35th Ashan, 720
Scalvoris Mountains
The party unanimously chose to take the left path, and the crone's withered lips cracked in a pleased smile but did not comment on the matter. That smile grew just a fraction wider as Balthazar asked his question.
"He is the one who people desire in public, but fear in private." She replied, but offered no further elaboration. When Victor commented that no being was perfect she smirked, as if she knew something he didn't, but didn't say a word.
It took Balthazar only a bit to attune to the frequency of the crone, however the frequencies he detected were strange and unfamiliar to him. He had not attuned to anything like it before, and thus was only able to discern what the old lady was
not: human. Her frequency was not that of any of the races he had attuned to so far, and though he could not detect a spark of magic within her he was able to tell that she possessed some sort of abilities. Oddly enough it was as they began to venture down the left path and Woe, the less experienced attuner, decided to scan her frequency that the answer was revealed. After all her frequency held many notes that he was familiar with, having heard them many times before in Breen's company.
She was a spirit.
If he looked back to the crone as he ducked into the cave mouth he would find that she was gone, vanished into the mist. The frequency he had attuned to was soaring up to the peak of the mountain.
The party ventured deeper into the cave, and visibility soon became an issue. This was not because of the lack of light, as Balthazar's fainly glowing skin allowed him to act as a beacon to the rest, but because rather than fading the mist around them was growing ever thicker. Even Balthazar's luminous body faded into a dark silhouette.
Until the were completely alone.
They would all realise that, over the span of a blink of an eye, they could not see each other at all. Nor could they hear each other's footsteps, and even if they shouted and screamed for each other nobody replied. They could stretch their arms out and run backwards or further forwards in the hope of simply crashing into each other, but would find nothing there. They had become completely separated.
The mist had caught them.
Balthazar
As Balthazar stumbled blindly forwards the mist around him descended. It did not fade, merely dropped down lower to the ground until it blanketed the floor like a carpet of cloud, concealing his feet from view. Yet to his surprise he was no longer within the cave. He was somewhere he knew very well.
A field of corn spread out before him, easily illuminated beneath the bright shine of the moon and stars in the clear sky above. The night was cool and crisp, rather pleasant really, and carried with it the faint tang of plants that were ripe and ready to harvest. Not too far away stood a farm house, sturdy and clean but by no means luxurious; the simple house of a common farmer. Warm orange candlelight poured out of the window, and the faint chatter of voices talking betrayed that the farmer and his family were settled down for dinner within.
But the farm was not empty.
A boy, no old than five or six, grunted with effort as he swung a scythe built for a fully grown man through the field, reaping another few husks of corn to add to his growing basket. Unruly hair, not yet bleached white by the effects of a witchmark, hung limply across his face as he toiled in silence. Balthazar recognised the boy immediately: how could he not after all, for his face was as familiar as the farm. It was his face. This was the farm he had grew up in, and this moment one he very faintly remembered from his childhood. The boy before him was his younger self.
The farmer had been kind to take Balthazar in as a baby, but that was as far as his kindness extended. Balthazar had been a worker to him, not a son, and thus had no place at his table with his family. He was not a cruel man, but when he sat down to eat, basking in the warm comfort of his wife and children's company, he did not spare a thought for the boy outside who had no one to share a meal with.
The young Balthazar looked up from his work to the window, and for just a moment he paused, catching a glimpse of the family within laughing together at a joke one of them had made. He said not a word, moved not a muscle, but for just a second a flash of an emotion no child should have to wear crossed his face. A look of loneliness. And then, like the diligent little worker he was, the expression was quashed beneath a blank look, and he returned to work.
"Jeez, no wonder you turned out so pathetic."
The voice rang out far too close for comfort behind him, and a man stepped into Balthazar's field of view from behind his shoulder. It was again a face he would recognise as his own, but this time on the body of an adult man exactly the same height and build as him. It was a mirror image of Balthazar, yet with the original hair and eye colour he'd had as a child: what he would look like had he no magic mutations to change his appearance. He was also someone who Balthazar knew had not been present in this memory. The child Balthazar continued working, as if he hadn't heard anything, while the mirror Balthazar looked back at the real one with a sneer.
"Poor little Balthazar. So unwanted. So unloved." The mirror image mocked.
"No wonder you turned out so needy for attention; so willing to play lapdog for anyone who showed you the slightest bit of attention. Give a stray mutt a bone and it'll roll over at your every command." He scoffed.
"I bet that's why you joined The Elements. You're desperate for people to want you around, to praise you, even if it is just for being their faithful guard dog."
Victor
As Victor stumbled forwards the mist would also drop down to ground level, yet the scene that awaited him was a forest with tall trees of a familiar species jutting out of the ground around him. It was a bit of a miserable day, the sky dyed grey with a thin layer of cloud, but bright enough to suggest it was somewhere around the middle of the day. Above him a bird cried out, and when Victor caught sight of it circling above the trees he immediately recognised it as a falcon.
And not just any falcon, but one he knew well. Its name was Icarus: the favourite pet of his older brother Stefan. Stefan had received it, newly hatched, as a present for his fifth birthtrial, and had raised it with great love and care. He had trained it to be a strong and loyal, the perfect hunting companion.
It had also died the day Stefan turned eighteen.
Icarus was descending to a patch of ground nearby, and the sound of voices in the distance betrayed that there was a group nearby. That Icarus was outside however was telling, for there was only one person who took Icarus out on hunts with them. Pushing his way through the undergrowth, Victor came into a clearing in which an unbelievable sight awaited him.
There was his brother, Stefan, sat proud and dignified upon a beautiful black horse. He was clothed in finery, and flanked on all sides by a procession of soldiers wearing the uniform and symbol of house Amielle. One arm, covered in a leather vambrace, was raised for Icarus to perch on as the falcon came to land. And yet this Stefan was far younger than he'd been when last they'd met. He was a man just exiting the last of his teenage years, the awkward gangliness of his limbs all but entirely filled out with muscle, and his face fresh and clear of the lines that'd started to form from the burden of leadership. Yet even so there was still that regal aura, that air of authority, that hung about his shoulders like a mantle. It was clear from the way the soldiers around him stood at perfect attention that this was someone who commanded respect: not the child of a lord to be catered to and humoured, but a young lord in their own right. It was a man who knew he would be the head of his mighty house one day, and was more than ready to take up the position.
Before his brother's horse grovelled a peasant, his muddy brown tunic in clear contrast to the pristine armour of Stefan's procession. Discarded on the ground a few steps away was a brace of hares, both dead. The two soldiers at the front of their procession had their spears pointed down at the groveling peasant, though were clearly waiting on their lord's command to strike.
"... I'm beggin' ye lord, 'ave mercy!" The peasant whined, hands together in front of his bowed head in a gesture of prayer. No, not hands;
hand. The man's right hand was gone, concealed behind a clean bandage that revealed the lost body part was not a recent occurrence.
"This is the second time we've caught you poaching, cur. We warned you that if you tried it again more than your hand would be forfeit, but your very life. We warned you, yet still you did it. You cannot deny you have this coming." One of the soldiers growled back.
"I was hungry sir! My poor children are starving!" The peasant cried, yet the words sounded awkward even to Victor's ears. For someone who was supposedly starving the peasant was remarkably thicker around the waist than most other peasants he'd seen.
Another soldier sighed heavily with disappointment.
"Damn it Robert, we know you don't have a family. At least have the dignity to face your punishment honestly!" He looked over to Stefan.
"My lord, his fate is yours to decide."
Silence reigned for a moment as Stefan stared down at the poacher. Then, without looking away from them, Stefan spoke.
"Victor."
As one all the soldiers turned to look at Victor, yet if they were surprised by his presence not one of them showed it. It was almost as if they believed he had been a part of their group the whole time.
"How would you rule in this case, little brother?" Stefan continued, his voice quiet yet confident. It was clear he was using this as a test of some sort.
"This man is a thief and a liar, and was clearly warned that if he repeated his crime the sentence would be death." He broke eye contact with the thief and looked over to Victor, his expression betraying no hint as to what course of action he would advise.
"What sentence would pass? What would you do if you were the lord?"
Woe
In one sudden motion the mist dropped down to the floor, and Woe found himself standing in the cell of a dungeon. The walls were made with thick, heavy bricks and lacked any sort of window or opening, which combined with the damp atmosphere suggested it was somewhere underground. The only light came from flickering torches outside of his cell that cast long shadows from the bars that denied him freedom.
It soon became clear that Woe was alone. Completely alone. Even Breen, his ever faithful companion, seemed to be somehow blocked from coming to his side, and though the telepathic bond they shared allowed them both to know that the other was unharmed something seemed to be muting it, making actual communication impossible.
The sound of heavy metal boots clanking down on stone caught his ear, and before long a troop of guards in the armour of Rynmerian soldiers came into sight. They stopped outside his cell, and the one at the front stepped forward. It was only then that Woe noticed a figure concealed by a black cloak and hood in the middle of the group, for they too stepped forward, and together the soldier and the cloaked man peered in at Woe.
"What do you think? He's not very strong nor agile, but he might make a decent comedy act before the main event. Dress him up in some stupid outfit maybe? The audience will get a kick out of seeing him run around whimpering before the real fight, and the cats will get a proper warm-up and a light snack." The guard mused, turning to look at the cloaked figure.
"How about seven silver nels?"
"That's a bit cheap. Is there something wrong with him? Sick perhaps?" The cloaked figure replied, and Woe caught a glimpse of a pale chin from beneath the shadows of the hood. The voice was familiar, unnervingly so, yet he couldn't quite place where he'd heard it before.
The guard snorted disdainfully.
"Nah, he's just taking up food and space here. Costing us money. Faster we can get rid of him, the better."
"Oh? Maybe you should be paying me for taking him off your hands?" The cloaked man joked.
"Ha! Nah, we'd could just slit his throat and dump him in a river. Might as well make a bit of pocket change instead though, eh?" The guard laughed back.
"So, seven silvers?"
"Five."
"Six."
"Deal."
"Excellent." The lead guard took a key out of him pocket and inserted it into the cell door, while two others stepped forwards, each holding heavy looking shackles. Once the door swung open they stepped towards Woe.
"Hands out prisoner! Don't try to resist!" One of them barked.
"We don't want to hear a word out of you, understand? So much as a whisper and you'll regret it."
It was not an empty threat. If Woe so much as opened his mouth one of the two guards would immediately make to backhand him across the face with their metal gauntlets, and neither of them were weak men. Woe still had all his equipment with him and so could conceivably try to fight back if he wished, yet for some reason none of the guards seemed to acknowledge how strange it was for someone in a cell to be as dressed and equipped as he was in the first place.
Yeva
While the others seemed to find themselves emerging into some unfamiliar place, Yeva did not. The mist in the air also dropped to the ground to about the height of a carpet, yet she alone found herself still in the caves they'd entered. As she followed the tunnel forwards she emerged into a damp cavern that sloped to the left, with a small pond at the bottom that presumably had gradually formed from the odd drops of water trickling down from the stalactites on the ceiling.
And lying down at the edge of the pond, his hands behind his head in a posture reminiscent of sunbathing, and with a huge smug grin on his face, was a... man? No, not a man, but more like a satyr. His torso was a man's, but his legs and feet were those of a goat, and sticking out from his unruly brown hair was a pair of small goat horns. While he had handsome features and the sight of him probably should have been breathtaking, it was very much reduced by how damn scruffy the guy looked. His chin was peppered with thick stubble, his eyes underlined by the bags of someone who didn't get enough sleep, and he had the complexion of someone who'd been chain smoking for a number of years. The white toga he wore, though clean, was covered in crease marks, and while his hair was also clean and short it looked like it was dying for someone to run a comb through it. Had he not been part goat the guy would have been the stereotypical image of one of those bachelors who could probably find a girlfriend if they would just bother to tidy themselves up.
He was laughing to himself, completely lost in his own little world, and hadn't noticed Yeva yet, which would allow her to get closer to him if she wanted. If she was particularly observant she might also notice that the mist running across the ground seemed to be reacting strangely to him. Whereas it had remained still and inert before it seemed to be flowing around him. No, not around but
out of him. It leaked from the corners of his eyes, rose from the messy folds of his hair, and with each laughing breath he took a cloud of it puffed out of his mouth and nose as if he was smoking.
As he hadn't noticed her yet the initiative fell to Yeva. She could probably sneak past him and continue along the path it she was quiet, engage him in conversation, or maybe even bash him round the head with something heavy if she was so inclined.
