Quest Lost & Damned

[Wrenmae]

Murdock pivoted on his heel, quickly stepping beside Hadrian to isolate Rayage from the door. Not that he felt particularly dedicated to protect a being that could hop bodies, but there was a certain thrill in discovery he could not ignore, a sort of wild greed that bubbled in his gut. As Hadrian brought the knocker up and down upon the door, the thud of metal on wood echoed in the ruined filth around them. The voice from within hardly sounded sane, more a shadow of its former self. Hand on his blade, the mage tried to ignore the similarities between that hollow muttering and his own break of sanity while tortured in Sunberth.

For the first time in a long while, Murdock called upon a lesser used gift of magic. Remembering the feel of energy, the way his Djed had learned to flow out of him, remain around him. He crafted it into a clumsy barrier. It was weak, thin, tasked only to slow the path of oncoming Djed. It shimmered and broke over his figure; every movement seemed to shatter its fragile construction. Even so, Murdock pushed at it till a thin film of Shield energy crawled over his skin and settled. The drain was dizzying, but at least he was ready with some small manner of defense.

[Paragon]

The voice fell silent at the knock, but they would hear footsteps as whoever lurked behind moved to the threshold. It was fortunate that Hadrian and Wrenmae had formed barriers of djed. The door burst open, and a man confronted them, swiping his arm forward. Energy pulsed from him, a small shockwave aimed to push them back. But the shield held, for it was not a concentrated attack. The trio remained stood. The man was old. His hair was wild, and a scruffy beard graced his face. It was clear that he didn't care much for appearance. He looked ill in a way, though he was surprisingly spritely on his feet. The first thing they would note, was the manacle on his wrist. He gripped it, and cast his eyes upon the one on Rayage's own deathly wrist. "Lambs to the slaughter," he said with a dark laugh, licking his lips. Rather than launch into a murderous rampage, however, he turned back to his room. A dimly lit office of gadgets and mechanisms. A magecrafter's lab, perhaps. "I suppose the boy sent you here. And then my house did a little... rearranging. All to expedite your travels, I see."

[Wrenmae]

The energy buffeting along shattered the shield energy around Murdock, sending him a pace backward. Digging his foot into the ground, he held it, however, and stepped forward into the shadow of the open portal. An old man yammered, surrounded by the trappings of...a mage perhaps. He'd seen similar items at the Zeltivan University, traded and fettered from student to master in the halls where the more...valuable changes were taking place.

His dagger was quick to his hand, shimmering in the dim light and held like the lazy head of a viper, prepared to strike if troubled from languid pause. Murdock took a step forward, ahead of the other two, into the room. He did not stray far inside, however, keeping his body near enough the passageway to leap back should the creature turn upon him. Not that his frail and dust-caked body offered any sort of threat, but the man reeked of a mad mage. Had one ever need be distilled into so distinct a figure, there could be none better than this man, now.

"The spirit bid us follow, yes" Murdock commented coldly "You are master of this wretched domain?"

Ask him if he'll make us some tea.

You don't drink

Pointless. It's an expected custom.

I'm not asking him for tea

Fine, but don't expect to be invited in.

What?

Social customs.

He's a mad mage in a tomb of rot!

Now you're just being rude.

Murdock paused for a moment, a small grimace crossing his face and fading as he tuned the yammerings of his familiar from his head.

"You are the one who bid one of our own wear a manacle." The blade vibrated in his grasp, held in nervous hands anticipating sudden and unexpected violence, "Did you only need a single sister to the one on your own wrist?"

[Hadrian]

Hadrian had learned the trick of teaching his Shields to absorb djed instead of blocking it, and so while some of the attack just moved around him like water on duck feathers, some of it made the Shield even stronger without any expenditure of power of his own save maintaining it. But he didn't smile at the accomplishment, nor frown at the manacled old man. Wrenmae had begun the interrogation, and rather than muddy up the waters with more questions, Hadrian held his tongue until such time as he had a better idea of what was happening. Details. A house that shifted shape. A lab, possibly for magecrafting or alchemy... Manacles. Of course there was much to give him pause, but they were committed now. If the boy-ghost had deceived them, well, Hadrian couldn't dust him, but the ghost didn't know that.

[Rayage]

The door had opened and a surge of magical pressure was loosed at them. Thankfully being in the back of the group had its advantages. The power surged and washed over the two in front of him, and he only got what got past them. The energy of course still was threatening, but it seemed like it did not have the intended effect or at least another did not come. Instead a voice broke out, and addressed them. Ray was the last to see the man, but kept quiet as he talked. If the man was indeed the master of this place little did they know of what sort of powers that he possesses. It was quite dangerous to confront a foe that they know nothing about.

Luckily for them, at least for now, the man did not seem to want to attack them. He talked of the building moving itself as to help them with their journey. The way he talked set off warnings to the nuit, he wasn’t all there was he? Though definite conclusions could not be drawn without more information, more interaction, and that interaction would be provided by the man answering the questions that Shroud began to ask…

”And what about these manacles?” the nuit asked holding his own locked arm up as if the man did not see it. ”What do they do? What is the purpose of this?” he asked.

[Paragon]

"Yes, yes. Only one," the man said, in response to Wrenmae's question. His eyes flitted about almost nervously. Owlish expressiveness turned to something deeper. He touched his own manacle and then looked up at them. His gaze was drawn towards Wrenmae, of the group, despite Rayage wearing the sister accessory. "The manacle's are simply guiding implements. Nothing more, nothing less. It mattered not who wore it, because you came as a group." The old man turned again, looking back as his room of marvellous creations. An uneasiness filled the air. For a moment, it would seem he was seeking some sort of prompt or confirmation from someone else. When he turned back, his face was different again. When he spoke, it was not his voice that emerged from his mouth. It was something darker. Raspy, and croaked. "It is Wrenmae I seek. You must come into the room, and enter the door at the other side. And you must come alone." The other two would be left wondering who this man was, and what was going on around them. The walls changed. The paths changed beneath their very feet. This whole structure was almost organic and alive. A ghost stood at the entrance, and now a curious old man at this door. A place of oddities and unanswered questions. Was it merely happenstance that three of the most curious men in Sylira now walked these depths?

[Hadrian]

Again with the separation. Hadrian was wary, but not afraid. Fear would only cloud his judgment, but he could still be ready to react to whatever happened. His magical senses were clouded, and so he could only maintain his Shields and let his djed Flux into his body, strengthening muscle for strength, but also bones and ligaments for support, and nerves for speed. At a moment's notice, he might need to call the elements, or tame a monster. He had tools, so for now he merely had to be prepared to assess whatever threat might come. But if Wrenmae was going to separate himself from the group, that was his business. He had made his advisement already, and didn't like to repeat himself. If the manacled man took Wrenmae away, at least that would give Rayage and him a chance to look over what lay about the room.

[Wrenmae]

He knew his name.

Perhaps this, above all other oddities they'd encountered in their descent, worried him the most. A nervous spasm of energy collected in his body, basic flux lancing through his dominant arm as he tapped at the pommel of his dagger. He was ready to draw it and bury the blade to its hilt in the old man at the smallest provocation. Led by spirits, monsters, and illusions he was not pleased at how alien he felt down here. His entire world was based around the concept of control.

"How do you know me?" He asked, suspiciously, eyes darting into the lesser used corners and off the backs of dusty objects, "What lies beyond that door for me and why must I traverse alone?"

Half turning to the rest, he cast a placid stare at Rayage and Hadrian. "We have been led every step of the way, instructed, demanded, ordered. The manacle, my journey...we seem to have been expected here and I do not enjoy the idea of old men and ghosts preparing a place for me."

Back to the old man, his head whipping around.

"And if one follows? What fate befalls a fellowship that will not befall a one?"

[Paragon]

The man frowned at Wrenmae's questioning before shuffling close to him. Wrenmae reacted defensively, but in the end softened when he saw the man was not threatening him. He bent close, and whispered into his ear. His voice was dark and tired. "Vayt commands it..." Three words, and yet Wrenmae would understand. It seemed inexorable that he would follow through the threshold. Hadrian and Rayage were left standing, confused, before realising there was a whole room for them to inspect. Small curious and gadgets littered the work surfaces. It was the crazed workings of a madman. Piles of books - a rarity on Mizahar, unless one was in a library - filled the room. Many tomes had fallen to the floor, losing balance from their lofty stacks. One seemed particularly ornate, a dark green with gold stitchings on its binding. It was called Living Structures.

[Wrenmae]

“Vayt Commands it”
Three words were all it took to give immediate pause to the murderer’s reservations. His mind had nearly completed moving back together, the broken becoming whole. As he was now, as Murdock, he was a faithful of the Plague god. He had served him well spreading disease and misery from Sunberth to Zeltiva and now, only now, in this fetid dungeon, was the god interested in seeing him.

After twelve years.

Turning back to Hadrian and Rayage, Murdock expelled a quiet breath. He had not known how prepared he was to leave his companions until that sentence. His last brush with the divine, Rhysol, had left him scarred and broken. So far his rendezvous with the mythic was anything but pleasurable or enlightening. After all this time, what would Vayt want for him? He’d spent his childhood poisoning Alvadas, but not by choice, merely extension. It was only in Sunberth and Zeltiva that he had truly bent himself to the god’s will, extinguishing life and visiting the sick to bring more ruin on their countenance. Now he stood beneath the ground in a rotting dungeon.

Maybe we should stay. Zan speaking. Nervous.

You’ve never seen Vayt, have you?

Not someone I care to meet.

Hide within me then, but I answer to a higher power.

He’s the one who cursed you, you know.

What you see as a curse, I see as a blessing. Opportunity knocks. I answer.

“I will come,” Murdock answered the old man gravely, “But I will return when my business is taken care of.” He looked back at Hadrian and Rayage again. “Seek not to disturb the phantoms of this place,” he muttered, “Death visits deeper the farther we tread…I can smell it.”

With that, he strode to the door. The handle was cold in his grasp, almost leeching the warmth from his hand and body. Grasping it, the Blight carrier opened the door and stepped through, letting it swing shut behind him.
Zan held vigil in nervous silence.

But Murdock walked with excited purpose, quivering at the thought of a reunion. The god who had spared him on the road so long ago now sought to palaver with his blessed.

Did the meeting portend more agony or reward?

Personally, he hoped for the latter.