Adventure Saga Resurrection: The Wrath of the Makers

Frob sat nervously in the waiting room of the Adventurer's Guild. He was finally 15 years old, and therefore, old enough to join a fellowship. He watched as brave looking men and women filled out their registration forms and proceeded to the next room.

"Next," the old hag behind the counter barked. Frob jumped up and scurried to the counter.

"Name," barked she.

"Frob Morrow, ma'am," replied he.

"'Ere're 'our forms," barked she.

Frob grabbed the papers and hastily jotted down his specs.

Name: Frob Morrow
Race: Human
Age: 15
Sex: Male
Class: White Mage
Looks: Strapping Young Man
STR: 7
DEX: 9
CON: 7
WIS: 8
INT: 10
CHA: 12
LUK: 18

"Off'en 'ou go now!" barked she, once more.

Frob opened the door to where he would meet his future companions. He headed through and saw...

A tall, emaciated man sat defiantly around an oval table waiting for his future companions. A sharp pair of knees were neatly folded in front of his chest and extended almost above his head, giving him the sickly look of a praying mantis or a pile of kindling. His dark, simple clothing gave away little about him, but from the look of owner it was surely custom-made.

His thick, black hair curled down to his seat in wavy locks of opal. His face was fair, gaunt, but civilized. He wore a black mustache, it moved like a poorly made canoe in a delta as he spoke. But he spoke seldom, so few ever knew about the canoe.

Today was his fiftieth birthday, but no one knew. Not even him. He had decided when he was a young man to ignore his mortality. A ticking clock to doom meant nothing in this line of work, he remembered thinking. At any rate, he truly despised gifts.

He wheeled his absurd frame toward the door as the boy entered. Certainly a boy, Frob seemed. To him, his dagger and sai, everything seemed young when it died. Everything he saw anyway.

He stood, a frightening sight to be sure. As his knees straightened and his curly black hair fell to his ass, he rose to almost seven feet tall. He extended a cadaverous hand toward Frob. He spoke with a pace and accent of some terrible origin, "I 'ered yuor nam frum ouoside. Yuo 're Frob, Iam colld Insidisus. Pleas' tou meeetchu." He smiled.

Name: Insidisus
Race: Human
Age: 50
Sex: Male
Class: Rogue
Looks: Meager deceiver
STR: 8
DEX: 19
CON: 7
WIS: 12
INT: 9
CHA: 7
LUK: 11

A ghoulish figure, cloaked in shadows and cloaks, sat at the oval table. His shadowy nature was curious because the room was very well lit. He just seemed to be cloaked in shadow somehow. Also, he was wearing many, many cloaks. At least three or four layers. It was difficult to tell because he was so hidden by all the shadows.
His eyes, which were hidden by both the shadow and all cloaks, were a mysterious shade of onyx, but no one would have been able to tell because of how hidden his face was. Really, to the average onlooker, it wouldn't seem as if there was a person in the chair at all. It just seemed like a pile of shadow cloaks. But he wasn't just a pile of cloaks...

He was human once. But now he was different. His skin had turned a pale gray (probably from being so cloaked and so shadowy all the time), and the hair that had not fallen out had turned a wispy, ghastly white. He no longer had finger nails, and most of his teeth had fallen out. He had been an average height, but now he looked stretched, tall and thin, to a shape that seemed like a mockery of the human form. To see him without the cloaks or the shadows would be to surrender yourself to madness.

The pile of cloaks shuffled and moaned. He was stirring at the excitement of a new, fresh soul in the room. He heard the strange rogue give his name, sort of, so he decided that perhaps it would be proper to give his own. He hoped that the screeching, awful sound that was his voice would not frighten anyone. "Magriar," he whispered, his voice cracking and wheezing, "Magriar Lo'drai Stax'l."


Name: Magriar Lo'drai Stax'l
Race: He was human once...
Age: ??
Sex: Male
Class: Necromancer
Looks: Sickly
STR: 4
DEX: 6
CON: 3
WIS: 18
INT: 22
CHA: 5
LUK: 10

Medb sat in a dark corner of the room atop a small pile of crates. Though it was less like sitting and more like crouching animalistically while watching some prey. Medb swished her ever-feared tail from side to side as she saw the new arrivals enter the room. She jumped down from her perch and strolled over to the strapping young gent who had just entered the room and was accosted by the already present members. She shoved her hand in the direction of everyone in the room, introducing herself boisterously.

"'Ello there, lads!" Medb waved enthusiastically, trying to get a better look at the mass of cloaks on the floor. She knew there had to be a face somewhere in there. It was making sounds.

"The name's Medb. I'm a Sc'ungk, if you 'aven't figured that out by now! But don't worry, eh? I've got it all under control, brothas," Medb spoke in a cheery yet hard boiled manner. She knew that many were leery of coming into contact with Sc'ungks due to their embarrassing reaction to frightful situations. Under the close teachings of Worlf the Concupiscent, she learned to control the horrible civilization-dispersing bodily function that so often destroys any and all relationships that Sc'ungks have with the rest of the world. Now, instead of a deterrent, it was her secret weapon feared by all tavern owners this side of the River of Asunderment, the world-splitting river.

Medb snorted and plopped down on the floor of the room, looking up at her companions.

Name: Medb (Maeve)
Race: Sc'ungk
Age: 17
Sex: Female
Class: Berserker
Looks: Deceptively svelt, complete with fluffy skunk Sc'ungk tail. Short black hair (just the hair - ALSO THERE IS A NEW PICTURE, GOD). Thin, very short (5'), close fitting earthly-toned clothes for ease of teh beatings.
STR: 19
DEX: 12
CON: 16
WIS: 7
INT: 7
CHA: 6
LUK: 11

Frob glanced around at his akward assortment of accomplices. He received Insidisus' hand and replied, "a pleasure." The large spindly man towered nearly two feet above him making the handshake slightly difficult. He turned towards the walking heap of darkness and sorrow, and recoiled in horror. The filthy Animan likewise caused him to recoil in horror. Come to think of it, that tall guy also looked pretty freaky. Frob decided he would need a lot of courage to hold together with this group. He oped his hip flask and took a swig of "courage".

"Good day to you fine gents," he mustered. "I don't believe I've proper introduced myself. The name's Frob Morrow, and I'm to be your white mage. I promise to not be a burden on you." He beamed a most genuine smile.

“Ayeall… e-year cooms y’h’ yoreman,” Insidisus managed.

From the door Frob had come from, a Foreman entered. Rotund and stern, he marched in with the solid disquiet of an average man in his late forties. Sonless, and with a father-in-law who still drew breath, he was not able to squeeze quite enough income from his ranch to cover the increasing cost of land tithes. Eight years ago he was forced to join the ranks of the Adventurer’s guild as a clerk when one of his daughter’s had married the son of a Chamberlain; and he had, of course, been swindled with the dowry. However, he’d been able to attract the attention of the guild’s top brass and six months ago, when the previous foreman had passed on due to an unfortunate accident on the job, they’d promoted him to foreman. He was, in fact, mildly pleased to do the job.

He launched a parchment onto the table, but not before taking an artless glance at the elegant crew in the room.

By gods…

Never had he laid eyes on a more ragged batch of mercenaries.

No matter… he cleared his throat and spoke, “You four have been offered the honorable task of escorting the distinguished Glassblower, Cecil Ockham Bostwick back to his home-county of Feirshire. You will meet him at the end of town in fifteen minutes. Three of you will take foot, and the forth will be at Cecil’s side in the comfort of the coach, at his request.” He paused quite intentionally, “I am informed he can sometimes be difficult to entertain. You will be paid four gold pieces when you arrive in Feirville providing safe delivery of Bostwick. Please inform the clerk at the front desk when you depart.”

As sternly as he had entered, he departed, leaving the parchment on the table, awaiting signatures, and a strange sense of duty resonating in the room.

Magriar could not see the parchment on the table, nor did he want his hand to leave the safety of all of his cloaks and darkness. He needed to sign that parchment, but he just could not. Shuffling and moaning, his mind raced wildly. Suddenly, he got a plan.
Searching around the room, Magriar looked for something living yet inconsequential. There was a mouse bouncing around the room looking for cheese. The Necromancer smiled, grabbing the rat with his mind. It squeaked an awful, horrifying squeak. The kind of squeak you hear when a soul leaves a body. Magriar licked his lips, unable to resist. He grabbed the soul out of the air and pulled it under his cloaks and devoured it. Delicious!

The dead mouse floated up above an empty ink well that was empty. He twisted the mouse with his mind, draining out it's blood, filling the well. Still with mouse in mind-hand, Magriar ripped apart the animal. The bones floated out of the body, reconstructing into the shape of a skeleton hand, letting the mouse skin flop to the floor.
Magriar's new hand floated to the table, grabbing a pen and dipping it into the mouse-blood ink which was now sitting on the table. Magriar signed his name on the parchment, in his new hand's own blood.

Magriar Lo'drai Stax'l, Devourer of Spirits and Render of Flesh, Esq.

Medb watched the necromancer's shadey necromancy. She twitched slightly at the untimely death of her species cousin; however, she didn't let it phase her too much. The mouse was a damn dirty fool for getting caught by such a commonly use necromancy trick. It was an instant demise that could have been avoided.

She scurried over to the once-signed parchment and took out a porcupine quill from her stash that she cleverly hid behind her ear. She picked up the parchment and began to furiously poke holes above the line designated for her name. The holes formed the shape of a stylized "M".

"Oi! Let's get this shindig on the road! I'm tired of sittin' 'round 'ere," Medb shouted boisterously. Her energy levels were beginning to pique from the excessive amount of nothing that she had done in the past couple of hours. Stretching out her limbs, she charged at the nearest wall, tearing it to shreds unscrupulously. The splinters from the finely crafted wood flew into the air in a flurry of rage and destruction as Medb ploughed through not only that wall, but the next, destroying her way to the coach that was waiting for them.

She ran a few laps around the coach as she waited for the others to sign the parchment.

Feeling it was time for his daily bath, Finnbheara clambered from his hovel and immediately leapt into the mud puddle in the middle of the road, stark naked. His long, flowing white hair was stained grey-brown, and his scrawny body covered in a thick layer of dirt, doubling his weight.

However, his beard stayed perfectly clean, because he did not HAVE a beard. The whole race of Faeries has a notorious testosterone deficiency, and as such suffered from a debilitating lack of body hair.

"IIIIIIII like pants in my SOOOOOUUUUPPP, but where did you puuuut the graaaaaaain?" He sang, scrubbing the rocks against his skin, "Raaaaiiiinbooooows pack flaaags and hiccouuuuugghs into SHUT UP! SHUT UP, I AM NOT TALKING TO YOU!"

He left his bath, wondering how he got so dirty in those pristene waters, and upon giving himself a mightly old shake to remove the mud, he re-donned his potato sack and returned to his hovel, careful not to touch the door as he crawled through the hole he'd dug underneath it. He'd always had a paralyzing fear of a door slamming on him and cutting him in half. He could hear it snickering at night, plotting against him. But he would have the last laugh... he ALWAYS had the last SHUT UP.

Name: Finnbheara (fin-VAR-uh)
Race: Faerie
Age: 272
Sex: Male
Class: Neurotic Schitzophrene Contortionist
Looks: Old. And wearing a cloak-robe made out of a finely woven Faerie potato sack.
STR: 4
DEX: 15
CON: 20
WIS: 2
INT: 22
CHA: 5
LUK: 13

Frob eagerly signed his name on the parchment and climbed through the makeshift door provided by his filthy animan companion. Goddamn beasts. All of them. Sc'ungks, Dauggs, Bo'uohrs, Kheri'bou, etc, every one of them horrid unclean abominations of life. Horrible mockeries of the pure humanoid races; Humans, Dwarves, Gnomes, even those goddamn Orlandmen what prefer calling themselves "elves".

Snapping back to reality, Frob approached the carriage at the end og town. Somewhat surprised that he had the highest CHArisma score, a mediocre 12, he decidedly took up the role of accompanying Cecil in the coach. He opened the coach door and sat down across from the glassblower.

"Good Afternoons, friend," Frob smiled nervously, "the name's Frob." His courtesy was met with a unimpressed stare. "How about that weather? Beautiful sky today." Frob worried that his hip flask would not be up to the challenge of this journey.

Isidisus ran his fork of a hand through his hair. The others had departed quickly. And so they should, he thought. Best not to keep an honourable craftsman waiting. Especially when he's paying you.

He snatched the pen from the table and quickly jotted his name. Rolling the parchment as he went, he dropped the contract off at the clerk's desk up front and informed him that his company was now leaving. The clerk had nodded vaguely, and then accepted the paper.

Outside, Insidisus breathed the fresh air of an autumn morning. The dewy ocean air was soothing his broken lung, and the sound of young children playing was heard from somewhere far off. It was a fine day to do some work.

He approached the coach from the rear and awaited the driver. His dagger and sai felt light then. They had always gotten along well with the rest of him, and today they'd be tested again.

Magriar waited for everyone to leave the room, hoping for some means by which he could leave as well. His bones were much to fragile to walk very far, especially under the weight of all of those cloaks and shadows. In fact, he completely forgot how he actually got into the room. Shuffling and moaning, his mind raced wildly. Suddenly, he got a plan.
Neatly folding his new rat-bone-hand into a pocket of his outer cloak, he waited a few second for someone to enter the room. He knew that someone would have to come in eventually. He hoped it would be soon, for that carrivan could not leave without him there. Just then, the Foreman, with more back story than all of the other characters combined, entered. He looked around the room, his eyes falling upon the giant hole that had been made in the wall. A small tear could be seen rolling down his cheek. "That's coming out of my paycheck," he muttered, to no one in particular.
'No,' Magriar thought, 'no it won't.' With his mind-magic in mind, Magriar quickly weaved a spell to separate the Foreman from his bones. This caused the man to squeak, much like the rat had done. His boneless body fell to the ground. Where he had standing now stood his skeleton.
"I live only to serve," the skeleton moaned.
"I shall name you Massacre," the Necromancer moaned, "Now come, bring Master outside to the carriage."
Massacre nodded, running over to the pile of cloaks that was Magriar. "Yes, my Lord," he shrieked, "Your will be done." He bent over, picking up the giant pile and hoisting it onto his back.
And so, the skeleton, with Magriar on his back, left the building and stood next to the carriage.

Medb completed her fiftieth prancing lap around the carriage, climbing up to the top so she could perch some more and get a good look out at the surroundings. Just as she reached her soon to be Medb-exclusive position on the carriage, she heard a distant, resounding "SHUT UP" echoing between the trees and down the path. She yelled back in the direction she thought she heard the voice, "I'LL TAKE YOU ANY DAY, Y'SILLY SOUNDING LAD." She nodded contentedly while the others arrived. She sat down comfortably on the front end of the carriage's roof, letting her legs dangle off.

"A'right, brothas, let's get our new friend Cecil to where he wants to go, yeah?" Medb announced to her companions. She could hear the mumblings of Frob from within the carriage as he tried to make small talk with their new patron. She decided to monitor what she could from her position. There was something about Cecil that just didn't sit right with her. His unusual protruding bug-eyes seemed to suck in any and all light surrounding them, making them blindingly bright and the act of looking him in the eyes a painful task. His eyes in conjunction with his thin, ghostly locks were enough to send her into anaphylactic shock's less serious and more docile little cousin. It was really more like an eye tick, really. Either way, she didn't like it one bit and was determined to not look at him as much as she could.

She heard the tinkle of the reins being taken up and peered past her feet to see who had decided to drive.

Finny always had liked horses. Such pretty, majestic things. Though the last time he had a horse, it kept stealing his secrets. He had never figured out where it put them. And he figured eating it would give him knowledge, but no such luck! So now he lives in a horse-less hovel without secrets. And a man needs secrets! After that, he didn't like them anymore. Not one little bit.

Having smelled the road apples, Finnabheara scuttled from his hovel in the general direction, yelling at the smell to shut up the entire way, because everyone knows that nothing moves when it's quite. Why, look at him! He was yelling, and he was a'movin'!

He caught sight of the horses, just in time to hear one of them yell at him, "I'LL TAKE YOU ANY DAY, Y'SILLY SOUNDING LAD," offending him beyond belief. Well he'd NEVER! It made him feel damp just hearing such disrespect! They were probably in league with his old horse, and were out for revenge. But the last laugh would be his...

Finnabheara scampered up the wheeled box, shoving aside the thing he figured was a mermaid of some sort by the bizarre language it was speaking as it fell, and pulled as hard as he could on the horse-ropes.

"Give me back my secrets! Give them back or I'll eat you, too! And I'll turn your fur into a blanket and pleasure myself on you! MY SECRETS!"

Frob was started by the sudden acceleration of the cart. The horses were quickly running full speed for some indiscernible reason. "It must be time to go already," he though to himself. "I hope the others can keep up with this pace, though." In his mind, each of his companions would look absolutely absurd running. He looked once more at Cecil and spoke. "Glassblower, was it? You must have important clients to require an entourage of the Adventurers Guild. I'll certainly do my best to keep you from harm's way." Frob wiped the sweat from his forehead and polished off his flask.

The cart suddenly came to a terrific halt, tossing the occupants around. Sounds of a conflict came from outside. Frob cautiously peered outside while pondering the events that lead up to this commotion.

Insidisus thought then of the cruel irony of the situation. Tejil would've laughed, he knew. She would've half expected him to freeze in place; paralysed in fear from a lifetime of old wrongs, old friends, old enemies. Was it a coincidence? The wagon... the bandits... it seemed like an old dream that wouldn't stop the strangling message of its own nostalgic cruelty. A nightmare whose origin was not the mind, but the soul.

So much had changed. So much since his days with the Windhymn and the rebellion. So much since she had died.

”I love you Sid!” She said, reeling. “All I ever wanted was you... this war... the hymn...” she looked into his blurred, blue eyes.

“Don't talk, Tejil. Save you're strength,” She lay in his arms, the circle of dark-red beneath them was growing wider, and she'd finally said it. After all the war, all the lust, all the pain, one of them had finally said it, and now... They both felt the blood, and knew she would not live to see the hymn alight. They wept together. “You'll be...”

“Don't,” she said. “Please Sid... please.”

“I love you,” he said, a little more loudly than he intended. He tried desperately to regain control, but as he tried, he felt his composure slip away completely, lost in a hammering feeling in his chest. His passion blew wildly through him and as he felt the rush move through his chest down to his stomach, the intensity of feeling was stronger than anything he had felt, would ever feel, in his life. They belonged together. They needed each other, more than anything in the world. “I love you too, Tejil. I've always loved you... since the moment we met I loved you.”

She smiled at him through a wall of tears, “Thank you.” He leaned down to kiss her, and as he did, she died.

Six men were dead already. His blades whirled and tore with the rage of the Windhymn, and the fury of a lover, denied and lost to the ocean of spirits. He had begun killing quickly, almost surprising himself. Almost.

Insidisus pulled his sai from the mouth of another slain rogue. His body moved like the rods and gears of a trebuchet. Up and down and through the flesh of half a dozen men. The others were fighting theirs, and Sid Reesus of the Windhymn knew no mercy for a bandit, not on that day.

A bandit ran up directly to Magriar. He had the look of a lost soul, seeking revenge and closure in all the wrong places. The bandit was more of a boy. He couldn't have been older than 15. Magriar could not quite put what was wrong with him, though he guessed the answer lay behind the boy's eyes, lackluster and hollow.
The boy raised his sword to Massacre, and, through proxy, Magriar. "Die, monster," he murmured, his voice proving his age, "you don't belong in this world."
Magriar shook his head. Another one of these types of children. The kind that wished him dead. "It was not by MY hands that I am once again given flesh. I was brought here by HUMANS who wish to pay me tribute."
"Tribute?! You steal men's souls and make them your slaves!" the boy shouted, angrily.
"Perhaps," Magriar thought, rather off topic, "the same could be said of all religions."
"Your words are as empty as your soul," the boy retorted, "Mankind ill needs a savior such as you!"
This made Magriar more angry than he could express. "WHAT IS A MAN!?" he shouted, throwing a wine glass at the boy's feet, "A miserable little pile of secrets! But enough talk, have at thee!"
With that, Magriar tore the boy's heart from his body. He died instantly, making the rest of the conversation completely useless. The boy, however, was not much more useful to Magriar.
"I shall name you Decrepit," he said, proudly, "You shall be my Sword-Ghoul."
Decrepit, still with flesh and blood, took his sword from his holster and began destroying.

Magriar's Undead Army:
Massecre - Travel Skeleton
Decrepit - Sword Ghoul

Medb leapt from her perch, swinging her clawed hands from side to side as she fell toward the ground. She landed mercilessly on one of the bandits, digging her claws into his chest and tearing. She tore, and tore, and tore, and tore. Little ribbons of bandit flesh flew in all directions. She bathed her hands in the foul fiend's blood and walked over to the nearest boulder. She began an elegant, fluid dance, whipping her bloodied hands and tail at high speeds, shooting the blood off of them and onto the flat surface of the boulder. Her dance continued as she created her masterpiece. When she ran out of blood, she quickly darted to the side, impaling the nearest bandit with her hands, followed by a swift shredding. Every death worked toward her ultimate goal of the perfect painting.

With a final, elegant pose, she finished her work. She bowed before the large boulder and considered her artwork. She had nearly flawlessly reproduced Van Gogh's Starry Night- with a red hue.

She turned around and yelled at the scuffle of bandits and her comrades behind her, "YOU'LL NEVER BE ON MY LEVEL, YE FILTHY BANDIT BASTARDS." She walked back to the carriage, swishing her tail from side to side in a playful manner and slashing the throats of any bandits who got in her way.

But Medb was too late. He arrived at the carriage only in time to discover its shocking contents. Cecil was lying still; his face colourless. His shirt was undone, exposing his bare chest; a chest sporting a brand new arrow. The job was over. They had lost. The Adventurer's Guild would be furious, and would discharge them for their horrible disgrace. Frob... Frob was nowhere to be seen. The opposite side door of the carriage was ajar, and looked as though it had been for a good while. Outside was a disturbed path of brush that lead beyond into the Black Forest of Dreams Unrealized.

Frob ran though the forest with all of his strength, tears streaming down his eyes. He was just a boy. He wasn't cut out for all this. Not one hour into his first job ever, he had witnessed his client murdered before his eyes. He had tried hysterically to heal the glassblower, shouting every incantation he knew. It wasn't enough. Cecil was dead and it was all his fault. He was no white mage.

His mind replayed the scene over and over in his head. He tried to make sense of Cecil's last words...

"Frob..." Cecil whispered. "There is nothing you can do for me now. I am beyond saving.

"You're wrong!" Frob cried. "I have to help you."

"Don't worry yourself, son. You're far too young to lose hope now. There is something I must tell you before I go. I apologize for being cold earlier, but I was trying to keep this secret. No doubt these bandits were hired to obtain this." He unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a ruby amulet. He tore it from his neck with the last of his strength and placed it in Frob's hands. "I tell you this now because I am at my end. I can no longer fulfil this task, so I must bestow it to you. I have placed a great burden upon you and can only hope that you will forgive me. This amulet is the only hope for our world. You mustn't let it fall into the hands of evil."

Frob continued to cry, sprinting through the forest. He had to get away from the bandits. He ran until he finally collapsed. His legs could carry him no further. He lied on the forest grounds, exhausted and completely out of breath. His vision darkened, his hearing faded. His last thoughts before falling unconscious were of Cecil.

"You must seek the other amulets."

The last bandit made her way to her own particular brand of finality. Sid’s sai had plucked her fleeing head from 30 yards out. She had been the youngest and most innocent of the thieves, never once wanting the foul life of her dominating father. A youth filled with violence and sexual exploitation was now over. Her story would be unknown forever.

Or would it? The bandits had played an integral role in the shifting of fates. The mysterious amulet the glassblower had been hiding from the group had some immense purpose. And now, whoever was waiting for Cecil Ockham Bostwick and his treasure would surely know what had happened here. Insidisus had seen the emotional last moments before the amulet was exchanged. He didn’t know much, but knew it meant something awful for him. He’d have to participate in whatever world-churning events which would follow this dramatic bestowal of responsibility.

Could it be? Was this a coincidence? The ominous dream always seemed to return at these moments. From the darkest corridors of his mind, the ghoulish censure, unrelenting as always, hammered at his soul. Like a blow to the trunk, Insidisus fell to his knees. The pain seemed physical, but Sid Reesus of the Windhymn knew much better. A thousand conjectures relayed themselves through his mind. Only one conclusion remained. The day had finally come.

Unlatching his dagger, Sid began to remove dark, curly locks of hair from his head. He could hide from it no longer. The destiny of a man who’d be forced a thousand times over was finally coming full circle. Curse you, he thought then. Curse the gods and their plots… their secrets… their merciless hunger for power! I denounce you, all of you!

His black hair cropped short now, Sid accepted his destiny, at last. For half a lifetime, he’d seen the specter in his dreams tell him what to do, what he would become, and ignored her. Now, Tejil could be redeemed, and the gods satisfied. I must regain the sword, he thought. Delight in this, gods. You have a small victory today. Sid stood, turning towards the forest.

Taking a slightly different direction into the dark woods, Sid headed towards a little-known grove. The place was known only by him, Tejil, and her guards. Of them, only he was still alive. And by some incredible turn of events, now someone desired the sword again.

There were many swords of power in the world, but only one answered the call of the Lion of the Windhymn. Approaching the edge of the sacred grove, he cried dutifully “Tempest!” His voice seemed to echo from hallowed leaves and branches of the ancient oaks surrounding the grove. He would have died there, standing even at the edge, had he not come bearing the power of his once-rejected destiny. “I come for you now. Be true to your domain and come forth to the Lion of the Windhymn.”

A voice responded, elegant and impassioned. From the center of the grove, a statue stood with a sword resting in the hands. The voice came from the statue and seemed to fill the grove with the warming assonance of some divine power. Sid had forgotten the healing tones and bridges of its possessor. Never, had a voice so lovely grace his ears; not even Tejil’s, for which he hated himself slightly. But few mortals could resist the voice of such a goddess.

“You are weary, my friend.” The sword’s essence emanated from the grove, almost blinding him. “Take my sword and the last of my power to heal your body.” The voice intoned.

Thank you, Tempest, he wanted to say. The power of the place was too humbling to speak. Two of Tejil’s guard’s had died in this place, and not by malice. The shear intensity of feeling was enough to kill mortals who were not intended to seek the powers of gods. The wrath of the makers had changed things.

“The amulets are free,” she said. “You know what this means. Go now, help Frob. He will not stray from the righteous path.” With that, Sid removed the sword from the altar. He felt his wounds heal and his muscles bulge from his beaten body. No more a weak, emaciated man, Sid Reesus, Lion of the Windhymn raised Tempest upon the statue and shattered it where it stood. “Thank you,” she said finally, “I am free… now go.”

The sword in his hand blazed with power. As Sid made his way from the grove, he felt an incredible weight lift from his shoulders. His new massive frame wielded Tempest well. He could remember the feeling of power from years ago, but only now did he finally feel the relief which came of freeing the goddess, and taking the sword for his own.

Sid caught up to Frob and called from behind him in his unadulterated voice. “Frob! Quickly, the makers will be after us… we cannot stay in this forest. Their power is too great here. We must make for the county of Feirshire and find whoever was waiting for this amulet.” Hopefully, Frob would recognize him.

Magriar looked around sadly for his companions which seemed to be leaving one at a time. He glanced to his sword-ghoul, which was devouring the innards of a dead bandit. "Decrepit," he yelled, "come, ghoul. We are going to explore our own back-story."
And so, they darted quickly into the woods. The necromancer was following something. Something in his gut that was telling him that he had to find something. There was something out there... somewhere.

Suddenly, Magriar came into a clearing. There was nothing there. Or it seemed so at first. He couldn't tell over all of the fog. Oh yeah, there was fog there. As Massacre stepped closer, Magriar could begin to make out what it was that he saw. It was a moose.
It was massive. Magriar had never seen a moose outside paintings or sculptures. It stared at him with a ferocious intensity. It started so intensely that Magriar could have sworn he could almost hear it in his head.
"Magriar," he heard whispering in his mind. It was becoming clearer. He could almost hear it like a voice. "Magriar, Son of Gralliam, Champion of the Firedance."
He was shocked. Gralliam... his home.

"Magriar!" a woman shouted, "Magriar, time for dinner!" Her voice was loving. Her voice was compassionate. She was his mother.
A young Magriar ran through the orchards toward his mother’s voice. His trusted dog, Delor, trotting behind him. The pair had been exploring the farm again. He knew that he was almost old enough to start helping his mother and his sisters with the harvest.
"Magriar," his mother said, with an unrivalled calmness to her voice, "Honestly, one day your curiosity will get the better of you," she slowed, lowering her voice, "Just like your father."
"Papa'll come home, Mama," young Magriar said, beaming, "One day, he'll come home. I just know it."
His mother shook her head. "Wash yourself up, dear."

"How do you know who I am?" asked Magriar. No one had known his past... Not since he had become a Fallen.
"That is not important, Magriar Firedancer," the moose bellowed in response, "What is important is that you must gather the Destiny Stones. The entire world hangs on your gathering these Stones."
Magriar was confused. "Destiny Stones? What are they? What does this have to do with me? Where can I find them?" He had so many questions.
"You will know when the time is right," the moose said, "The first stone... is me."
The moose vanished. In his stead, a small stone, in the shape of the Symbol of Kings, a shape Magriar had seen only once before. "The Destiny Stone of Kings," he muttered in disbelief.

Hurrying back into the woods, Magriar quickly found his way to Frob and the pile of kindling/trebuchet that was the rogue.

(ps. Insidisus is no longer thin... refer to my last post. His muscles are bulged and his frame is thickened)

From the darkest places in all of creation, only a certain twisted brand of evil can survive.

The black halls of the Cathedral of Malice sentenced the average onlooker to a lifetime of madness. The evil psalms of hatred echoed deeply throughout the ragged corridors of the once-pure church; and within the mind, a constant chanting of demonic poems and magics resounded and pestered the soul. A hundred rooms and even more dungeons, the dark chambers employed close to two-thousand evil or likewise undead servants. Few knew it even existed, but then, few needed to know.

A gauntleted hand tapped the armrest on a staggeringly evil throne. Clad in the spines and black metals of the underworld, the lord of the cathedral stared at his looking-orb intently. Evil spewed from the empty eye-sockets; horrifying and maddeningly sadistic thoughts made their way through the mind inside.

“Two now,” a bestial voice uttered. “Two are close to obtaining a destiny and a past. There are too many main characters…” the armored fiend atop the throne spoke.

A pathetic cockroach of a voice responded, “It’s only two my lord. You have a past of your own don’t forget.” Derillordriar the gremlin servant said. The son of a goblin and a troglodyte, Derillordriar had come on to his position with some luck. After 14 years of sludge-slogging, his father had recommended his sturdy back and shoulders to his captain. In keeping with Cathedral of Malice employee practice standards, Derillordriar immediately attempted an assassination on his captain, and by some amazing stroke of luck, caught the captain off guard and came out victorious. The captain was poised to take the next in line of direct lord servants, and when Derillordriar had heard the news of this, he immediately mailed a letter to his mother in the Hag Swamp, telling her of his accomplishment. She had been extremely proud.

“Fool!” the lord bellowed. The gremlin died instantly, melting away like a popsicle in a supernova. “My power is still far beyond any of these vermin. Tonight I will have my prize!” With that, the lord stood and vaporized his cathedral. He summoned his duel blades to him, Agony and Lunacy, tremendous blades which spanned a distance taller than the average man. Forged of dark alloys in the fires of earth so deep the flames burned downwards.

He took to flight. In a moment he was in the forest, standing at the back of Sid Reesus, Lion of the Windhymn. “Feel the wrath of Aboren, Doomlord of Malice!” he said in a voice so loud, Tempest, the blade of the Lion, shattered instantly. Then, in a single terrible motion, Aboren brought his blades down upon Sid Reesus and obliterated his body.

“Let us settle this now, Frob! I know who you truly are. It’s painfully obvious you are the mild-mannered weakling of this group of main characters whose ridiculous luck and irresistible charm will surely allow you to stumble upon the greatest power the world has ever known. I intend to slay you before you obtain said power!” With that, the Doomlord lunged at Frob with incalculable speed, blades raised high above waiting to smash down on the tiny frame of the humble white mage.

Name: Aboren, Doomlord of Malice
Race: Demonic
Age: ???
Class: Doomlord
Looks: Dark Lord
STR: 8453
DEX: 4968
CON: 7850
WIS: 4578
INT: 5294
CHA: 3473
LUK: 6

But Aboren's horrific luck score made its presence known when the doomlord's foot caught hold of the large stray root of a nearby tree. While collapsing to the ground, the ruby amulet was given enough time to imbue Frob with the Wrath of the Red Maker. A blinding flash of sanguine light enveloped the young white mage and metamorphosised him into Ymir-Irylle, the Maker of the Mind. The transformation had given him some fresh style, over a foot in additional hight, and a voice not entirely unlike that of Dan Green's. A voice that spoke...

"Well, if it isn't the Doomlord himself. It's been a long time. Tell me, do you still bear the scars of our previous confrontation? I would have hoped that would be enough to teach you not to interfere with The Makers." Ymir-Irylle cocked his head to the side and smirked subtly. "No, I suppose it didn't. Your kind never learns. Perhaps I'll have to show you the true power of the Red Maker."

With that, he extended his hand and yelled, "Mind Crush!!"

Aboren's mind was shattered.

Aboren's mind was shattered and his pride was worse. He screamed as he died. Magriar knew the sound of the screaming. It was ultimate suffering. His heart made that sound when the six fingered man killed his father.
"This must be another one," Magriar shouted, running toward the decaying body, "Another Destiny Stone!"
As he was talking, Magriar noticed that the body of Aboren was turning into a Destiny Stone. This one was in the shape of the Sacred Lance. The Sacred Lance was a shape well known to all in the world, and thus did not need to be described. It was a symbol of freedom and ghosts.

A dark figure watched the group and their foolish destiny. The figure was a man, short yet lanky. He was hunched over like a bird, balancing on a branch in a tree. "The fools," he muttered, angrily, "The fools, the fools, the fools!"
He was Gex Hex, Destroyer of Realms. He looked like a mix between a giant owl and a hollow tree.
"They will know what a real destiny looks like!" he screeched, grabbing his cloak and expanding it like wings. He jumped from his tree, and glided away.

Name: Gex Hex, Destroyer of Realms
Race: ???
Age: ???
Class: Illusionist
Looks: A mix between a giant owl and a hollow tree
STR: ??
DEX: ??
CON: ??
WIS: ??
INT: ??
CHA: ??
LUK: ??