Complete - Avarice | Page 2

Pausing before the gaping gorge of the area known simply as The Belly, Nikephoros looked at the map, resisting an urge to grumble. He'd doubtless have some sarcastic fuck complain that they had an obstacle in there way, despite the fact that there was no path upon the map or that he had seen in the area which might circumvent such an obstacle, seeing is it literally removed the earth between them and their collective agenda. Still, the only way out was in as they say, and with grim determination the man stepped to the very ledge of the precipice and looked down and about. He was none too concerned about being pushed; the seeds he kept stowed on his person would save him, by growing roots to hold himself in place, should anyone try throwing him over the ledge.

Now being stabbed in the back was a different matter... but he had his trusty rusty Ranseur out, to parry any such move as much as to act as a walking crutch on their journey up the mountain.

Supposedly Cain Darlite had been elected leader by at least a handful of people, and he had no want or reason to contest that. Heavy was the head that wore the crown, and there would be enough pressure on himself as navigator without taking the mantle of leader as well. Besides, the man WAS one of the strongest members of the party, so why should he not then be the de facto leader if he had the most experience?
But just because he wasn't in charge didn't mean that Nikephoros planned to be useless to people, or to stand to the side and quietly wait for things to fuck up. Actively attempting to make sure the job went well was far more important than the childish games that their mission had begun with, though now that they had gone and entered the thick of it, the elven man had sobered up and was intent on working with his comrades.

So: large gorge.
Slippery path along their cliff faces, which meant people were likely to slip off and die. Or it would take forever to slowly, carefully, navigate it.
Too far to jump.
Nobody had mastered Arcanamancy to his knowledge, and thus no blue tile bridges.
Nobody that appeared to be a ranged fighter with bow and arrow, to fire a rope across for them to use.
Heroic might, perhaps, to toss a line?
Or...

"These paths are too slippery and will take too long to walk across; the fastest way to our target is to just cross the gorge here. We'll need somebody that can fire or throw a line across to bridge this gorge for us. Make sure you use a hemp rope, and I can use my nature magic to grow roots from the rope and make a rough bridge for us. Unless our Flagbearer of Miracles has a better idea?" The question was not edged with any mocking tone, rather, it was a serious question using Cain's self-styled epithet, as a casual way of revealing that he too supported Cain as their party leader. Had he not, he might have asked for the opinions of others, and maybe they would have surprised him with a good idea. But... monkeys and typewriters.

 

“Haha,” Cain laughed, breathlessly, “Looks like all the edgy magic in the world won’t be of use bringing us past this point, hm?”

It had become clear to the Flagbearer, from conversations with others, what the specializations of his party was and it wasn’t very great. Not a single one of them could shoot a bow, the only ‘permanent’ magic they had was Nature magic, and only Nike was truly qualified to serve as their vanguard in combat. Which was quite a problem, considering how junk-tier the banner bearer’s armor was. Above, the storm raged, while below, the thrice-melted ice was impossibly slippery. The Belly of this beast of a mountain was truly a terrifying prospect, and Cain knew that even without the worsening weather conditions, it would be a treacherous path to follow.

If they were not a band of immortal adventurers, this would definitely have been a hell of a bad idea, hm?

But instead, as Nikephoros spoke up, planting the idea of crossing the perilous ravine through the center as opposed to the side, the gears of Cain’s own brain began to churn. Throw a line across the bridge? Shoot it? None of them had that sort of power. No geomancy, no hydromancy, no pyromancy. But they did have Aeromancy and revives.

“It’s too uncertain,” the Flagbearer replied, “Even if the rope makes it to the other side, we have no real way of confirming whether or not it’s anchored properly. Already, ice has coated everything, and even beneath that, this mountain is purely of stone. If we want a rope ladder strong enough to weather the storm that’s about to hit, we’ll need to ensure that it’s stable.”

Dark eyes peered down, a smile cresting his features.

“It’s a long way down, after all…but I wouldn’t be bringing up counter points without having a plan of my own. Though Illusion magic and Black magic are functionally useless in this case, while Arcanamancy is pretty much pointless without an awakening, my lad Ira here does have control of the winds. Already, the storm is picking up, and if we were to guide it with a little magical persuasion…”

That smile became feral, as he turned to the others, fully enjoying the madness that he was about to explain.

“…we could simply fly over, using the tarps as makeshift parachutes or kites or what have you. One of us makes it over while attached to a hemp rope, secures it with an iron spike dug deep into ice and stone, before Nike and Janet do their natural magics. Certainly more fun than merely praying that the might of our biceps are enough to bridge the gap, no?”

A pause, a shrug. The wind continued to howl, but Cain’s harmonic voice overpowered it, as he turned his gaze towards Irini, the midnight mane billowing in the stormy wrath.

“Well, are you up for it? Can you charm even the winds themselves, Soothsayer of Hellas?”

@Nikephoros @Ira @Janet Reilly

 

Trudging on in this weather was something Ira had never experienced. Mountain hiking, back at his family's land, had been peaceful, relaxing, and never filled with much peril or bad weather. His lips turned as mud stained his shoes and his hair was damp and unruly from the wild winds. It seemed to continue on for hours, the incessant duty of marching onward like a soldier in the battlefields. Thankfully, they were all stopped at some ledge of some sort and some distant part of Ira's mind reminded him that he shouldn't be grateful that there was a great chasm separating them from the rest of the path. His body, however, thought otherwise and he took the time to silently catch his breath. Apparently the game was realistic enough to include fatigue, which Ira could really do without.

And then he heard Cain's voice and any grudge he held against Mother Nature was quickly forgotten as he craned his head up to pay full attention to his beau's words. His insides twisted at Cain's title for him, a contentment placating the bad mood he found himself in (from a long, dull, and difficult walk). And then the words clicked in his head and, well...

Ira couldn't help but shoot a sly, mischievous smirk at Cain's challenge. His aptitude in aeromancy wasn't the best but he certainly could make the winds billow and churn; it wouldn't be much of a stretch to apply the same fundamentals in helping to keep a tarp afloat. It wouldn't be flying, no, but a soft landing and a longer fall was probably within his capabilities. He didn't show how much he doubted it, instead he pulled his arm up towards the sky and gave a thumbs-up for everyone else to see. Confidence breeds success and he'd rather have calm passengers than nervous wrecks.

A wisp of magic floated between his fingers, making the air chiller by an unnoticeable smidgen for the barest second. He let go of a breath he didn't know he was holding and, without a hint of fear or worry being betrayed, he cocked his head to the side and regarded Cain with a lifted eyebrow. "Please, I didn't know you had such low expectations of me if you didn't think I was capable of at least that," he teased, moving to crack his knuckles and shoulders. "The winds bow to me as if I were their king. Lightning kneels at my feet like a hound drooling over scraps. This is of no consequence or much trouble, matia mou."

Cain had some sort of reviving magic, or so he had heard him say (Ira didn't tend to take someone's word without a hint of proof but he supposed there was no real reason for Cain to lie in this situation, unless the man was planning on offing one of them and feigning magical dysfunction which would require the use of Viagra, which they did not have). In case they all perished, Ira was certain that Cain would resurrect him first and foremost. His beauty was of upmost priority compared to the other hindrances which followed them (Janet might've been competition but, with the woman's bitter rejection fresh in his mind, Ira was sure that her personality was too sharp to endear herself to anyone).

He cracked his wrists and, taking a step forward, eyed the materials with distaste. "You all go ahead and make the parachutes," he waved them off, completely disinterested in participating in a peasant's chore. "Don't worry. Your life is in my hands and, as Thucydides had said: 'It is frequently a misfortune to have very brilliant men in charge of affairs. They expect too much of ordinary men.'"

His nose scrunched up as he scrutinized the men (and woman) he was accompanied by. "Do not worry. I am a brilliant man, yes...but I do not expect much of you all."

 

Throughout the journey, Iván had chosen to keep his mouth shut. He was the last to leave the wooden inn. He remained the last of the group to journey forth, electing to stay in the rear, maybe keep his distance from the others lest they figure out something was amiss about him. Despite that, however, he kept his eyes on the bald Yladian. He had the map and the compass. He was leading them, their navigator on this quest. He had to stay alive. At least until he served his purpose.

Despite the fact that Cain Darlite had been elected the group’s leader, it mattered little to Iván. Whatever the majority decided, he would simply agree with that decision. There was no point in contesting anything. Iván’s purpose here was to find out if this Sin had any connections with the otherworldly being he had encountered down in the Spire. It might be a long shot but it was the only shot he had at the moment. It will have to do.

He listened intently to what the Yladian had suggested as the group found themselves at a probable impasse. Does anyone of them have the magic or the tools to keep the group moving forward? He would wait for the answer to that question. Iván narrowed his eyes from behind his mask as their leader suggested flight, at least simulated flight, to get to where they needed to be. It was a dangerous idea, all of them risking their lives and trusting the loud redheaded woman child from earlier, but it seemed to be the only idea they had at the moment.

He seemed confident enough in his skills, too, which gave Iván a bit of a reassurance. Somewhat. The fact that some of his words may have been mere exaggeration counteracted that tiny bit of confidence Iván could spare for him. The illusionist turned to Janet, wondering if she was okay with all of this. He remembered she had been headstrong in their first encounter but a little too all over the place, mostly because she lacked confidence in her knowledge of the game’s basics. Was she still the same? Or did she grow during the times they had spent away from each other?

Death is death… Iván has died before and was graced by the presence of the otherworldy being from the Spire. If he would perish in this mission, long before he can encounter Sin, then maybe it would be worth it just to see his savior’s face once more. If anything, it would make things more… Interesting.

 

As the long-haired man stated his desire to lead the party, Darko pondered about he had said earlier about the amount of experience in his belt. It could be said that among the six, he was the legend. And so, the position of leader would be more fitting for him. Darko just replied after all had spoken, "I assume your legends are true, since I am a member of the Lion's Pride myself although I have not seen action when the Pride attacked the Black Wolf Bandits. I knew a ton of adventurers who were not even of the Pride joined that expedition, and helped immensely in toppling the Bandit King. I look forward to your commands, Flagbearer of Miracles Cain Darlite. The name is Darko Ljubicic." He said his name fluently in a Slavic accent. As the party then prepared to leave, Darko slung the backpack and followed the others except that mysterious, or who was attempting to be a mysterious person. And that smell... Darko frowned from the smell, as he wondered why that man just decided for himself to reek like purgatory. Did he really think he would scare someone? But as he was not in the habit to call out someone unless he was speaking or doing crazy things or he was being too suspicious, Darko just shrugged it all away and continued walking.

Although he was quite used to alpine hiking from his experiences in the real world, there should be nothing harder than doing it while in a child's body. Although he had donned a thick wool coat and a knitted scarf over his body, the cold still seeped through him, which he had always shrugged off back when he and his friends decided to scale the Matterhorn. And more than that, he tired out quite easily, and so, as they reached the gorge, he was panting very hard, his hands on his knees, before he straightened up and stared at the obstacle before them.

"Now what," Darko muttered as he saw the gash on the ground before them, surrounded by thin ice. Although he had expected this landmark as he had glanced on a map before entering, he made sure that the bald man would not suspect anything. When the leader suggested about using parachutes to cross the crevasse, and that the fiery-haired adolescent would be the one who uses them, having the power of Aeromancy, Darko then materialized a large sheet of canvas which had a magic circle in its middle, and then said, "If you will construct a parachute, then use this. This is one of the materials for the tarot cards that I was making specifically for Aeromancy, and it is more affected by spells of that kind than ordinary canvas. It's not that I do not trust you can do it, but the success of one member is the success of the party as a whole."

 

Iván listened intently as Darko made mention of the Black Wolf bandits and their king, citing that the one called Cain, this group's leader, had factored in immensely in the demise of the Bandit King. That was Iván's first mission for the Aristocracy, and it had failed, though thanks primarily to two traitors, witches named Vivian and Lucia. Although Iván bore no ill will against those two, and he bore even less ill will towards the Pride who were just doing his job, he couldn't help but be saddened by the fact that his Aristocratic debut was a loss. Most people tend to desire a victory for their first outing, if not to impress their superiors then to impress themselves. But that was all in the past now. It should be, right?

He continued listening to the one with the top hat, the one who Iván noticed had frowned upon getting sniffing distance with him. Perhaps he was able to smell the blood and sulfur from his mask. Perhaps the ant juice Iván was carrying was also leaking its own deplorable smell. Whatever it was, it was probably the mask first and foremost, Iván admired the man's sense of smell, especially in an environment such as where they were at the moment, where most noses would freeze first, catch a cold, than notice anything funky at this point. Considering the man in the top hat said nothing about the smell, Iván wondered if he could be an ally to serve the otherworldly being from the Spire? No, the burden is on him, only on him. The rest of them were not as worthy.

A parachute? Iván stared at the materials Darko had pointed out that would help greatly in the construction of parachutes, supposedly because he had made them specifically for aeromancy. That seemed logical to Iván. Most aeromancers would always, naturally, consider things about the wind and flight and aerodynamics that other non-aeromancers may only consider secondarily or even none at all.

Of course, since Iván had summoning magic, all this conversation did not interest him. He can't show any of them his strengths. Not yet. So he would agree to use their methods, their parachutes, their whatever. He wasn't afraid of what could go wrong. If his parachute ended up faulty, he would just summon a smaller version of the Ant Queen to ride, the same Ant Queen that his team encountered while the Pride had been assassinating the Bandit King.

Iván's thoughts suddenly wandered off to Zeus, specifically the prowess that he had shown them all that day. The old lion might have lost a limb and almost perished but the way he took on the Ant Queen without fear... Iván was mightily impressed by that. Maybe some day he could reach that level of power, confidence. Maybe some day he'd be like Zeus. Well, except maybe for being a part of the Pride. Those guys were too loud, heroic, Gryffindor-y for Iván's taste. They were nice people, he hypothesized, but he would never fit in with their lot. There was a reason why he could never fit in with the same guys in the real world. What more about fitting in with them in this world?

 

So that was the plan, then? They were going to kite somebody across, who would then hammer a piton into the ground and anchor a rope, for Nikephoros to then do his little magic trick. It was sound enough in theory, but work on paper and work in virtual reality seldom panned out the same way. He was curious to see who would be foolish, er, brave enough to volunteer for the daring gorge crossing. Whoever it was would have to be light, athletic, reasonable, and not plagued by ulterior motives or ADHD.

They were doomed.

Wiping the snow off the top of a boulder, the elven man seated himself upon it in order to rest, waiting for people to make up their minds, construct their kite, and send a man across with a rope tied to themselves. He was not about to volunteer himself, particularly when the red haired nuisance that he had gotten into a fight with would be the one controlling the winds. It was a recipe for instant death, that...

Perhaps there was an alternative route though, such as a cave system at the bottom of the gorge? Or shelter to wait out the storm at? If people didn't get proactive soon, he was going to do just that; let the storm pass, and then continue on his own merry way.

 

“The rope is still a good idea, though,” Janet spoke up—while crossing a swaying rope bridge only dubiously anchored on one end was not her favorite plan, at least it gave them something to hold onto. Being floated magically via air currents to the other side was almost more frightening—it made Janet feel powerless, completely at the whims of the winds and the weather. Where did this gap come from, anyway? It had appeared so suddenly, a slash of utter absence slicing steeply down into the rock. “Half of us cross to try and anchor the rope with the air-magic. I-I will go, I suppose, to secure that end, so @Nikephoros and I can work from either side. @Cain Darlite , are you coming since you have the… resurrection? Power?” The eighteen-year-old looked around her, trying to assess who was willing to make the flight and throttling down the sinking feeling in her stomach. It’ll be all right.

She noticed the masked man was looking at her.

Her heart stopped. What does he want me to do? Was she imagining expectation in that strange, five-holed gaze? She could taste the rotten tang of something like propane on the wind, dank and unpleasant. Does he approve of the plan? Or not? It seemed it was up to their collective judgment. Janet lifted her chin—well, if there was one thing she knew, fragmenting the group now with alternate ideas (not that she had any, except going around the chasm on the path) would only make them weaker. The masked man was counting on them to slay Sin, and questioning their leader and navigator (who still seemed very familiar) seemed like a poor choice.

Deciding to be assertive, as others worked to fashion Darko’s reject tarot fabric into parachutes for the brave volunteers to cross The Belly, Janet worked on the line, braiding it into thick, gnarled brown roots that she anchored on an icy rock at the side of the chasm. “Everyone parachuting take part of the rope, please,” she called—at worst, it would be something to climb back to the top with, assuming they survived a fall that terrible. At best, it would keep them together until one of them successfully made it to the other side and drove it into the ground, anchoring it safely, for the others to cross. “ @Ira are you flying too, or using your air-magic from the side?” the brunette had to call over the wind. Heavens, this made her nervous. The snow stung at her face, lips and cheeks rosy from the cold, and she shouldered her parachute and prepared to take the plunge off the edge. And I’ve never even been skydiving…

BELLY OF THE BEAST

As the aeromancer so eloquently promised, the winds indeed billow. They churn. They battle against pockets of spinning turbulence in a sea of two clashing air fronts. The storm is wild—it must be broken, must be tamed. It rears and fights and bucks its head with spinning snow and cold. Ice forms on the edges of the parachutes, frays at the threads, the shrieking winds stealing your voices away and leaving only silence behind to fill your foolishly gaping mouths.

At the edge of the chasm, those who remained feel it too—the strong tailwind behind them. Promising to balloon your companions across, yes, but also pulling at your feet, calling you across the ice, drawing you towards THE BELLY. Your bodies are sails and the winds try to fill them. Perhaps you take your eyes off the others as you brace yourself, dig in—just for a moment—

You don’t know what goes wrong, or whose fault it was.

Who lost concentration. Who put themselves before the group as a whole. Whose magic failed, whose craftsmanship was flawed, whose contribution to the plan let you down. Who was the weak link. Who didn’t carry their own weight, who might have let the rope slip to hurt another out of jealousy, or spite, or merely curiosity. Who caught a glimpse of something bright as they slid along the edge of the chasm fighting for traction or sailed above it for a brief and soaring moment, who saw a golden spark gleam for an instant like a beacon at the bottom.

But the far side comes up too soon, looming in your sights, and you plummet. Or you watch.

You are jerked up and tossed about as your limbs flail, seeking gravity, stability. The fall is not fatal. Unsuited as your collective powers were to cross the chasm, you all have ways to save yourself if the storm slaps you down, down with force, down deep into the darkness. Perhaps it is the seeds in your pockets, or the winged ant which appears at your command, or perhaps traces of the very aeromancy which bore you aloft before still remains—just enough to cushion your fall.

Janet’s rope at the top of the cliff spirals, unraveling like a spool of thread then jerked from the ground in a violent burst, roots splintering shards of frozen earth—and ultimately holding, unbroken, by a single tendril. Secure. A way down. Or a way up.

Deep in the Belly, it is eerily quiet. Calm, compared to up above. A low shudder seems to run through the canyon from time to time, then it is still again. A distant, hollow moan is all that remains of the storm you just escaped, a hum like breath across a glass bottle. All is dark. The jagged river of white sky high above you is your only source of light.

...Except for that faraway gleam again. Just a sparkle. Just for a moment, like sunlight reflecting off a passing car.

---
OOC: It is (of course) up to you whether you successfully cross, fall, are blown off, or hang on. :D

 

Hmm... Iván took out the bottle of ant juice he had procured during his first mission with the Aristocracy, which was a failure of a mission due to a betrayal from two witches, two of their own.

If anyone had been so close to him where he stood, they would have regretted it. The stench of sulphur and blood that exuded from his red mask's five holes, the mask itself having been the face of a deadly predator from down in the Spire, was bad enough. Adding to that the rancid scent of the ant juice made everything smell way worse. Taking a sip of the smelly drink, and relishing that surprisingly fruity flavor unlike anything he has ever tasted in this world, Iván narrowed his eyes at @Janet Reilly. She's volunteered herself. Interesting.

The masked illusionist turned to look at @Nikephoros who had done otherwise and instead seated himself on a boulder. Iván found himself at a crossroad: Should he stay with the natural navigator? Or should he go with the familiar face? Such a dilemma indeed. If the bald Yladian died, surely anyone can take his place.

What Iván wasn't certain with, however, was if someone could be as efficient as an Yladian. If Janet died, well, that's one less person to worry about but also one less person he could trust. Janet might not have always been the sharpest tool in the shed, at least for the sporadic moments Iván had known her for, but she had a lion's heart and she could be trusted. Perhaps, she was even the most trustworthy in this group.

@Cain Darlite joining Janet would alleviate some of Iván's concerns. He had some sort of ability regarding resurrection. Considering that Janet was perhaps the only one in the group who didn't seem like a sneaky backstabber, perhaps he would end up keeping her safe. Cain did express some sense of nobility earlier, at least towards her, perhaps he would not let any harm come to her. It was a risk he wasn't too keen to take, as Iván trusted no one in this group, again save for Janet who was the only familiar face for him, but it seemed like he had no choice. Should Cain join Janet, Iván would decide to stay with their navigator, the bald Yladian. Should Cain abandon Janet, Iván would go with her.

He wasn't too worried about the redhead's air magic, his actual proficiency in it. The masked illusionist was also a summoner, and one of the things he had learned to summon was a version of the ant queen, a smaller version but with wings. It could easily attach itself on Iván's back and function as some sort of winged backpack, a makeshift jet pack so to speak. He would be the last to fall down, if things didn't go according to plan, and he would help Janet stay alive. For the time being, anyway.

He put that bottle of ant juice back inside his coat and watched the remaining person he had his eyes on to make his decision. Whatever choice Cain would make, Iván would adapt to it. He's been in a creepy place before, far worse than this one, far worse than even his nightmares could come up with. This time, he wasn't going to make the same mistakes. He was going to keep those that were important to the team alive. For as long as he could, anyway. He must, he must, he must.

 

They were flying. For a moment, as the storm was reined in by mortal magic, everything appeared as if it was going to work out. They were flying, flying as far as flying squirrels could, billowed upwards by wind while the rope snaked behind them. The other side beckoned, and Cain grinned. It was a crazy plan, really, not one that he had thought that his party members would take to so easily, but it was working, and he laughed as they crested over an Ira-evoked updraft, flying upwards before…

Everything went to fucking shit. Was it the wind that faltered? Was it a collision of ropes? Did their luck run out? Or had their makeshift flying suits all decided to fail at the exact same moment? No matter, like Icarus with their wings frozen by the cold, Cain suddenly plummeted, twisting and tumbling as the air around him roared. He was falling, falling, falling, but at the very last moment, the midnight haired muse somersaulted, absorbing the impact of the diagonal fall with his feet, before sucking in a deep breath, drawing into reserves of berserk strength as his roaring heart became his battle chant. Bare hands sank into frozen stone as if it were merely freshly fallen snow, a horrid crick-cracking resounding through the depths of the chasm as he left two trails of shattered stone in his path.

Eventually, he slowed to a stop, and the rage subsided, replaced with wonder instead. Patting the stone dust off his hands, Cain wiped his brow with a sigh. It was sweaty work, despite the chill, and this far below, even the raging blizzard seemed muted, tamed. A quick check confirmed that the rest of the party hadn’t died in the fall either, which was better than expected, really. The muse re-examined his fingernails, confirmed that none of them had cracked, before surveying the area around him.

Darkness. Darkness all around except for the sky above. The Belly really was deep, hm? An arcane flicker colored the world around him in amethyst, and what he saw elicited a low whistle. The mountain truly did feast upon many, the bottom of the ravine full of bones and rot, decay and death. Scraps of clothing for fallen misfortunates. Mats of fur for unsteady beasts. And a heavy silence amongst all, as the muted storm continued to cast snow down into the bottom. White breath rose up as he let out a breath, before the Flagbearer said, flatly, “Lady Reilly, if you have the strength, could you reinforce that rope ladder of yours? Though it didn’t turn out to be quite as simple as I first believed, the Belly of this mountain was much more shallow than expected. From here, I believe we would be able to climb upwards rather easily, and continue our journey from there on.”

Dark eyes flickered to the rest of those who had fallen safely to the bottom.

“Are you all in agreement to progress the quest?”

Not a mention at all of that glint of gold.
@Janet Reilly

 

Too soon. She stood at the edge of the gorge, still turning her head to see who else had taken up parachutes and who remained steadfast to guard the edge. The sudden gust of snow and wind was unexpected. It lifted Janet off the ground before she’d steeled herself, plucking her from the side of the gorge as easily as a giant hand might carry her away. A thin, reedy shriek would have trailed behind the eighteen-year-old had the storm not snatched the sound from her lips and she clutched the end of the rope for dear life. Her skin stung as the wind unraveled her long, unbound hair and wrapped around her face like a living animal, choking, clawing, blinding her. Her stomach dropped. Just hold on! It wasn’t up to Janet to steer, just to hold the rope—she had to trust that Ira did his job, trust in magic, trust in the plan and in the masked man’s faith in them—

They fell into the darkness.

...Why?

...What went wrong?

Groaning. Spinning. Her eyes were closed but she could still feel them rolling, twisting in her sockets, helplessly dizzy. The world was slowly coming back, now, saturating her senses. The girl finally came to, finding herself half-dangling above the ground with one foot just brushing the canyon floor. Her arm felt completely numb. When she looked, Janet saw it was because the rope she’d thickly knotted around her hand was still wrapped around it, constricting it. The true end of the line was farther up—it looked like thin vines had burst from her fingertips to extend its length by the few meters it took to get her to safety. The fact that her arm hadn’t been wrenched out of its socket was only a testament to her Heroic Might, but the muscles bulged now, her fingers blue-black. Janet gave a gasp and cut the line, crumpling that last couple of feet to the ground.

Holding her throbbing arm in one hand, massaging life back into it, the teenager looked around. It was dark—so dark—but she thought she could make out others around her, stirring, hopefully alive. “Head count? Who’s here?!” Janet’s voice came out shrill and panicked. “Is everyone okay? Where’s Ira? Darko?” At least Nikephoros had to be safe at the top unless something had gone wrong, right? I let down my end… Disappointment in herself closed in around Janet, but she held her head high anyway and scooted around, feeling everyone over and trying to take inventory of who’d made it down.

Purple magic finally shed light throughout their surroundings. “Cain! Oh, thank goodness.” As long as the experienced man was there, they would be fine. Janet could have fainted in relief. She clasped her hands to her chest. “O-of course, of course! I just… need a minute.” Self-consciously, she curled her casting arm closer to her body with her other hand, hugging it. She still couldn’t feel it at all—a combination of cold and lost circulation. Janet took a deep breath, letting it out with an audible hiss. I can’t show weakness now. Change the subject. “Eugh, what is all this?” She recoiled from the bones and bits of rags on the ground, looking desperately around them. “Disgusting! Y-you don't think... they all came to get rid of Sin too...” It couldn't be, right? Could this have been a trap?

 

There are birds called demoiselle cranes, amazing things that migrate over the Himalayas for the winter. As he looked at the members of their group that chose to fly with Janet, thankfully Cain included, Iván reminisced over the stories of these birds his father in the real world had told him. While Eli was more of a fishing kind of guy, having had a place in his heart for all manners of fish from a young age, his father, a mariner, was more of a bird watcher. It was probably because the old man had been seeing a lot of fishes his entire life that he'd grown tired of them. Maybe it was because, at a young age, his old man wanted to be a pilot instead of a sea captain but, well, life happened. No matter how we want things, life will always happen.

And it did. Again. On this day. What started as strong tailwind, which Iván thought was a combination of the natural winds and the loud-mouthed redhead's magic, ended up as something more. Or at least that's how he saw it. It could've have been anything, really. It could've been the aeromancer exaggerating his skills and ending up overwhelmed. It could've been the terrible craftsmanship Iván had no part of. It could've been someone who had ulterior motives, someone who didn't want this group to succeed, perhaps someone who was a part of their group, another Vivian or Lucia. Iván winced at the latter idea. While he didn't care for the others, save for a few key people, he still wanted them to succeed, at least encounter Sin. He had questions for their target, questions he needed answered before anything else.

As Janet and the others found themselves at the mercy of the winds before plummeting down Purpletrator knows where, Iván was caught at a loss for words. He maintained his composure outwardly, but deep within, he was struggling with the apparent failure of the mission. Did the others die? From where he stood, he could not tell. There was only darkness that met his eyes. He scowled as he realized their resurrector was more or less lost to them.

"Well, I guess it's just us now," Iván frowned from behind his stinky red mask, turning to face @Nikephoros. "You have the map and the compass. What do think we should do?"

 

Life was full of vicissitudes, and always at the worst of times. It seemed that whatever intentions the party had of moving forwards, fate felt more than inclined to halt and hamper their progress. As most of the party went cascading down into a crevice in the mountain, Nikephoros remained seated, Ivan nearby in his strange mask. He watched, blank faced, as people went falling down. Clearly it was just doomed to happen... he hadn't caused it. He hadn't stopped it. He wasn't going to waste time thinking too hard about it.

As Ivan inquired about what they ought to do next, he inspected their surroundings. The destination was still some ways off... the storm had gotten much worse. Fools that they were, the others were likely to try and climb back up while the storm was raging about them. Assuming they weren't already dead. He couldn't pull out a map in this wind, but he had a sense for the direction they ought to be heading.

"Now," the elven man said as he took his ranseur in hand.
"Now we keep going. They'll have to find another path... if they try to climb up in this weather they'll just fall and die. Again." With that said, he made one swift stroke with his weapon and cut the rope, sending it falling suddenly down into The Belly, severing the life line to the others. For their own good, of course.
"Cain will lead that party below. I will lead us above. If we meet up with them again, all for the better. If not, we can't let the entire mission fail because some people took a leap and didn't make it. Let's get going." He cast an eye about to see who else was with them, but in the storm, it was almost impossible to tell.
"Take some of the extra rope and tie yourself off to me. Then have someone else tie off to you, if they're still around! We need to stick together and not get lost in the storm. I'm the heavily-armored one with the big stick, so I'll act as the anchor as well as the navigator, in case anything goes wrong or somebody slips. We're going to take the frozen paths, just inside the crevice, since it's too late to cross and it will shield us from most these winds! Follow me!"

And with that, Nikephoros waited a moment to tie a band of rope around his waist, leaving a length for Ivan to tie himself to. Slowly, the man began to crunch his way through the snow and screaming winds, using his polearm to check ahead of himself for sudden drop-offs or fragile steps.

 

Iván listened intently as the Yladian stated his intentions, his plans, directing their half of the party while the illusionist just stood there and stared at him through his red mask, once the face of a deadly predator down in the Spire. He's been trapped in the bottom of someplace before. Iván knew how it felt like to be lost beneath. In some ways, he could sympathize with Janet and Cain and the rest of that half of the party. Fall and die... Maybe more than in some ways.

Regardless, the Yladian spoke the truth, as Iván had while he was in a land somewhere down under: Honor those you've lost by sticking with the mission. Or something along those lines. Truth be told, when Iván followed that same path, the quest ended up still a failure. Somewhat. He did succeed in witnessing something otherworldly, though, which was more of a victory than actually finishing the quest under the terms of the rangers.

The masked illusionist did what he was told. He grabbed some of the extra rope and tied himself off to the Yladian. It would've been quite foolish to go on his own, all things considered. For now, he was going to play the role of a supporting character. Whatever happens afterwards, he wasn't going to die here, especially not for others. Not again. Never again.

The snow and the wind were a terrible combination. Iván could barely see through his mask. But he felt where the Yladian was going, where he was taking them. Under any other circumstance, perhaps Iván wouldn't have been so quick to become sheep, to let someone else play the shepherd. But they've presumably just lost people, their people, and it wouldn't do to fight for control of this group. In any case, Iván wasn't interested in the role of the leader. The Yladian had the compass and the map. It went without saying that he was definitely the being to lead them. Iván accepted that, relished that. The burder of being the leader wasn't something he wanted. Not now, not ever.

Being tied to someone else was a strange predicament, too. In this weather, one wrong move could lead to their shared death. Then again, Iván has died before. It wasn't going to be anything different. He wondered if the Yladian had experienced something so enlightening. Perhaps they could experience it together again. No. His goal was to question Sin, to figure out what he knew. Someone like him would know something about death, not just the state of non-existence but perhaps maybe even the beings on the other side.

I must know more about him. Iván wasn't going to die here. He didn't need to. He was going to find Sin. He was going to find the information he needed. The rest of his group, the ones that were with him, the ones whose existence were sure to still be an actual thing, should survive. At least until Iván gets what he needs from the target. I must, I must, I must.

 

"Even I, with my infinitesimal strength, cannot endure carrying the weight of an entire party of compatriots by pure magic. I will require a tarp, most likely," he looked down at his body with a critical eye. He was slender, leaning towards the lower numbers on his body mass index, but consuming a copious amount of energy maintaining an unnecessary level of magical ability would surely drain him, regardless of his weight. He sighed and turned back to regard Janet with respect, only the slightest bit of disdain marring his softened eyes at his perceived rejection earlier on.

And then they were flying.

And they went up, the wind blowing them through the ramparts with Ira controlling the forces of nature as if he were a god, the pure exhilaration pooling at his stomach. His feet and stomach felt light and empty, eclipsed by the novelty of what he was doing. Just as the great dragons once flew above humanity, ruling over the inferior creatures through their might...Ira was a dragon whose powers were beyond comprehension. He was unbound by the laws of gravity, the rules of space, and the reign of Mother Earth. He grinned despite himself, shedding his prickly and flirtatious demeanor like a molting snake growing into its shinier skin. In the eye of the storm, Ira flew without fear and, by the twitch of his finger, he brought mere mortals closer to the sky and the domain of the beings up above on their perches and thrones made of ivory and gold.

And then they were falling.

Ira, along with many others, failed to notice the layer of frost that was growing over their makeshift parachutes. The dew in the air had settled and froze over and, even as Ira control over the winds began to falter and diminish in panic, the material wouldn't stop fraying. No matter how much he pulled and tugged at the invisible strands that connected him to the breath of the wilds, he couldn't get a strong enough grasp to prevent the inevitable fall.

And then there was darkness.

It was dark all around in the belly of the beast, the dim outlines of jagged rocks barely shining from the small glimpses of reflecting light. Ira did the only thing he could do; he drew together all his strength, forgetting about the wellbeing of the others around him, and felt the winds tickle his sides and caress his limbs. At that moment, in the instance where natural instinct overrode years of trained patience, he felt the guttural fear of death from the sharp plummet. Fear took control and he was determined, by the raw power of primitive emotion, to do whatever it took to survive. Wind blew up from the gorge and towards the sky but, no matter what Ira did, his power simply wasn't strong enough. He fell but he did so with some level of grace, his face contorted to an ugly visage of human terror but unseen under the protective blanket of darkness. By the time he reached the rocky floor, his landing a bit softer than his other compatriots, he noticed a bright red patch staining the front of his shirt. A few scrapes on his knees and arms were had during the free-fall but, luckily, it wasn't the worst it could have been with his softened landing.

"I'm here, princess," he croaked, suddenly too weary for the omnipresent danger which tailed them. His heart was beating too fast for the rest of his body to cope with and he felt a bile rise up the back of his throat, burning and threatening to claw its way out of his body by any means possible. He was sick at heart, at mind, and at body; his head was dizzy and, after a few breaths and the dawning realization the he was still alive, his collapsed onto his knees and let cold sweat drip down his pale, deathly skin.

He looked up, trying to make out the figures around him. He gulped.

"I'm here."