Story I: The Rift

Ameera follows the wall of the cavern until she is satisfied that no other entrance has been missed. Whe she returns to the group, the trials of the day seem to have caught up to her. Perhaps touching the living dead is not the healthiest thing to do. She finds a spot amongst the others, "Stir me for a watch anytime, I'll probably be awake anyway." She sits and, hands outstretched in a cupping shape, murmurs "Tkanuw retra eya zubak" Her familiar disappears, seemingly into her hands. As Ameera closes her eyes she recites "Yna has played her tricks on me today, but by her luck I have survived." and she lies down to sleep.

Pyrrah stakes out her vigil silently, the ails of her body more or less gone, but a new one on her mind. The strange dream that had plagued her mind throughout the night held an uncomfortable sense of familiarity. The tugging on her mind and thoughts the same sensation of early yesterday when she had stood alone on the rift, gazing into its depths for the first real time. Throughout the silence, she tries to shake it off. It was just a dream, right? The aftereffects of that strange encounter, or maybe it was Seraph that brought it about, with his strange connection to the mind, or even just her own, warped imagination playing tricks?

Or maybe.... Maybe it was whatever it was that she'd sensed that first morning? Maybe it was coming...

She prayed to whoever or whatever would listen that she was wrong...

Devanis wakes and whispers a prayer of thanks. At his age he has learned that each new day is a gift. He gets up and tests his ankle, and finds it feeling much better. "Good morning! he greets whoever is already awake. He's feeling uncharacteristically chipper. He starts packing up his gear. When he picks Seraph up he recoils at his own reflection in the sword's well-polished blade. I think I might need a shave. Devanis thinks, scratching the beard he's worn for more than 30 years.

Good waking to you, ranger, He pats Devanis on the shoulder. Your talking friend there has seen some things.

Least of which is your grizzled face. Have you tried the braids created for shorter, human beards? They maintain better.

Baric packs up his things to a humming rhythm of the new story he is writing, muttering words about the talking Sword every so often and trying to find a good rhyme for visage.

___

Erran watches as his companions wake from their slumber, ready for what the new day has in store.

"Morning, how's everyone feeling?"

"Good Morning Erran of Clan Escolant, if morning it is." Ameera sits forward and holds her head in both hands. "as for feeling... it seems my wounds are better, but my clothes are still damp, and I slept less soundly than I expected. I had a dream of The Wyrd, specifically a powerful entity that is tied to The Cut, it was the strongest dream yet. He or it wants something from me, in return for what I have been given. I have been given these carrots before." Ameera stands and faces away from the others, extends her arm, quickly spreads her hand out from a fist, and says "Zharr". A large fire appears on the ground in front of her. "Ahh, perhaps I can dry completely!". Ameera spreads her arms, and slowly rotates her body close the fire, letting the warmth soak into her leathers and muscles. After a minute, the fire disappears. "Well, that was disappointingly short."

Pyrrah breaks from her apparent daze, returning from the world of dark, swirling thoughts to focus on the fighter before her. "I'm fine. It looks like I've shivered myself dry in the night..." The dark rings under her eyes show just how poorly she slept curled up on the cold cave floor. She pulls her pack back on and tests her sore muscles. Its only been a day, but were her eyes starting to adjust? Maybe not by much, but she could swear things looked even ever so slightly clearer.

"Maybe I'm being paranoid, but keep tabs on your mental states right now. I felt something strange tugging at my mind before we entered the rift, and then again during the night. I'm hoping it was just a dream, but..."

She might be a wyrden, but even she had a distaste for telepathy magic. The mind was a private place. It was one thing to manipulate it with words; that was like convincing a man to unlock his own vault for you to pick through at your leisure. Magic was like ignoring the lock, the man, and the door and simply phasing through it. There was no art, no meticulous method. It was wrong, even for a vetted intelligence-seeker such as herself.

Devanis only shrugs at Pyrrah's warning. To Baric he responds, "I don't know. For some strange reason I suddenly find beards ghastly - no offense! I don't know why I've kept mine for so long." Devanis has never owned a razor he wonders if his dagger will do the job.

Baric narrows his eyes, looks at the Ranger quizzically, and tugs at his beard disapprovingly.

Turning to the rest of the party he inquires, Onward, right? Not upward?