But Seryl did not look like dying, at least not immediately. She got to her feet, surprisingly steady, and without a word seized Erillyn's sleeve to hightail it back to camp. Hopefully they wouldn't get a lecture from Damien, as Seryl felt quite sure she would do something she'd regret if she heard one word of reproach pass his lips.

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Seryl cursed under her breath. She thought he'd gone. "Where do you think?" she asked caustically, for the first time wishing fervently for more powers than her single one, telepathy.

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(Just to let you know, I infected Seryl with a virus. Let a couple of days pass before symptoms show up. And it's contagious.)

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I was cured all right.

(I'm like really far behind can someone catch me up? )

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"Is all that we see or seem in a dream, but a dream?" -Edgar Allen Poe

[: ? # = $ ^ ~ +]


Normal is for Muggles!

(Erillyn and Seryl are fighting Devarion and Ewaviner. Damien has come out to help them, although neither the Demons nor Seryl and Erillyn know that he's there. I think your character would still be back at the camp with everyone else.)

Erillyn growled in frustration when they were stopped just before escaping. She thought of once again trying to fight the Demon with her weather manipulation powers, but she recalled that he had simply used her lightening bolts to gain energy. It wouldn't do well to try that again if it only strengthened their oponent. Then a thought came to her. Water vapor gathered in from the night air, creating a shroud of mist around the two women. Erillyn didn't know if the mist would be enough to hide them, nor did she know how long it would work or if the Demon had a defense against it as well, but she was willing to try anything to get away. Not wanting to speak aloud and so give them away that way, she sent a telepathic message to Seryl. Try to make back for the camp, but stay in the mist. Hurry. I don't know how long I can hold this. And she didn't know. Her powers were still new to her, and her hold over them was not very stable yet.

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I'm back!

Damien carefully lowered the body to the ground, listening for any further sounds. This unholy creature was one of several who had been waiting to ambush something. If they had seen him first, he might have had a harder time, but he had been able to slip up behind them and remove them without alerting the others. He was lucky that their hearing didn't seem half as good as their eyes--if he had come from in front of them, he had no doubt he would have at least been wounded, if not killed, before he took them out of commission.

Now the area should be clear of reinforcements for the Demons. Wiping his spearpoint on the corpse's tunic, he stalked silently in the shadows back towards the clearing where Seryl and Erillyn had been confronted. To his annoyance, only one Demon was still there--where the other one was, he had no clue. That could get him killed, but he couldn't leave his companions to be slaughtered, either--he needed them, however much he detested the thought.

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Damien cursed silently as mist enveloped the two Chosen. It might be helping them, but it meant he wouldn't be able to see anything approaching from that direction. The duo obviously had to learn more about survival--you needed to see! If you couldn't see, then you were as good as dead in a place like this, unless you had legendary skill, which, to Damien's knowledge, no one had ever possessed to that level.

The Demon sat down under a tree. Damien could hardly have placed him better if he'd told the creature what to do. Using one of his other gifts, he imagined what he was seeing in his mind, but with the ground around the Demon rippling, shifting.

Indeed, the ground almost appeared alive as it shifted to cover the Demon's legs--it wouldn't be moving to attack, at least.

He stepped out of the shadows across the clearing, raising his spear.

"Time to die, Demon," he said. Killing the vile creature would be more beneficial to the world than killing almost all the other evil predators in the forest--their evil paled when compared to a Demon's.

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Damien stopped short. What in the world did the Demon mean, asking him why he thought that? The creature was pinned, and Damien was intent on killing him.

"You seem unable to help yourself, I've killed your minions that were waiting in ambush, and I mean to kill you, too," Damien said harshly. Soon-to-die creatures shouldn't talk. Especially if they were helpless--it made them seem weak, and that was a false impression. He hated false impressions.

The demon raised an eyebrow. "You, my friend, do an awful lot of assuming. Firstly, those weren't my minions, and....." the Demon stopped mid sentence, as something caught Damien's eye. Reaching down, he pulled the creature's dagger out of its sheath. An unusual whitish-gold blade....a jewel in the pommel, and a sense of evil over all. Not any normal sense of evil, either--it was a feeling that made his skin crawl, his heart-rate pick up, and sweat collect on his brow.

"You stole the soul of man on the road this morning," he said flatly. There could not be many daggers that had effects like this.

The demon would not survive this, regardless of what happened. Those who stole the souls of others did not deserve to have them themselves.

"Know this, creature," Damien hissed. "You will die at the hands of Damien, Warden of Carroll's Fork. I have killed many creatures less evil than you, but your head I will keep for a trophy, I think--a sign that I do not tolerate such things to live."

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Maira stood by Radearle and waited.

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"Is all that we see or seem in a dream, but a dream?" -Edgar Allen Poe

[: ? # = $ ^ ~ +]


Normal is for Muggles!

Xaviera looked at the dwarf, still not completely trusting him. She wondered if Damien had found the other two yet.

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- married fingon fingolfinion 6/4/13 -
~art credit~

Radearle had felt the minds in the distance, glowing, threaded orbs of light in the void. Sharpening her inner vision, she could begin to identify them: two slightly familiar minds, bearing new fire from days-old gifts, making haste toward the camp; another familar, but purpose-bent sphere, that was the darker beige of a male elf; confronting it, the nauseating green of ... something. A demon, she realized, straight out of the stories, malicious and cunning. There were other vile presences, further afield, but at least she could do something about this one.

Radearle of An pulled herself closer to the demon, delicately extending tendrils of thought, making such light contact that he wouldn't notice it, focused as he was on the elf. Damien. As she drew her awareness through the contact, she began to share his senses.

"You, my friend, do an awful lot of assuming. Firstly, those weren't my minions, and....."

"You stole the soul of the man on the road this morning... Know this, creature. You will die at the hands of Damien, Warden of Carroll's Fork. I have killed many creatures less evil than you, but your head I will keep for a trophy, I think--a sign that I do not tolerate such things to live."

"Say it, don't spray it."

"You really don't realise you're about to die, do you?"

"That's because I'm not about to die."

Blackness enveloped Radearle as something in space flipped, and suddenly they were behind Damien. So the demon could manipulate location...

"And there I was thinking you were better than your counterparts."

She sensed the intent to leave, felt the gathering of power, but she was ready this time. As darkness consumed them for the second time, she flung out her thoughts, clamping around the foreign mind and weighing it down, preventing it from traveling as far as it had intended. Space flipped yet again, and she saw a new part of the forest. They were alone, his mind and hers, and she strengthened her contact before he could realized exactly what had happened.

That was interesting. She searched for his name. Devarion.

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

Ewaviner wondered what happened to his ambush group when a Shadow came in with a corpse of a Shadow. "There's more of these," he said. Ewaviner frowned as he realised it was the Chosen Ones. He guessed they were out-tricked but it also meant that Devarion was still there, with the Chosen Ones. He ordered a sensory ward to erected and went to Devarion.

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I was cured all right.

Finding little to occupy himself with in Devarion's absence, Rothar decided to roam the fishing village for a nice place to sit down. A small tavern caught his eye - perhaps because it was the only tavern in this pathetic pighole. Coming up to the door, he knocked with a force that nearly unhinged it. Flimsy things.

There was a long pause, after which an infinitesimal door panel slid open. One glance at the towering figure outside dashed all notions of hospitality. "We're closed for the night, good sir."

"Then open up." This was accompanied by a none too amiable growl, followed by a turn that put the barkeep at best angle to view the enormous morning star at Rothar's belt.

Needless to say, the door cracked open.

He saw as he ducked his head to enter that he wasn't the only late-night patron. Two gray-robed figures sat hunched near the dying fire, quietly conversing with a few villagers. A cursory scan revealed a few more fishermen and farmers snoozing on their tables. After grabbing a mug of beer, the half-breed settled himself down in the corner two tables away from the hearth.

"...black cloak and red hair. You don't get many strangers here, do you?"

Rothar froze. Golden eyes glittering under the cowl of his green cloak, he deliberately raised his head to regard the group by the fireplace.

"Little Terri was found dead in the stables an hour ago. He was a good lad, he was."

One of the gray-robed figures, his or her features hidden under a hood, extended a slender hand. "My sympathies." The voice, mellifluous and cultured, provided little clue of the gender. The figure turned to speak in undertone with his or her companion.

Rothar's mind raced. To get up and leave now would only attract attention. How much did they know? Curse it, where the devil was Devarion when he needed him?

_________________

Radearle smiled, very slightly, even though his voice made her want to shudder. She didn't know if the impression of superiority would carry through their link, but it wouldn't hurt if it did. Do you really need to know? she replied archly, making sure that her mental voice was distinctly feminine. Placing a confidence that she didn't feel behind her thoughts, she continued taunting the demon. So powerful, yet so dense. Do your minions realize your weakness?

The woman thought that she was covering her nervousness and uncertainty reasonably well; as the daughter of a noble, her acting skills were fairly well developed. Now to search him, as she had searched the dwarf. Who was he? What did he want? How many were with him?

His mind was much more organized than others; here was one with responsibility and clarity of thought. It was also much better guarded. Regardless, she began the search, hoping that their conversation would distract him.

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

As was customary, Mrug exploded through the underbrush just in time and twenty seconds too late. Huffing and puffing, he hefted his battle axe and executed a full pivot to check for any immediate annoyances. He saw none save for the elf, who didn't count because elves were always annoying. "I take it that I missed something," he grunted, trying but failing miserably to conceal his disappointment. What dwarf didn't like a good brawl?

----------

Rothar was saved the agony of indecision when the two gray-robed anomalies rose to their feet. Their movements were fluid, their frames slender and lithe. They swept out of the tavern, their haughtiness not deliberate but a subconscious mien that came easily, almost like an alter ego. The epiphany struck him then and there.

Elves were so annoying.

Rothar glanced around before rising to his own feet. Devarion wasn't here, so he might as well find something useful. Besides, elvenflesh wasn't so bad if one got past the stringy tendons. He stalked over to the bar and banged his mug down. "I don't drink excrement," he snarled by way of explanation. Every inch the dissatisfied customer, he wrenched open the door - this time with a crack of splintering wood - and melted into the night.

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Cu'scath leaned against a tree, a short way away from the tavern. He stood as Rothar left the tavern, and joined him stride for stride. "Was the drink not to your liking?" he asked.