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In the Midst [GRP, P]
Topic Started: Wed Dec 14, 2011 9:40 pm (837 Views)
Aevis
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The Ancient City city stood a testament to time, to the power that was held within the very forces of nature themselves. Wind, rain, lightning, magic and of course time. The forces of existence both worked to destroy it... and to preserve it. It proved to be the only home left for the lost souls that remained trapped here, and even on a good day the dead would walk through its ruined streets, some spcetral and some of rotten flesh. Now that the skies were blotted gray by thick winter clouds, one could hear sounds of battle once more ring throughout the husks of the old constructs that lined the streets, heroes and villains fighting for their own reasons in this matter, some taking advantage of whatever triggered this nuisence, others wanting to make sure that the mindless undead never leave their city in one piece. It was almost like a war of its own right, and like all wars there were always those that were not of either side, just simply... there.

A scrawny man walked alone through the streets, one could easily count the ribs in his chest by how tightly his skin attached itself to his bones. Upon his face was a large mask. It seemed to be crafted of a material like gold, though it was far stronger. A pair of horns jutted from its forehead, one white and the other red and below those were two larger horns, brown in their coloring. From the back of the mask was a group of large red feathers, black at their tips. Strips of leather came from the chin-piece, a red line upon each one. The rest of the man was covered with the occasional groupings of bones, held together by leather and brass or leather accoutrements with feathers jutting from them. Surely to most beings it would be clear that he was a tribal man, yet the oddest sight about him might have been the group of chickens that followed him, as well as a single turkey. The reasoning behind that sight might have been far less clear, yet he paid the oddity no mind. They were his little army and proved more than effective and defending him in the few instances which he faced a threat.

The witchdoctor stopped for just a moment in the middle of the street, and in time so did most of the chickens, Rick flapped his wings before coming to a stop and Irt walked into the back of Zura, illiciting a firm and quick couple of pecks on the head, though Zura quickly turned back around and to attention, Irt shaking his head from the pecking but otherwise seeming to be unaffected.

The witchdoctor leaned against his staff, seeming to scan the area. He listened closely, past the sparse clucking of his chickens, the distant sounds of battle and the slight tapping of his lantern against his staff. Something was off, he could tell...

"Is someone there?" He would ask with the voice of a healthy young man, wondering if what had caught his attention was little more than a wandering spirit... Or something more. A mindless undead wouldn't be unexpected, but would prove to be little more than a slight hinderance.
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Leverit
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Under the savage mask, the witchdoctor's voice rang out, but to Fysen, who couldn't see his mouth, the only thing that had happened was that he stopped walking to lean against his staff. He had been watching the man with the brood of chickens in tail. His curiosity piqued, Fysen found himself unable to take his eyes away from the ornate mask or the amazing orderliness of the brood. Something about this travel struck Fysen, so now he resolved to find out exactly why, and when Fysen had a question in his mind, he became incredibly hard-headed in his quest to find the answer.

He stepped out from his place in the shadow - finding now the best time as any since the man had stopped - and quickly introduced himself in his typical entirely too quiet slurring manner. Having always been told that he was deaf and ergo his volume would typically be too loud, he over-corrected for this and typically spoke in little more than a whisper.

"Hello. I'm Fysen. You're very good at being seen. It's difficult not to be that way with the...how would you say.... The face cover. Could you take it off so we can talk? I'm deaf, and I have to see your lips for you to talk to me." The entirety of this introduction was something Fysen had grown quite used to: people commonly had frivolous collars that impeded his view of the mouths, and his explanation was ellicited eventually, so he had gotten used to the fact the he should include it whenever he first made contact with people. Even if it did annoy him endlessly, it was something that he was, indeed, quite used to.

He gave a brash smile to stranger, anticipating that in this time after the Black Harvest, this traveler may have come here for the same reason he did: to fight the inevitable uprising of undead. Fysen had read about it on a flyer, and decided he had nothing better to do, so why not aid the people, all the while possibly learning something in the process? Fysen's endless appetite for information, no matter how small or large, was part of his endless curiosity, and was a cause for him to find himself in all sorts of incredible predicaments.

Fysen wondered to himself what the man's story was: a masked man in the middle of a ruined city with a brood of chickens following. His staff was equipped with a lantern, something Fysen hadn't thought of, and he admired the ingenuity of it. He took note of how the lantern was attached, and vowed to make an attempt at his own Lantern-Staff when he had the spare time, or the spare coin.
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Aevis
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Zulu did not know what lurked within the shadows, yet at the same time he truly did not care, for those beings that held to them no sense of alignment, those who walked the line of being truly neutral, they were the ones that could be better trusted, better anticipated. Good or evil may attack without regards for whatever existence they stumbled across, yet the neutral rarely, if ever, showed signs of caring. At least, such was the experience which Ga'Zulu had with neutral life. From behind his mask, the witchdoctor's eyes narrowed, focusing upon the man who walked out, almost as if heeding his call, yet Zulu soon learned this to be quite the contrary, for this man sounded and claimed to be death, an obnoxious thing if Zulu wished to commune... Yet for some odd reason the demigod found himself intrigued in what the man may say.

Though it would go unheard to Ga'Zulu's newest of acquaintences, a sigh would pass his lips, his left hand reaching and grabbing the heavy mask with ease, lifting it from his face and placing it upon the staff to rest, almost making it seem as an out-of-season yet still demented-looking Jack-O'-Lantern, the eyes glowing with intimidating force, as well as the mouth. Yet even with how Zulu hugged his pointed-down spear, and the sheer scale of the mask hanging from it, the deaf man would be able to see his pale gray lips.

"It's called a mask." He would say simply, his words soft but clear.
"It's for warding evil things... Or perhaps good..." He would pause for a moment, seeming to mull the concept over. For him, it was merely a sign of his lineage, any special effects it may have were lost to him,
"It does not matter. For you are neither, Fysen." He would utter the words so simply, knowing the pale white aura quite clearly, for currently it was the same as his own, though perhaps his be just a bit darker than the norm. He had so far only encountered note-worthy wicked creatures, and they seemed to have the most fun with this world, yet before the deaf man would get the oppertunity to speak, Zulu would chime in once more.

"Leave your words for the senseless... I know the signs that those without voice or song use to speak." His words, even to a man who could not hear, would surely come through with a chilling tinge. If he were to choose a path of wickedness, he would no doubt turn to be a calculating and vicious enemy of many a people, yet for now he was still walking the line, such as the man before him.

"So tell me, Stranger Fysen, why is it you walk these ancient streets? I know my reason well enough, yet I hardly know you at all." He would utter again, a very simple question to reduce any sort of complexities to the matter at hand. He figured that way he could be better equipt to deal with this man if he proved to be a threat, and if he were as deaf as he sounded, then surely Ga'Zulu's mask would be his greatest weapon.
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Leverit
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Important OOC Note:

When the man mentioned that Fysen was neither, he was struck for a moment. Fysen had always considered himself 'good', but with Ga'zulu's insight came insight of Fysen's own: he really didn't take sides as much as he just did what he found to be the most logical course of action. But how was logic not good? Reason and truth were the only things to be relied on, yet Fysen had a bland aura that spoke of his true morality: neutrality.

The witchdoctor continued on, and surprised Fysen. Had he read Ga'zulu's lips right? He knows the signs of those without voice? Fysen mulled the idea over momentarily, wondering why this person came to such knowledge. He had yet to meet anyone in his travels that could discern meaning from the fluidity of his hands, but finally, a reprieve from the discomfort he felt when stumbling for sounds and the unease that came from knowing his words were horribly spoken, even if understandable.

"I have to ask, where did you learn the signs? It's been a long time since I've gotten to use my hands instead of my defective mouth. But that's neither here nor there. I'm here because I heard of a mass uprising of undead, and I came out of boredom, a desire to do something, and curiosity. What about your reason for being here? And that brood that follows? And what do I call you?"

Fysen was always a man of many questions, though typically he kept a lot of them to himself. When you spoke as Fysen did and asked questions, people often though of you as stupid instead of curious; a misconception to which Fysen loathed ever letting himself fall prey. Now, with someone who understood his true voice - his hands - Fysen was much more comfortable asking all the questions that crossed his mind; a trait that had come to annoy his mother so strongly, as well as any others that fell victim to his incessant inquiries.
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Aevis
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Zulu watched the man's hand movements, saw his words while listening to the distant sounds of battle with the undead, orders being called out back and forth while all sorts of heroes and villains waged war over the undead, one trying to demolish the corpses for good, the other trying to gather up bodies for their own nefarious reasons. It sounded like a mess, to put simply. Paladins having camps set up around the perimeter of the city and the wicked leaders setting up in the old torn buildings of the city, they wanted to be closer to their subjects... No, in truth they had gotten trapped by the Paladins' perimeter and were fighting their way out, trying to balance their defenses and offenses as they were surrounded from all sides, their spellcasters using mental magics to contact allies and forces further out, trying to call them into the fray. It was all a big mess, and perhaps the sides would give up when the undead fell, when the magic of the Black Harvest finally wore out from the undead.

The witchdoctor would let a sigh pass his lips at all of the speechless man's questions. To be bogged down in such a manner, his own questions and wants to be interrupted. For a moment he would not respond, mulling over the idea of simply killing this man and being on his way... Surely his chickens and even the turkey would be more than willing to help him dispatch of this annoyance. However, Zulu decided against it, wanting to see that if simply answering the man's questions would have him leave Ga'Zulu to his own devices at a quicker pace.

"I learned it from a faraway place." He would say, giving an indirect answer, for there were simply some things he did not wish to share with something he did not really know.
"I came here to learn about the flesh-puppets... Both the living and the dead." Of course he referred not only to the undead which the necromancers and death knights controlled through their will and power, but to the living as well, those very same necromancers and death knights, the paladins and the heroes, the warlocks and the villains.

The witchdoctor would turn his attention to his followers, the chicks of various colors and sizes before returning his attention back to his newest acquaintance.
"Is it not obvious? They are my followers." He would say, the chickens making a few clucks, they were clearly smarter than the average chicken, ones to watch out for... Especially Zura and Lor, the sly one and the sneaky one, they often worked together for surprise attacks, and often got Godrick angry, "The followers of Ga'Zulu, son of Ga'Rica." He spoke the name of his father, the god of puppets and manipulation, Ga'Rica, the same father who cast him down to this world so that he may choose a side, being the first son of the being.

"And what of you, Fysen?" Though he asked so plainly, he was wanting to see if such a question returned would unsettle this man, though he highly doubted it. This man, Fsen, seemed to be a rather inquisitive sort, a bit outgoing even if he was deaf, and perhaps to find someone who could understand his hand signs would have only made such traits greater within him... Oh well, Zulu figured that there wasn't much to worry about... At least, not as he watched a stray undead wandering up to the deaf man from behind, Zulu of course saying nothing.
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Fysen resisted the urge to roll his eyes as the man spoke. Vague answers were incredibly irritating to Fysen, and it was an annoyance of his when people answered his questions with statements of the observations that made him ask the question in the first place. He quickly contemplated the idea of simply accepting his answers and politely being on his way, not wanting to deal with literalism the entire night. Fysen had encountered people before that insisted if he asked the right question, he'd get the answer he wanted, but Fysen expected more out of people, and circumstance and assumption should lead people to understand the appropriate answer to questions.

The only reason Fysen stayed, however, was that this man seemed to be an asset. With a brood of 'followers' and an extra pair of hands, as well as a seemingly peculiar mindset - wearing a strange mask and calling chickens 'followers' as evidence to this - that would perhaps be able to aid Fysen in gleaning as many perspectives and facts about the situation that was his reason for being here.

Fysen furrowed his brows at the man's last question, however. He had already answered why it was he was here. Ga'zulu had already spoken of Fysen's morality, though, so it was possible that the man could sense things even Fysen couldn't. In fact, it seemed to be likely, which begged the question, why was Fysen here? The simple answer was just that: simple. But what was the underlying reason? Why this instead of a nice walk along a desolate shore?

Unfortunately, Fysen's chance to contemplate a deeper meaning to his presence in these ancients ruins was cut short, as a pair of cold, foul smelling hands wrapped around his neck from behind. For a moment, Fysen paniced, spinning around to face his combatant. Much to Fysen's dismay, the spin wasn't enough to loose the hands that were around his neck, not having been fully closed around it. The undead, as Fysen now saw that it was, took this as a signal to tighten his grip, and began strangulating Fysen.

Stoicism and survival washed over him in that instant, his Fysen instantly started calculating battle strategies. He had foolishly left his quarterstaff leaned up against the wall where he had been standing in the shadows. His usual strategy of trip and bash was ergo an impossibility in this moment. He could wait for Ga'zulu to help, though by the very fact that he was in this situation in the first place probably meant that he had seen the undead coming and simply decided to pretend as if nothing were wrong, allowing Fysen to fall prey to this attack. Running out of time as his body screamed for air, Fysen suddenly collapsed. With a loud thud, he hit the ground, his body limp, his chest failing to rise and fall with breath.

The undead had fallen on top of Fysen, but failing to feel his chest rise and fall, even the mindless undead knew his victim was dead, so it slowly got up and started staggering away, looking for it's next prey. Feeling the direction the monster was going, Fysen knew he was out of its line of sight, so he took a slow, quiet breath and quickly formed his hands into arcane shapes, twisting the mana in his body and harnessing it in his hands. Quickly jumping up, he struck the back of the Undead's head with the palm of his hand and released his heal spell, hoping it'd be enough to phase the beast into some sort of submission or retreat.
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Aevis
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True it was that the godling cared little for the stranger he had met in the decayed city, the city filled mostly with the soulless, the mindless wandering husks of the long dead. His interests lied primarily in his own research, hisstudiesinto why people did certain things and how they might be manipulated. He wanted to make the puppets dance like hisfather did, to see astory for the ages unfold before hisvey eyes, crafted of hisown words and intrusions into the lives of so many. Never let it be said that he was not truly the son of Ga'Rica, a god of manipulation and craft of puppets. Few knew theexistence of thye god.,.. fewer yet knew his name andfewer still knew that he had a son. A son called planetouoched. A son named Ga'Zulu.

The witchdoctor would do nothing but watch as the deaf man learned of the zombie, its hands wrapped around his neck in its sluggish and boorish attempt at an attack. The gray-skinned man even went so far as to stop his feather fowl followers from attacking the undead, wanting to see if this man could handle himself under such a situation. For a moment it looked as if the man might actually be dead, breath going quickly after his failed escape, yet Zulu knew full well just what this must be. To his pale lips came a smile as Fysen fell to the ground, appearing dead, but it was quite impossible. A coincidence that he would die mysteriously at that exact time? Before the zombie's bite dug into his flesh and corrupted his blood with whatever diseases it might be carrying? Surely not! And as Zulu had expected with the corpse shambled to its feet, seeing another source of food nearby and beginning its shamble to the un-phased witchdoctor, the zombie fell from a healing blow to the back of its head. It was something which would only last a moment, though, the corpse having no mind to retreat, only a hunger which burned within its thinned stomach as it forced its way back to its feet, turning to face the deaf man as it groaned, wanting to taste of his flesh... It would come to no satisfaction, however, as a spear-point would erupt from its forehead, covered in black goo, the aged and disgusting blood of the beast, before it crumbled to the ground, a shaft potruding from its head, leading to a pale set of five digits, each as scrawny as the hand theywere attached to. And beyond the hand, upon the shaft, would be a lantern, dangling from the motion of killing the undead, swaying to and fro, casting its light, shifting upon the darkness.The owner would rise his attention to the deaf acquaintence, mask in left hand for his almost undead looking young face to be in full sight.

Ga'Zulu would look to Fysen with a smile upon his face, his lips mouthing words though no sound would come, enough for Fysen to read clearly, "So that's how you've survived so far?" For Ga'Zulu it was nothing more than an answer to an unspoken question he had wondered about since setting sight upon this deaf wanderer.
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Fysen watched in amazement with the ease with which this witchdoctor put the undead in his place. He hadn't realized that Ga'zulu's staff was really a spear, so the puncturing of the undead's head was a pleasant surprise to him. Almost as much as Ga'zulu helping at all was.

"Quick wit and dumb luck, yes. It's gotten me by so far. You could've said something, you know."

Most people just asked how Fysen managed to not get trampled, and while he realized it may have been just for the empirical practice that Ga'zulu let the undead attack, Fysen was a bit miffed at the witchdoctor's hands-on approach to leaning; though, Fysen had to respect the fact that Ga'zulu had accurate information in such high regard that he was willing to risk people's lives. He wasn't the witchdoctor's responsibility, so really, he wasn't worse off for Ga'zulu not warning him, since if they hadn't met, the same circumstances would've likely occurred, except Fysen would've had to have also finished off the undead.

"Are you done making me an experiment, or shall we avoid your studies so this new interest of yours can be further satiated?"

Fysen was much more eager to get to the middle of all this fiasco, where his guard would be kept up and the enemies would be much more blatant. He had gone so far in life trusting whomever he met, and until now, he never had a reason not to. But as many with disabilities unfortunately do, one time was enough to have a significant impact on Fysen. Who knew if he'd ever let his guard down with a stranger again? Not that that was, necessarily, a bad thing....

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"I could have..." Ga'Zulu would admit but nothing about his expression or his movements would show that he cared about this fact. He got the information that he wanted, it was a fun little expirament and no doubt if given the oppertunity he would repeat the process all over again. After all, he barely knew this neutral creature before him, deaf as it was, and as a result had no real reason to actually help him. With a jerking motion the spear-point would be removed from the undead's skull, the spear being turned on its end once more, point down and lantern up with a bit of splattering, just a few dots, of the goo upon the glass of the lantern. Zulu had to admit that he was somewhat entertained by that whole little situation as well as the man's response to his observation, and then there was the following quesion about being used as an expirament...

"Most likely something similar will happen again." The witchdoctor would admit with a bit of a smile to the matter, seeing no real reason to even bother lying by this point. Besides if this man actually chose to try and strike out at him from anger, the witchdoctor was certain that with the aid of his fowl followers, Fysen would not be much of a challenge.

"You haven't answered the original question, though... What brings you to this dead city?" He said, referring to the entirety of the place as its own individual being. After all, what was a city but a living organism when its people walked its streets, kept it alive as the cells kept the body? Constantly growing same as anything else. This was how Ga'Zulu saw things, a teaching from his father, Ga'Rica to the matter. He had it explained to him by the God of Puppetry, that even entire kingdoms could be played as a whole, manipulated sometimes easier than the individual components that they were comprised of. That teaching never left Ga'Zulu's mind, yet it always gave him something to think about...

Why was it that mortal beings could allow themselves to be so easily swept up in the pace of things with all the rest? Especially those that proved themselves to have a strong sense of self, of individuality and their own personal pride. It was an enigma of life, a question which might not have an answer. If a foolish king could be taught to think of a bad idea and act upon it why would his subjects then not argue against his decree? Was it fear? Was it wanting a sense of belonging? Was it utter laziness?

To think of it only brought the witchdoctor more questions on the matter, for it seemed to be a riddle with no one answer. Perhaps it was due to the differant circumstances of each place or maybe it was simply just how things worked, such as fate's workings to group ill fortune into events of threes.

Now it was just giving Zulu what might seem to be a random grin.
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Fysen allowed himself a moment to assess the situation. This ally he had could prove to be as much a liability as he was help. Should the fancy strike him, he'd allow Fysen to be put in harm's way instead of helping. He weighed the pros and cons heavily, attempting to decide if he should even bother with maintaining a relationship with this unpredictable Ga'zulu, and finally decided that he really didn't care one way or another.

"I've already answered that question as well as you've answered mine, so if you'd like a deeper answer, you'll just have to stick around and see for yourself. I'm going to head in to one of these tents and see if I can't find anything out, see if there isn't anything I can't do to try and help somehow."

With that, he simply turned and left, heading deeper into the city, not caring whether or not Ga'zulu would follow. He didn't plan on letting himself get into any situations where he'd need an ally, so the only benefits of having Ga'zulu around were ruled out. The cons were also ruled out, since Fysen did just fine on his own any other time, so he didn't need help, per se.

Finally, after a few minutes of walking and inner contemplation of the decision he made, Fysen reached a tent coloured a deep crimson. Though he hadn't bothered to look behind him, he wouldn't have been surprised if Ga'zulu was following him to take more notes on his survival techniques; however, that didn't matter now. Pushing open the entrance to the large tent, Fysen spoke in his shrill voice.

"Hello? I'm here about the undead. Can someone help?"

An incredibly tall man in a long, black robe turned to look Fysen up and down, his bony fingers writhing around their counterparts as he assessed the man that was now before him.

"Help? Oh my, what a preposterous notion! My child, have you any inclination whose tent you stumbled into? I think you may have run out of luck, you deaf little halfling. And don't look so surprised. The cards told me you'd be coming. But where's that man they mentioned? Oh well, the cards can't always be 100% accurate."

The lithe figure quickly strode over to Fysen's spot, the back of a cold hand reaching up to slowly caress his cheek. It was then that Fysen noticed a bluish tint to the man's skin, and pulled back slightly. Laughing quietly, the man went back to a small table with a map sprawled out over it, and cards taking up the only spaces that were left.

"Tell me, Fysen. Why are you here?"
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Ga'Zulu chuckled to himself a bit at the deaf man's response. Was the witchdoctor truly supposed to believe that this man was here because of dumb luck? No. This man, Fysen, seemed to be smarter than to simply be caught up in the flow of the world and taken to such a place in the midst of a small-scale war. Maybe it was random fate that the witchdoctor meet this man in these ruins, maybe it was the interference of Ga'Rica, it didn't matter because Zulu had nothing better to do. Besides, at this rate the deaf man might do more than just play dead, he might actually get himself killed and Ga'Zulu couldn't allow for that to happen until after he got his answer.

Maybe Zulu was only so inquisitive in this situation because he was being forced to pick some side or another in this world before he could have his powers returned to him. Maybe it was simply the way which Ga'Rica had chosen to make him for his own entertainment. Either way it was a part of the witchdoctor's personality, his being and as a result he saw no reason to change it. Perhaps he could if he actually tried but then that might make things just a bit less interesting. Even in this moment he found himself and his fowl followers following after the deaf man. With each step his mask and lantern swayed upon the end of his spear like some horrific jack-o'-lantern.

All of his motions would come to a stop as his gaze set upon a particular camp, its tents red as blood. Quickly the nature of this base became clear to him, for the camps of heroes were much more rag-tag this deep into the undead-infested city. Paladins and official aid kept their camps on the perimeter of the city for strategic purposes while the more wicked made themselves at home closer to the heart of the city, of the madness. Ga'Zulu didn't feel worried about this place, though. It seemed as if most of the soldiers and sorcerers were out through the ruins fighting with their heroic counterparts. A few people in robes wandered from tent to tent, others in rags. Studious warlocks and slaves, no doubt. It was almost like the camp where he had been staying except with red tents instead of black.

The witchdoctor smiled to himself at the sight before him, his attention returning momentarily to the deaf man who seemed to be having an interaction with some sort of undead man. Perhaps a lord of necrotic magics or a warlock who sold his soul a few too many time. With a few more steps down the road, Zulu could see into the man's tent where cards lay upon a table; possibly tarot cards. He smiled to himself, considering that it might just be the physical illusion of some warlock about to have a new test subject but did nothing to stop the event. Instead he stood a few yards off, slowly placing his large mask back upon his head as he watched the scene unfold alongside his chickens and turkey.
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Fysen felt a flush of heat creep over his face, incredibly annoyed to see this question asked again.

"It doesn't matter. Maybe nothing, if your cards didn't tell you so. All that matters is that I'm here. Past that is speculation."

The man chuckled, and quickly turned away from Fysen, continuing his speech as he did so, failing to remember that Fysen would be unable to read his lips.

"Well, it would seem that you've come at quite the perfect time, Fysen. For it just so happens that there's a certain problem I'm having, and I need the assistance of someone a little more...capable...than I am. If you chose to help me, I can give you compensation."

The man had been rifling through a large cabinet that held many, many staves, and had selected one by this point, turning back to Fysen.

"If you take this, you'll find that the problem will become much easier to...handle, shall we say? It's one of my favorites, personally, but I'd be willing to part with it if you take care of this issue for me. You see, there's a certain person on the outskirts of town that is trying to destroy my research, and I find that his attempts are slowly gaining efficiency. It's just a matter of time before they're legitimately worrisome, and possibly eventually successful. You'll find him a lone tent, to the south of here. There will undoubtedly be undead caged near the tent, too. He's a legendary necromancer, and is the cause for all this commotion. Killing him will end his reign of terror on these runes, and I'll be free to research what I want. As payment for this simple task, I'll let you keep this staff. It contains the spirit of an icy serpent, forever trapped by its own guile. When tapped twice on the ground, the serpent will be released, but only for a while, and under your control. Spanning exactly thirty feet from head to tail, it's quite capable of making strikes at those nearby. Its tail is trapped to the staff, however, so it can't leave your side. It's quite a generous reward, all things considered."

Fysen eyed the staff warily, admiring it's curves and the serpentine shaped engraved along its length. This simple task would earn him this reward? Fysen could hardly resist, and surely was justified in killing someone who was causing such panic and, more importantly, interfering with the research of an academic.

"I'll do it."

The man handed Fysen the staff, a small smirk still crossing his face. Had Fysen realized that all he spewed were lies, and that this man, in fact, was a legendary necromancer looking to kill a saintly warrior that swore to stop his horrifying acts, he might have acted differently, but Fysen was still angry at the incessant questioning of his purpose there, so he was more worried about proving himself than he was about discerning truth. Ah, well, c'est la vie.
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Aevis
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Ga'Zulu simply waited outside of the tent for a moment, listening in on the conversation. Speak of cards and of needing help to deal with a legendary necromancer. The Witchdoctor saw something different in his words, though. Something that could be so easily missed by Fysen. A necromancer, even those that were without legend, were fearsome casters, no so easily bested by a staff that contained a magical spirit. The only way to kill a legendary anything was by luck or by being a legend in one's own right; however Fysen was no such thing. The staff was a delivery and the tent was a stage, the warlock a conman and the deaf man was the mark. Again, the witchdoctor smiled to himself, moving to the enterance of the tent after the deaf man had left.

"Interesting." Was the only word that passed the pale-skinned witchdoctor's lips as he looked to the dark man, seeing a clear smile on the hooded man's own pale face. He didn't care to know how the man knew that Ga'Zulu had been speaking to Fysen only moments earlier. It could have been through scrying or through spying, it didn't matter. They didn't need to say anything to each other, Zulu wanted to see just how the situation might play out for the poor deaf man. Maybe Fysen would live, maybe he would die. Maybe whoever he was supposed to go and meet with that staff would simply sit him down and have dinner. It was how things unfolded that interested Zulu the most.

The witchdoctor did nothing to hide the fact that he was following the deaf man; he didn't tell his fowl followers to stay where they were, he didn't douse the light of his lantern, he simply followed in the footsteps of his deaf counterpart. He was more interested in observation, to seeing if Fysen's own nature proved to be more useful than it might appear. There was only one way to know and that was through observation. Perhaps if things turned out for the worst for the poor deaf man Zulu would even go so far as to help him in a time of need. Again, there was no telling so early on, there was just making sure to not get caught up in whatever mess was happening, If the cloaked man were telling the truth, it would only serve to make things as interesting as if he were lying through his teeth.

Beneath his mighty tribal mask, the young plane-touched was grinning from ear to ear, imagining many situations playing out. In some, Fysen died; in others, Zulu died. In most situations somebody ended up dying while others ended rather peacefully. A simple dinner, maybe a light conversation or a party. Ga'Zulu had an active imagination when it ame to such things, something which would turn to be nightmarish for most others if he were to become a being of evil. His mind could turn so easily to highly sadistic and wicked things.
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Leverit
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The light behind Fysen flickered in tempo with his steps as he made his way to the tent he had been instructed to find. He had no doubt it was Ga'zulu, but didn't bother to turn and check. He was happy he was coming to watch. He had something to prove now, and he needed witnesses if it were going to mean anything.

Fysen had made it to the tent without an issue, and quickly found himself snooping around its perimeter in an attempt to discern any useful information. It was fairly large tent, with an easily twenty foot radius. The fabric of the actual tent seemed to be a delicate silk, though it was incredibly battered and frosted from the incessant morning dew freezing on it. There was a short wooden fence around the entire tent, giving the semblance of a yard. In the east portion of this 'yard' were three undead in cages, just as the man that sent Fysen on this quest had foretold.

Lights flickered inside the tent, and Fysen found himself quickly and quietly approaching the relatively small entrance. Peeking inside, he saw a man clad in shining, immaculately kept armour. On his waist hung a mace that seemed to be made out of gold, a soft glow emanating from it. At this point, Fysen knew that an outright assault on the man would end quite poorly, so he simply walked into the tent with no aggression, and spoke.

"Excuse me. I'm lost. I was hired to help, and they told me to come here. Can you help me? And please look at me when you talk. I have to read your lips."

His voice was the usual squealing noise that was almost too quiet to hear. Looking at the man, Fysen saw him smile, and nod.

"You must be deaf. My daughter is, as well. I'm familiar with the reading lips, though I can't use gestures with you, I'm sorry. You speak quite well for a deaf, though I'm sure you already know that. Anyway, I don't know why they sent you here. I'm in no need of assistance, and was actually just about to sit down to a nice cup of tea. Care to join me?"

He motioned to a small table near the back wall of the tent, where a small table was set up with three chairs. Decorated with an ornate cloth cover, the table boasted a large teapot spouting steam. There were places set with teacups on saucers in the three spots. Fysen smiled, nodding happily. If there was one thing he'd have to figure out, it would be how to get this person's trust, and then how to assassinate him. Making his way over to a seat, Fysen began pouring himself a cup of tea, not realizing it may be rude not to wait for the man. He couldn't help it; his mind was preoccupied.
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