[Act 2 - The Crossing] Storms Afloat

[Gossamer]

They all waged a silent war, but none moreso than Ulric in that moment. There was so much potential... so much lure to things his adult mind would deem childish pleasures. It was like he was completely filled up with the urge to pull legs off grasshoppers or wings off flies just to watch them suffer in pain. It was a secret thrill that coursed through him driven by a Goddess that was born in the murder of another deity who rose from the ashes of something even older - fed by the remnant power the ancient used to contain. It felt so good. His body reacted in kind, surging with excitement and lust, sending his brain to someplace all men eventually found and gloried in. His heart sped up, his breathing increased, and he curled his fingers around his blade knowing he could do it - should do it - and that it would be glorious. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a girls laughter filled him. She teased him with promises she was wholly unlikely to keep in the end. Everything his. Power his. Glory his. Men falling down at his feet. No... the lies could be seen through. But it was the reaction that scared him. He knew it wasn't normal and he knew it was seductive.. incredibly so. She knew it too... and purred in his ear. "Pain is just the other side of pleasure. How often do you allow yourself either, Ulric?" Something warm and soft, like a lovers tongue, circled the rim of his ear as the words filled his awareness. Then, even as the no ripped out of him, he felt her leave. Gone. Attention lost - awareness wandered. When he bored her with resistance, she left. There was, after all, time. Krysus grandstanded a great deal, so unless someone wanted to play in the then and there, she was off on other errands biding her time for when her time was most effective. Oh, and that was coming soon... absolutely coming soon. And so he too moved on. Sharn joined him, and together the Jamoura and Human moved downward, into the ship into the beast hold. It was there, after Ulric's questions were answered, that Sharn revealed the truth. Illness. Or so he feared. And when he asked Ulric to take his life should it prove to be true - Ulric felt the eager pleasure flood him of actually WANTING to do it. In that moment, fierce and potent, all his being WILLED Sharn to be ill. It passed in a moment, but it was still powerful as it held him in his grip. As for the animals... there were illnesses among them. Two sheep were obviously sick. Another horse had sores. All the chickens were gone - already tossed to the sea to rid the ship of their potential threat. And a pig, one lone pig, lay prone in its crate, not willing to lift its head. It showed no outward signs of illness, but its listlessness was telltale enough. As for the silver haired girl, she sat before her horses - their number already down by one - and cried silently staring at the one that was already showing signs. She wasn't ill, not at least that they could see, but they could tell her heart was broken at the sight of the horses slowly falling to the sickness. Sharn and Ulric would have to decide what to do. As for Glav, he simply sighed back in the privacy of the captain's quarters. He nodded to Leo, understanding his train of thought and knowing he was right. "I understand, it needs to be all of us or this won't work." The alvina reasoned. Then suddenly, Minkala shook her head. "No, I'm not disrobing in front of anyone. I'm sorry, but I will not. If we search everyone and find nothing, then perhaps I can be persuaded to settle your thoughts. But there is no need for me to disrobe if a man marked by Vyat is found." She reasoned, eyes searching first Leo then Glav's face. Her mind was made up, that was for certain, and she stood firm in her thought. Glav raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and instead started to remove his shirt. His pants came next and within a few moments, his skin was visible to Leo. It was... indescribable. Every single inch of his skin was marked with ink. Sleeves, chest, back, buttocks, his front, even his legs were etched above where his bare feet would show and his wrists would stick out of his sleeves. Camouflage. Leo and Minkala were hard pressed to actually see the gnosis marks. They were there, of course, hidden within the ink. And they were there in great numbers. Leo couldn't recognize most of them, but he did know what marks from Vayt looked like. Glav didn't have one. The priest looked sheepish for a moment, as Leo did his search, and then finally admitted softly. "He offered once, you know. But it wasn't without a price and it wasn't for the same reason I wear the others." The sigh the priest gave was one of sadness. Then, slowly, he put his clothing back on. Leo in turn was checked, and his two gnosis marks, both from Ivak, were noted. Minkala still refused to be searched. Then, slowly, the rest of the crew filtered in, were searched, and then too the passengers. The only other passanger who had a gnosis was the silver haired girl who came with the horses and it was of Caiyha, which might have explained why she was affected with sadness. Soon, it was time to find the other escorts of Glav and search them as well. As for Torc, he was starting to see a pattern. The dark thread passed everywhere, but was concentrated around where the sick were housed and even had links to the captain's quarters. It wasn't something he'd have seen before - before his side trip to Karjin ahead of the others. But now it was clear... clear as day. It was someone that had access to everyone and everything. It was someone trusted. His train of thought couldn't help but focus along the same pathways. He could see what Leo had already guessed. And meanwhile, he had to join the others in the beasthold - by his own decision - and there he'd see even the darkness tainting the Jamoura who was already infused with the sickness. Torc could see others the thread had touched and tangled with too. Three crew, none of the other passengers. They were lucky so far. Those that were sick had already gotten sick. If things stopped where they were now, it would not progress any further. But if the owner of the connection - the dark one - had their way, the ship would be adrift lifeless before ever coming into sight of Karjin.

[Leo Varniak]

This, this was exactly what you did not want to do if you walked the path of evil and found yourself with Leo Zaital breathing on your neck. Much like a shark, the Azenth would not let go of his prey once he could smell a drop of blood in the ocean. Minkala's defensive attitude sounded horribly out of place from a healer supposedly dedicated to making everyone comfortable and at ease. There were so many more excuses she could have used, and in so many different ways; but with this one, Leo's suspicions soared high and he was suddenly glad Glav had made that objection, or he would have not thought of this until later. Leo took half a step backwards, perhaps subconsciously. He would take three more later, while they examined Glav's camouflaged gnosis marks. He was the doubt in the Alvina's eyes; his own black coals narrowed and tried not to look at the healer directly. He did not offer any resistance nor make any objections to her refusal. The old Leo Varniak would have confronted the woman immediately, insisted for her to strip right here and now before continuing. Life had taught him harsh lessons, though, and he had learned that unbridled fire was not always the immediate answer. And so, he kept quiet and nodded for the time being, though every hair on his body tingled in the anticipation of the hunt. There was no respite for Leo's prey, merely short pauses in the storm. He could play the waiting game now. Just like he suspected, everyone else on the ship was clean. The other escorts of Glav's remained to be checked, but he highly doubted that Torc, Sharn and Ulric were double-agents for the enemy. First, the Windoak would have exposed them right away, and secondly, they might have found better opportunities to strike at Glav. Once you have ruled out every other option, the last one must invariably be the truth. Exposing it for what it was might be a slightly more challenging task, however. Minkala was a trusted healer, well loved by the crew; simply slamming her against a wall and assaulting her would likely anger the men, especially if she turned out being innocent. The idea came to him while he exposed the flames of Ivak for the healer to see. Yes, this could very well work. Logic and emotions were both powerful weapons in their own right, but together they were unstoppable. 'I'm going to have to learn some focus on this day, Boss.' He'd never managed to narrow down the effects of Azenth on a single person, but today was as good a day as any to start. He waited patiently until it was the others' turn to be examined - it would be good to have strength in numbers, not to mention reliable witnesses to back up his word in case it came down to that. Then, he produced a razor from his pocket that he used to shave every morning - for Leo hated beards with a passion and reminded him of troglodytes. He deliberately cut the palm of his left hand for everyone else to see. "Ouch, how careless! It hurts!" He showed the bleeding palm to Minkala, taunting her with the red fluid. It really was a minor cut, one that even the humblest healer could and would have fixed out of their compulsion to save. If you were really a healer, and they were about to find out. Leo channeled his Azenth on Minkala, seeking to amplify any feelings of fear and anxiety. Was she afraid of being exposed? Of failure? Of making a mistake? His thoughts were lucid and yet wild. 'My eyes see right through your bones. I am in the darkest corners of your soul, watching. If you have sinned, I will be smiling in every shadow, judging you. Perhaps you thought you were trapping us on this ship, but the truth is that you are the only rat in the cage. Ivak lend me the power to be feared!'

[Ulric]

Sharn, infected by the plague? Ulric was not expecting this. He bit down until he tasted blood and stared at the ape through dark, pain-stricken eyes, wishing that his brother was mistaken. How is this possible? he wondered, but in his heart he already knew. It was fated by the gods. He was a fool to have hoped they would all make to Karjin, to think he could escape the ravages of love and loss. It was happening again. As his brother spoke, Ulric’s eyes widened in dread, for Sharn tempted him, caused him to yearn for blood once more. It took all his strength to keep his voice steady, to contain the rapture that threatened to engulf his being. “I will do what you ask,” Ulric spoke at last, “if it comes to that – for your sake, and for those you love. I ask only that… that you do not tempt me, brother, until all is lost. I am sick, too – but in a way you cannot imagine.” In a fit of madness, perhaps, he thrust his hand forward, showing Sharn the crimson stain on his hand, the mark of Krysus. “She wants me, Sharn! I might not stop killing until I have slain every soul upon this ship. I have tried my best to keep her away, but she keeps tempting me. If I grant you this mercy, I can only hope that it is my hand that wields the axe, and not her’s. Stricken with anguish, Ulric turned away, and went to check on the other animals. It was plain that a few were afflicted, but could the others not be carriers? Like his brother, the others might be in the earliest stages of illness, their symptoms felt within, but hidden to outside scrutiny. Ulric did not solicit Sharn’s advice, nor ask for his blessing. He slipped the axe from his belt and strode into the holding pen, knowing what must be done. “It is time for your misery to end,” he spoke to the pig, and swung down with all his might, causing gore to spatter on the walls, the ceiling, on his face and hands. It excited him, in a way, but the reek of blood and filth also made nauseous. Ulric moved on to the sheep, using the axe to crush a spine and then, as the hapless beast lay twitching in its own excrement, to end the torment. Moving on, he raised the axe once more, whipping threads of blood against the walls, and brought it down on the other sheep’s neck, ending its life instantly. And yet, Ulric was not done. He had awakened the monster, and it clamored for blood. He took his axe to three more sheep, a chuckle rumbling deep in his throat, before he regained control. I am not death, he realized, aghast at the slaughter he had wreaked, his heart burdened by fear and shame. Letting the axe fall to his side, Ulric staggered to where the others stood, his body sheathed in gore, looking nothing so much like a demon from their worst nightmares. “I have taken care of the others,” he spoke in a ravaged voice. “It is best if we threw them overboard. But I would sooner kill them all, if only to stop the contagion from spreading.” He tried not to meet their eyes, knowing how they would look upon him. Is this what you wanted from me? he wondered, thinking back to what the Windoak had said to him. Ulric did not like the man he was, but this was the only thing he knew.

[Sharn]

Sharn, as Ulric warned, couldn't understand the 'sickness' that Ulric felt, the desire to feed the violence in his heart. Violence wasn't part of a Jamoura's nature, and even if he had so much as a flicker of violent passion in his body, he still probably couldn't comprehend what was going on. Sharn, however, was a thinker, and even in his illness tainted body he could organize thoughts and figure out at least that something was deeply wrong with Ulric, and when he exposed the mark on his hand, Sharn could only stare in awe. 'What does this mean?' The mark, obviously a gnosis from one of the gods. Was he marked by Vayt? No, it wasn't possible, it wasn't logical, this was something different, but possibly just as dangerous. Then Torc wandered in, Sharn gave him a quick glance before walking over to Ulric, placing his large arms around the man and embracing him. "Forgive me, I did not know. I'll not ask you to do such a thing again. I will face my fears rather than force such a pain on your heart. If you can, deny her, whoever she is, longer. If I am destined to perish, so be it. I will take care of my own disposal, for your sake." Sharn slowly pulled away from Ulric, knowing what must be done. The animals had been identified, and ending them was something Sharn couldn't bare to watch. The Jamoura turned his back and lifted his hands to his ears, muffling the sounds to the best of his abilities as he watched Torc's expression. Would he watch? Could he? Sharn thought he saw something about Torc's expression though, like the realization of a child's learning that his father truly isn't indestructible, nor perfect. Sharn, afraid that he might hear the squeals of pain or the animal cries of agony, did not dare to remove his hands though. It took all his strength just to allow such a massacre, no matter how necessary it may be. Sharn, when Ulric's blood-tainted body once more came into view, pulled his hands from his ears, but still could not turn around yet. The mental preparation for seeing such a sight, he knew, was greater than he had. "It may be unwise to sentence them all to death until they show signs of illness. I'd rather not have more blood shed than is necessary-" Sharn finally turned, believing he could now accept the massacre at hand, but his mind was quick to count the casualties. Five sheep? It wasn't what they found to be ill, but more. Sharn didn't want to look at Ulric, though his felt his gaze pulling hard. He felt partially responsible, tempting him was the choice of words used by Ulric. If it was any other, untainted person, it would have been suggested, asked, or something of the like. Tempting, it sounded wrong, but that's exactly what it was. Sharn was speechless.

[Torc Ironwood]

Slowly, the brilliant multicolored strains began to disappear as Torc allow his senses to focus on the sickness. It felt like his hands had gone into water with a thick layer of grease on top. The thread was sick with slick fat and heat, though the thread didn’t hum or move as Torc had hoped. It had been a vain attempt to find the source, for apparently the connections were like streams, as long as the rain came they were fed with water. However, when a drought came the stream beds just stood there clinging to the moisture of the rocks and mud, waiting for that sigh of life from the clouds. Yet as Torc looked at the thread he realized that it was the trail of someone walking, someone with access across the entire ship. Slowly he began walking down the deck, checking to see where thread laid bare. Now a dark halo of illness and death clung above the healing quarters. It was there that the thread was the thickest, like a tavern room filled with smoke. The placed looked like a dungeon of death to his eyes, the walls wept with dark green slime of the thread. The air a dark storm cloud, and upon the man threads of illness pulsed throughout like vines strangling their victims. Torc for a moment saw the horror of it, and realized those that caused disease might also be able to take it away. To know a thing with perfect understanding meant that you could prevent it. Torc understood the forging of metal, and if needed be, he could reforge any of his items back into bars. Quickly, Torc rushed down to the animal bay, he heard the sailors curse as he moved. He was sure that he looked like a mad bull charging the field, but he wanted to get Ulric and Sharn before someone else did. Then he stopped cold as he looked at Sharn, the Jamoura was ill, the first cords of the sickness had began to wrap around his throat. Torc watched Ulric kill the live stock, he saw the quiver of anticipation in his sword arm. He saw the blade past through the flesh. This wasn’t his first slaughtering, where he grew up everyone had livestock and death was a part of life. What he saw in Ulric was something he began to worry about, something that enjoyed the blood soaked hay and ax blade. Torc walked up to the man and laid a hand on his shoulder, he wished he could have said something to Ulric, but his words were meaningless. Torc thought about his mark and wondered what Cheva would say. He felt so small compared to what he had just witnessed, “Ulric… look at me.” Torc had a stern gaze, yet kindness was still within him. “We were tasked with ending suffering. What you did increased their terror in the end. The power you felt was false, it’s like a women’s kiss, exciting at first but fades away. All you feel now is shame, and you’re stronger then that false power. Within you is the capacity for compassion, for knowing that your hand can be used for better things. You may have to swing a blade to protect a child, but you control the purpose. Every time you give in to that power, it drains you. I see it in your eyes, you feel yourself lessen, but next time this power calls look into the eyes of your victim and connect with him. I look within you and know you have a struggle, I also see a great man wanting to rid himself of his chains. Look into my eyes and see that man for one moment.” Slowly Torc stance changed, as he saw the real Ulric. Slowly he began to adjust his face, relaxing some features and tightening others. Cheva had eyes that mirrored someone soul, and Torc attempted to mold his face to show Ulric the nobility he was capable. Perhaps the memory of what he could become would give him a little more power next time to face his demons. Sometimes someone could only think of their mistakes, never could they see that one day those mistakes could be wash free. After Ulric was done, Torc went over to Sharn and gave the Jamoura a hug. In a way it felt like hugging a giant bear, yet Torc held it and spoke, “I am sorry my friend, I know what you are trying to hide.” Torc allowed whatever kindness and sympathy in him to transfer to Sharn. Though Torc had only known him for a short time, he knew the strength, intelligence, and compassion in his brother. Sharn was a good soul, and there were too few of them on this world. Torc would pray for his brother, hoping that the words of a simple man would help his friend. Slowly, he let go of Sharn and looked up to him, “If you should need help moving, you have my shoulder to lean on brother.” Torc said it with a small tear in his eye. As the moment passed Torc spoke one more time, “We are needed up top for inspections.” Then more quietly, so that only Ulric and Sharn would hear. “Whoever has the mark, is a trusted member of the crew. I have been able to see the marks movements, and know that the person has access to the captain’s quarters. Ulric you should be checked first, that way you can have your blade ready when need be. The person doesn’t know I can see when the mark is active, if they try to infect you or anyone trying to harm them I will know. Hopefully you will only need to scare them Ulric. Now should we head up to be checked?” Torc helped Sharn if he needed, or gave Ulric looks of understanding and strength. The world was an unfair place, but it was their lives and the only fairness that existed was in what they created. So Torc walked with the other two to the Captains quarters.

[Gossamer]

Minkala hadn't expected the Azenth to attack outright. That's what it was, really, an attack. She mistakenly thought they fought with fire and great shakes of the earth. Few knew about their other abilities and their powerful emotional manipulations. Sorrow rose in her strongly, intermingled with hatred that captured her fiercely. It wasn't that she had a grudge against him specifically, or that she hated the crew or people in generally. No, her sorrow was directed internally. Her hatred was self-centered. Quick... too quick perhaps for Leo to be expecting it, Minkala had the razor in her own hands. Leo's bleeding palm went unattended. The girl carried no gnosis marks from Rak'keli though she was in truth skilled in medicine. Instead, she used the razor on her own throat, caught up in the self-loathing and the hatred of what she'd become. It was quick. It was virtually painless as she sliced through the artery and her tangy warm blood sprayed the room. Leo was good with fire, perhaps one of the best, but he was still learning how to trigger emotions. His fiery temper had banked to a potential that was unrealized but waiting for someone to stir its ashes alive. With emotions, however, his ran strong and deep and so when just a sliver of thought was needed - a single caress of emotion - Leo brought just the opposite. Whereas the sliver was all that was needed, Leo wielded Azenth channeling a Talderian sized tree amount instead. She died almost instantly and with a hauntingly sweet smile of relief on her face. The razor clattered to the wooden deck, followed by her corpse, which was decorated only by the fast growing pool of blood beneath her. Glav uttered a noise somewhere between agony and shock, dropping to his knees next to her and laying his hands upon her body. He cried out and Leo could feel the power swell from him. It was a power the woman should have had at her disposal and yet did not. But it was an empty gesture, and everyone in the room knew it. Healing could not fix death. And even though no one saw anything, Glav lifted his eyes to an empty spot in the cabin and nodded respectfully at someone no one else could see. Death came and went just like that, taking any hope of questions from them. What was left was nothing more than meat and bones encased in skin. The captain did not move either. He simply stared at Glav and then at Leo, though none of them really seemed to know what was happening except Glav. Glav turned his priest-soft eyes on Leo but said nothing otherwise. He cast no judgment and made no offer of comfort. But then there was silence and a sense of being alone and nothing else at all. Glav blinked into the knew atmosphere, gently reached down to pick up the corpse, and then looked thoughtfully at Leo. "You might want to consider working on that a bit." He did not explain what he meant, though he was certain Leo would understand. The captain just looked baffled. Sharn was not the only witness to Ulric's killing spree. Another set of eyes watched him with an empty haunted expression. The woman who had loaded the stallions and then took the first one's life when it had went down stood in the doorway to the beasthold and witnessed the bloodshed. She should have trembled under Ulric's passion for killing, but she did not. Instead, something else glazed her eyes, as if someone else saw through them. A smile twisted her lips and then she closed her eyes. Quietly, softly, she reached out her hand, gesturing. The mark, the faint one, on Ulric's body darkened. It began to burn, and along with it the desire blazed through him. The axe was wet with blood but it wanted more. Ulric's gaze involuntarily turned on Sharn. Diseased. Unfit. Sharn was a risk to the whole crew. There was no cure. The healer had found no hope. Even now the Jamoura was weak, vulnerable, and it would be so easy for Ulric to do it. He wanted, in that instant, the Jamoura's blood. He wanted his life spilled on the deck mixed with the pigs blood and all the other death that stank up the air. He could even see himself using the axe, bringing the gentle giant down. It was the strongest most pressing urge he'd ever felt in his life. And he knew, just knew, that if he gave into it that there'd be no limit to how good it would make him feel. It was especially strong when Sharn turned and presented his back to Ulric, preparing to throw the corpses overboard. It was then that Sharn saw the woman. He'd lived a long long time, like all of his kind, and knew the unnatural when he saw it. The woman was there, of course, but there was something darker more malevolent riding her soul and looking out over her eyes. Sharn could all but see the peaceful beauty who escorted the stallions to Karjin, a gift from Syliras's leadership to its sister city's leadership to solidify a new years trade agreements. She was a knight of Sylira. He knew it in an instant. But what was riding her was nothing peaceful, nothing remotely benign. It wasn't Dira or anything else he'd ever seen before. The creature at the reins of the knight's visage was newborn, passionate, and unreasonably drunk in her own power. The sickness was almost tangible. Torc interrupted then, having entered from the opposite side. He moved over to speak to Ulric and then to hug Sharn. The room was not a comfortable place, nor was it easy to follow the black threads throughout the hold. Here, Ulric had spun new threads, ones that linked him to death and slaughter. They tangled with Sharns and intermingled with them was a bright red strand leading from the horse handler at the far side of the room to Ulric in the center. The strand glowed with a sickness that was different than the shroud's strand Torc had been following. It also glowed with a power that was far brighter than Ulric's killing weave. Divine. Deadly. Torc recognized it as nothing good. Turning, meeting the horse handler who was actually a knight's gaze, Torc knew he looked into a Goddess' eyes. And she was angry at the interruption. And in her gaze were clearly the message to back off. Ulric was still under the compulsion, the incredible pressure to kill Sharn in cold blood as Torc spoke, suggesting they were needed up top. The horse handler raised an eyebrow, smiled slightly, and asked in a soft delicate voice. "All of us? I would have thought you would have ferreted out the Shroud by now. They are a little pesky, sneaking around like they do, but once you've seen one or two of them, they aren't so likely to be missed. You'll be looking for them in the very last place you'd think to look but always the best place for access. Think fly maggots finding rotting meat anywhere. They aren't actually that far unrelated. And that's what the shroud do. They find places to exploit and meat to rot then they lay their foul eggs in it and watch their offspring devour the problem whole." The woman said with a twitch and a smile.

[Ulric]

Ulric trembled as Torc peered into his eyes. He tried to pull away, but he could not. It pained him to hold the stare, for it seemed that Torc looked into the very depths of his soul, laying bare all the fury, sorrow, and torments of his heart. He could not hope to resist. There was such strength in Torc’s eyes. It was as if the man stood on the brink of ascendancy. How had Ulric not seen this before? He wept when Torc spoke of his redemption, feeling the hot tears slide down his cheeks. In the midst of his anguish, when it seemed that he must surely submit, this man still believed that he was worth saving. As he met Torc’s gaze, it seemed that Ulric’s demons fled for a moment, leaving him bereft. His world was spinning, and as he drew in that first, sweet breath, he was forced to grasp at a beam to keep steady. He had sacrificed so much to keep the rapture at bay that he could barely stand. It’s so hard, he thought when this respite was over, and the assault on his senses waxed stronger than before. How can one man resist the desire of a goddess? Ulric’s temples felt like they were about to burst. It would be so easy to give in to her wishes. He could see it now, his bloody axe descending on Torc’s broad, exposed back, and then rising to strike at Sharn – but in the back of his mind, he knew that his reign of carnage would not end there. Leo would fall to him next, then Finn, the crew, and finally… No, Ulric could never harm Glav Navik, or any of his comrades. He would resist Krysus for as long as he could, and if need be, he would slit his throat to prevent her from using him. He had sworn an oath, after all. It seemed so pitiful now, like a dying man’s request for water, but some bonds were not meant to be sundered. Ulric was not prepared for the next surge of desire. It caught off him guard, so powerful that it brought him to his knees. He retched all over the deck, and then tried to rise, his chest heaving, only to find that he hadn’t the strength. As he groped for the beam once more, he paled at the sight of the darkening mark on his hand. I have been deceived, he realized. In the chaos of his slaughter, he had believed that he was saving the crew – but in truth, he had played right into her hands. “No,” he hissed, and then he crumpled to the deck. He could feel the mark on his flesh, its power consuming his soul. “No!” he shrieked, clutching at his ears. “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!” He began to scratch at the mark, his screams echoing through the hold. He was as a beast caught in a trap, writhing around in agony, beating his head against the planks. It was too much, he would not be able to resist for much longer. His head felt as if it was about to burst. He was slipping away now, but as his eyes closed, there was still a spark of defiance in them. When Ulric came to his senses, he was standing on a vast plateau. Its shroud of white mist was under assault by a legion of red, and at once, he knew what he must do. He marshaled his forces, trying to push back the red mist with his white. He retreated in some places while at other he struck at the flanks, using every bit of his endurance and guile. But the red mist was an inexorable tide. It engulfed his forces and forced him back, ever back. He raised a barrier that held for a while but eventually it began to crumble. He retreated further, sending the last of his forces to protect the breach, until he ran up against a sealed gate. It opened upon a place of secrets, a prison in his mind that had, until now, been barred to his entry. A second breach formed in the barrier, and then a third. Ulric watched in terror, but then he felt the cold metal of a key in his hand. He shoved it into the lock and opened the door. As he stepped inside, it was if the desire had never existed. He was back in the cellar, with its horrid blades and hanging cuts of meat, watching as the torturers began to flay his father into strips. He had to stop this, but his hands were bound and his eyes forced open by rough hands. In the corner, a woman was coaxing a chaotic melody from the strings of a violin. How long had it been since that dreadful night? Eighteen years? Twenty? It came as no surprise that he had buried these events, but the music… that he did remember. He’d heard that music on the night he slit the throat of his betrothed. It had taken his grief and turned it to thoughts of murder. It had drenched the stones in blood, but up until this moment, he had believed that his own madness was to blame. No, the rapture belonged to the woman with the violin. By all the gods, he realized, she sowed the seeds of madness in my head. It meant that he was not a murderer after all. I was never meant to have this mark, he thought. I am nothing, but the rapture is everything. It enslaved me. It turned me into a reaper of souls, for in this darkest corner of my mind, I wished to tear these torturers to shreds with my bare hands. I did not know from whence this fury came. I could not defy it before, but now that I know what happened in the cellar, the rapture is undone. It does not rule me any longer. “I remember,” he cried to the torturers, and the walls began to shatter and the boards gave way beneath his feet. Ulric plunged through the darkness. He saw his father before him, the bearded face bringing tears to his eyes. “It’s no using fleeing,” he said as the door began to splinter. “I know that now.” He stepped away from the window and went to stand beside his father, smiling as the torturers burst into the room. “I remember,” he said, and then he was falling again. He first became aware of the smell. It was a blend of shyke, hay, and sick. He must have bitten his tongue, for he could taste the tang of blood in his mouth. He couldn’t move, couldn’t hear, couldn’t see – but as he sprawled on the planks, he became aware of a faint ringing in his ears. It grew slowly, until he began to make out words. He began to see, although his vision was still a blur. I know that voice, he scowled, and it all came flashing back. He had to resist. He had to protect the others. Ulric surged to his knees, his face contorted in rage. He hurled his axe at the woman with a bestial roar, and then collapsed upon the deck, his eyes clouded by darkness.

[Leo Varniak]

Over the next few seconds, many feelings would pile on top of each other in the mind of Leo Zaital. Several of them didn't even have a proper name, but the very first one was disbelief. Was she really slicing her own throat, the white smile above far more unsettling than the red one below? Leo's pupils shrunk into dots as he took in the scene, suspecting some ploy at first. Yes, he shouldn't expect anything less from the Shroud, after all. Masks and poison was all they were. A sneaky, servile bunch, they deserved even less sympathy than the monstrous followers of Rhysol. But Minkala did not move, and Leo stood motionless for what felt like an eternity. Lina had not moved either. They looked strangely alike on the floor. All bodies tended to look alike in death. An allegory of otherworldly justice, perhaps. Or just simple natural mechanics at work. The captain looked petrified, and Leo watched as if in a trance as Glav rushed to the fake healer's aid. He didn't have a choice, Leo's rational mind knew, being marked by Rak'keli. Still, his helping what was obviously a fallen enemy elicited a dull rage within Leo. HE had found her out. SHE would have killed them all, given the opportunity. Why was SHE dying with such dignity and why was HE looking like he was in the wrong? It didn't make any sense! Leo clenched his fist, making it hurt more fiercely as if to awaken from the dream. He was Justice! Of that he was convinced. Why did SHE deny him the satisfaction of victory by taking the coward's way out? "I… I…" Leo stammered uncharacteristically, fumbling for words as Glav picked up the dead body. "Damn!" He slammed his fist on the table, leaving a small red stain. His breath heavy and ragged, he closed his eyes and sought to recollect himself. This wasn't how it should have been. It didn't matter that even a Shroud might not be a total monster… that she may have had reasons, or feelings. This was something Terminus would say. Leo could not afford such idle niceties. A vein was throbbing furiously in his forehead. He'd just gotten the technique wrong. A sub-optimal result, but still beat the alternative - rotting up from disease on a ship in the big sea. "The primary threat should be over now, Captain. I'm sure there are questions left unanswered, and I know not what will be of the infected, or whether Glav's powers can restore them now that the root of the sickness has been removed, but… I… I need some fresh air. Excuse me." And he quickly made his way out of there. He couldn't bear to see that body any longer. He wondered where the others had gone too, for they might have stopped the woman from her intent had they been present, but he didn't hold that against them. He just wanted to touch land now. He wasn't made for this. He needed the comfort of white things and black things not mixing, ever. 'I can see how it could have happened, Ivak. The Valterrian. It is all too easy. Every burst of Azenth is a tiny Valterrian... who will die next time?'

[Torc Ironwood]

Torc stood with his back turned to Ulric, his gaze looking into his sick friends eyes. Though he feared that he too would become ill, he stood by his friend. Had it been terrifying to watch Ulric kill those animals? Had he wondered would the man turn on them? Torc stood facing the gentle giant, as he looked into Sharn’s eyes he felt the connection there. Sharn was his friend in this life or the next. They were connected deeply; he shared a part of their souls with one another. Just like the god’s domains, their souls shared core principles. Sharn was his brother, and in previous life’s they had been related by blood and friendship. He turned to view Ulric, another of his siblings, the brother who didn’t belong. A brother of arms that wanted love so much, the redemption was within him and Torc hoped that by becoming part of his family, as a brother, the man would find it. Then he saw the little woman, and saw the spark of divinity. Malice, it was a sickness that churned in her eyes down to her soul. She wanted unnatural death, she wanted killing. Just looking into her eyes Torc felt deep into his soul landscape. In there he felt the killing urge, he hadn’t felt it since Mona and the days of his youth… Torc had been seventeen at the time, working in the temple’s blacksmith anvil. He had seen Mona turned into fine lass, with a full figure and pouting lips. Her laugh had felt like the sun on his face, while her smile melted the mask about his face. His being had been brought forth, no longer was he an awkward teen that only found harmony in working metal. She brought him forth like, a stronger man, one who needed no approval and a man that knew wrong from right. All his hate and worry had burned away from him as he seen her smile, he felt like he stood ten feet tall and was built from the very rock of the earth. Yet one night Priestess Lara spoke of Mona engagement. It had been a sword thrust through his chest. He felt himself tear apart inside, as he simply ate a dinner roll. The pain was incredible and Torc had wanted someone to pay. Almost in a haze Torc went outside to the forge and picked up a forging hammer. Torc really didn’t remember how he had tracked down Mona and the Miller’s boy, but he remembered the rage of seeing the boy bow his head and steal a kiss from her. He remembered his hand tightening around the wood hammer, how the wood almost squealed under the pressure of his left hand. Torc felt the violence start to well up in him, as the boy hand touched her perfect arm and then shoulder. His jaw clenched tightly, his teeth felt tremendous pressure against each other and his eyes began to focus on the man’s skull. Torc knew that he was ready, he was ready to come across and bring down the hammer with so much force it would bury itself in his skull. He knew he was ready to see the man’s brains dashed out in the street for his offensive against Torc. He knew that he was ready to cover himself in this man’s blood and take Mona away from him. Torc took a step out of the shadows ready to run up behind him and bring down that hammer… Then Torc heard Mona laugh. That laugh made the world always seem better, and he realized that she was happy. He saw her smile that brilliant smile at the boy, and all the rage and hate turned to pain. She was in love with another man. Torc had been kicked by a few horses and felt this was a hundred times worst. This sapped him of all his strength, she wasn’t his possession but she was in love with him. All of a sudden he had lose the taste to kill the man. He simply walked away going to the edge of the town close to the woods, to see the home he had been building for them. The house had been built on the dreams of their marriage. He did the only thing that seemed to answer the pain within; he began to destroy the home. He flew in a rage and began to tear the lumber from the walls. Nails he had hand forged were flung carelessly out into the grass around the house. Torc felt his left armed break boards while he was ripping them from the framing. He felt the hammer smash the dreams that the house was built upon. And now that rage had returned as he looked into the Goddesses eyes. Then he remembered Sylir’s eyes, the God had shown him the goodness and peace within each of them. He had shown the nobility of man, and he had shown Torc when a peaceful warrior fights. Torc reached down to the pigs blood and as he saw Ulric fight his own internal battle Torc began to find the very connection to the realm of peace within him. Blood had been shed for her and peace was the end of bloodshed. It was the stopping of fighting and the slow healing of hate. Torc began to scribe the rune of peace upon the floor boards in blood. A vision came to Torc’s mind as he scribed. Warriors killing each other on the field of battle till they were tired of the killing, peace came to them because they could no longer stomach the blood spilled. He felt that tiredness began to well up in him, the animals had been sick and murdered, but their blood didn’t want more, they wanted peace of the grave. Slowly the feeling began to build up within Torc soul, peace came and ended the killing, his hand danced under him scribbling the altered rune. He added strokes and swirls to show how the blood and death stopped when they had enough. Torc knew that the Goddess he looked upon would never tired, but the those around her would, and she would find no purchase. As his hand stopped he spoke the rune’s name that had echoed in his soul and mind. It sought recognition, having been lost to men for so long. The syllables come out of Torc’s mouth directed at the Goddess. He felt the animal souls that cried for the killing to stop, he felt that dead soldiers cry for the bloodshed spilled, he felt his soul bring their pain and anguish for killing to stop out into the rune. Thousands of men and women’s face flashed in his mind so much so they became a blur, and as the last sound released from his mouth, he felt his soul pour out the very thing that had stopped him killing Mona’s boy.

[Sharn]

The boat, as boats often do on the ocean, rocked slowly, casually, it wasn't particularly a raging tempest outside that was sending the ship upside down. However, every small rocking motion the large wooden vessel offered felt like Sharn was literally being picked up and thrown with all some hideous monster's might. Sharn would stumble constantly as he tried to brace himself against his the swaying might of his natural weight, but it was no use. Vision was blurred, any beams that could offer support were missed by several inches by his desperate grasping hand. His other hand diligently held onto the book he had been writing, the collection of facts and records of their trip, paragraphs and pages of the people he got to know, mostly those that left Syliras with him and Glav, and amongst them Torc had the most attention in his writing. Sharn fell backwards, landing hard on his rear as he groaned, his breath left him as if he received a strong blow to the diaphragm. He looked up, Torc was there, and for that short moment in time, Sharn was able to read the expression in his friend's face, but more importantly, he almost read his mind, he almost felt like they were connected, more than just meeting in this life, but perhaps, somehow, in their past lives they even knew each other well. He smiled weakly, it was entirely a pathetic attempt to ease Torc's worry and pain. But Sharn knew just how much trouble he was in, Torc saw that death was approaching Sharn, and the poisonous effects of disease were quickening to take his body, to exhaust his life. Sharn tried to lift his arm, the book in his hand felt like it was a lead weight, but he extended it with all the strength he had left, towards Torc. "F-f-friend please... it, it is not finished... pl-please." Sharn's breathing was quicker, lighter, weaker, there was less profit to each inhale and exhale. He desperately wanted Torc to have his book and finish it. It was the one thing Sharn really wanted to do, to write, and to think that he'd never live to finish even one. "It's progressing... faster than I expected." Sharn grinned lightly again. And the gentle Jamoura let loose a few stinging tears. He wasn't afraid of death or dying or suffering, but he knew that he would soon depart from his new family. Ulric, torn and screwed up as he was, felt like an older brother, despite being younger. Torc was like him, knowledgeable, eager to learn of others, eager to share. He knew that with his death, and Torc's survival, their recurring lives would fall out of sync. Where he was certain now, something inside him said so, that he and Torc had loved each other in the past as different beings, and came to do so once again, they they would no longer share with each other. Sharn would reincarnate once again while Torc remained inside Torc. Sharn's arm slumped to his side as his body rocked, tipping over and hitting the floor. He peered upwards to someone he had not expected to see, a woman, a knight, and there was something very wrong in her appearance. She was watching, not him, but Ulric and Torc, though the way she smiled to Ulric, and the way she offered her chilling glee to him made Sharn want to cry. He didn't know why, he didn't know who she really was, but it didn't matter anymore. He was gone soon. The disease would corrupt his heart soon he assumed, there was no reason to fight it. It had already taken root. Sharn closed his eyes slowly as he lay there. He wasn't dead yet, he may still have minutes, hours even, but consciousness was fading, sleep was engulfing him. His body had strength for not more than a few words and weak breathing. "Torc, Ul-Ulric. I love you." If the situation itself wasn't so grim and upsetting, it might have seemed peaceful how Sharn slipped into faint snoring almost immediately then. Snoring as if there was another morning for him to wake up to.