs before him.

A strange look crosses the half-elf’s face.

Emet thought he was starting to get better about this. Hand-shakes, fingers brushing when taking a drink from a server’s hands, shoulders getting bumped in a crowded tavern. All of these things he could handle with a steadying breath. But all of those things are expected touches. Expected moments that he can predict and prepare for, ready his nerves to stand firm. But the more unexpected the approach, the more he steps back into the shelter of himself like a fox cornered between stones with nowhere to run from the wolf’s shadow. And his body reacts with all it knows in that moment. Fear.

Emet shifts his blade arm deeper beneath the dark cloak draped over his shoulder, drawing attention away from the hand wrapped tightly around the glaive’s broken haft with a light cough as he forces his clenched fingers to release. He breathes, thankful he did not draw steel this time.

Acting as though nothing happened, Emet stiffly leans over when the rebel gives the compass a little shake, beckoning him to take a look. Her face immediately screws up, recoiling as though he’s some shit-faced drunk at the bar thick with the scent of whiskey and lust and offering her the best lay of her life. Emet doesn’t understand the shift in her expression a moment before he realizes he’s a very large man looming over this young woman despite the distance his previous reaction put between them. The half-elf’s discomfort is readily apparent and Emet quickly puts some space between them after a brief glance down at the compass.

“No, it’s not supposed to do that,” he says gently.

The compass disappears in one of the rebel’s belt pouches as she shuffles away from him, risking a look over to the holy man as though asking him to interpret what the hell just happened. The old man only shrugs lightly.

Everything is going wrong, that’s what happened.

He almost apologizes, but the words catch in his throat. What if doing so makes them ask why he practically jumped away from her. Those aren’t questions he’s ready to answer, so better to not give an opportunity for them to be asked.

“So we have a feather, a broken compass, and I’m hoping you’re a tracker,” Emet says to the charmer, trying to plough through and trample into dust whatever walls this disaster of a conversation brought up before anyone thinks too hard on it.

The tiefling regards him a moment before flicking away a piece of dried grass twirling between his long fingers, “I rely on instinct and I’m with the old man on this one. His dumb feather pointed to where I wanted to go anyways.”

“Thank you, young boy,” the holy man nods.

“Watch it.”

“You keep calling me ‘old man’, why can’t I call you ‘young boy’. It is better than ‘devil boy’, no?”

“You’re fair game,” the tiefling bites back, “I’m not.”

Emet pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing, “Would it not be better to call each other by our actual names instead of these substitutes.” He cuts a glance at the rebel to his side, “Creative as they are.”

The charmer scoffs, “Let’s not get sentimental.”

“First names, then.”

The holy man’s eyes widen incredulously, face scrunching as though Emet just suggested the moon is an illusion, “I only have one name. Are you supposed to have more?”

“Typically…Your name and a family name.”

The rebel murmurs something under her breath about having too many.

“That is a…weird revelation, but okay.” The holy man lifts his hand in greeting, “My name is Roshan, but you can call me ‘old man’ if you like.”

“Emet. We’ll leave it at that for now.”

Both the charmer and rebel suddenly find great interest in some moss on a tree and a particularly long strand of dried grass as Emet and Roshan’s attentions fall on them in expectant silence.

“I can just call you ‘devil boy’ and ‘lovely elf lady’ if you want,” Roshan offers.

The charmer rolls his eyes and flicks away the chunk of moss, “Evrrot. You can call me Evrrot.”

Kicking a loose stone on the ground, the rebel keeps her voice low. Perhaps hoping no one will actually hear her, “Most people call me Evie.”

Roshan nods after each one, fingers twirling in his beard as though he can tie each name to his memory, “Emet, Evrrot, Evie. Everyone is an ‘E’. That is strange, but okay.”

“So we’re done here?” Evrrot asks, “Everyone all happy with their little names?”

He walks off down the deadman’s path without waiting for an answer, abruptly ending the conversation that was more akin to pulling teeth than basic introductions. Roshan quickly follows with a grin, resuming his practice of trying to walk ahead of Evrrot, further irritating the charmer tiefling into a faster pace.

Emet and Evie watch them hastily disappear between the trees, left behind again. Realization slowly dawns on them as they share another look that this will likely be their shared fate quite often in the days ahead.

“You know,” Evie says, “I get the feeling that wherever we go, we’re gonna end up in the same place anyways.”

“As do I,” Emet sighs.

“We could just keep following this muddy slop road and they’d probably end up right behind us.” She shrugs, “We could just go.”

“Tempting, though I get the feeling we shouldn’t be separating in a place like this.” He glances around the dark and silent forest pointedly, the mists shifting into strange shapes and shadows in the distance.

“Mmm, probably right,” she groans. “Come on then.”

Evie ushers Emet ahead of her and they follow the already fading silhouettes of Evrrot and Roshan. Both still vie for who gets to lead without there ever being a winner. Though from the near permanent curl to the old human’s lips, Emet suspects Roshan takes the game itself as a win.

The arrow carved into the tree above forty-three sharp tallies—every slash bearing down harder than the last, the groupings becoming more sporadic and wild, telling a tale of madness and desperation—points them down a narrow footpath. The trail is thin, quickly forcing them into a line as the trees and brush crowd in eagerly to either side. Branches reaching out to snag on their clothes and boots sinking in the thick slosh of earth. Roshan and Evrrot are forced to relinquish their game of footsie. ‘Devil boy’ comes out on top as he slips ahead of the holy man through a rather narrow bend where two barren trees crowd as desperately close as lovers in a storm. Despite the loss, Roshan casts a secret little amused grin toward him and Evie. A promise their game is far from over.

Though the scent of decay and rot gradually gave way to bitterly sharp winter air as they walked beyond the corpse along the road, it returns again, thick as ever in their lungs and threatening to make them choke. Ahead, an eerily similar tree with another forty-three tallies looms near the path with a bowed back, its branches nearly sweeping the dried grasses. Another arrow continues to point further down the path. But it’s the second body that makes this repetition unsettling, a shiver passing through their bones as though someone walked over their graves.

A bulking husk, ribs splayed open in grim offering to the meal of its soft blackened innards spills out across the path. Bloated gases wafting from the entrails with fresh release as though only recently released from the prison of bone. A half eaten yawning skull grins up at them through the sinew of the face it once wore, hooves splayed out in deep grooves as though the beast tried to keep running until the very moment of death. The rotting horse rests on its side, never to rise again.

Evrrot studies the body from a good distance where the smell is not quite so overwhelming. Emet notes he doesn’t pinch his nose from the stench as though it is one he well accustomed to. In fact, none of them do. An odd revelation, but one Emet isn’t yet sure of what it means. His own line of work often sent him delving into crypts and left him covered in the rot of decay for hours before he could finally scrub it off. But the average person does not easily handle such a scent without practice. The newest recruits to the order often went on several missions before they could stand it without bile filling their throats. His own first experience left him nauseated for days and unable to keep anything more than light broth down.

Evrrot steps over the splayed hooves, “Alright, so that dead guy was on this horse obviously. Probably riding away from whatever settlement is down the path. His horse dies, he goes on foot, and then he dies.”

“Or the other way around,” Evie counters, “Horse could’ve thrown him, then the horse went and died.”

Roshan hops lightly over the body, kneeling by the tree with a dagger of his own and carving a new tally to the set, “Maybe he was carrying the horse,” the old man offers sagely, “He was very tired.”

All eyes turn on him and Roshan simply grins.

With the tally carved, Evrrot quickly jumps ahead of the holy man and presses the group further down the pointed path. Emet steps carefully over the corpse, glancing back at Evie to see if she desires a hand. But the half elf stares off behind them, unawares. The path they’ve walked is already half swallowed by mist, the large wagon trail long gone from view. She twists back with a sigh, face quickly shifting as she gives him a glare to move. They continue on.

Eerie becomes troubling when the path leads to a third tree with the same forty-three tallies and another arrow. The lack of a corpse this time does little to alleviate the hook twisting in Emet’s stomach. It lifts and snarls his insides, not in pain, but in anticipation. Anticipation of the moment it will all go wrong.

This is what it felt like that day. The day he should’ve listened to his instincts.

The arrow points to a swallowed path. All sign of trail and trees vanish behind a solid wall of fog so thick Emet cannot see even a glimpse of what lies beyond. It bisect everything perfectly, trees ending abruptly as though severed by blade. As though a curtain were drawn across the land on a giant stage. The line the mist cuts across the path is unnaturally defined, too sharp and perfect and to be natural, yet permeable as proven by the grasses swaying in and out, vanishing instantly on the other side, yet returning again.

The foreboding hook twists deeper with the echo of Emet’s past. Of dark crypts and silent darkness, a day that started in laughter and ended in screams. Blood spilled beneath the sickening brightness of beautiful sunny day, the color forever tainted in red. They should’ve stayed on the well-worn wagon path. They never should have cut through these godforsaken woods. His instincts tell him to turn back now, but going back on his own still seems a far more foolish idea in these unknown lands.

Emet steels himself. A chilled touch settles over his shoulder. If the self-chosen leaders get him killed—if they ruin what he’s given everything for—Emet will never allow them a moment’s peace. Not in this life or the next. He already knows Kelemvor will never collect his twice damned soul. Not after what he did. So he’ll have all the time in eternity’s glass to make good on his vow. Maybe this one he’ll keep.

“This repetition is how the kid died.” He glares at the severed path, “We’re going in circles.”

“This isn’t the same as the last tree,” Evie says, “The old guy put an extra mark in that one. Plus, no dead things.”

“Not yet.”

But Emet suspects they will pass that tree again and the horse one beyond. And if his instinct proves right, they will do so again and again until they too die of exhaustion, carving tallies into trees until they can carve no more. There’s madness here and he’ll be damned if it catches him off guard. But the dead kid probably thought the same thing. Now he rots with a skeletal finger ever reaching for the path that killed him. A warning they did not heed.

The wall looms before them, vast and endless until it vanishes into the grey of the skies. Tendrils of thick mist swirl and twist like eels against the edges, unseen bodies pressing against the glass but never breaking through. The snaking, winding movement is almost hypnotic in the terrible silence.

Evie’s eyes narrow, “Anyone else think this fog is fucky?”

“Yes,” Emet and Roshan answer in unison.

The holy man taps his staff, warm dawns light spreading across the wood like honey. Though it glows in the deep reds and oranges of the morning sun, the light does little to chase away the sickly grey of this place.

He nods satisfied, “But this is the path, so let’s go.”

Emet blanches as Roshan lifts his shepherd’s crook and presses toward the wall of fog without another thought. He vanishes instantly. Whatever god this holy man follows, Emet hopes they have as much faith in their followers as Roshan does in them because this is about as foolish as sticking your hand in a nesting viper’s den and trusting it will not bite.

Evrrot—never more than a half step behind the holy man—strolls past the moon elf as casually and carelessly as choosing a garden path to stroll, vanishing almost instantly behind the old human. Not even a shadow is left to hint at their passing.

Emet stands speechless, too shocked to believe what he’s just seen.

The words finally come to him, “Well, fuck.”

#curse of strahd #dnd fic #strahd von zarovich #barovia #dark fantasy #gothic fantasy #gothic fiction #adventure fiction #fantasy fiction #fiction #fiction writing #my fiction #my writing #creative writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #Tales of No One

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