[While minding my own business at Combat Scriptures]

All at once, the flow of blood in your body abruptly stops. Through a wall of
sheer panic, you watch with horror as your own arm bends against your will,
striking your own cheek with such force that you are sent sprawling to the
ground, your arm breaking thereafter.
You have been afflicted with brokenleftarm.
Your left arm breaks with a loud crack.
You have been afflicted with damagedrightarm.
You have been afflicted with brokenrightarm.
Your right arm is greatly damaged from the beating.
You have been afflicted with prone.
You have been afflicted with fear.

You are no longer stunned.

You rush about in a state of utter panic.

You stand up.

You take out some salve and quickly rub it on your arms.
The bones in your left arm mend.
You have cured the brokenleftarm affliction.

There is nothing to fear but fear itself.

You take out some salve and quickly rub it on your arms.

Your right arm feels stronger and healthier.
You have cured the damagedrightarm affliction.

You take out some salve and quickly rub it on your arms.
The bones in your right arm mend.
You have cured the brokenrightarm affliction.

You slip away to the east and successfully evade your pursuers.
Blackstone military quarter.

Combat Scriptures. (indoors)
You see a single exit leading east.

You tell Farrah, "Uh."

Farrah tells you, "That uh is not comforting."

You tell Farrah, "My blood stopped flowing for a minute."

You tell Farrah, "And then I ended up breaking my own limbs and sprawled on the
floor."

You tell Farrah, "Do you have any idea what this is about?"

[Farrah earrings in]

You bow respectfully to Farrah.

Farrah ponders you with a contemplative expression.

You have emoted: Jiraishin stares at Farrah, face pale.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "...I."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Well, actually, for a moment I thought
someone was trying to assassinate me again."

Farrah looks about herself, rubbing her chin thoughtfully.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "But there was not anyone and I have never
felt anything like that before, and frankly I do not know what is going on."

Farrah creases her brow in a frown.

Atalkez appears, a look of love in his eyes.

Farrah asks, "You broke your own limbs how?"

Farrah stares implacably at you.

All at once, the flow of blood in your body abruptly stops. Through a wall of
sheer panic, you watch with horror as your own arm bends against your will,
striking your own cheek with such force that you are sent sprawling to the
ground, your arm breaking thereafter.
You have been afflicted with brokenleftarm.
Your left arm breaks with a loud crack.
You have been afflicted with damagedrightarm.
You have been afflicted with brokenrightarm.
Your right arm is greatly damaged from the beating.
You have been afflicted with prone.
You have been afflicted with fear.

You are no longer stunned.

You stand up.

You take out some salve and quickly rub it on your arms.
The bones in your left arm mend.
You have cured the brokenleftarm affliction.

There is nothing to fear but fear itself.

You may apply another salve to yourself.

You take out some salve and quickly rub it on your arms.

Your right arm feels stronger and healthier.
You have cured the damagedrightarm affliction.
You may apply another salve to yourself.

You take out some salve and quickly rub it on your arms.
The bones in your right arm mend.
You have cured the brokenrightarm affliction.

You may apply another salve to yourself.

Atalkez peers about himself unscrupulously.

Farrah winces in pain.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "....Like.. that."

Farrah says, "I see..."

Atalkez leaves to the east.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "What -is- this?"

You say steadily with a harsh Western accent, "This is going to be highly
inconvenient when I try to draw a bow."

Farrah says, "Losing motor control is what we feared most with these bouts of
madness..."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "What, really?"

Farrah says, "...yes? I did, at least. Your body being used as a tool is not
ideal."

Farrah says, "Seeing things can be managed."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "I definitely -feared- it, but it's not
the thing I feared the -most-."

Farrah says, "But... who knows what you will do now that you are inexplicably
punching yourself in the face."

You say weakly with a harsh Western accent, "Who knows."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Actually the punching myself in the face
isn't nearly as bad as all the blood in my veins being forced to flow in the
wrong directions."

Farrah winces in pain.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "This is really highly unpleasant."

Farrah says, "Well."

Farrah says, "If you were wondering who He is most angry with, I believe you
won."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Honestly, I can't bring myself to regret
that."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Though it's hard to reason out -why-."

Strangely familiar humming drifts in from the east, drawing your attention just
long enough to note the wispy tendrils of a vaguely feminine, celadon-hued
figure walking southward on Blackstone without a care in the world.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Did you see that."

Farrah says, "...yes."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "I'm going after it."

Farrah says, "That is the color of the bog mists."

Blackstone military quarter.

You tell Farrah, "In that case, I'm going to the bog."

You tell Farrah, "I'm already being attacked by the blood in my veins. What can
He do? Kill me?"

Farrah tells you, "Steal your soul, perhaps."

Aranos arrives from the north.

Aranos leaves to the west.

You feel a tug at your earring as its mate is summoned.
Farrah appears, a look of love in her eyes.
A phantom spider glides in from the ether with alarming celerity.
A colossal armoured war bat soars in from the ether with an authoritative
screech.

You tell Farrah, "...Will you come with, then?"

Farrah's eyes sparkle with amusement.

Farrah begins to follow you.

Farrah says, "Certainly."

Farrah says, "I am feeling slightly more confident now that I am not the one
punching myself in the face."

[we go to bog]

Farrah follows you east.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "What, were you doing so before?"

Farrah says, "No."

Farrah says, "I just mean."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Oh, good."

Farrah says, "It's not me."

Farrah says, "Doing... whatever."

Farrah gestures vaguely.

You see exits leading northeast, southeast, and southwest.
Hovering towards you, a cloud of flies hums around your head.
With a loud squelch, your foot sinks deep into the muck of the bog.

Farrah says, "To be quite honest, though."

[missing here: Farrah asks what I expect to find]

You say with a harsh Western accent, "No idea."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "You said that woman was the colour of the
bog mists."

Farrah says, "She was."

A gentle, child-like lilt echoes from deep within the walls of fog.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "And it was walking south on
Blackstone--oh."

Farrah creases her brow in a frown.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Did you hear that?"

Farrah says, "Yes."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Can you hear which direction it's coming
from?"

You have emoted: Jiraishin turns, frowning.

Farrah says, "You know, following maddening bait is exactly what I probably
should not be doing..."

You shrug helplessly at Farrah.

A childlike giggle ripples throughout the eerie stillness of the bog.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "A trap you know is a trap is only half of
one."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Sadly, it's the half with all the teeth.
But still."

Farrah follows you southeast.
On the edge of a stagnant pond.
A wall of celadon-tinged fog deluges the surroundings in the sickly scent of
stale water. A phantom spider lurks in the shadows, the outline of its hulking
frame scarcely discernible. Resting on her foreclaws, a colossal armoured war
bat ceaselessly surveys her surroundings. The shining figure of a guardian
angel floats in the air here.
You see exits leading east and northwest.

Farrah says, "Yes, I will simply say that when I have to explain this."

Farrah nods her head at herself.

A pitch-black raven soars in to perch nearby.

You stare implacably at a pitch-black raven.

You say to a pitch-black raven with a harsh Western accent, "If you're going to
make us walk through this damned fog, You could at least send a guide."

A pitch-black raven stares at Farrah and you with beady eyes.

Farrah frowns at a pitch-black raven.

Farrah says, "It is possessed. We should burn it."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Let's see if it can be useful first."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "And then burn it."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "However, I will accede to your orders."

Farrah creases her brow in a frown.

You have emoted: Jiraishin continues to watch a pitch-black raven.

Farrah easily vaults onto the back of a hulking phantom spider.
Farrah begins to wield an elegant silver mace in her left hand.
Farrah begins to wield a silver shield inlaid with gemstones in her right hand.

Farrah utters a prayer and smites a pitch-black raven with an elegant silver
mace.
Farrah has scored a CRITICAL hit!
With a silent flap of its black wings, a raven soars away.

Farrah whispers something to a hulking phantom spider.
A hulking phantom spider seems to settle down.
Farrah whispers something to a colossal armoured war bat.
A colossal armoured war bat seems to settle down.

Farrah says, "It fled."

A large stone outcropping.
A wall of celadon-tinged fog deluges the surroundings in the sickly scent of
stale water. A massive outcropping of natural stone rises up from the soupy
muck of the bog here, leaning haphazardly to one side and looming a full ten
feet into the air. Ancient mosses cover its rough surface, and shadows cast by
the overhanging branches of nearby mangrove trees create complex patterns of
light and darkness across the old boulder. A faint yellowish mist hangs in the
air around the stone, giving it the unnerving appearance of some silent monster
rising up from the murky bog. A pitch-black raven perches here, coldly
surveying its surroundings. A phantom spider lurks in the shadows, the outline
of its hulking frame scarcely discernible. Resting on her foreclaws, a colossal
armoured war bat ceaselessly surveys her surroundings. The shining figure of a
guardian angel floats in the air here. Dawnlord Farrah Roualt is here. She
wields an elegant silver mace in her left hand and a silver shield inlaid with
gemstones in her right.
You see exits leading east and southeast.

Farrah says, "If I had to guess, I would guess it is coming from the isle."

Narrowing your eyes, you squint off toward the southeast.
Piles of stones within a bog.
A wall of celadon-tinged fog deluges the surroundings in the sickly scent of
stale water. A cloud of black flies drones in the air.
You can see no further.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Entrance to the Caverns was going to be
my guess."

Comprehension flashes across Farrah's face.

A black cloud of flies buzzes in from the southeast.

Farrah says, "Perhaps."

You have emoted: Jiraishin gestures at the stones around him.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "What it reminded me most of was one of
the visions in the fumes."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Within the Caverns."

Before the entrance of a gloomy swamp cavern.
A wall of celadon-tinged fog deluges the surroundings in the sickly scent of
stale water. A slime-covered heap of ancient boulders forms a rough mound
protruding from the swampy features of the bog. Set into the midst of the
boulders, a great iron door bars the entrance to some gloomy cavern, and a
faint hum of energy emanates from its surface. Dank, musty gusts of air
occasionally drift up from places far underground, causing the trailing mosses
hanging down from the skeletal limbs of nearby trees to sway, their subtle,
drifting movements accompanying the gurgling sounds and noxious smells of the
bog. An iron gate bars the entrance to the narrow crevice in the rock, strange
figures writhing across its surface. A thick stone slab stained with dried
blood looms here, tainting the area with the profane worship of Babel. A runic
totem is planted solidly in the ground. A phantom spider lurks in the shadows,
the outline of its hulking frame scarcely discernible. Resting on her
foreclaws, a colossal armoured war bat ceaselessly surveys her surroundings.
The shining figure of a guardian angel floats in the air here. Dawnlord Farrah
Roualt is here, sleeping soundly. She wields an elegant silver mace in her left
hand and a silver shield inlaid with gemstones in her right.
You see a single exit leading northeast.
[Farrah hits totem]

Farrah opens her eyes and yawns mightily.

Farrah clenches her fists and grits her teeth.

Farrah has writhed free of her entanglement by ropes.

Farrah eats a quartz grain.

Farrah stands up.

Farrah eats an arsenic pellet.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "...Sorry."

Farrah blinks her eyes rapidly.

You have emoted: Jiraishin looks about himself, frowning.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Maybe not here after all. I don't see
anything, hear anything."

Manifesting out of nowhere, a child-like figure appears next to your entourage,
almost insubstantial.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Oh, -now- I see something."

You have emoted: Jiraishin stares grimly at the figure.

You have emoted: Jiraishin turns to face it, never letting his eyes leave it.

Farrah steps back away from the caverns, and the child, eyes scanning the area
for threats.

Wreathed in a shifting shroud of what looks to be silken tendrils, the figure
simply points towards the caverns, one hand covering her mouth to suppress an
otherworldly giggle.

You raise an eyebrow at Farrah.

A myriad chorus of discordant voices intones with a childish lilt, "You'll be
there, one day. Like I was. Like we were."

You have emoted: Jiraishin rolls his eyes.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "I -have- been there."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "To be honest, it wasn't anything
special."

A spear of brilliant lightning lances down from the heavens, the tempestuous
form of Astarod Blackstone, the Merciless coalescing from within.
Your enhanced senses inform you that Astarod has entered Before the entrance of
a gloomy swamp cavern at your location.

Astarod raises his hand in greeting and says "Hi!"

With a casual wave of the hand, Astarod brings a spinning tornado into being.

You say to Astarod with a harsh Western accent, "Go away."

Astarod says in a low, thundering voice, "So you're... not defiling the
shrine?"

Astarod scratches his head in confusion.

A myriad chorus of discordant voices intones with a childish lilt, "That's
okay. You can pretend to resist, if you want."

You snarl with a harsh Western accent, "Be -quiet-."

You tell Farrah, "Are you still hearing this?"

The insidious vapours that pervade the room subside.

Astarod shrugs, listening to the myriad of voices.

Farrah tells you, "Yes..."

You have emoted: Jiraishin frowns, still breathing hard.

A myriad chorus of discordant voices intones with a childish lilt, "Everyone
tries to resist. Even we did."

A loud squelching noise reaches your ears from somewhere nearby.

You have emoted: With effort, Jiraishin composes himself. Only a downward
twitch of his lip suggests suppressed anger.

In an uninterrupted motion, you slide an assassin's bow into a studded leather
baldric.

In a single, fluid motion, you uncoil a Wyvern's Lash from a fluvial silver
belthook.

You quickly unlash a battered iron buckler free from a steel chain backstrap,
shifting it over your head and into your right hand.

A myriad chorus of discordant voices intones with a childish lilt, "It's better
like this. Together."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Something's coming."

The tornado collapses inward, the magics sustaining it finally exhausted.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Together with whom, anyways? You lot?"


The fog stirs for the briefest moment, and in cacophonous unison, what must be
a thousand or more indistinct voices declare: "Together."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "You are -pathetic-. Lies and fog and
illusions without substance. And I should know. I know what I am, but I also
know what I fight for."

A tiny, juvenile figure manifests before you, its head canted inquisitively. It
chirps, "Do you?"

You say with a harsh Western accent, "YES."

The figure smiles. Disgustingly, alarmingly genuine.

You have emoted: Jiraishin hisses through his teeth.

Farrah asks, "Voices in the wind. Are they truly worth arguing with?"

Achilles appears, a look of love in his eyes.
Achilles's eyes uncloud as a wunjo rune heals his blindness.
Ethereal bonds flash forth to bind Achilles as his gaze falls upon a nairat
rune.
Achilles's eyes close suddenly as he falls asleep.

Farrah frowns at Achilles.

You say grudgingly with a harsh Western accent, "Probably not."

A small cry escapes the lips of the sleeping Achilles.
Achilles opens his eyes and stretches languidly, a smile on his face.

Achilles eats a kola nut.

Achilles clenches his fists and grits his teeth.

Farrah leaps into the air and launches a flying kick at Achilles.
Farrah connects.

Achilles has writhed free of his entanglement by ropes.

Achilles stands up.

Achilles says in a calm, steady voice, "Hi."

You say to Achilles with a harsh Western accent, "You shouldn't be here."

Achilles peers about himself unscrupulously.

Achilles says in a calm, steady voice, "Alright."

A fell howling echoes throughout the fog, the celadon hues abruptly darkening.

The towering draconic form of Achilles moves to the northeast, razor-sharp
claws leaving deep gouges in his wake.

Farrah says, "That is ominous."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "What about this hasn't been?"

A black robe swirls into view, rising up around a tall figure in a hiss of
foul-smelling wind.

Ebony black robes fall in sheer waves of midnight around the tall form of this
shrouded figure, concealing every feature of his body. A deep hood covers his
head, and thick black scarves wind around his face. His long sleeves hang down
over his hands, removing them from sight, and the hems of his garment trail
around the ground to leave no sign of his feet. The figure moves with a vaguely
serpentine slither, sliding across the ground with no hint of a normal humanoid
gait. Something about his proportions seems vaguely off, even beneath the
robes, as if his joints did not quite meet in the correct places.
The Hunter almost glows with nearly god-like power.
He has 100% health remaining.
He weighs about 200 pounds.
You see nothing in it.

You hunch slightly and flare your body as you hiss warningly at the Hunter.

A gentle hum arises from Farrah's angel, as it raises a shield to protect her.

You touch the tattoo and a nearly invisible magical shield forms around you.

A horrible gurgling voice from deep within the figure's hood says, "WHERE IS
IT?"

You have emoted: At last, Jiraishin smiles.

You say to the Hunter with a harsh Western accent, "Do you even remember being
human?"

The Hunter cranes its hollow gaze towards Astarod.

You say to the Hunter with a harsh Western accent, "I'm surprised you can
speak."

Flying out to the northeast, the menacing swarm departs.

With a low, rumbling rattle, the Hunter descends into the ground in a plume of
inky miasma.
A wet, squelching thump heralds the entry of an unseen visitor, the room
filling with the foul stench of corruption.

[probing shows Hunter is still here]

An unspecified thing leaves.

[probing shows Hunter is still here]

The Hunter waves a shrouded hand toward Astarod, and Astarod abruptly vanishes.

Soothing voices emanate from the fog, as if trying to placate something.

The Hunter twitches violently, heaving wet, heavy breaths.

Farrah tells you, "Do you think a part of it -is- still human?"

A horrible gurgling voice from deep within the figure's hood says, "WHY? WHY DO
THEY LIVE?"

You tell Farrah, "Yes."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Who?"

The black figure's robes abruptly collapse, falling empty to the ground before
blowing away.

A myriad chorus of discordant voices intones with a childish lilt, "You. Duh."

You have emoted: One corner of Jiraishin's mouth quirks up slightly.

A myriad chorus of discordant voices intones with a childish lilt, "Both of you
should just die. It would be easier that way."

You say comfortably with a harsh Western accent, "Now, now. That's hardly
original."

Farrah says, "It is not our purpose to make things easy."

A myriad chorus of discordant voices intones with a childish lilt, "You can't
stop it. Nobody can. Why try?"

You say with a harsh Western accent, "We can stop it, we will stop it, and
frankly even if we could -not-, I for one think that the world we make by
trying is infinitely superior to wallowing in these caves."

Dusk steals silently over the horizon and crimson and ochre engulf the
firmament, their seductive tones beckoning the sun to its nightly repose.

Something hisses in the fog, as if an acid were wearing away at stone.

Darkness settles over the bog as evening advances. The mangrove trees cast long
shadows over the murky waters, and the drone of insects rises to accompany the
quiet gurgling and sloshing of the bog's treacherous terrain.

You say amusedly with a harsh Western accent, "Is that supposed to be
symbolic?"

A breathy whisper emanates from the fog, "If only you knew."

You say sarcastically with a harsh Western accent, "Enlighten me."

Your mind spins as thousands of brilliant images and sounds crash through it in
the space of a brief instant. Sanity crumbles before the relentless barrage,
and a primal scream of utter torment escapes your lips.
You have been afflicted with fear.
You have been afflicted with stupidity.
You have been afflicted with dizziness.
You have been afflicted with recklessness.
You have been afflicted with shyness.
You have been afflicted with amnesia.

What do you want to eat?

You hug yourself compassionately.

You take a drink from a silver bell vial.
The elixir heals and soothes you.

You remove 1 lobelia seed, bringing the total in the rift to 2418.

You fall to your knees in worship.

There is nothing to fear but fear itself.

You eat a lobelia seed.
Prudence rules your psyche once again.
You have cured the recklessness affliction.

You remove 1 goldenseal root, bringing the total in the rift to 571.

You eat a goldenseal root.
You are no longer dizzy.
You have cured the dizziness affliction.

You stumble and poke yourself in the eye.

What do you want to eat?

You blink.

You burp obscenely.

You remove 1 goldenseal root, bringing the total in the rift to 570.

"The voices! The voices! Get them out of my head!!" you moan, holding your head
in pain.

You eat a goldenseal root.
Your shyness has been cured. You can now face the world boldly.
You have cured the shyness affliction.

Farrah winces in pain.

You eat a goldenseal root.
You aren't such a complete idiot anymore.
You have cured the stupidity affliction.

You have emoted: Jiraishin's scarred lips curve back in a fierce smile, and he
fights back a laugh as he painfully gets to his feet.

A myriad chorus of discordant voices intones with a childish lilt, "It hurts,
doesn't it?"

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Most things do."

The juvenile figure manifests once again, her appearance gradually becoming
more lucid with each time. She chirps, "It doesn't have to. I can show you. The
pretender."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "I'm sure I don't have to tell you the story of
-exactly- how my Marking took place."

She hides a hand behind her indistinct mouth, and laughs quietly. "The one
without the fire in her soul. That one I can't help."

Farrah's eyes sparkle with amusement.

Farrah says, ""Help", yes."

Lowering her head to the floor, the figure pauses for a moment. "We tried to
help the fire bird, too. But it just couldn't understand."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "The fire bird lives."

Farrah creases her brow in a frown.

The figure looks up, smiling apologetically. "It wasn't made to understand. We
don't blame it."

You say curiously with a harsh Western accent, "Were you Aucri?"

The fog descends into sudden silence for a moment, the childlike figure frozen
in time.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Your father killed you."

A myriad chorus of discordant voices intones with a childish lilt, "Once. We
were many. Now we are together."

Farrah says, "Many children butchered by the Nihilists, perhaps."

Farrah creases her brow in a frown.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "The legend says the Hunter first came to
the caverns to feed his children in a time of famine. And made a deal to save
the city's life."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "An irony, there."

The childish figure resumes its sudden animation, shrugging with a ghostly
grin. "All bargain. But deals do not stop the inevitable."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "I've often remarked that the Mad God
offers only the same thing to His allies and His enemies."

Nodding slowly to herself, the figure folds her arms. "Father has marked you
both, so I must be kind. Even to the ashen one."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "My Mark is gone."

Raising a finger slowly, the juvenile figure points at something.

All at once, the flow of blood in your body abruptly stops. Through a wall of
sheer panic, you watch with horror as your own arm bends against your will,
striking your own cheek with such force that you are sent sprawling to the
ground, your arm breaking thereafter.
You have been afflicted with damagedrightarm.
You have been afflicted with brokenrightarm.
Your right arm is greatly damaged from the beating.
You have been afflicted with prone.
You have been afflicted with fear.

You are no longer stunned.

You stand up.

There is nothing to fear but fear itself.

You take out some salve and quickly rub it on your arms.

You say with a harsh Western accent, "And?"

In a mellifluous lilt, the figure giggles, a lone voice resonating throughout
the fog. "Nuh-uh."

You have emoted: Jiraishin frowns.

Farrah says, "Mine is gone, however, and his will be, soon enough."

You say flatly with a harsh Western accent, "Oh. The favour."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "It will disperse."

Glancing at her feet, the figure frowns for a moment, and nods sadly. "It will.
But you are here now."

You say with a harsh Western accent, "Not, you will note, alone."

In slowed time, the figure looks up at the both of you, a broad, child-like
smile plastered over its alarmingly corporeal features.

Hushed whispers pervade, "They're coming. But I'll always be with you,
pretender. And you too, ashen one. One day."

Your enhanced senses inform you that Irimon has entered Piles of stones within
a bog, to the northeast.
Your enhanced senses inform you that Penwize has entered Piles of stones within
a bog, to the northeast.

Your enhanced senses inform you that Irimon has entered Before the entrance of
a gloomy swamp cavern at your location.
Your enhanced senses inform you that Penwize has entered Before the entrance of
a gloomy swamp cavern at your location.

Irimon's aura of weapons rebounding disappears.
Irimon's cantata shatters the defences surrounding Farrah.