[RP Open Thread] In the Shadow of Ulduar

[Jadedinsc]

"Probably a good idea, yes." Folami swirls the liquid in her cup, watching the green liquid dissipate and then gets back to her feet. "I'll see you in the morning."

She gives a little wave and toddles off to her pallet, pulling several furs over her legs before she drinks the potion. Within five minutes, she's out, though it's hard to say if it's the "medicine" or if it's sheer exhaustion.

[Skyspear]

Skyspear's walk in the snow lasts significantly longer than Folami's. He makes several circuits of the building, ostensibly making sure of security, though really, he suspects that nothing made by mortals could keep the Devourer out... and any lesser threats do rather pale beside the Old Gods.

Still, it's an excuse to be alone with his thoughts, something he desperately needs right now. This is my duty, my mission... I am doing the right thing. And I have no cause to regret the end of this existence... so why am I afraid?

The glimpse of Keldris and Folami through the open door, as the last of the few goblin patrons leave the inn, stops him in his tracks. Oh. That.

[Solivar]

The innkeeper was, predictably, the sort who required payment up front and in hard silver rather than Crusade-guaranteed letters of credit. Consequently, Keldris only hired two rooms -- one for himself and Jarrand and Skyspear, if he chose, and one for Folami, whose cold toes he didn't envy not having anyone to share body-heat with no matter how well-filled the braziers were. Or his own, for that matter, as he poked his head into the bachelors' quarters and found Jarrand rather unpredictably asleep in a bedroll on the floor.

"Windspeaker?"

No response, and the slow, even breathing suggested deep sleep -- not unexpected after the physical exertion of the long, cold flight into the Storm Peaks and the change of altitude. Despite the painkillers he'd just applied to his person, his skull continued a long, slow throbbing that started behind his eyes and radiated all the way down his neck, the most annoying, concentration-wrecking of all the symptoms of altitude sickness, and the parts of him that weren't aching as though he'd just run a hundred and fifty miles and then fought two battles were begging for sleep; he didn't doubt that the others were equally tired. Even the death knight, who'd been on edge since Narjun, and whose edges were growing gradually sharper the closer they came to Ulduar. Setting his mug on the chamber's lone table and moving slowly in deference to his head, he fetched the mostly-shapeless mattress from where it lay sadly discarded next to the armor-covered bed frame -- burlap stuffed with straw and, from the smell, probably some sort of mammoth fur -- and laid it out next to the Windspeaker's simple, rather ascetic pallet, spread it with his own bedroll and fur-lined blanket. A few bits more charcoal went in the brazier, his boots went by the door, and the cup he drank once he was all the way under the covers.

It did, as advertised, work fast -- so fast he hadn't quite finished thinking about whether or not he should leave Skyspear room on the pallet before the potion's magic reached up and dragged his eyes closed, pulled him down and away from the blessedly distracting discomfort of his body, hopefully into a place where he wouldn't dream of Mardenholde or anything else.

[Skyspear]

Skyspear will eventually come into the room, but he'll settle down with his back to the door rather than on a pallet. Sleep may be next door to death, in the poets' parlance, but it's rarely a friend to death knights, even without Old Gods lurking. And besides, cuddling up beside the undead isn't the best strategy for staying warm...

[Solivar]

The world flashes white.

[Skyspear]

(Nuuu! Evil!)

Skyspear comes to his feet - or their spiritual equivalent - spitting out a Thalassian oath of eardrum-shattering obscenity. "What now?!"

[Solivar]

Warm -- it's warm.

The breeze is warm -- the warmth of high summer, rich with the scents of sun-kissed earth and sweet flowing water, ripe grass and full leaves. Insects trill and birds sing and, in the near distance, you hear a low, gravelly voice chanting the rising-falling-rising song of the spirits.

Fire crackles -- the smoke of another world's wood rising, bittersweet, aromatic, the scent of incense rising along with the sparks.

Overhead, the sky peeks from between broad branches, many-lobed leaves.

Everything is washed of color, a pale ghost of itself, except for that sky.

High above, stars glitter, clear and cold and bright, white and gold, flickers of red, a scattering of deep blue in a field of deepest, truest black. Every now and again, one of them blinks out and does not reappear.

"You took your damned sweet time about getting here." A low, gravelly voice -- an orc voice.

[Skyspear]

Skyspear whirls toward the voice, the presence of another being more important than any scenery. "I do apologize, but - things - don't exactly ask my leave before yanking me around." The clear implication being that whoever this is hasn't asked either, and Skyspear is getting very tired of the whole business.

[Solivar]

An equally low, gravelly laugh. The orc sits on the far side of the firepit, cross-legged and at his ease, unbent despite his obvious age: sparse white hair tied in thin braid falls over one broad shoulder, the pale brown hands and face are lined and weathered from decades of sun and wind and smiles, the robes he wears are simple hide stitched together with the carved bone and stone ornaments of a spirit-caller, a single, startlingly vivid blood red strand hanging around his neck, the beads the size of a small child's fist and glowing from within. His eyes are black pools from which even the light of fire does not escape.

"What did you expect -- an invitation graven on ivory in the tongue of your forebears, death knight? You're on a mission, not a pleasure journey."

Others sleep in a rough circle around the fire, resting on the simple reed mats and rough-woven blankets favored by the orcs in their wandering, except one. Keldris' head rests pillowed on the ancient orc's thigh, one hand knotted possessively in his short auburn hair.

"And even you have come here of your own choosing, one way other another. I would have it no other way."

[Skyspear]

Skyspear forces himself to relax, not at all convinced this is not an enemy, but knowing it isn't one he can fight with weapons. "You have a point. Though being forced to make a choice is still being forced." He approaches, looking down at the almost affectionate pose of Keldris and Kharfuur. "Is there some particular reason why the others are sleeping?"

[Solivar]

"They need their rest." The ancient, craggy face creases in something resembling an actual smile, a hint of fondness coming and going in the Lord of the Crossroads' borrowed face. "You will all walk soon enough in the Lucid Dream -- I would not have him touch you before you are ready, and in this place he cannot reach you. Yet." He gestures with his free hand. "Sit. We have much to discuss."

[Twinyarrow]

"...Or how or why it is I find myself here?", the Warlock inquires as he approaches the cluster "awakening" to the dream. "You do understand Winterspring's distance, Old one?"

Twinyarrow's moves closer to the orc until he stands beside Skyspear. His shirt is absent and the cold that rolls off him is nearly a match for the deep chill. Yarrow gazes down at the possessive hold the old one bares Keldris in.

"My meditations should not be so casually disrupted, Kharfuur. You better then any know this. Have you found a plaything in my friend? Or are you going to actually be of benefit to he and us in two consecutive visits?"

[Solivar]

"Time and space are what you make of them, puppy," The Lord of the Crossroads replies, genially enough, despite the unnatural breadth and razor-sharp nature of the smile he flashes at Twinyarrow. "Your presence is required, in spirit if not in flesh, if you wish to free your wayward paladin from his durance."

[Skyspear]

Skyspear's eyes widen at the change in expression, even as he tells himself to be wary. Even if he does care for them, that doesn't mean he will not sacrifice them.

He crouches down in front of Kharfuur, perhaps not at his most relaxed, but willing to talk. "...there is at least one topic I have learned better than to bring up, but yes, anything you want to tell me will be welcome."

[Twinyarrow]

Yarrow smarts from his chastisement but does as directed, lowering himself to the "ground", his arms folding. Then sitting cross-legged he speaks.

"Considering we are looking for your brother, Kharfuur... it seems to me you need us as much as we need you. So, I would suggests a bit of courtesy while you lord over us. Now... what do you need or wish to impart?"