The figure slowly lowers the heirloom in his hand, resting his father's bell carefully upon the earth before it's replaced in his hand by a silver plated mask of unknown origins. He had grown quite fond of it, as Philip was no stranger to the art of hiding. Such an adornment made him feel sheltered, protected as if the child that still bellowed somewhere within him could finally relax without his face being seen.

The Wraith merely blinks behind his new facade, almost as if demonstrating common ground between the two. He mirrors the other with a cock of his head to the side. How he had come to acquire the mask, he was uncertain. Many things left those consumed by the Fog uncertain about their origins.

"We are all condemned to death in this realm," he chitters morbidly. "Even you and I." For the Entity's death was existence in this place. Death was constant, repetitive & constantly looming, even within those who still breathed.

Does it avoid the question because it doesn’t want to answer… Or because it can't answer?

It should be an infuriating line of thought; Tarhos has in fact killed people for less, tortured them for days before he allowed them that small mercy. Yet, now, despite the present urge to butcher the creature, he finds himself amused by its antics; a morbid jester rather than a harbinger in the Knight’s opinion. Even the mask it produces out of nowhere has him grinning now.

Not that it will be able to see, or that he intends to reveal it. The expression must surely be audible in his tone, given how it pulls at his cheeks and leaves his teeth bared.

“The rats can come up with such colourful names,” He drawls, his hands finally relaxed enough that the upper falls to one side of the cross-guard, the plates clattering gently against one another. “Although I find The Knight to be obvious and uninspired. What have they chosen to know you by?”

— Emilie Autumn -The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls

Do you like criminals with questionable morals? What about religious men with a questionably healthy devotion to their patron deity? Would you like to get to know a trio of men who are both? Living their lives with moral codes written in the shades of grey found in shadow?

Introducing, a trio of Original Dungeons & Dragons Characters who start as rogues, but found an intense devotion to the Shadowlord - Mask, God of Thieves - somewhere along the way:

Mutt of @d20forinitiative Renosos of @eldritchmoms Maledos of @umbralined

Ye of little imagination. But Gale remains loose, mind too sharp for his body to measure up, as dark eyes dance across the stonework. There's a counterbalance to this that Gaz had already grasped, which eludes Gale in all his studious posturing. He of little understanding. There had been no proper scouting, no understanding of what he walked into -- of what he must seem to the outsider peering up at him.

If he was taken for a threat, well, it'd speak to the perceptive nature of present company. Fear no evil, for he is surely the worst thing scarpering across the dark heat. Yet he's only a curiosity, a budding migraine, a familiar role for a scholar of his caliber and hubris.

"Was my peaceful cooperation ever in doubt? Apologies. My mentor says I always get into such an unfriendly face when I pass the point of proper diligence." Lifting his head, he turns just so, smiling at -- Garrick. His new stance is far more amicable, less a serpent coiled tight for the striking. He's small, for his clear ability. It's rare someone of Garrick's caliber fails in meeting the measure of their bravery.

"Well met, Sergeant Garrick. I am Gale Dekarios, but you might know me as the Wizard of Waterdeep, former Chosen of Mystra, and-- Ah." A chuckle, far from sheepish, drifts into the dry air. "I imagine that all means very little to these parts. What matters is that I am a full time scholar and erstwhile tourist, perfectly happy for any assistance you can offer." Shifting the small bag slung over his shoulder, letting the old leather rattle against his well-carved staff, he straightens.

"Hence we go, then. Lead on -- I'll follow." Idling in place, he finds the power shift easy, perhaps even comfortable. Having a guide abroad is a blessing, all the more when one went traipsing across the veil without any extant tether to the other side.

Was his cooperation ever in doubt- Gaz doesn’t dignify that particular question with an answer, or even allow himself to react to it. As far as he’s concerned, the man’s cooperation is still in doubt and will continue to be in doubt until he’s been escorted out of the ruins and into an exfil vehicle. There are simply too many reasons for him to suspect an ulterior motive, no matter how strange and ridiculous this situation is shaping up to be. 

Unfortunately he had the audacity to think that would be the end of it.

He doesn’t say the first thing that comes to mind when the man fully introduces himself, but Gaz can’t help the way his face pulls into an expression of utter disbelief for several seconds. This man simply has to be taking the piss and he is committing to it with a tenacity that, in any other circumstance, Gaz might actually find admirable. 

He shrugs his shoulders gently, taking note of anything on his plate carrier that rattles or jangles- nothing, thankfully, although he takes a moment to pull a strap or two that experience has taught him will be loosening up by now- and takes a moment to eject the magazine from his rifle to do a quick count of the rounds left. Half the mag and one more in his carrier; he’ll have to pick his shots carefully if enemy reinforcements arrive.

“A’right. Gale.” His tone matches his expression, disbelieving and not at all subtle about it, but doesn’t press the issue. Not yet. “You follow me, and you do not walk in front of me. You stay behind me until you get an all clear- got that?”

A soft chuckle begins to form in the Leader’s throat at her comment before he regretted the action entirely. It made his body flinch and spasm with pain as his muscles contracted. The redirecting palm on his cheek grounds him back to reality for a moment, blinking away the lingering depression that had begun to seep into his psyche at the mention of life before the fog.

“Yeah,” he agrees simply, eyes squeezing shut as the bandages crudely warn against infection. “You’re right,” Dwight concedes resigning himself to regroup and focus. “Thanks for the help, Meg.”

She’s not convinced Dwight’s snapped out of it, at least not completely. It’s hard to shake off the kind of downer in the middle of a nightmare, but at least he’s making an effort. She can only hope that it’ll hold long enough to get out of this one.

“I saw the Lyra brother on the way here, if you run that way-” She points past the boulder, towards a wall that hems the whole hide-and-go-murder game in and prevents anyone from getting ideas about slipping away unscathed. “You should be able to help him out. No idea where Steve’s ended up, I’ll–”

Her eyes go wide at something behind Dwight, and she lurches forward to grab him by the front of the shirt. She shoves him towards where she’d been standing a moment ago just in time to get tackled straight to the chest by the giggling, screeching shape of the smaller Twin, yelling wordlessly when he bites her on the jaw and claws at her shoulders like a furious cat.

“Fucking go! Help Renato!” Meg finally gets out as she pries the little monster away from her face, getting bitten on the hand for her trouble. “God damnit- I’ll buy as much time as I can!”

maybe instead of healing i’ll be evil

He chuckles through a wince of pain as they settled into his gruesome repairs. Each wrap of the bandage makes him cringe and he wills his eyes to avoid the sight of his own wound.

"Ha . . ." he mutters through a jolt of discomfort, his eyes squeezing shut as he attempted to will away the pain. "Better than a certificate in . . . pumping butter onto popcorn . . ." He refers to a time before The Fog, a faint haunting of dead end jobs & a tradeless career that had consistently reminded him of just how much of a failure he really was.

“Man I would give both tits to be at a job that basic right about now-” Meg mutters, applying a final loop of bandages to hold the gauze in place and struggling not to giggle at her own statement. She fails, but she has the grace to muffle the sound with her elbow like a polite cough at least.

Remembering things from before doesn’t actually feel all that great in the middle of a Trial. Wishing she was still pedaling across the city or babysitting a gym rat doesn’t help her survive running from monsters, if anything it tends to drag her down in the moment and it looks like it’s doing the same thing to Dwight right now. That just won’t fucking do.

“Hey!” Meg hisses, putting a bloodstained hand on his cheek to make him look at her. “Come on, keep your head on straight, boss. You can tell me all about how slinging popcorn sucks when we get out of this one, okay? No one’s dead yet, right? We still got this.”

The Wraith merely blinks as the Knight raises his weapon, unphased as the blade kisses the ground in its new position. His, however, still wearing fresh blood, lays lax at his side, unintimidated. Philip finds himself overly inquisitive in the Fog, his own nature and personality seeming to have vanished since his arrival. He's taken to stealth & camouflage to trap his prey; his features covered in mud, locks intertwined with twigs and smothered in a clay like material like paper mache. That makes him . . . quite difficult to read, needless to say.

He was quite the natural when it came to disappearing.

"No figment . . ." comes a gravelly chitter deep within his throat. "An omen."

Tarhos laughs.

The sound is unkind. Harsh, devoid of warmth or humour, and thick as if the man is almost gagging. 

“Is that so…” His hands are stacked one on top of the other, and the one set on the pommel clenches around the steel with a grinding sound. The other flexes, a grasping talon before settling again. “If you come to warn me of my death, oh herald, you will find me unmoved.”

The creature claims to be an omen, but he’d judge it a poor match if it chose to take matters into its own hands. He hopes it tries anyway. He’s learned by now that death has no permanence in this place, but he can feel something like saliva build up in his mouth at the mere thought of striking it down, breath quickening, eager to lash out, to break bone and sunder flesh. To quiet the thing interrupting his peace. Give him a reason. Give him even a hint–

“Unless… You portend one who will be struck down.” Amusement creeps in to the Knight’s tone, the helmet tilting a fraction to one side. “Do you lead someone to their doom today, creature?”

{ Dwight tries to muster a smirk at her attempt to lighten the mood, still wincing occasionally with every wobbly step he takes with her assistance.

{ His draped arm aches, but not as much as the rest of his broken body. He feels as if he hasn't forgotten the pain through these harrowing months... Years? Time didn't seem to function the same way he was used to before the Entity's realm.

{ "Yeah, ha..." he grimaces through the pain with each limp in the direction of the boulder in question, his gentle smirk fading as he moved to kneel behind their temporary refuge. "Let me know how that works out..."

“You will be the first person I tell.” She promises, hardly solemn given the circumstances.

It’s easy for her to stay smiling, she’s not the one injured after all. The expression doesn’t match her wide eyes and the way she never stops checking their surroundings. Even once they’re out of sight, she knows better than to think they’re safe; they’ve both been playing this game for too long to be under that impression, although Meg couldn’t begin to say exactly how long that’s been.

She used to try and keep track of time. It didn’t help.

“Usual apologies apply, boss.” She mutters, checking over her shoulder and over the top of the rock. “I’m still not the world’s best Civil War battlefield surgeon.”

That title goes to Claudette and her steady hands. Meg’s hands still shake despite all the practical experience, and she’s too hypervigilant to focus completely on the task, but she’s still better than no help at all. At least that’s what she tells herself as she fumbles gauze and bandages out of her belt’s pouches and pockets and starts wrapping the hole in Dwight’s shoulder. Fast and functional matters more than tidy.

“Gotta make due with a First Aid certificate and a dream.”

The only reaction the stranger wins is a wince at the sudden echo of horrific noise in the room. He's never known its kind before, but it buzzes, claws, sails through the room like an ill-mannered Tressym. He decides the comparison is cruel. There is no comparing what he cannot call static to something so dignified as a Tressym. He relaxes by visible inches as the noise subsides, and his companion's voice fills the gap left behind.

"Unsafe? It's lucky I have a big strapping bloke like you down here to watch the doors, then." He knows what he's doing, and what this on is up to as well. Gale keeps his hands raised, lackadaisical, his tone conversation despite the queer turns and twists the language takes. "Besides, I though I scented blood earlier. Either you've come skittering down here for shelter, or that was your doing."

Dark eyes flick to the strangely dressed man. Smaller than him, but sturdier, worth a second glance. Gale doesn't dare speak til his eyes have drifted back to the etchings carved deep into the wall. It's safer that way.

"You don't have the look of a coward, by any means and measure. I'll put my coin on you having handled things."

Curious. There's a mere fragment of the language left, a trailing whimper of closure rather than a firm finale. That might be fine for a two-copper smut picked up at market, but he had come too far to be so unsatisfied now. His brow knits, and he forgets himself, lacing his hands behind his head with a hiss. His back aches. too long leaning forward trying to follow what his fingers traced out. Perhaps he's getting too old for such things.

Nonsense.

"On your way down, did you notice any other reliefs like this one? This writing system on any other wall or decor?"

This man doesn’t make a single lick of sense. Most people in the lower levels of a ruin being used as an Al-Qatala cell’s base would have the good sense to be nervous, especially if they were sneaking around the way it sounds the stranger has been; most people would also be at least a little concerned about the idea of being so close enough to a firefight that they can smell the blood. Instead, he acts like this is just a casual expedition into an unoccupied dig site. 

Gaz almost wonders if the man realised there was anyone else here to begin with, but that shouldn’t be possible. The only way in was through dozens of AQ fighters and security measures; Gaz had been fighting a running battle the entire way down to this point, and the stranger hardly appears outfitted to do the same. He couldn’t have gotten permission either, given the attitude Al-Qatala holds towards Westerners. He’d have been a hostage in the upper levels or worse if he had tried anything like that. There’s no way he could have come in through the levels even further down, right?

The list of questions related to the stranger just keeps getting longer without the relief of a single answer, and with no instructions from above- figurative or otherwise, Gaz is just going to have to play this by ear.

“... If I show you, you’ll come along peaceably?” He questions, and in a show of good faith holds his rifle across himself, no longer pointing it at the man. He even stands straight, unfolding from the low shooting stance and allowing himself to relax a little. His finger remains on the trigger guard, however, and he continues to keep a wary eye on the man. 

Good faith, perhaps, but not trust yet.

“Sergeant Garrick, British Special Forces.” 

He doesn’t bother to offer his hand, either. Something tells him the stranger wouldn’t return the gesture anyway.

A crackle of communication grumbles within the Wraith's narrow chest. Fraternizing with other killers was not necessarily something he made a habit of doing, but outside of trials, there was little to do besides sit with his thoughts until the Entity summoned him yet again to the slaughter.

An inquisitive brow lifts beneath mud-smeared features as he blinks towards the iron clad individual, the stark contrast between their builds readily apparent.

The Knight… Twitches as the Wraith approaches. A comparatively small movement of one arm, but noisily announced by the way pieces of armour knock against one another. Gauntlet-clad hands tighten and twist around the hilt of the zweihander propped against one shoulder, a far softer rasp of sound, and then the blade rises.

For an alarming moment, it might seem like the Knight is poised to strike.

Then he turns the sword point down towards the ground, gently resting the broken steel on the dirt. The movement seems to take effort, as if he’s struggling against his instincts, but inevitably his hands fold over the pommel and a loud sigh can be heard from behind the helmet. 

“...What do you want?” Comes the deep, rusted echo of the Knight’s voice, strained as if he’s speaking through gritted teeth. “Speak, creature, if you aren’t a figment-”

"Vociferousness has no overlap with authority, you know. People just have this wild idea that the two go hand in hand." As if to highlight his words, he raises his hands with flourish, but neither turns nor gives Gaz much more attention than that. He's simply stood there, leaning in towards the ornate carvings on the wall.

"Canaan, Cania, probably nothing... Hm." He tilts his head, as if the text will make more sense from a different angle.

"Take it you don't have an answer for me, then? Well, no matter. We'll have the privilege of learning together, you and I." It's hard not to be in a good mood, when there's so much to take in. Surrounded by such knowledge, the man behind him is just a background event. Even then, it's his company, not the fact he's wielding some complicated slab of metal, that matters.

Hm. Loud, armed, and authoritative. Must be this world's answer to a Paladin.

What the fuck.

Vociferousness? Gaz actually blinks. Who the hell starts breaking out five-syllable words when they have a gun pointed at them? He’s never even heard that one before, and context isn’t helping him parse what it’s supposed to mean at all; something to do with his tone maybe? 

It’s a bad time to get distracted. He circles around the stranger, finding a position where he can watch the man and the entrances to the room at the same time; it’s still enemy territory, and while he did a decent job cleaning and clearing on the way down to this level, the intel about this place has clearly been less than perfect. There could easily be more hostiles lurking somewhere.

“Bravo 2-6 to Watcher, come in-” His radio belches static the moment he lets up on the key, and he grimaces before pressing it down again. “Bravo 2-6 to Watcher, do you read? Watcher there is a civilian down here, please advise.”

No change. He’s trying to talk to empty air. Signal’s probably being blocked by the sheer amount of rock over his head. He’s on his own until he’s topside, it seems.

Fuck. “Listen, I appreciate archaeology as much as the next bloke, but this area is unsafe and I need to get you out of here.” His tone is softer this time, implying concern for the apparent lost sheep standing here, coaxing almost. It doesn’t match the hard-eyed way he watches the man, waiting for signs of either aggression or compliance. “Right now I’m asking nicely, so make this easy on both of us and step away from the wall.”