Bismuth

[devinkowalczyk]

Bismuth, the London away from England during the Grand Victorian Era. The island is North East of the colony of Australia, deep in the Pacific. The port sits in a cove on the southern part of the island, with the city spanning out from there. The port is always abustle with fishing and whaling expeditions. The city itself is a maze of streets, the tall victorian style houses on the West side are multicolored while the poor section of the South and East mingle with factories and warehouses. People live in either mass tennants in the South while the stately manors of the West. North of city the fields of grain and orchards span to the dark forrest and mountains on the Northern most part of the island.

The streets are cobblestone and very narrow, with carriages zooming past. The ground is littered with trash and tossings of chamber pots with a smell to match. The walls, while possibly painted a florid colors, everything is covered in a dark coal soot from the factories coal furnaces. Some duels do still occur with black powder pistols, so bullet holes are here and there, but relatively rare. The air is slightly grainy due to the soot and salt of the nearby ocean. The sounds of the ocean and the incoming ships echoes with rattling of the factories.

Our story begins in a tavern, midcity, where the trade workers come to eat dinner and gossip about the day. The rough wooden tables and chairs have been worn smooth by hundreds of calloused hands. The floor is littered with sawdust clumps smelling of old ale, cheap food, and cockroaches. Men of varying sizes and composures sit around several tables, some drinking and chatting, while others play cards. Several serving girls move among the tables with food and drinks. Off to one side near the center, one of the oil lanterns has been shut off and in the dark sits a taller, thin figure picking at some kind of food. Near the edges of the tavern are several taller fellows in longer capes and stately dressings. The barman is busy polishing the scratched and diveted bar.

The smell of vomit, blood, and many other bodily sewages assail your nostrils.

[SonOfMoradin]

The shadows of an alley seemed to part for an older man, leaning heavy on a tall walking staff. Some would say they heard the flapping of feathered wings as he emerged, but none could be sure. His head hung low, covered in a wide brimmed, dark blue leather hat. Those that could see his face through the shadows saw a glint of wisdom in one eye. He wore a long leather duster over his large frame that matched his hat, and while he looked the part of a homeless wanderer, he was not caked in the grime and filth of the street. He looked knowingly up and down the street, taking in every detail. He then produced a beaten metal cup from somewhere in his coat, and took a deep draught of something. Satisfied, he turned up the street, holding the cup out to any he passed, and muttering as he went. The only sound he made was the sharp raport of his staff hitting the pavement as he walked. He was known only as Mr. Wednesday to the few who got to know him, most people just writing him off as another of the failed and fallen who plagued the streets and back alleys of the city.

[SonOfMoradin]

Mr Wednesday shuffles into the bar, leading with his walking staff - using it as a blind man would. He carefully picks his way through the tables and around the people, eventually reaching the bar.

A deep, strong voice rings out through his snow white beard "Mead, if you have it. If not, wine will do." He pushes his beaten silver cup onto the bar, and then turns slightly so that he can see the rest of the tavern.

As his gaze sweeps around the room, it comes to rest on the tall thin man sitting in the shadows. He tilts his head up slightly, revealing a patch over his left eye. The other eye glints in the lantern light, and he squints slightly before dropping his head once again. He gives the men in the finery little notice. He breathes softly "There will be violence" before looking back at the barman.

[devinkowalczyk]

The dark night sky is visible through the panes of the glass that make up the front window. The moonlight emphasizes the natural whorls and etchings in the hand made glass, creating a random and chaotic pattern. The flicker of the gas lamps gives the whole room a yellowish tint which fights with the silver light streaming in from the nearly full moon outside.
A huge rattle and !BOOM! from the back as the serving girls come rushing out with hot plates of fresh dinner, nearly throwing them in front of the patrons who ordered.

[SonOfMoradin]

Did I get mead or wine?

[devinkowalczyk]

The first massive but nearly silent BOOM! cause the tavern to shake a bit, making the oil lamps flames to quiver. A few motes of dust drifted down from the rafters, a some of the liquids in mugs and cups rippled and then went still. A handful of conversations stopped, and a few of the silent patrons looked around questioningly. Most stayed enamored with their food or conversations, not bothering to look around.
The second explosion was the by door behind the bar to the kitchen.
Splinters of wood of floor, wall, door, and rafter exploded outward.
In the blizzard of wood fragments reached up a massive arm covered in light green scales. The black talons (three fingers and a stubby thumb) slammed into the wood plank floor of the tavern. It simultaneously lifted itself out of a hole in the floor and created a spider web of new cracks appearing across the whole floor. Tables, chairs, and the bar were upended and people where thrown this way and that.
From the hole emerged a crocodile like head attached to a four foot neck atop incredibly broad shoulders. This anthropomorphic dragon swept its head and lined up several patrons trapped under a table. Its mouth opened wide, revealing multiple layers of teeth, some long and thin like a knife, others rounded and jagged like a shark. Black smokey fire erupted, streaked with white wisps swept across the trapped individuals. Their skin did not so much as burn but turn to dust and crumble (Spiritual Awareness: Each individuals soul which burns through the body along Chi paths was snuffed out, turning the limb, body, and life into a lifeless husk).
The entire scene was lit by flickering light as the oil lanterns had been disrupted and the flames now quickly spread across the floor.

[SonOfMoradin]

Mr Wednesday looks down longingly at his still empty silver cup. "Ah well, mead is best after a battle."

Cup forgotten, he whirls towards where the creature emerged from the floor. "Spawn of the World Serpent! You have disturbed my feasting!" Lightning seems to ripple out from his uncovered eye. He shoulders a smaller patron out of the way, sending him crashing into a table, and strides towards the beast, the end of his staff causing a sharp "boom" each time he brings it down on the weakened tavern floor.

As his now strong strides bring him closer to the beast, he reaches down and casually tosses another table to the side, clearing more room for battle. He snaps his staff over his head, swining it in a wide circle, sending patrons and staff scurrying to get out of the way.

"The field is set! The horn has sounded! Let the battle begin!" he shouts, as he brings his staff down in front of him.

(Patrons and staff would swear that as he made this proclamation, they heard a long, deep, mournful horn sound in the distance.)

[devinkowalczyk]

John the Sluagh, the ghost, the Preta, oozed from puddle to puddle, always hiding in the flickering darkness between the lights. His reflection was often cast in the windows and glass, but rarely seen outside the darkness. His smooth stride was not at all hindered by the cracked and cracking planks underfoot. In fact, he seemed to draw the darkness from it up, seemed tendrils of it reached up to him to caress his form and feet.
This flow took him unhurriedly over the bar and local denizens.

[devinkowalczyk]

The dragonic figure lurched further out of its hole, unfurling huge black and green wings that allowed the shadows to dance across their surface. Large, thick, trunk like legs heaved the rest of the bulk up, further cracking and ruining the floor. The bulk and size of it pressed its head and shoulders against the roof rafters, causing a fresh rain of dust and debris to fall, causing the fires to dance a little higher.
All over the shop the groaning of man and support structure could be heard.
The creature puffed out its chest again, inhaling so much air as to cause the flame tongues to waver and loose clothing to flutter.

[SonOfMoradin]

Trying to strike before the beast could unleash whatever foul breath would be spewn from its chest, Mr Wednesday charged forward with a primal battle cry. As he charged, he again spun his staff around, and as he brought it forth, lightning seemed to gather at the tip, forming a wide and wicked looking spear head.

The beast swung a heavy wing at him, forcing him to leap to the right and on to the bar. He continued the act, using the bar to launch himself up over the wing buffet and towards the creatures head. He lashed out with the spear, drawing its lighning tip down the length of the creatures skull.

[devinkowalczyk]

Lightning scorched the scales running along the toothed maw and across the scaled eye. Small curls of smoke twisted up into the air from the long black line now on its face.
Its green and black eye swiveled on the source of the nuisance and took a step towards Mr. Wednesday. The planks under foot groaned and slowly began to give way under the enourmous bulk. The wings swung wide, buffeting wind whipping the spreading fire, flinging anything smaller than a barstool.
CRACK!
The planks beneath began to give way and the creature started to slowly fall backwards, back into the hole it had crawled out of.

[SonOfMoradin]

More nimble than his old frame would indicate, Mr. Wednesday leaped back from the pit opening in the tavern floor.

"Only a fool follows the serpent into its pit." he says. He cast a quick eye around the tavern, to see if there is anyone in need of his assistance, and to check to see if anyone is paying particular note to his involvement in this fight.

The fire is spreading, and no one seems brave enough to battle the blaze. His way to the kitchen is blocked by the pit the creature has opened, but this structure seems poorly made. Carefully keeping an eye on the pit, he slides over the bar. With a quick but powerful chop, he sunders the wall, careful not to destroy any more support beams. Once through, he begins to look for means to fight the fire raging in the main room.

His efforts are halted by a deafening roar that emanates from the pit, causing more plaster and dust to shake loose.

[devinkowalczyk]

John is suddenly revealed as the shadows come ripping and roaring out of the pit. His face is most striking, framed in straight black hair, because of its haunting grotesquery. The skin is pulled tight over the whole thing, revealing the bones and hollows of the mouth. His eyes are black rimmed with a dark but vibrant red.
The pale faced John wears his tattered coat covered in stitched on pockets, his fingers are covered in tarnished jewelery. His arms are raised above his head, almost like a puppet being held up by the strings on his hands.
The darkness comes swirling out of the pit and wraps around the great dragon beast like pitch covered black silk. The creature struggles mightely and snaps the flowing shadows. The scaled creature began to swing its wings and arms wildly, smashing a hapless survivor (snapping him in two gory chunks).
John dropped to his knees, back bowed down. His began throwing what looks like globs of darkness that traveled towards the great beast. They took the shapes of hobgolbins and imps and swarmed over it. The tiny creatures inflicted no more damage then actual shadows, but seemed to greatly annoy the creature which attempted to bat them away.

Silently John was behind Mr. Wednesday and whispered into his ear (so close now he could smell the breath of rot and decay)
"smash the floor, the basement will solve all the problems"

The beast no longer had the dark creatures on it and was swinging its head looking for living food, prey, or fun.

[SonOfMoradin]

"This wyrm will not be bested by the fragile makings of mortals, Einherjar. Mayhap it will help with the fire."

Mr Wednesday walked back through the hole he had created, his spear sending arcs of lightning through the room. Launching himself off the bar, he lept high with his spear rasied over his head. He landed and fell to one knee, plunging his spear into the floor in front of him and twisting it.

The room was bathed in a flash of bright blue light, strong enought to overcome the hellish glow created by the fire. A spider web of lightning flashed across the floor towards the pit created by the beast, splintering the wooden floor and launching knife sized splinters into the air. The floor split apart where ever the web of lightning scorched it. The sound of the floor collapsing drown out the roar of the monster, as it and most of the tavern floor fell into the basement.

The building groaned, pained by the fire and combat raging within it, but it held and did not collapse on the few people still in side.

[devinkowalczyk]

The floor was wrong. Where there had been basement, there was another cracked hole. It was impossible to tell if something had burst up out of it or smashed down. The bright dancing flames kept everything beneath the basement in darkness, but the flow of cool air flowing up out of it.
The bar was quickly catching fire, with the remaining floor and walls nearly entirely engulfed. The few survivors had climbed out through various windows and doors. Options of escape were quickly closing.
Again John whispers
"This Jörmungandr, as you might call it oh drinker of Mímir, has fled. We should do the same. Meet me at the House of Fell tomorrow night"
And without a whisper of sound, John disappeared (either through window, rafter, or hole yet unseen in the basement)

[SonOfMoradin]

"The beast is not defeated! The job is not done." Mr. Wednesday continued looking down into the black pit that used to be floor of the tavern.

Shaking off his desire to leap into the pit after the monster, Mr. Wednesday looked around the tavern again. The fire was raging, and threatening to spread to the near by buildings. He knew the fire brigade would not arrive in time, and that the blaze could threaten a much larger area.

He let the spear head on his staff dissipate, leaving him holding a walking staff once again. Cradling it in one arm, he began to throw debris into the pit in the floor, trying to clear out as much of the flaming and flameable materials as he could. It wasnt much of a tavern, even as mortal places go, but they had good wine and the patrons usually left an old man alone with his cup.

He worked, ignoring the flames and smoke until he heard the first of the sirens wailing from up the street. He took a few more seconds to hurl a last bit of refuse into the pit, grabbed his metal cup, and walked out the back into the dark alley, settling his hat a bit lower onto his head as he went.

Anyone who looked down the alley saw an old man in a well worn leather coat, walking with the aid of a long walking staff, who produced a somewhat considerable cloud of steam as the damp evening air encountered his scorched coat and hat.

"House of Fel.... rotting Einherjar, why couldnt he just give me an address!"

[devinkowalczyk]

John slipped down amongst the barrels and crates of the basement. Already here it was cooler amongst the stones. Here in the dark he began to feel more than see. He could See the rats scurrying along the walls, looking for their hidey holes. He could See the spider in the corner, huge and glossy black, spin slowly on its web, looking for the what was causing its web to twist in the air. John glided past all of these to a small crate against the wall, where the stones where large. Moving it aside, in the flickering light of burning objects falling through the holes, to reveal a small space in between the stones. Here is thin body slipped and he entered one of the maze of caverns he knew beneath the city.
Cavern and crack to sewer and sidewalk alleyway, all the way back to his Haunted House of Fell. A nice size manor with columns, a garden, and an iron gate. It was once the home of a one of the first settlers of English blood on the island. It was now considered ancient, decrepit, and abandoned to the haunts. The paint had pealed and turned black, the columns stood, but everything sagged about them. The gardens had gone made with plants and shadows. The once prime real estate that it overlooked was now in the center of some of the poorest neighborhoods of Bismuth.

[SonOfMoradin]

Mr. Wednesday walked until he could no longer hear the sirens and the din of the activity around the tavern. Concern crept into his spirit like the cold dampness of the night crept into his bones, even through his heavy leather duster.

"Too public, too open, too many people saw....." he muttered, to no one in particular. "It is not time, not yet."

After walking for about an hour in seemingly random directions, Mr. Wednesday found a secluded niche in the front of a building. The mist had developed into a heavy drizzle, and the alcove protected him somewhat. At least it was a fairly dry place to sit.

"Who was that at the bar? I had assumed he was Einherjar due to his visage, but he did not fight like one. Some of his actions and fighting style reminded me more of one of Hel's minions, but I did not sense her touch upon him. More must be known."

Rummaging through his coat, Mr. Wednesday recovers his beaten silver cup and places it on the ground in front of him, far enough from the wall that the drizzle began to collect in the cup. Slumping down behind the cup, Mr. Wednesday settles, and in a low, almost imperceptible voice begins to chant in a harsh, long forgotten language.

He sat hunched like that for several hours, never stopping his low, droning chant. After many long hours, the cup was about 3/4ths full of pure (as pure as you could get in this place) rain water.

Mr. Wednesday reached down gently with both hands and brought the cup closer to his face. As he did, small arcs of lightning played from his finger tips into the cup, lighting the water up from the bottom of the cup. The surface clouded over with the light, and then darkened to show a scene that happened just a few hours ago. The mysterious, corpse-like stranger in the tavern.

"Show me" came a harsh whisper from Mr. Wednesday. The image swirled, following the stranger as he took place in the battle in the tavern. The image continually clouded into darkness. It was more than the mans' strange shadow powers... the image was having trouble staying locked on its subject. Mr. Wednesday continued to watch, frustrated at the interruptions in the image, but still keeping his eye locked on the surface of the water. He did not want to miss anything.

The image eventually settled on an old house, long past its prime glory.

"Here you go!" Mr. Wednesday's cup was disturbed by the sudden dropping of several coins into the cup, shattering the image. Startled, Mr. Wednesday looked up, noticing that the day was dawning. He shot an angry glare at the back of the businessman who had dropped coins into his cup, wishing ancient unpleasantries upon the man as he faded into the distance.

"Well, at least now I know where to go." he said, as lightning played across his uncovered eye.

Looking into the cup, he saw the businessman had left a small amount of coin in the cup. Not even enough for a decent cup of wine. Again thoughts of terrible torments crossed his mind, but he shook them away and made an effort to stand. Businesses would be open again soon, and he needed to find a place to get a good cup of wine.

"Not one of Hel's playthings, but still a mystery. I dont like mysteries." he said as he headed north along the street, his staff tapping the ground ahead of him.

[devinkowalczyk]

John sat on a rotting upholstered chair, which was more a pile of tattered remains that was more pile than chair. He sat, and brooded on the world. He knew that the light was coming out as easily as if his eyes where upon it. His internal clock honed by nearly a century of existence (for it was not quite life).
John wondered at the origin of the creature, bemused that everything must have a begining. Although, it did not always need to start somewhere dark and dank (if you get this joke, you're as sick as me). The only way to discover such secrets, and discover he would, would be in the tunnels beneath Bismuth. There is where many secrets had been lost.
John pulled a piece of moldering fish out of his pocket, turning it over and over in his long fingers. He liked he feel of the rings, how some were tight and some loose, and the stories attached to all of them. A wedding ending in murder, a childs first costume ring, a promise ring where they grew old together; so many stories, so many lives. Sighing contentedly, he popped the fish into his mouth and savored the aromas, the squishy texture, and the flavor of the fish and mold.

Quick steps on the stones outside and a creak of ancient gate alerted him to the presence of another. This always snapped him out of his brooding: potential victims.
John closed his eyes and called his pets, familiars, followers, and those looking for fun. A few minutes later the click clack of shoes went quiet, then panicked scuffling. He could sense the gleeful hissing as spiders, crows, and creepy crawlies swarmed out of nowhere and everywhere of a hapless business man on the property.
The House of Fell was just cursed that way.

[SonOfMoradin]

The day went by like so many others. A good deal of walking, some wine, the jeering shouts of people who think you a failure, a useless drain on society. If they only knew the truth of it. But no, they couldnt handle the truth.

Mr. Wednesday moved throughout the city in a seemingly meandering way. At times, he would stop and stoop down, touching the ground. Most people who saw him do this assumed that he was weak, or that he was being affected by some disease or affliction. Let them think what they wanted to think. Their small minds would shut down if they really knew....

"As expected, the wyrm moves unseen beneath us."

As the afternoon wore on, Mr. Wednesday turned his steps towards the old districts, towards where he knew Fell Manor was. He moved from commercial and business buildings, past the newly "renovated" Whitecloud district, and into the old and then very old areas of the city. At one time, this area was the home of the elite, the creme de la creme of human society. Mr. Wednesday scoffed at the idea, as he remembered the grand opulence of his home, incomparable to anything the mortals could make.

This area had not weathered the time well. It looked to Mr. Wednesday as if the fields that he remembered once occupied this space were trying very hard to reclaim it. Some houses barely stood. Others looked solid, but he could smell the decay coming from them. He could tell that a few were still inahbited, their owners doing their best to fight off the inevitable. He knew something about that, and to some extent, he admired them for it. "Do not go quietly into that good night." he whispered.

Here he was.... finally in front of Fell House. He wasnt sure, so he assumed it would be best to follow the old ways.

His voice sounded out strong, but not loud. He did not expect his host would have trouble hearing him. "I stand here, son of Borr, Lord of the AEsir, called the father of all. I have come to you by invitation, and as such expect upon your honor that no harm shall come to me whilst I am your guest. And as such, I swear upon my honor that I shall visit upon thee no harm unless I am threatened or in peril. I stand here. My sword is sheathed. Bid me enter!"

As he spoke a faint, mournful horn sounded in the distance.

[devinkowalczyk]

John sighed, he would never understand the ridiculousness of the of the daywalkers. Why not just yell out "stab me in the heart." Alas, they are a simple, open breed. He flicked the last piece of his fish in his mouth and set aside young Susan's doll head, the one she lost in the pile of clothes she threw away when she grew up. How she missed it and still thought of it.
Sliding to his feet he walked to the window and laid a hand on it and quickly recoiled. Even through the black out felt curtains the sun was still a nuisance.Summoning up his will, he spoke to a crow roosting outside.

The crow awoke and flew down to the gate, in front of the huge man in the big capey thing. He picked at the gate and made it swing a little bit, creaking and groaning.
He then took a few hops and hips towards the house and looked back and the big guy with the stick. (sticks are bad. sticks hit, but are nice to sit on)

[SonOfMoradin]

Mr. Wednesday shook his head, his eye cast at the ground at his feet. "Has no one any manners any more?"

He raised his head, his gaze piercing the grime stained windows at the front of the house, and his voice rang out. "You invited me here, revenant! At least show the courtesy of meeting me at your gate. I am not someone to be summoned in by one of your pets! Methinks you play this mysterious role a bit to heavy."

His staff shot sparks of lightning as he slammed the end of it on the sidewalk at his feet. The concrete buckled at the impact. "I know not what you want with me, and my patience is short these days. Show yourself, or I will leave you to your gloom and mystery and I will resume my hunt for the wyrm on my own!"

[devinkowalczyk]

From his window John lets loose another sigh.
"formalities formalities. should have known""
His feet passed noiselessly over the crumbling staircase and through the hallways and rooms, never disturbing a mote of dust. He exited through a broken window into the deep shadows of the plant life. Here under the heavy boughs of trees and large brush it was perpetually twilight. From root to web to rotting undergrowth John moved as quietly as the wind. He stood off to one side of the gate, hidden in the shade of an old oak tree planted by the original owners of the house. Stephan's name was still carved above the eigth branch.
His fingers trailed through a cold wind, asking it to carry his voice to the one eyed fallen. Smirking, he hoped the cyclops would appreciate the name of the house given his current condition...
To Mr. Wednesday, whispered over a cold wind
""you are invited with as much power as a denizen can give, and you shall receive no harm from my hand"

[SonOfMoradin]

"Aye, denizen of what, that be the question!" he responded, spotting the lurking figure under the canopy of the big tree. He paused for a second, appreciating the symbolism. "If you've no objection, whats say we talk right there, under the tree? I enjoy sitting at the base of a tree now and again."

He brushed past the worn and rusted gate, seemingly ignoring the crow but in fact giving it a hard look. Crows had meaning to some, and while they did not match his beloved ravens, this bird may give a clue to the strangers identity.

He walked towards the tree, using his staff to clear a path for him to walk through. "You know of me, it seems, so it's only fair that you even things up. Who are you? From whence did you come?"

[devinkowalczyk]

"i know only what i have seen and puzzled. for my people are secret keepers as well as the fear of the dark. i know not why you are here or what your limitations are. so rest assured that i know of nothing too dangerous about you."
"we have a few names in the English world. boogymen and haunts we are often called, vampires we are often mistaken for. we call ourselves sluagh (slew-ah). i am a fey creature born of darkness, fear, and secret. i was birthed on the dark passage over and continued to live amongst the early settlers."

i have invited you here because this house has an easy entry way into the network of tunnels beneath the city."

[SonOfMoradin]

"Fey? If so, you have fallen farther than me if you no longer have respect for the old ways."

Mr. Wednesday found a comfortable spot near the base of the tree where he could keep an eye on the stranger and the street.

"Get comfortable son, we have much to talk about" he said. "Was the wyrm there for you last night? Did ye know the beast was after you? And if you did, what in the fiery hells of Muspelheim were you doing in such a populated place?"

He reached into his pocket and produced a long, curved dark wood pipe and lit it, looking up at the stranger, waiting for a reply.

[devinkowalczyk]

John stands amongst the shadows, oddly enough no rays of errant light fall across his face. He is perfectly enshrouded by the leaves.
He speaks still only in a whisper, as if he is unable to speak louder then that.
"i have lived here a long time, and i never have seen blessed Arcadia even though i yearn for it. to say i have fallen far is incorrect, to say i never was would be more apt."

"the beast...the beast was not after me. i know it follows some of the paths under the island. it looked like it happened to of wandered into the shallower pathways, possibly out of the deep ones. i do not know why it was there. two eldritch creatures in one bar maybe? or maybe it was after you? a god, even fallen, would be quite a tasty treat to an ancient beast?"

John stands a little taller and spaces his feet apart, in a semi loose combat stance. His fingers flex slowly and his black and red eyes narrow.

[SonOfMoradin]

Noting the slight change in his hosts pose, Mr. Wednesday put his pipe out and tapped the burnt tobacco out on the ground next to him. Without looking up, he said "You know, several of these modern belief systems seem to think that there are several circles in Hel. I've been there, and I know there are no circles. However, I also know that Hel takes particular joy in tormenting oathbreakers. You might want to think about that before you go further down this path."

Rolling away from the stranger, Mr. Wednesday stands and readies his staff, sliding his pipe into one of his dusters pockets.

"But if you want to find out for yourself how merciless and cruel Hel can be, step forward and let the battle be joined!" He meets the strangers gaze, his own eye alight with blueish white lightning.

[devinkowalczyk]

Smiling, John's arm and body blur forward. Right before the eyes of Mr. Wednesday do the slightly clawed fingers of his right hand stop. His whole body is leans forward into the strike that is effectively frozen.

Wrapped around his wrist, up his arm, over his shoulder, across waist and legs is a ribbon of pitch like darkness.

"the sluagh's curse. for we can scare, haunt, and call to anyone, but we can bring no harm, directly or directly indirectly. forever bound by a curse. you have less to fear from me than you do from the oak we stand beneath."

The shadow released itself into thin black smoke as John eased back, rubbing his wrist.


"i invite you into my humble haunting ground, you may rest if you wish or we can begin our descent into the tunnels of this islands past"

[SonOfMoradin]

"You play a dangerous game. I ought to rap you over the head just to make a point - I am NOT under any such restriction! But we waste time. Let us be off after the wyrm! After the fight comes the feast, and I am greatly looking forward to that!"

Mr. Wednesday slowly walks towards the decrepit house, again brushing aside the overgrown garden with his staff. Looking over his shoulder at the stranger he says "People call me Mr. Wednesday. What should I call you?"