Of wandering suns and pale moons

[Sybil Malach]

30th of Ashan, Nightfall

A city of stone and mortar sprawls on for miles. It was never ending. Cobblestone streets sprawl like spiderwebs. Buildings sprout from the ground like plants tended to by manic gardeners. There were walls in this city, dividing it into endless inner states of itself. But there was no end. It was logical. There were tailors shops, butcheries, bakeries, and even civic buildings dedicated to the purposes of government. But in sheer magnitude, it simply made no sense. Nothing could continue into eternity the same way this place did. This city, which lacked even a name, implied a population perhaps even greater than the whole of Idalos. Only fitting if one could add the members of the land that have been long since dead.

Sibyl was running from something, in this endless place.

Bare feet padding against the ground, Sibyl gasped out, as the dreamers stumbled out onto the street from a nearby tavern. Eyes widened, wild, Sibyl attempts to glance around the perpetual twilight of the city. Hanging lanterns on the sides of these wooden and stone buildings cast shadows upon the streets themselves. It was hard to see. But Sibyl ran. It didn't matter what direction. Darting down the cobblestone street, with the pattering of feet audible, let alone the gasps for air, for a moment, it seems that Sibyl is running from nothing.

Emerging from the tavern from which the dreamer ran from, is a squadron of hooded figures. They wore long robes, with a hood that ended in a bell. Their colors were orange, with deep, scarlet embroidery upon their sleeves and cavernous hoods. Featureless masks of flesh pulse, spreading into the fabric's seams, hiding their faces. They were silent. In a single group, four bore torches, and four bore bludgeoning weapons crudely hammered from farming equipment. And a single member of this mob, bearing a long pole, with a collar at the end of it, with spikes within the center. There was no rush to the group of people's movements. They walked along, in a constant, slow pace. Taking their time, with an unspoken confidence in the submission of their prey. It was clear that, in the end, Sibyl would be caught, or so they convinced themselves.

Darting through an alleyway between a barber and a woodcarver's shop, Sibyl's eyes glance to the side. The wooden doors slam open, revealing more of the ever approaching horde of these silent hunters. None of them ran, but one that was close to Sibyl reached out with the pole-collar, attempting to snag the dreamer's neck with it. With eyes wide, Sibyl barely manages to tumble forward, the dreamer desperately kicking with legs to keep moving, as Sibyl sloppily clambers back into a confused half-run.

A grand promenade introduced itself to the dreamer. It caused Sibyl to pause. A swallow. It was a grand cathedral of glorious stone. Stained glass which glowed with a dim shade. Eyes quickly glance upon the city's streets. Sibyl was running to the building, not stopping. More of these hooded abominations were beginning to leave their houses. Passing through the center of the cobblestone square, something erupts from the ground, cracking the stone wide, as it protrudes. A simple, wooden post. With straps, and blackened with the clear signs of burning. Eyes wide, Sibyl stumbles, nearly falling from a mixture of pain, and shock. A scream leaves the dreamer's lips, once Sibyl's eyes finally look back, to the alley in which a narrow escape was had.

There were thousands. The torches were a grand sign of impending death.

They walked amidst the twilight. Sibyl was at the pyre, where they wanted the dreamer to end up, eventually. It was only a matter of time.

They were formed around Sibyl in a semi circle. Approaching. Walking. Sibyl looked to the grand cathedral, easily standing dozens of stories high, illuminated from within. Eyes finally landing on the tall, double-doors. A sinking dread sinking in upon the dreamer. A deep breath, and Sibyl sprints through the doors, bashing through with a shoulder. Unneeded. Not smart. But it got it open quick, eyes gazing through the dim interior. Pews lined the main chamber of the cathedral itself. The room was structured like a grand lecture hall, or a theater for music. Pews surrounded a single platform. The walls were high vaulted, to allow the carrying of voice. Glorious stained glass windows dyed the room a deep crimson and orange.

Sibyl presses up against the door, slamming it shut, eyes glancing, desperately, for a way out. Or at least... Some way to delay the inevitable.

[Varthakh]

No... No no no no no. "GODS, NO!" Fridgar bellowed as the Soraanar dawned upon him again. Fridgar had gone for a night out in the great city. And when he had finally sat down for a drink, he realized that the bartender was a Duskwraith, the same Duskwraith that had tried to petrify him in the north. Fridgar had fallen back by the sheer terror of being face to face with the powerful spirit again. He was laying on the floor, on his back, trying to crawl away from those piercing red eyes as they floated toward him. All the other patrons of the tavern were laughing, knocking back their drinks with joyous cheers. Some were even arm wrestling, paying no mind to Fridgar's struggle. "FUCK OFF YOU FLOATY PRICK!"

At once, all the laughing and cheering of the people in the bar warped and twisted before eventually fading into silence. All the lights of the room dimmed and disappeared leaving Fridgar in the dark with this monster, alone.

Speak nothing. Scream nothing.

It said again, in the exact same voice it had said before. No, Fridgar was having none of this. he promptly rolled onto his front and broke into a sprint. The spirit gave chase and followed after him as he burst through the door with enough force to rip it from its hinges and knock it to the floor. Outside, he was in Uthaldria, but it was empty, old decrepit. The city looked abandoned with houses left untended to, slowly being reclaimed by creeping vines. The roads were left in disrepair and were rickety and broken, twisting and spiraling into places he'd never seen before. The shrill, breathless screech of the spirit behind him flung him into a full-blown panic, and, like prey that had heard the hunter's horn, Fridgar bolted down the street, which seemed to stretch for an eternity ahead of him. A glance over his shoulder revealed the Soranaar's boney, clawed hand reaching for him. Fridgar screamed.

When he looked back ahead of him, he was face to face with a wall, an alleyway with incredibly high stone walls. Stone walls that surrounded him on all sides and boxed him in. They began to suffocate him, breathing was hard with such little space. Worse yet, they were closing in on him, growing narrower and narrower. Fridgar pressed his hands into the walls, trying to stop them from crushing him. While he was incredibly strong, he couldn't hold off the advancement of the walls and his body began to fold against the strength of the walls. It was futile, so he stopped and turned to run out of the alley... But stood at the entrance was the Soraanar. Fridgar backed up again and pressed his back against the wall. "THETROS TAKE ME!" He pleaded to the dark sky while the walls closed around him. "Not like this, not like this..." He began to breath ragged and quick as the air grew thinner and thinner. He was suffocating in this tiny space with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

He shut his eyes, begging to wake up. It was too much, it was too real. He needed to escape, he needed to be free. He needed to breathe.

Open them.

The Soranaar's voice said again in that cold, dry whisper. And when he did, he was hurtling through a mural of stained orange and red glass. Fridgar burst into the cathedral and rolled across the floor as the shattered pieces of glass scattered across the red fabric of the carpet. He didn't know where he was, but he was grateful not to be trapped in the alleyway anymore. "Parise be to Ilaren!" he said, throwing his hands up into the air in a triumphant cheer. He was still indoors, something that made them incredibly uncomfortable, but it was far better than an alleyway, miles better. He still couldn't breathe properly, he needed air. He rose to his feet and looked around the room before setting eyes on the front door, where a woman was holding it shut, trying to stop him from getting out?

"Move it, small woman, I'm getting out of here!" he demanded, then looked over his shoulder to the mural, which was still intact, as though he'd never burst through it. The Soraanar was back there somewhere, he wasn't about to wait for it to come back. "Actually, bogs to that, we're both getting out of here," was all he said before he marched toward the woman with intent.

[Sybil Malach]

Fridgar could see something primal in Sibyl's eyes. Genuine terror. With a scream that rivalled a raccoon being cornered, a wailing babe, the dreamer presses up against the door. Body shaking, Sibyl was surrounded. There was no escape. The cathedral had stairs, but it was on the other side of Fridgar. And the church square outside wasn't safe enough. It was clear, that there was nowhere to go, but through the man. Even as he spoke calming words, he could feel the sheer terror burning into his skin from the look Sibyl was giving him. The rise and fall of the chest quickening. Breaths becoming more and more shallow.

"N-no! Don't! They're still out there, if you--"

Sibyl tries to warn Fridgar. Of the utter and complete end of all things just out the door. But just as the lips almost get to the point, something happens. The splintering of wood echoes throughout the cathedral's high vaulted walls. Sibyl's eyes widen, going sidelong. And in one, horrific moment, something is poked through a hole in the door. It was a semi-circle of iron, attached to a pole. And it clamped shut around Sibyl's throat. Fitting like a collar, it's clear what this device was intended to be used as. It was a means of capturing prey. Sibyl's hands try to, desperately, grasp at the collar, as thought the dreamer's small, weak hands could have had any effect upon what was all but fated to happen. Hands of that strength could not bend flesh, let alone the strength of iron.

"--Run! They'll take you to the pyre! Don't stop running! Just keep going!"

Sibyl was prepared. These hooded men were going to drag the dreamer to be burned at the stake. For why, the dreamer simply did not know. Either as sacrifice, or penance for some unknown sin... It did not matter now, as Sibyl is pulled against the door with the sheer force behind the polearm. Sibyl's body is pressed against the door itself. The sheer force behind the hand behind it enough to make the dreamer gag, and lose breath. It's clear by the splintering of wood alone, that the intent was to pull the dreamer through the resulting hole. Sibyl's neck is the first thing through the hole, pulled backwards, and nearly snapping from the sheer pressure behind the pull, the dreamer could only fan out its arms, and grasp at the door itself. The opening was small enough that this was a possibility... But the force behind the contraption forced the dreamer between two issues. Sibyl's neck would snap in half, if it kept resisting like this. Death was becoming ever, and ever certain for the dreamer.

Through the hole itself, Fridgar could see the depth of his new situation. While the flailing of the 'small woman' definitely hampered his view, it was hard to ignore what was on the other side. Endless figures, dyed in the glorious hue of twilight. Most bore torches. Others bore crude instruments of war, dulled down with the purposeful intent to cause blunt trauma to capture, rather than kill. Shadows began to surround the very first row of stained glass. The jingling of bells could be heard with each figure's movements. This place was absolutely surrounded. Figures simply swirled around the periphery, never truly entering this place, but ever present. They did not care that the bells upon their hoods gave away their presence. It was like a tropical hunter being dyed a glorious hue, having no need to blend into its environment. Its prey would, simply, be caught due to its prowess upon these lands. But one thing stood out to Fridgar, above all else. The masks they wore, were made of a smooth, fleshy material. Something that spread upon the fabric itself, weaving into the very threads themselves.

Forced back, another shriek is elicited from Sybil, the dreamer getting caught by the shoulders through the hole itself.

[Varthakh]

As he approached the woman, the sound of splintering wood echoed through the cathedral. Fridgar hesitated and stopped in his tracks. He looked upon her with a raised brow, then wide eyes as the strange contraption ripped through the wooden surface and snared her neck in a band of iron. "What in Thetros' name!?" The Protean barked, then rushed toward the door in a panic. What on idalos was going on? As they closed in, it became apparent that removing this device would not be so easy. Two prongs pointed inward toward her throat, likely meant for ripping up her jugular if she resisted or tried to break away. "Dammit..." Fridgar said under his breath with a growl, "dammit all!"

A glance through the hole revealed rows and rows of the same figure, with strange and alien features. They had no features, they were faceless beneath the cave-like hoods that they wore. What is more, the hoods seemed to connect to the flesh of their faces, as though the hood was part of their bodies. Fridgar furrowed his brow. "That's fucked up," they said before looking back to Sibyl. Right! She was being choked out against the door. He couldn't break her out from there, so he'd have to go outside to sort them out. But as soon as he resolved to do so, another snare-like iron band burst through the door and dove straight for his neck. This wasn't Fridgar's nightmare, though, this was the woman's. The Lothar weaved to the side and gripped the device by the wooden pole. Then, with one swift application of their incredible strength, the polearm snapped and splintered. Fridgar had a weapon.

They rolled their shoulders then let go of their hold on their emotions. Anger began to boil within them as they watched the girl be strangled, adrenaline began to course through their veins while they sized up a fight against a whole city of freaky cultists. They didn't so much see the symbolism of the attack, they only saw a poor girl in need of help. So, with an angry exhale, Fridgar stormed toward the door and booted it with such immense force that it broke from its hinges and even flew a few feet from the frame. It crushed any and all that had been stood behind it with both its weight and the force of Fridgar's strike. "HAVE AT YOU, HOODED FUCKS!" The Gauthrien Warlord bellowed. Of course, Fridgar was a Gauthrien warlord, how could he forget?

Plate armor of deep black began to build itself on his form with a minor sheen of deep purple. It was plate Terrendyte, the strongest and heaviest material known to the Lotharro. Once he was fully adorned, he reached behind his back and drew his enormous two-handed Terrendyte broad axe. He tossed the broken snare aside, then stepped out onto the door. At once, the hooded figures swung at him with their blunted weapons of horror. Fridgar bat it aside with his quick reflexes and god-like strength. Merciless and unrelenting, he took a step toward them then swung his ax overhead. A sickening crack rang out as he severed the arms of the one who was pulling on the snare. At once, the girl would be relieved of the pressure and she would be allowed to breathe again. One disadvantage of the Terrendyte was that Fridgar was far slower while adorned in this heavy plate, but it didn't matter. One of their strikes came in from the side and clunked against his helmet without leaving a scratch. Wrapped up in this much Terrendyte, he was virtually invincible, and he felt like it too.

They reached to their side without looking and gripped the creature by the throat. They couldn't see due to their visor, but Fridgar had willed it so subconsciously. He lifted the figure off the floor and turned to face the steps of the Cathedral, then threw the man he'd grabbed into the masses. Like a bowling ball through pins, it mowed its allies with its broken body. Fridgar threw his upper half forward and roared with vicious, blood-curdling fury. He was drawing closer and closer to a Lotharen blood rage he could feel his own heart beating faster and faster, adrenaline making his limbs quake. Still, though, he took a step backward and entered the cathedral again, blocking the entrance with the wall-like formation that was his armored body. He drew his sword, then offered the handle to her. "Fight with me if you want to live," he said, a wicked and excited grin parting his lips beneath his helmet.

[Sybil Malach]

With one sickening crack, Sibyl was freed from the choking grasp of the witch's collar. Though freed, perhaps, is too strong of a word. The collar still remained upon the dreamer's throat, it was simply no longer strangling Sibyl to an inch of life, without a pole connected, and the assaulter dealt with properly. Sibyl slumps onto the ground, as Fridgar begins to bellow out his overbearing prowess. Truly, the man's noise was comforting to the dreamer, surrounded by nothing by the ringing of the bells of these hooded men of profane faith. Sibyl attempts to backpedal, once Fridgar has assumed control of the situation. Bellowing, slamming the door from its very hinges. It's happening too fast for the dreamer to focus, the man nearly a blur from the adrenaline the small waif is pulsing, the blush rushing almost audibly behind the eyes, as the man all but became a warlord, before the dreamer's eyes. Memories clicking into place, shifting, altering, within the dreamer. This fragment of Sibyl was not going to be awakened soon, and it saw to that, through any means necessary. To the dreamer, there was no transformation. Fridgar had simply, been clad in armor since the beginning. Had been this utter warlord among men, since the very beginning.

Breaking open the door was something of a revelation in on itself. The sheer amount of these cultists were immense. Truly, the feverish dream was utterly laced with some sort of manic fear. But of what? Fridgar could see the cobblestone square laid out before him. He was in a city, he could tell as much. But the architecture hinted, to perhaps, Rharne? A mixture of stone and wood, with clear differences between the statuses of owners. The purplish orange hue of the reigning twilight covered everything in a distinct half light, shadows reigning deeply within their almost brilliant hue. The square itself was lined with statues. Depictions of self sacrifice. Headless statues holding their own heads, and men in chains, willfully dipping their heads. And finally, a prominent post raises from the center of the square itself. It becomes obvious, within moments, what they had planned to do with either living subject. Irons were latched to the pyre, and it was blackened with repeated burnings. Fridgar could still see the blackened bones of a recent victim, the embers still stirring within the ashen corpse itself. He was utterly, and completely faced with an entire city, wielding torches. Even as he severed one of the attacker's arms, there was not a scream, only the ringing of the bell from the top of its hood. And a distant gurgling of the flesh mask it wore.

Even as he killed the beings with the collars, it was clear that only the two made their approaches. Sliding his blade into their necks, a hissing of heat left through the gashes, as they crumpled to the ground, unable to hold onto their form. Yet, even as he had done as such, the corpses twitched, stirred. Death had not come for the cultists who went through such a fatal wound. It served to hinder them, but never quite delving into truly killing them. As the body is tossed into the crowd, indeed, they fail to react in time. The sickening crunch of bone and paper thin skin can be heard, as the body slams against a line of cultists, making them fall into a misshapen heap. The only noise leaving them, however, is the distant ringing of the bells attached to their hoods. How could such creatures be so resistant to pain? Could they not scream?

Sibyl could only stare in utter disbelief. In utter awe, as Fridgar hands the dreamer the hilt of a blade. It takes a while for the dreamer to be able to even acknowledge his words, just shocked by what had just transpired. He had, in one fell swoop, changed the entire ordeal from a desperate struggle against fate, to something that was... Able to be fought against. Sibyl swallowed hard, as the dreamer was offered the blade. Glancing between him, and the standing crowd, it was clear that there was no other way. There was no reasoning with these people. There would be no negotiations, no pacts, and absolutely no quarter. Grasping onto the hilt, with both hands, it was almost hilariously bad, on how Sibyl attempted to hold the blade. There was an awkwardness to the grip itself, let alone the completely wrong stance, let alone the waver on the blade itself due to a less than optimal strength to even wield the thing. It was like Sibyl's doubts itself weighted the blade down. An uncertain glance is given to the warlord, Sibyl shaking, as he blocked the door.

"What are they doing?" Sibyl asks, riding the survivalist adrenaline high, eyes glancing to the side, "They should have been upon us by now."

Indeed. And Fridgar was given a clear view on what exactly this crowd was doing. Or rather, peculiarly, what they simply were not doing. The crowd, emblazoned by more than half of its members carrying torches, simply stood. Watching the man and his new compatriot. It seems, that so long as they remain in this cathedral, they would not enter. But they surrounded this place, completely, and utterly. Fridgar could see figures lining the stained glass from the other side. Even the circle in the streets seemed to stretch around the church itself.

[Varthakh]

It worked! By chopping off the hooded cultist's arms and the pole by extension, he had freed the woman of the binding iron. For a moment or two, he considered himself something of a genius... Until he realized that he'd had to break open the door to the cathedral in order to perform the feat of saving her. When he looked upon the masses however, he found that they were still. Instead of marching on them, they held still. Even as Fridgar threw one of their own at them, they didn't move. It was eerie, uncomfortable. They were just standing there, waiting, as if they were certain that they would have to leave. For a moment or two, Fridgar had half a mind to march out there and punch them in their gross faces, but they remembered that the woman probably needed help and took a step back inside.

While Fridgar had successfully removed the immediate threat of the attacker, who didn't even scream at the removal of their arms, she still had a really cool collar around her neck. It didn't occur to the warlord that she was probably not okay after the whole event, so instead of asking her how she was, he offered her a sword and the chance to fight her way out. She took the hilt and held the blade in a way that he'd have expected a twelve-arc-old to hold it, with weakness and uncertainty. He furrowed his brow beneath the mask of his helm then took a step toward her. Manually, he adjusted her stance, straightened her back, her grip on the blade. "There you go! Now you look like a proper fighter!"

At Sybil's question, he cleared his throat and looked back over his shoulder. All the hooded figures were just lined up there still. "Well, it doesn't look like they're moving. They're all lining up outside... Maybe they're not allowed in here or something?" He thought out loud, then looked around the Cathedral. He spied the rows of chairs, bolted into the ground as was typical for places of worship. "If you have any ideas for getting us outta here, I'll be glad to hear them.. Otherwise..." Fridgar stepped over to one of the benches and gripped it with his metal-wrapped hands. With a mighty heave, Fridgar pulled against the piece of furniture and tried to straighten his back. Baring his teeth in a growl, he exerted enough force to make the ground crack and shatter around where it had been bolted. It was coming free, and with a little more force, he ripped the bench off the ground and lifted it overhead.

Dust and rubble fell from the piece as he walked back over to the door. "You lot better clear out!" He warned as he adjusted his grip on the bench, then threw the entire length into the masses. "I'll throw this WHOLE DAMN HOUSE AT YOU!!" he roared in fierce anger. "I HAVE LIKE TWENTY MORE BENCHES!" He looked over his shoulder and inspected the rest of the interior. It was a bluff, they only had five more. "We don't have enough..." The warlord confessed to the woman. "I'm all for ripping up this place, but there's gotta be another way out, right? Any sewers?"

[Sybil Malach]

The chucking of a pew was something else entirely. Soaring overhead, Sybil can only look on in wide eyed confusion and terror, as the sickening sounds of bones snapping, and skin skidding along stone could be heard. The dreamer slowly blinks, turning around, letting out a light breath, beholding the fruits of Fridgar's labors. There was a noticeable smear, tracing the tangle of humanoids, from where the bench finally came into contact with the ground, and dragged them across the square. Some, were even just straight up flattened by it, missing limbs from the brute force of the throw itself. Yet... There they stood. The crowd, unmoving, even in the face of fallen comrades. Though a large swathe had been taken out of the crowd itself...

... The ones that had been hit by the bench were beginning to raise once more. Rising from the ground, as though controlled by puppet strings rather than anything truly within their own body, the cultists simply rise. Broken bones are ignored. Offering only a slight hindrance, it seems that the only ones that actually, truly were decimated by the attack, were the ones that Fridgar managed to tear the limbs from. Even the ones with snapped spines simply... As though their spine itself was made from nothing but fluid, raised in such unnatural ways. As though these creatures had been touched by something not of the graft spark, but by the undying, squirming essence of it. Their bodies twitched and spasmed as they watch the two, through the now gaping door. The more Fridgar looks... The more he can tell that even the ones with severed limbs were behaving in ways that should not be possible. The limbs, detached from their host bodies, were still squirming. Were still moving. As though they were a worm, cut into pieces. Still alive in its own right, only hampered by the sheer fact that it's a mangled arm, rather than a full body.

"I don't know." Comes Sibyl's response. Despite being told to hold the sword a very specific way, the Lotharren man was treated to the fact that there was no way to immediately train someone on how to hold a sword, especially one who was not raised with one in hand. The stance with the sword began to waver, as Sibyl took a soft breath. A slow shake of the head is given, as though the dreamer's thoughts were slowly being clouded by something, "They just keep coming... This is the first, and only place they've even stopped chasing." The dreamer admits, as eyes slowly glance out to the crowd. Lowering the sword, Sibyl simply tries to sidestep the gaping hole where a door should be. Obviously not one to stick around for profane attention for too long. Breaking line of sight with the creatures, Sibyl finally gives in to the weight of the sword, allowing it to drag against the ground, audibly, as the dreamer lets out a breath.

Sibyl pauses for a moment. Thinking something through. Even in here, there was no escaping the cult's gaze. Their figures were right behind the stained glass murals of this cathedral. Unmoving. But... Nothing in here seems to follow any sort of dogma. There are no books. The tapestries are blank. The contents of the murals themselves? They're just random designs. Almost mirroring the cobblestones outside, it's clear that something about this place connects the cultists to here, but it's uncertain, upon a cursory glance, how. A slow shake of the head, is offered towards Fridgar, as the dreamer simply retreats further within the cathedral itself, towards the center, elevated platform, "Something doesn't feel right about this place..." Comes the obvious comment from Sibyl. A breath is taken, the cloak is tugged closer to the body, as the sword is awkwardly lugged, "... Have you ever seen a place such as this before?"

A mixture of low lighting and the stained glass itself keeps the room in perpetual half light. The glistening of the blade is the main thing that makes Sibyl stand out, among the human shaped shadows within the building itself, and the reds from the stained glass. A hand raises to Sybil's head, shaking, slowly, as another breath is taken, as though trying to calm down, "... There should be a rectory, or something, right?"

[Varthakh]

Fridgar furrowed his brow and grimaced at the sight. Graphic death and gore wasn't something that particularly bothered him, if anything, it was a pleasure of theirs. But watching them get back up after being crushed by the force and weight of his throw was... Unsettling. Fridgar recognized that the only way to truly stop them from advancing was to remove each and every one of their limbs, to make it physically impossible for them to chase them. He began to consider their options after telling the woman of their unfortunate circumstances. Somehow, Fridgar felt as though five benches wouldn't be enough to wipe them all out. Perhaps if he threw the doors as well?

Even though he voiced his concerns to the woman, she had little light to shine on the subject. There was no secret exit they could take that she knew of. Fantastic. Fridgar furrowed his brow beneath the plate of his helm and looked to the monsters again. "Gods... They're so freaky looking," he thought aloud as his companion went about examining the room. Fridgar looked back to her and saw her dragging the sword along the stone floor. It was only when he realized what she was doing that the sound of grinding stone and metal met their ears. It didn't register to them though, it felt natural under the haze of the dream. She walked off toward the central elevated platform while she took to sightseeing, Fridgar sighed. It was up to him to destroy the hooded freaks then.

Fridgar lowered into a squat, then lifted the door that he'd kicked down from the floor. The underside was painted with the gore of crushed cultists and the floor beneath was red and soft with broken flesh and jagged, sharp bone splinters. As he lobbed the door into the crowd, he looked back at the woman, who was very intent on examining the cathedral. Something doesn't feel right about this place, she thought out loud, to which Fridgar shrugged. "I wouldn't know, my god prefers to be worshipped from a tavern than some stuffy, fancy house." Fridgar was nothing if not blunt and honest. He walked over to another one of the pews, then gripped it with both hands. Wash, rinse, repeat, he ripped it from the ground and lifted it overhead.

"I don't know what a rectory is," He said as he walked to the front door. He stepped out, then threw the whole seating arrangement at the cultists again. "TAKE A HINT!" he barked from beneath his terrendyte mask as the bench soared, then impacted with a cushioned slam. He turned back toward the woman and walked toward the center of the room where the last of the three pews on the right side of the cathedral laid. It would have been easier to just grab the first pew on the left, but the giant, armor-clad titan was too OCD for that. As they gripped the bench, they stopped, then looked to Sybil. "What if I use the bench thing as a sword? It might be more effective... We only have four more, after all."

[Sybil Malach]

Something was lost, the moment that Sibyl had reached the center of the room itself. A scalding headache was the first thing the dreamer was greeted with.

A pulse.

A circle of inky dark formed. It was created as though etched from the other side of the floor itself, sewn by an expert hand. It began at two separate points, before being mirrored into its movements. The circle itself was created through this cyclic drawing. Something was embedded with Sibyl's mind, as though the dreamer's mind itself had been branded by a white hot fire poker. Sibyl stepped back, and almost slamming into the back of Fridgar himself, the moment that the sensations began to sink in. The darkness from the circle was bleeding upwards, slowly reaching up to the ceiling itself. Its very existence was the antithesis to the light itself. Almost as though entirely disobeying any known laws on how light behaves, it acts as a sheer curtain between it, and the other side of itself.

"... I swear, to whatever is still sacred in this damnable place-- I didn't do that!" Shouted the dreamer, almost frantically, almost entirely tripping over from the skittish back pedal. Soon, a pillar of dark was simply reaching towards the mural in which Fridgar had smashed through, and repaired. It was reaching for the heavens themselves. The light, filtered through brilliantly dyed stained glass was consumed by the thoughtful tear. An absolute answer to the idea of light itself. From the beautifully etched stone tiled flooring, all the way into the very rafters of the high vaulted walls, graced with gilt and leafed columns of fine marble.

When Fridgar tossed the door itself at the crowd, he was met with a very similar response to when it had been a pew. However, the door was tall, sturdy, and had gloriously sturdy, if lethal, adornments. The result of his prowess was a far more satisfying CRUNCH and the skidding sounds of flesh against stone. A far smaller group was even effected by the door itself, but there was no denying that between Fridgar's strength, and the sheer engineering put into the thing that it was a forced to be reckoned with. The trail of bodies left behind were crumpled and broken. Bones left snapped and crushed to a fine paste within the body itself. The satisfying smear of the bodies, at the very least, confirmed a few incapacitations, bodies beneath the door still twitching, but unable to escape. When Fridgar had pulled the seating arrangement out, however? Something crackled behind him. The smell of burning tar was strong upon the air, as he sent the bench soaring across the room, and out into the square.

"You are being stalked." Comes a voice. It rattles at the very stem of Sibyl and Fridgar's brains. It wasn't a sound. It was... Impulses. Something was inserting itself within the two's minds, yet retaining its volume in a manner in which it was as though simply talking with them, "It's a terrible night to be followed by something as tumorous as this. No?" Its voice croons, ever so gently against the two's minds... As though a mother, beckoning its young from afar.

Sibyl can't help but freeze in place. The voice is accented by the crunching of bone and flesh, beneath a solid wood pew. A pale, lanky hand begins to extend itself from the pillar of darkness. Elongated fingertips appearing more like claws. It seems to be something's right hand. Its flesh is... White. Not a shade of peach, but a genuine shade of ivory that's simply blanched to the very core, as though not even a drop of blood dripped through its veins, "I am Lisbeth. Mother of the Void. I come to bring you succor, in your time of need..." Though the voice sounds pure.. Something is wrong about it. It is comforting, but... Almost excessively so. Like some attempt to make up for something it lacks, by overplaying it, "... Fear not the heretics. Why waste such energy upon them, when you could instead... Simply offer thineself to me. The succor I bring is unmatched, and perhaps the only way you will leave this place... Without facing the pyre." Its fingertips croon, gesturing the two over to it, in slow, languid motions.

"... I think... You had the right idea." Sybil admits, pulling up the sword, glancing to Fridgar, "Let's leave. If you think you can clear a way... Then I can show you where I know. Maybe if we keep running...?"

A lingering, teasing, feminine chuckle echoes from the tear in reality, "Of course, the cowardly whelp says such a thing." The hand slowly gestures away from the dreamer, and towards Fridgar, "An honorable man like yourself knows better than something so... Disgustingly insufficient. What say you? ... You will make this place your grave, elsewise."

[Varthakh]

His brow furrowed as he watched the dark magic unfold across the floor of the cathedral. He threw the door regardless and without hesitation, but it was still something that caught his attention. As the satisfying crunch rang out behind them, he watched with wide eyes as a pillar of malevolent darkness burst to life in the center of the room. Fridgar was a fairly competent mage, they knew a fair few disciplines, but nothing like this. Somehow, though, it didn't register as a threat, just an underlying feature of the world that Fridgar accepted as normal. The woman bumped against him as she stepped back, but Fridgar paid no mind. "It's alright if you did, but you don't seem like a mage to me." No, she had no tell-tale mutations, she was quite ordinary. If it wasn't her, then what had done this?

He soon forgot about it and retrieved the next pew, and promptly turned at the sound of crackling and the smell of tar. Fridgar sniffled while he watched the pillar, then lifted the pew overhead. "Do you smell burning?" Fridgar's mind had put two and two together, the sound of a crackling fire combined with the scent of the thick, black material. There must have been a fire somewhere. As he returned to the door to throw the other pew, he beheld the buildings beyond the army of cultists ablaze with pillars of flame tall enough to singe the skies. "Uhhh..." Fridgar said aloud as he threw the next bench and yelled his war cry. The three consecutive strikes had cleared out a substantial amount of them in the center, it was possible to run by with just their weapons if they were so bold.

There was a new voice in the room, though, something feminine and sinister. It wasn't Sybil, her voice was different from this one. It shook the insides of his head, as though an earthquake was happening all over his brain. Fridgar fell to one knee and clasped his helmet with a grunt. "Knock it off..." He said, and the sensation quelled. It was dulled, but the shaking continued as she spoke. He could deal with it, he wasn't a wuss. The arm that stretched out from the pillar of black offered them safety and introduced herself as the mother of the void. The warlord wasn't the greatest at judging someone's character, but such a thing seemed like a bad idea to trust... But, she had been honest with them. If she were evil, she would have lied about her identity in an effort to snare them.

Fridgar scratched at his helmet while Sybil agreed to his method, Fridgar nodded. The mother of the void didn't seem to like this notion and tried to appeal to Fridgar's sense of honor. Fridgar shook his head. "You seem like a cool person and all, but Ilaren and Thetros have my back. My honor demands I face the threat head-on, I can't lean on your strength, kind mother," The word honor had awoken a more chivalrous branch of their personality, but it remained beneath the surface, Fridgar was still a warlord, not a knight like Azzas. "If we can get past the burning buildings, my Sakarum is waiting there. We'll be home free." Of course, Fridgar had a Sakarum, a mighty mount of war that would trample the city in a desperate struggle to get them out of this cursed land.

With that, Fridgar pulled the third pew from the floor and lifted it overhead. He walked to the door and cast a glance to Sybil before nodding. Once she was ready, he'd run out with a wild and vicious war cry and slam one of the many cultists with the pew as though it were a bat. Fridgar was wielding the piece of furniture as though it were weightless, despite being several times his size. A dozen at a time, Fridgar swept away the cultists with the ridiculously over-sized weapon and blazed a steady trail of gore and broken corpses. With each strike, Fridgar's adrenaline built higher and higher.