Fiachra O'Molloy | 25 | Banshee | Mentions: Gathered members [Indir.] Eden [Indir.] Carcel [Dir.]

The woman in front of him stared up from her crumpled position on the floor, eyes brimming with confusion and terror as she attempted to process what she had just told her. It was a common reaction to finding out that your lover has hired a contract killer to take you out before his wife found out. Her scarlet lips trembled as she tried to form words, her perfectly manicured nails dug into the rug beneath her and it began to scrunch up as she gaped her mouth open and closed like a stranded fish.

Fiachra had discovered the deal regarding the woman before him a week prior, listening to one of his own comrades and picking out the information he was attempting to keep hidden. He had spoken of a wealthy merchant with the dilemma of a pregnant mistress that would tarnish his good name if his wife ever found out, that was enough information for Fiachra to locate the woman. Freesia was her name, a rather pretty name befitting a pretty woman, ignoring the tears and snot that streaked her pretty face at this very moment.

“I suggest you take your things and leave for the docks, take the next ship across the channel and start fresh.” That only served to make the woman begin to cry harder, her large brown eyes glossy with emotion. Fiachra couldn’t help the sigh that left him, moving a hand to push into his front pocket. There wasn’t a hint of empathy on his face, in fact he looked rather annoyed. “Abandonning your life here is better than losing it, now give me my coin and get out of here before you get a dagger to the neck.” He held out his other hand, palm up and waited expectantly. There was a moment of hesitation but eventually Freesia produced three gold coins and placed them into his hand. A satisfying clink of metal was the only thing that made his lips twitch up into something resembling a smile before he turned on his heel and began to walk towards the front door of the inn.

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His evening had been otherwise uneventful, spent swirling a glass of lovely merlot in a glass and casting his eyes over a book he had so carefully plucked from Freesia’s room before departing. It was a classical romance novella, one where the love is doomed but all consuming, a tragedy. Fiachra wasn’t one to read these kinds of things, but it was the only reading material he currently had on his person. He preferred to keep his belongings light when he was out working, which was the majority of the year.

The last week of spring, he would return home to his sister to dote upon her and ensure that she was comfortable enough for him to leave the following week and continue his work. It was fast approaching a year since he had last seen Aoife and in all honesty, what he wanted most in the world was to return home to her this instant. Unfortunately, his life wasn’t a novella and it wouldn’t work out in his favour. He was horrendously behind on his earnings, if he was going to make sure Aoife was comfortable this year he needed to scrounge up more cash and quickly.

It wasn’t until the following morning, as the dawn light slashed through the tiny barred window of his room, that Fiachra found something that might promise a small fortune. The less descriptive the letter he received the more likely the reward for his work was going to be disgustingly big. It took little to no time at all for Fiachra to collect his few things and strap them onto his back, ensuring that the loose shawl and draped fabric was not trapped within the buckles. Locking his small crossbow onto his hip along with his money pouch and dagger, he was set to venture out. The coordinates were close enough, merely a day away. It was perfectly convenient which did raise a small flicker of suspicion but the promise of a large payment outweighed his concern.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

Already Fiachra was narrowing his eyes, the reflection of the sunlight on a nearby stream was strikingly bright and made him wince each time a particularly nasty flash caught his eyes. It had started a few months ago, the morning sun began to give him a headache and he found solace in the dimly lit taverns and starry nights. Whatever it was, it was interfering with his work, he planned to seek out a shaman or a doctor to address the issue but it could wait.

The forest was quiet and it made the hairs all over his body prick, there was something in the air that didn’t feel entirely right. Like there was some heavy presence watching Fiachra as he advanced deeper into the woodland. The coordinates were sending him far into the trees, the shrubs were getting thicker and eventually he couldn’t see over the top of them anymore as he forced his way through the thickets. The sharp twigs caught in his clothes and hair, some leaves becoming lodged in his mop of hair as he stumbled out of a mass of bushes, muttering curses that could make a religious man faint.

Fiachra was briefly distracted by his current issue of looking like a bird’s nest to momentarily forget he was supposed to be looking forwards. His eyes were cast down as he tripped over a stray branch and staggered to collect himself. However, when he stopped moving forwards, he noticed a pair of feet and jolted upright. His hands scrambled for his dagger and he leapt backwards, eyes blown wide with surprise.

The fear that struck him ran dry as he saw who was standing before him. The blonde hair, the impassive look, the aura of the insufferable. Ah, Carcel. A smirk quickly found its way onto his lips as he locked eyes with the taller man, flicking his wrist to twirl his previously prepared dagger around in his long fingers. His eyes cast a wide circle, noting the others now that he had recovered from his uncoordinated surprise. They seemed to be as clueless as him as to why there were a handful of people here, but most especially a young person with a thick fabric wrapped around them made him pause his dagger display. They looked utterly furious and those burning eyes were pointing right between Carcel’s eyes.

“It seems you’ve already managed to piss someone off here, Stretch.” Fiachra wasted no time picking at Carcel, deftly pointing the tip of his dagger from the angered individual and then up to Carcel. He took great pleasure in the look that Carcel was giving him, it only made his smirk grow wider and his murky eyes glow brightly with amusement.

Trees, trees, so many trees. This forest felt like a neverending labyrinth of browns and greens. He had never traveled so far in his life, and definitely not without company.

The birds songs managed to keep him distracted enough from his thoughts as he trudged along through the underbrush.

The letter had been a curiosity that had piqued his interest in a way nothing else had for quite a long time. A simple envelope, sealed by a crimson wax stamp that had made him quirk an eyebrow.

No direct address to him, no sign off from who ever had written and sent it. Yet as he had picked up the delicate paper, carding it open with a simple small blade and slipped out the folded paper within, he somehow knew it was intended for him.

Tadashi wasn't the kind of guy anyone would look at and simply know he was the kind of person with hidden intelligence, in fact, he was the complete opposite. He spent his days traveling from town to town, often with adventurers and other traveling parties, telling tales with half truths mixed through, entertaining those who inhabited the local taverns with his cheap party tricks and singing awfully along with the bards.

Most described him as a complete goofball. No one had ever gotten a completely straight answer from him when asking about his past. He would spin tales of how he once hunted dragons alongside a mighty paladin. Other times, he was a jester for some distant king and queen. Occasionally, he had been a wood carver who once lived deep in the forgotten plains of Dylravh, a swampy marshland most avoided.

Truth being? He didn't have an exciting past. He grew up living a simple life. With loving parents, no siblings, on a small farmstead where he tended livestock and helped to deliver produce to sell in local markets.

As he stood there, paper in hand, his golden eyes narrowed slightly in an expression of thoughtfulness.

Numbers? What were they for...?

The cabin was quiet and scarcely decorated, lit up by the firelight of a single lantern that rested on top of a nearby desk. Scattered along its wooden top were pages upon pages of his sketches, large metal contraptions, emblems, tokens, ancient finds he had collected. Maps, diagrams, notes... All scrawled out, with even some being pegged to a kind of board that rested on the wall above the desk.

A large map was placed at its center, some sketches his own, while other pages were of another origin. Maps he had found or purchased from travelers overtime to create a larger scale view of the world beyond.

He grabbed out the wooden stool before the desk, perching himself at the desk as he tapped a finger thoughtfully over his chin.

"...Too random to be some kind of hidden code... Too long to be a count of something..." He murmured, his brows creasing ever so slightly as his head tilted off to the side.

The glint of the magnifying glass beside the lantern caught his attention, the flickering orange like a beckoning call as he picked it up, twirling it idly.

"...Strange...Very strange..." He whispered, before he froze abruptly. He tilted the glass, seeing the reflection of the map, however distorted.

Red crosses marked along the paper, placements of old ruins, places where he had uncovered artifacts. Some of the pages had numbers on the sides, the ones he had purchased from outside sources.

Long... Irregular... Wait.

His golden gaze flicked back down to the folded paper on the desk before he stood up with such force it knocked his stool back onto the ground.

"THAT'S IT-!" He exclaimed with a giddy, lopsided grin on his face.

It hadn't taken long after that to pinpoint where the co-ordinates were leading him, a place far outside what was mapped upon his own board.

Now, here he was, a many few days later as he closed in on the location. The nights had been long and sleepless.

What were the co-ordinates for?

Was it perhaps a lead on a new artifact?

Or maybe a newly found tomb?

Had anyone else received the same letter he had?

He wasn't left asking for much longer as he finally stumbled upon a dazzling sight indeed. Large pillars of stone, overgrown by moss and vines, yet spectacular all the same.

Hopeful and excited light rushed into his golden eyes as he bounded forward with newfound energy, his gear rustling and clanking loudly with the movement as he started running his hands eagerly over the stones and the symbols etched into the ancient surfaces.

In his haste, he remained completely oblivious to the others who had also gathered, a childlike giddiness radiating from him as he grabbed the satchel that rested over his shoulder and fumbled for the book within, dropping a decent few other items he had deemed necessary to bring along with him. The scratching of pencil against the sheets of paper filled the space as he began to mutter incoherently to himself, his words barely above a whisper as he sat there grinning and giggling like an absolute lunatic.

He had an obsession with ancient artifacts. Runes, objects, anything left behind by the times of old. He had made it a personal mission of his to learn everything he could, documenting every find in detailed paragraphs, recording the placements and visuals in sketches and diagrams.

"...Fascinating-! Truly fascinating...! Such intricate detail... Such care...!! These rocks have been preserved so well...!" He hyped up, giving his hands a quick shake out to ease his nerves. The other items remained in the grass, momentarily forgotten as he scribbled away like a man on a mission.

Carcel Koenig

Demon | 26 | M: Eden {Dir.}, Fiachra {Dir.}, Remy, {Ind.}

Just as Carcel had begun dragging a hand down the length of his face in acute vexation of the horribly boring premise he found himself in, a voice far too familiar for his liking chirped at him. That sweetly spoken barb to Eden’s tone could not be imagined by his ears. Dragging a slow step back and making a point of tilting his head down to the smaller figure as they dished another round of insults at him, his blue gaze levelly but shamelessly appraised the nymph. Still a striking thing, clad in jewelry and clothing that exposed enough to tease both anyone that did and did not know what might have been underneath. If it weren’t for Eden’s mouth in the moment, his mood could have flippantly been swayed in another direction.

“I’m overjoyed to see you, too,” he had replied flatly, blue eyes slowly meeting the green orbs that were narrowed at him. Not that he didn’t deserve the disdain from Eden, and it was Carcel’s own fault for momentarily wishing for a more eventful affair here. “If you wanted my attention, though, you could have said less.” He added, watching the series of minute expressions change on Eden’s face. Amusing. Cute, even.

“Besides,” he began, tilting his head as they had begun to cover themselves and reduce the exposure, much to his own dismay at the lack of temptation. “That’s funny, coming from someone who’s a little more than just acquainted with my abhorrent face and collection of diseases,” he followed with a thin smile, as if he hadn’t said anything that would earn any form of retaliation from the already unhappy nymph.

He knew better than to jest and poke Eden as well, and it wasn’t even his goal to aggravate or further give them any reason to loathe them. There were enough reasons given already. It was a nature he couldn’t help, though. Not now, not then, not ever if his past track records were anything to go by. Although more than what divided them, wasn’t it a bit too cruel a twist of fate for Eden to be here at all? His brows knitted together as he contemplated this. The occasional voice that arose from others here and that were evidently still arriving did not draw his interest or distract him from his thoughts.

Carcel only got so far as to open his mouth to ask about the letter Eden must have received as well before the sound of something scrambling behind him urged Carcel to turn halfway to lock daggered eyes with something utterly despicable. Something that made the blood beneath his skin boil without having to even to register why Fiachra was here. Of all places.

An exceptionally cruel day this one was shaping out to be. But maybe he could settle everything on his list in one day - kill the messenger, dig himself out of the hole he was in with Eden, and take Fiachra’s head and have it mantled above a fireplace. A breathy laugh came from Carcel as his blue eyes widened with the thrill of a predator in the face of its prey's audacity to challenge it. Clamping his hand around the blade tilted toward him and lowering it, unfazed by the cuts his hand sustained and the red discoloration that blossomed in between his fingers, the blond smiled with nothing short of sheer violence sheathed behind it.

“You don’t understand how ecstatic I am to see you, Fiachra,” he said, having completely disregarded the strange little man who had scurried back out of the immediate scene and whatever irrelevant remarks he was making about insignificant rocks. “You’ve always seemed privy to taking the scenic route to your inevitable demise,” he commented, tongue swiping over his lower teeth with the restraint of blood lust he held for this man, taking a looming step closer into the other’s space. “And as much as I’d hate to traumatize some of the spectating faces here, I think I’ll enjoy dismembering you a little too much.” His other hand came out to grasp the back of the darker-haired nuisance’s neck, holding it just tightly enough to express he was both willing and capable of snapping it if he wanted to.

The only reasonable thing that kept him from doing so was Eden’s presence. Did he really want to inadvertently spray the person he regarded with a strange sense of care with blood? That could pose problematic in any future attempts he could make to amend for what he’s already done to Eden. With a growl riding a sharp breath, Carcel abruptly released Fiachra’s neck while the hand holding the dagger’s blade flung it back toward its wielder. “We’re far from finished,” he warned in a deeper tone with a disapproving once over, wiping the blood from his hand dismissively against the dark trousers that covered his thigh, “just consider your mutilation postponed.”

Faelin Kelly | 28 | Wolf | Mentions: Sorscha & Jacques [Indir.] Gathered [Indir.]

The winter had been cruel to all, but this orbit around the sun had been significantly difficult for Faelin. Hardship came hand in hand with the nomadic lifestyle he had adopted, even with his small collection of friends it was a hungry winter. The constant optimistic encouragement from Amara could only soothe so much, once their stomachs had begun to twist in on themselves on the fourth day of no food there was little spoken between the four of them.

Viola and Wyatt were their names, he wasn’t particularly close to the two of them but Amara had spoken great tales of how they were incredible hunters and how it would help them all if they teamed up together for the winter. Amara seemed to know enough people to populate a small country, Faelin often found himself thinking. Wherever they wandered she managed to run into a friend, which was probably the only reason he was still alive. More times than he could recount, the duo had to rely on these friendly faces to ensure their wounds did not become infected or that they had fresh water to drink that day.

Yet, now they sat together. Four forms hunched in on themselves in a small outcrop of a hillock in the woods, the morning dew smelt sweet in the air as Faelin watched patiently. He was always the first to wake up and he never did move until the others blinked their eyes open and joined him. They had a small collection of traps to check, the possibility of a meal made his abdomen squeeze in anticipation. However, there was something else that Faelin was preoccupied with. Settled neatly on the stump of the tree they had felled the night prior to ignite a fire, secured with a small rock, there was a letter.

There was something about this letter that made his skin prickle, in the silence of the early morning forest the parchment felt alive. It was calling to him, beckoning him towards it. He was no fool. If an inanimate object begins to call you forth, it is more than wise to avoid it. Faelin let his eyes drift towards Amara at his side, her face was peaceful but sallow with starvation. Her plump cheeks had sunken in and the protrusion of her bones was evidence enough that she was close to keeling over. This fact combined with his own hunger pains made Faelin rise to his feet and duck out from under the hillock’s cave.

It wasn’t a letter at all, it was a sort of map. A scribbling of numbers and symbols on the paper did cause a wave of confusion as the tall man stood beneath the sycamores. Alone in his thoughts with only the occasional birdsong, he stared at it for what felt like minutes but must have been longer as the sudden touch on his side made him leap out of his skin. He whirled around, dropping the parchment to one hand only to find Amara looking up at him with a smile that was too bright for her starved face.

“What’cha got there?” She mused, bending at the waist to try and read the paper but quickly came back up, expecting an answer.

“I-I’m not sure,” Faelin lifted it, shaking his head as he let his eyes drift over it again before holding it for the woman to see. She narrowed her eyes in thought, humming as she read it over. Almost immediately, Amara piped back up again with conviction.

“It’s coordinates!” She announced proudly, nodding her head. How on earth she had read that and deciphered it before he had was amazing. Faelin looked at her dumbfounded and then back to the map in his hand. Now that she mentioned it, it does look like exactly that and he felt a smidgen stupid for not realising sooner.

“You going to follow it?” She asked suddenly. There was a finality in her words that made Faelin frown, looking at her, Amara had an odd glint in her eye as she waited for his answer.

—--

There had been little time wasted in Amara balling Faelin up in his meager gear and all but kicking him on his way. She seemed excited for something, it was strange. She didn’t mention how odd it was for a letter to show up like this, not to mention following the directions the creepy thing was giving. Alas, Faelin was smitten enough with his companion that he entertained her wishes and agreed to venture out towards the coordinates.

It wasn’t until the sixth day that Faelin arrived at the edge of a woodland, the tall trees whistled in the breeze. It was within these trees that he was supposed to find whatever this map had been leading him to. With each passing day on his journey, he felt as though the string on his chest was yanking him harder and harder to follow the map. Now he was finally here and it was all a little daunting.

On the breeze, there were a tinge of scents. Not enough for him to discern what they were and why his brain seemed to find it important but it set his teeth on edge. Nevertheless, he pushed further into the forest and towards his fate.

The noise of other people reached him before any visual of them did. A sort of strangled noise followed by a voice in protest, that didn’t bode well for this adventure. His steps slowed as he caught sight of heads behind the shrubs in a small clearing. There were so many people here. He felt too big for the space he was occupying and tried to hunch his shoulders further than they already were as he tentatively stepped out towards the people. Amara wanted him here so these people couldn’t be monsters.

He had stepped out directly behind a couple, the man was arching his back in a dramatic fashion and the woman did not look entertained by this display. In his hand, he clutched the letter, crinkling the parchment with the force. He wasn’t sure what he was meant to say to announce his arrival, so all he did was stand behind them and observe in silence.

In front of the man was a letter, it appeared to be identical to his own. It seemed that they had all received the same letter, the same summons to gather here. All Faelin could think about was why? Why had they all been given these cryptid letters and why did every single one of them decide to obey its command?

Fiachra O'Molloy | 25 | Banshee | Mentions: Carcel [Dir.] Gathered [Indir.]

The fact that this man had such little regard for his own body was perhaps the most intimidating thing about Carcel, when you subtracted his lust for violence, of course. Fiachra’s eyes dipped down towards his blade, he had been jesting with it rather than threatening, but clearly Carcel had taken severe offence to his mere existence. The blood ran along the shaft of the knife before steadily dripping onto the grass between them. His grip on the handle had not been strong to begin with, so when Carcel pushed it downwards, Fiachra didn’t give any resistance and let the thing slip out of his grasp. Doubting that the other man would cause such a scene as to murder him where he stood, not with this many eyes. Then again, did he truly care what these people thought of him? Probably not, but he was going to hedge his bets.

Fiachra remained where he was, looking up at Carcel with one eyebrow raised and the other tipped downwards. Presenting the aggressor with a look of blatant judgement at his barbed tongue, keeping it solidly in place as Carcel closed the gap between them. It pulled a stinging smile to his lips as he prepared his own retort, sure to throw in an insult for good measure.

He had danced with Carcel many times, it was never his intention to uproot the other man’s marks, not at all. However, when those marks had pretty pennies to spend on information about said mercenary, who was he to refuse? There were many murderers for hire that had the barrel of their gun aimed at Fiachra’s skull, it was nothing new to him. There was something about Carcel that leeched sickness into the air around him, like a disease, spreading his carnage without a care in the world. Perhaps that was why he enjoyed disturbing his bounties so much.

A bleat of shock came from his chest as Carcel clamped at the back of his neck, the sound was cut off abruptly as he felt the curl of fingers threatening the delicate structures beneath his skin. His eyelids were stretched open as far as he could manage, within his pupils were pinpricks. The threat was clear, as clear as the pressure building where their skin met. He did not lift his hands to attempt removal of the hand, it would be pointless, Carcel was a beast and Fiachra was more of a mouse when it came to raw strength. It would be a fight he would not win. It did not stop the curling of his lips in a sharp grimace, holding himself back from spitting at the other man. His heart was thundering in his chest, but he made no conceited effort to amend their past grievances.

The grasp on his neck was quickly alleviated, leaving Fiachra to curl his spin over and raise his own hand to rub carefully at his neck. He was quietly collecting his breath when Carcel’s words rang through his ears, drawing a staunched laugh from the very back of his throat. Looking up through the portions of his hair that had been dislodged by the scuffle, he grinned widely up at him.

“You’re such a sweet talker,” He began, moving to correct his posture and let the glint in his eyes shimmer in the light, moving his hand up from his neck to push back his hair. Ignoring his blade at his feet in favour of continuing his torment. “I’ll be waiting with bated breath, you do like a little late night rendezvous, if I remember correctly.” He jeered, poking the bear he absolutely should be running away from.

The leering eyes of the other people were simply background fodder, this was much more entertaining than whatever that letter wanted him for. He was aware of the implication, but he knew Carcel understood what he had meant, it was always a midnight ambush that Carcel attempted to best Fiachra. It had never worked, he had always sensed his presence in the forest long before the large man could get his hands on him.

Líadan's layered skirts swirled around her in a storm of red and orange and yellow as she skipped and turned through the village square, her worn boots kicking up dust from the paving stones. Her fiddle rested against the edge of the fountain, having been cast aside several songs ago when her arms began to tire, and instead she lead the gathered crowd in a chorus of a common folk song. As it came to an end, the last few notes echoing in the air, she grinned at the coins that the dispersing crowd passed her way. She'd already played for her bed and board at the town's inn, but extra coins in her bag would never be unwelcome.

Not everyone shared her same good cheer, however. A small group on the outskirts of the square stared at her with narrowed eyes, their glares tracking her path around the fountain as coins were passed into her waiting hands. It was hardly surprising. Líadan had dedicated a quartet of songs to their various failures and misdeeds the previous afternoon, after one of the men had called her performance "needlessly flashy." He was obviously uneducated. Flashy was always needed. She distinctly remembered a particularly inspired verse about how that man had tried to woo a farmer's daughter, only to find himself neck deep in a pile of manure later that same evening. Perhaps that was why his face was still a fascinating shade of red as he scowled. Well. Hopefully he learned a valuable lesson about how to speak to performers.

It took her a moment to decipher the contents. Coordinates? Not to anywhere she recognised, but that only made it all the more enticing. No better place for an adventure - and song material - than entirely new people and places. Besides, it was time for her to skip town. She'd been here long enough - three whole days - and the confines of the square and its buildings had begun to chafe on her mind. Not counting herself, there was nothing of interesting in the area. She'd had to resort to joking about manure to get a rise out of that man. If that wasn't evidence of how dreary the environment was, she didn't know what would be.

Líadan glanced outside, at the afternoon sun starting to tip towards the horizon. There was no point in waiting until morning, another inexorable night in this town would do her no good. She closed her fiddle case, wincing slightly at the light coating of dust it had collected throughout her performance, but decided to leave the task of cleaning and maintaining the instrument to later in the day, wherever and whenever she made camp. Her meagre belongings collected in her bag, she pushed her way out of the inn and set off down the road, waving cheerily at the angry townsfolk from earlier as she passed them by.

Her attention was quickly grabbed, however, by the people. Some of them held letters similar to the one crumpled somewhere in her bag, forgotten about the moment she'd memorised the coordinates. Seemed they'd all received a similar cryptic summons. The intrigue grew thicker.

More interestingly, though, was the tension. As she stepped into the clearing, her eyes were firmly on the two men who seemed to be having themselves an altercation. How brilliantly exciting. The smaller man seemed invested in inciting some sort of problem, his jeering tone evident even from where she listened. Someone to keep her eye on, then. A backup dancer who understood the art of mockery was a rare gift, and one she always treasured for the brief moments she found it.

Her signature grin spread across her face at the third person's interruption. Pretty and psychotic, huh? Sounded like fun. With a skip in her step, Líadan immediately moved towards the group. A quick glance around the gathered group as she walked proved she had made the right choice. No one else seemed nearly as entertaining, especially as the largest man was grabbed by his ear and manhandled, to her visible delight.