Run For Your Life!

Etzos Underground Race event

Etzos, ‘The City of Stones’ is a fortress against the encroachment of Immortal domination of Idalos. Founded on the backs of mortals driven to seek their own destiny independent of the Immortals, the city has carved itself out of the very rock of the land. Scourged by terrible wars of extermination, they've begun to grow again, and with an eye toward expansion, optimism is on the rise.

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"Run For Your Life!"


Welcome to the Big Etzos Underground Race Event!
In this corner, we have the current roster of victims:

Rosamond: the very PC who requested this catastrophe in the first place. When the rest of you find yourselves regretting your inclusion in this fiasco, you now know who to blame.

Vluharqih: One who has done the most threads with me. She should have known better. Don't feel sorry for her!

Jachiel: One already starting with a one-armed handicap. What chance does he really have? How much do we really care?

Nauta F'mos Geey: Our mystery guest...The mystery being how in the hell you pronounce that name!

And in THIS corner, we have your pitiless, conniving, brutal and malicious moderator, Maltruism! <insert cheers here>
__________________________________________________________________________
A few pointless rules -

1.) There will not be a strict posting order for you victims, but please do not post twice before I have the chance to step in and make things worse. If one of you victims does not post within three days of the prior post, you can be skipped. This does not mean you are out (though you might be dead :shock: ). Most likely, everyone else will have posted except one, possibly two. It just means I will not wait longer than that before I lay my disastrous embellishments upon the situation. Any that get skipped for missing a post deadline can rejoin the carnage during the next round, if they survive MY post...

2.) You victims may enter as either a spectator or participant in the race. It probably won't save you either way.
Participants will begin in the Crescent Arena, where there is a large heavy gate that opens onto the starting point.
Spectators have a few options:
  • They may start at any general location in the city, but underground of course.
  • They may start above ground, and be drawn below at points where fleeing citizens come bursting forth.
  • If they have knowledge of some secret entrance to The Underground, they may use that way in, which may place them in a spot not normally accessible to the common citizenry.
3.) No one is going to start out massively equipped with weapons. You will have to trust to dead guards to provide you such things. I'm sorry, but in a competition like this, held where visibility is not good, there would be serious effort made by the Black Guard to ensure a minimum of hamstringings and such. Big money is riding on this race, and big penalties will be delivered on anyone suspected of attempted rigging. Those that enter through some means that can be said to have logically by-passed this search can propose this in their first post, and I will either let it slide or dump a surprise frisking upon you.

4.) Armor is a different thing entirely, though starting as a participant pretty much negates the likelihood of wearing such heavy encumbrances. To offset this disadvantage, participants will be the first to be aided by guards. At least up until complete pandemonium breaks out.

5.) To be honest, torches are along the walls in sconces, not in the middle of the track. I just really like that picture. In all other regards it gives a very good idea of the construction of the Underground. Figure a few heavily reinforced doorways here and there, and you've got it! For the most part, they are locked and guarded. But in the mayhem of supernatural chaos, how many will truly stay at their posts to die?

6.) Those too cowardly to have committed in advance :roll: may join in anytime. But don't be whiny if I give a degree of priority to the brave few that were in this from the start. However, if you are a brand new player, that did not have the chance to be in from the start, I will cut you some slack, but still, you could have joined Standing Trials sooner! :lol:

7.) Anything else that comes to mind is subject to imposition without notice :twisted: . No, in all seriousness, I will try to be fair if some obvious detail pops up that I have thus far overlooked.

8.) Any that are not quite aware of what is going on here ought to check out the calendar for this cycle, paying particular attention to "Trial 102".
__________________________________________________________________________
19 Saun, arc 716
Talk had slowly taken on a less and less dramatic tone throughout Etzos for the past two weeks. It seemed that there had now been an answer for every bizarre and deadly event. The chain of tax fraud incidents had long since stopped, with talk suggesting some believable perpetrator had been caught and imprisoned. The ghastly attack of shadow creatures had been firmly put down by Marshall Webb.

His celebrity status, as a result of this victory, had set him upon the dais to announce the countdown to the start of the race. As the crowd watched, Webb knew he'd best hurry things along. The heat was still sweltering, and those spectators choosing to enjoy the surface carnival atmosphere, were nonetheless eager to retreat to the cooler warrens of the Underground. Webb himself was no different. Though his desire to be situated below was of a somewhat different nature.

Many had opted to claim their spots already, foregoing the music and dance, song and story, as well as the food and drink being offered in the swell of good feelings rising in the defiant wake of the cycle's previous turmoil. The latest stories of occasional attacks by the mysterious shadow creatures was being readily dismissed as a tactic of beggars. The civil unrest stemming from the accusations of cover-up over the tax fraud issue had been successfully glossed over. The odd wounds from strange fish in the Southwood River was attributed to the recent appearance of The Misty Miasma, and had now run its course; and even been lucratively capitalized upon by a few exceptionally skilled fishermen.

So all was well that had ended well. The Misty Miasma, as was so often the case, was saddled with blame for everything that had gone wrong with the arrival of the hot cycle. Anyone watching Marshall Webb closely enough, and with vision not distorted by drink, might have noticed an odd hesitance to count down the last few numbers, almost as if he expected some eruption of new trouble to burst upon the city at the count of zero.

But the crowd roared its count along with their current hero; the "zero" morphing quickly into a confetti-riddled cheer of thousands. The race was officially on! A howling barrage of "sizzling" arrows over flew the walls, accompanied by trumpets and gongs; colorful banners waved and weaved over the heads of celebrants as the throngs made to follow the racers into the entrance. A last hurried round of wagers were placed, many a fistful of nel finding the hand of thieves rather than bookies; many a jostled pint of ale finding the dirt rather than a thirsty mouth; many a winking male finding a ready female.

A path from the dais cleared for Marshall Webb as he strode confidently to the massive double-door entrance to The Underground, and the surface streets of Etzos were soon less than half as populated as normal. It was almost creepy to the Black Guard patrols that had been stuck with surface duty. They envied their fellows that were enjoying the cool of The underground.

This would soon change...
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Rosamond
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ROSAMOND ENTERS AT THE STARTING POINT IN THE CRESCENT AREA

It was the first time she attended this famous event, so Rosamond wanted to see it all and be there at start of the race, so she headed to the Crescent Arena. On her arm she carried a small basket with simple food. This would maybe make her Rosamond’s big dog Hazard stay at her side for a while.

Relatively many people seemed to wear more elegant clothes, for Etzos standards. But Rosamond wore her usual simple clothes. After buying a horse, and then also a house, she had been low on money. New clothes hadn’t been the first priority. She had on a grey skirt, a grey blouse, and the practical footwear that had served her well during the whole cycle. Despite the hot weather she also wore her cloak, pushed back over her shoulders, as she had heard that it could be colder than people expected down there in the underground. Her purse was fastened to her belt, and as always nowadays the sewing kit was in her skirt pocket. No need to make exceptions for the race.

The atmosphere was festive and ripe with expectations. There were cheers, sizzling arrows, trumpet and gongs, music and general noise, and some people already seemed more than halfways through the party. Decorum seemed forgotten and she was sure some of the brand new couples she could see forming around her were only waiting for the gates to open so they could find their way to some niche in there ... the generally artless and pragmatic style of Etzos made her think those would give priority to quick and easy solutions and find niches and nooks okay enough. Oh, well. Their business.

The heat of saun added to the unrestrained joyfulness. But it also made it hard to keep patience up during the starting ceremonies. Sweat trickled down her body under the blouse and had started to stain the fabric. Putting a sheltering hand over her eyes she focused on the marshal and made her best to follow his every move and word, as far as this was possible with the shouting crowd around her. She kept her gaze on the marshal, eagerly wishing that he would get this done. And so he started to count down!

Yes, yes, yes .... but right when she though it was over, she was under the impression he started to count slower! Rosamond hadn’t had the opportunity to drink anything so she was sober and noticed how he suddenly seemed to hesitate. Despite how this was the city’s own hero she felt like slapping the man and telling him to get his job done. There was really no reason for him to draw the countdown out !

The marshal seemed to get that he had to proceed as planned, and so the final countdown was completed.

The massive double doors opened and Rosamond followed the other people into the underground of Etzos. It was like entering another world, dark and cool, far from the bright and sweltering heat above.
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Jachiel
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Jachiel tossed his leather coat on over his shirt and trousers - it would be much cooler underground - and as always when he left his home, he belted on his gladius. The weight against his leg was familiar, reassuring, and drilled bone-deep into him by his first sergeant. You always went armed. Peacebond it if you had to, but you went armed everywhere, and if you ever forgot, there were plenty of punishments to hand out. His mouth twitched at the memory of some of the names and rants that sergeant had come out with.

Having spent most of his time here outside the walls on his farm, he didn't know the interior of the city as well as most, but he knew the way to the citizen's committee now, so that was where he headed. It was close enough to the start of the race that he wouldn't have to wait long to see it, but neither did he have to navigate unfamiliar streets in the crowd. He climbed down into the Underground, watching the couples form up around him. Hands in his coat pockets, he brushed cautiously through the crowd, shaking his head when the sellers of drinks and snacks called to him, or thrust their trays under his nose. The more shadowy spots were especially popular for couples, he couldn't help but note. Finally, he found a free spot near one of the torches. He leaned back against the wall there, letting the cool stone leach out even more heat than the cool air down there did, and cocked his head to listen for the approaching race.
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Nauta F'mos Geey
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When the run was initially brought to the attention of F'mos as it had been a very hot topic among the people which frequented the Kettle, being a more pleasant topic of conversation compared to the string of bad incidents which has been plaguing Etzos the previous season, he was none too interested. It was natural that the deserter would not have wanted any unwelcome attention to himself so he would not be able to participate in any way even if there was some benefits, and watching it? Hah! Watching a kettle boil would more likely hold his interest than a bunch of fools running around in the dark underground, thinking they can somehow improve their standing that way.

Then again, plans can change. It was because of all those bad incidents which have been made the race such a big deal this Saun, which also made the people need a distraction. As F'mos was preparing those dishes for the Kettle's customers he has been hearing things. A lot more than the usual compliments and complaints which he had to work into the next dish like reducing the salt, increasing the sauce, putting the stew over the fire for a lesser time or whatever else he was required to do. He heard of people attempting some sort of celebration even before the victors of the race had been decided. Even some of the Kettle's patrons had ideas of what they were going to do.

And as the day of the race a significant number of the Kettle's patrons were going to be attending the event itself, there was no need for F'mos to linger around. Without any plans of staying in Etzos for longer than he had needed to, F'mos made the quick decision of attending to the race. More specifically the carnivalish celebrations above on the surface. To get better acquainted with whatever unique and special treats Etzos had for special occasions and then, learning how to replicate the best of them on his own so he would never miss them once he was gone.

Like so many others which are at the race being motivated by greed, F'mos indulged himself in so much food that no one would have even thought he worked with food on a daily basis. To him, he treated it as a sort of an obligation. A business as it were. With each bite which entered his mouth, F'mos methodically tried to commit to memory each aspect of the dish. The taste. The smells. Its appearance down to the color. Even the way he was told to eat it whether on a stick or whole and in pieces. Surely there was a reason it was so and soon he would learn it but as time went by, F'mos found himself to be enjoying the celebrations and began to take part in some of the other things he could experience.

After listening to all those songs and watching all those dances while still stuffing his face, even having his face painted to match what he was told was the visage of one of the more colourful creatures of Gauthrel, those which had inspired some of the more artistic personalities of Etzos which had lived to tell the tale, F'mos decided to try his hand at some of the games for prizes. Which was where he was when he the countdown echoed all over the city. Immortals curse them, they should be more considerate to someone who had to concentrate on actually trying to win something.
Last edited by Nauta F'mos Geey on Mon Oct 31, 2016 3:14 pm, edited 2 times in total. word count: 601
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Starts out as a Participant
How resilient and fickle humans can be, it was clearly shown through the display in the Crescent Arena on this heated day. It couldn't have been long enough to be forgotten, yet here everyone was, acting as if their safe zone hadn't been recently attacked and violated by beings beyond comprehension. Dmitri wasn't a doomsayer and he knew he was in no position to act upon these feelings, so all he could do was basically let fate run its course, rolling with the punches. Meanwhile, happyhappyjoyjoy emotions, festive -and alcoholic- spirits were running high all around Dmitri, who stood out like a sore stick in the mud. With a facial expression that was anything but festive, he leaned against a wall with a cup in hand, sipping every time his throat went dry or when he needed just that 'edge' to make it all bearable.

If only Garrett Langley hadn't been so insisting, egging Dmitri on even, to participate in the Race. He could've been somewhere peaceful and cooled, rather than be stuck in the middle of this bunch of rowdy drunks and eager slags. Al though he knew why Garrett had been so persisting, he wasn't keen on accepting the matter with a smile. He did keep the short man in relatively high regards though, even now, it was hard not to when seeing him living his life to the fullest with a rarely absent smile on his face, even when facing hurdles and ordeals on a daily. Quite the fearless little bastard. Dmitri smirked at this thought and inadvertently opened the door for a particularly drunk woman to interpret it as a sign of "You'll do" shot her way. The stench of alcohol almost drowned out the sounds in the acoustic Crescent Arena, at first Dmitri did his best to stay polite, simply smiling and nodding along absentminded to whatever she was trying to say. All he understood was Cat, Bye, Mead, Drunk, Georgie, Yush. Shrugging, he let the woman ramble the same slur of words over and over again until she had devolved into using sign language to get her point across. "Oh, Can You Buy Me A Drink...Georgie,Yush? Gorgeous?! ... Sigh. Here, take this. I have to ... Go stand somewhere else."

After handing his cup of ale to the refined lady, who apparently felt indignant for some reason, he quickly got away from her. Leaving the drunk hag rambling to a very, very unlucky barstool next to her. Just when he had managed to get away from one grievance to the senses, Dmitri was suddenly bombarded from all sides with visual and audible spectacles. loud cheers, excited cries and sizzling arrows curving through the skies above. It was beautiful to behold, but he was clueless as to what exactly was going on. Until he saw the entry gates to the Race open and the masses started to pour into the cool underground. 'Damn it.' He had been patiently waiting all morning to get into a strategic starting point near the gate. Only to be driven off by that walking tankard! Now wasn't the time to lament, he had to get down there as soon as possible.

Stuck in the middle of a human whirlpool, Dmitri slowly made his way down the brick underbelly of Etzos.
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Vluharqih
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Alex stood in the crowd, watching the countdown with an odd feeling in her stomach. The sticky heat that had scorched the city was still there, and today was worse than she was used to. The sweaty crowd was close, pit stains and damp shirts making the whole crescent smell like wet dog. She wrinkled her nose, glad for once that she was a Yludih. Sweating was only necessary to protect her identity, and in this crowd the elbows and shoulders that rubbed up against her left enough of their smelly residue to make her skin glisten. She shivered again, disgusted at the thought, but the press of bodies left little personal space.

A pit in her stomach sat like a rock, and she turned her thoughts inward. The Misty Miasma had left the city nearly 60 trials ago, yet something felt off. She disregarded the feeling as the energetic screams of the crowd greeted Marshall Webb's Zero!, and the racers swept forth.

She pushed her way through the crowd, away from the race. She knew a shortcut on the surface that would let her get near the front of the race. Pragmatic Mr.Gardener had sent her here, a small satchel full of what he called the "competitive advantage". It was brightfern spores mixed with a fluid secreted from an owls brain. The resulting cream, when applied just beneath the eyes, would provide a boost in vision, and would drastically increase a person's night vision. It wouldn't let one see in the dark, but the pits of shadow between torch scones would be as bright as day to her clients.

Several people knew to expect her, and she had sold out of the product well before the race. Alex had rushed back to the shop to stock up, and had nearly run out again before the race begun.

Not sure how much of an advantage it is if everyone uses it. She thought wryly as she plodded down into the blessed coolness of the tunnels. The streets had been nearly deserted, and she made it in plenty of time.

She decided to explore a bit, and pulled out a stick of charcoal and some paper, deciding that a knowledge of the underground could never hurt. She wandered around, not venturing too far from the entrance as she waited for the race to get close.
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The racers wound their way deeper into the coolness of the Underground. Attendants with brushes would slap a streak or pattern of some colored dye across an arm, signifying the order of departure, and presence in which group. This was because all the participants could not possibly run abreast. So they were sent into the course five at a time, with fifteen ticks separating each group. This way each group had the elbow room to jockey among themselves as they fought for position within their own group.

At the end of the race, the color band and patterns of the finishers would reveal who had truly made the best time. Of course, there were always ways to bribe and manipulate these rules, and there were often finishes that were virtual ties, based on the approximations of time results. But these contentions over who had truly won the race always served for some lively ten-trial games in the trials that followed.

Right now, a lanky young man named Gorley was picking himself up angrily off the tunnel floor, having been tripped by a spectator or two that clearly had an interest in the victory of one of his fellow group members. He chalked it up to the hatred many Etzori citizens held toward his half-breed aukari blood. He took what note he could of the sneering face, so he could track it down later for the beating it deserved, but the immediate need was to catch back up. He was to discover shortly that this act of collusion had saved his life, hopefully more than temporarily.

He curved his way around a bend in the track and pulled up short, his breath still coming in gasps, but not gasps of exertion. The four other men were on their knees in the middle of the tunnel, clutching their throats and emitting only choked, high-pitched wheezing. They eyes pleaded in terror for help, but Gorley's skin crawled at the supernatural nature of their assailant. Was it just one thing, or several? It was hard to tell.

A cloud of mist, something rarely seen in these tunnels, surrounded the men, seeming to be purposely snaking its way down their throats. Gorley could not tell what exactly was happening, but it was either alive and strangling them, or it was toxic and closing their throats up with some kind of poison. He had to consider the possibility that this was just another way that criminals were ensuring a victory that served their wager. But to go to such a murderous length with this city-wide event was madness! It could never be glossed over for murder to bring victory. This was far to prestigious and beloved an event to suffer such a heinous act.

Either way, Gorley wanted nothing more to do with this race. But when he turned to back track, he saw the next group of five jogging his way. They too, were employing some cheap shots to gain position. A couple of them turned puzzled looks toward Gorley as they passed, calling for him to get out of the way if he was quitting. Their disdainful emphasis on the last word slid off Gorley unnoticed as he finally found voice to cry a warning to them.

But the only ones that paid heed to his cry were some gathered spectators, who inched their curious way in Gorley's direction while looking back, heedful of the imminent approach of the next group of five. They stopped short in shock at a repeat of the first scene of death, as the second group of five charged into the mist and soon fell choking to their hands and knees. This time however, bleeding wounds also appeared on the writhing bodies as if by magic.

A scuffle broke out at the back of this bunch of onlookers as the next group of racers came upon them, swearing and yelling at them to get out of the way. But something in the demeanor of the crowd, coupled with the sudden prominent smell of blood and excrement, hushed then with apprehension. There was blood in the swirls of mist as it crawled up the walls of the tunnel, to find away to cut the crowd off from apparent escape.

Suddenly screams erupted and echoed from every direction as the racers and spectators alike turned in vain to find a way that might promise escape from the deadly mist. Gasps and cries echoed down numerous tunnel passages and alarmed clangs and curses of guards added a metallic tone to the sudden din of fear. Gorley himself had been pressed against a wall, unable to overpower the many citizens treating him as part of the wall as they ran in panic back the way the racers had first come.

The mist pursued them. For a moment, Gorley thought he had been lucky to have been so victimized by the crowd, thinking he might be better off to press forward further down the track, instead of back the way the mist had chased the crowd. But as he turned he saw a single misty figure, everything about it seeming to focus completely on him. It lifted the semi-corporeal equivalent of some kind of barbarian helmet into its head and drew an equally translucent and blurry blade.
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Jachiel
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The sounds of the approaching race echoed wordlessly around a bend to reach Jachiel. He tucked his bad hand more securely in his pocket and straightened slightly against the wall as he turned to look for the first set of runners. The bends in the passage made it hard to see far, but the noise grew louder as if they were nearly within sight. Then it abruptly broke off into screams, and a note of panic entered the shouts and yells. Jachiel's instincts and training took over as the crowd around him surged and yelled. He pressed back against the wall, using it to guard him from behind, and his good hand dropped to the hilt of his gladius. It was peace-bound still, and he didn't draw it immediately, only looked around, eyes darting from pool of torchlight to pool of torchlight in search of - of whatever had caused the panic and screams.

There was only a slight mist drifting round the bend towards the crowd, but it seemed to have thin veins of blood in it, and when it curled around the first person it touched, wounds opened. The panic spread but Jachiel remained where he was for a moment. He knew too few of these tunnels to run wildly and randomly through them, and was too much a stranger to the town itself to merge with the crowd. The peace-binding loosened under his fingers, and he watched the mist, ready to retreat if he had to, ready to fight if he must.
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Vluharqih
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Alex's wanderings were cut short by the distorted echoes of those unfortunate few. She froze, unsure of what to do.

She cast a quick glance down towards her new rough map, the distances distorted and awkward, but enough to tell her where the turns were. She was a couple of twists away from the main tunnel, maybe five bits tops. She looked down at the last few sets of brightfern mixture and sighed.

Sorry Mr.Gardener

She smeared the cream liberally across her cheekbones, hoping that this would be one of the medications that would work on Yludih.

Turning quickly, she jogged back down the hall, twisting and turning as the screams became louder and louder. Her eyes soon tightened, picking out the pits and divots in the floor easily as she sped up. Alex pulled herself up short, staring at the deserted hallway. She had gone quite a bit ahead of the runners, but by now the leaders should be coming by. She stared down the barren hallway, lights flickering, jumping as a loud scream pierced the silence. In the distance a man sprinted, stumbling, towards her. His face, shrouded in shadow though it was, was clear as day to her: he was terrified. Behind him something stirred, the wall distorting behind him. Alex's eyes opened, and she gasped as she saw a full Mist Man congeal behind him. He sent a desperate glance over his shoulder, screaming for Alex to help him as the shape drew nearer. He stumbled over a rut, and nearly fell. He caught himself, but it was too late. The Mist Man behind him lunged, the tip of his translucent blade emerging from the man's chest. A gurgle came from his throat as he slumped forward and slid to the ground in an heap.

Alex stood, transfixed, reliving every moment of her meeting with Marshall Webb. The fire and smoke, desperately trying to remember anything useful about them as the Mist Man turned his formless face to her. Despite his face being a smooth, misty slate, she felt his eyes stare into her. He strode forward, slowly at first then quicker and quicker. A half-smile crossed her face as she finally remembered their bane- Wind and Fire.

She shifted, wings bursting from her back. Quick slashes of her talons opened the back, and they burst free with less than a dozen feet left. She leaned over to grab a torch, retreating as he stalked closer and closer. She lunged out with the torch, momentarily scattering him as she went further and further back. She collected the torches as she went, and soon a twenty foot section of the tunnel was dark. She set the torches down behind her, spreading them out before jumping back as the Mist Man's blade brushed her skin, just scratching it. The Mist Man stepped forward and stopped to stare at the flames ahead of him. His mouth opened in a soundless yell, stretching forward as if he could reach over the flickering flames.

Alex dove through him with a shout, hitting the floor hard and coming up quickly to turn to face her opponent. Her wings flashed out and beat, the wind gusting incredibly strong in the inclosed tunnel. The shape raised his arms, as if to block it out, but was irresistibly pushed closer and closer to the flames. Dust billowed up into her eyes and she squinted them tight as she forced herself to beat harder and harder. At long last she slowed and opened her eyes to an empty hallway. Nothing was left of the Mist Man. She leaned against the wall, already feeling the slight burn in her shoulders.

Leaning down, she put out all but one of the torches, shoving them awkwardly into her satchel as she pulled back out her map. She trotted back down the main hallway, realizing that any dead bodies might have pockets of coins that would hide the fact that she used the brightfern poultice.

Mr.Gardener doesn't need to know.
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Run For Your Life!

Throughout the tunnels of the Underground, screams and shouts punctuated the crashing of weapons hitting walls as they swiped ineffectively through misty shapes. Panicked citizens trampled through each other, running in opposite directions from misty hordes that awaited them on both sides. Full-body shapes shimmered and flowed inversely up from their feet, dissipating hovering legs as they pulled the rest of their ghostly bodies after them to coalesce into solid hands that strangled throats and teamed up against arms reaching for torches along the walls.

Choking victims slashed at the hands at their throats, accomplishing some damage, but opening their own throats in the process. The tunnels, already choked with panicked herds of mortals, now became slick with blood and even more treacherous underfoot with the addition of falling corpses, eyes still staring in horror. Those floating hands that were not assailing the crowds with strangling hands, luring others into slashing their own throats, or actually picking up dropped weapons of their own, were seizing the torches from the walls and stubbing them out on the damp stone floor.

The Darkness became denser and claimed ever increasing spans of the tunnels; the smell of blood and urine spicing the atmosphere with the certainty of death. Flailing, frenzied arms swung weapons haphazardly as the darkness closed over all, any touch bringing panicked reprisals of unrestrained fury. The last thing most of these doomed citizens saw before the blackness enclosed them was the shadows running along the floor rising into grinning, incorporeal shapes of twisted malice.

Few had the presence of mind to note that those few citizens holding torches were given a small buffer of clearance as the shadows closed on the rest. Equally unmarked was the fact that many citizens possessing red hair were also subtly avoided. But since many of them were crammed in among blondes and brunettes, it would have been difficult to observe anyway. And most of these few aukari-blooded citizens ended up being stricken down by their terrified neighbors. In the growing darkness, it went largely unnoticed that the blood of these victims sent the shimmering enemies staggering back, portions of their ghostly bodies disintegrating.

A few guards had taken note of these details; veterans mostly of past battles with unnatural foes. It was not that they possessed prior knowledge of this particular menace, though a few did; but they were not unmanned by the threat of death to the point that they forgot to look for signs of weakness. Even when a misty form was not near enough to thrust a torch into, they held their swords in the flames of the torches, to make more effective weapons of them, as they advanced on the enemies. They cried out those citizens that they could not aid directly, "FIRE! FIND A SOURCE OF FIRE ANYWHERE YOU CAN." The cry was echoed when it could be heard over the din of screams and howls of pain and fear.

But almost all of the torches had been extinguished. And now a new level of stampede focused on those few remaining...
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