From Cursed Stone
Twelfth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC
Valley of the Lost Clans, Frostfangs, Far North
Wyla Drekelis had little patience for fools. She could deal with the ill-educated, the superstitious or even the downright thoughtless and destructive, she had not killed a gremlin yet, but true folly was a far graver sin in her eyes and the wildlings before them were committing it with the same gusto as a glutton at feast-time.
"...southron witches... defilers... know the wrath of the spirits for your blasphemy...." She was trying not to listen truly for the sake of her nerves, but though she was no expert on the mannerisms of phoenixes it was clear Velen was becoming discouraged.
Maybe they had something worth looking into at least, she thought as the apparent leader waved his spear in what he must have fondly imagined was a threatening manner. Thinking born of Sothoryi shores, but perhaps it would serve her well here also. This too was a land of magic in its own way.
Alas, the fools did not seem to be armed with anything more than sticks and stones, spite and thick skulls. It was only a full ten heart-beats later, and Wyla's heart beat three times slower than a living woman's, that she noticed the thin threads of crimson, visible only in deepest mage-sight tethering all of their new 'friends' to the earth at their feet.
Red as blood...
Though the half-living sorceress certainly enjoyed blood in many forms somehow she did not think a sympathetic link, hinting at the fact that the damn barrow drank it, tasted well. She called out to Velen upon a spell-wrought wind in the tongue of dragons that few upon the mortal realm could speak.
"They are bound to it in some manner, do not trust their words."
"What did you bring up from the depths?" The phoenix asked more sharply than his earlier words, more sharply than Wyla had ever heard him speak. "What did you sacrifice?"
No trace of blood on them at least, Wyla mused while preparing a battle spell. Then again it did not have to be blood sacrifice. Perhaps they aught to be captured for interrogation.
No sooner had the word passed through her mind that the the wildlings started to spasm violently, spitting blood and shattering bone. The leader's eyes actually burst in his head and one spearwife had her ribs explode out from her flesh like a jagged mouth.
"Thoros, help!" the phoenix called out, the words soon lost to a desperate healing song. Before the first prayer to the Lord of Light could be uttered Wyla realized what they were looking at.
"They are already dead, cursed to die again and again!" She could feel the blood pumping furiously in their veins, she could hear the desperate beat of their hearts. She remembered the shaman's hut in the Sothoryi village, the stench of fear and decay from the corpses staked out in front of it, dead souls and living flesh doomed to reenact their deaths again and again, seeking a redemption that would never come. This was not like that in a way they did not
know.
Wyla tried to sever the magic between one of the wildlings nearest to her and the barrow. At least he would die quick and they should be able to keep the corpse when whatever madness had caused this turned around again. What she was not expecting was for the body to fall to dust and the stone slab that guarded the barrow to explode outwards with the force of a catapult shot slamming into Sandor, bringing the warrior to his knees, though not without shattering.
And unearthly wail rose from the darkness beyond. "Pain for pain, blood for blood, death for death!" It took Wyla a moment to realize the words had been in the earth-tongue of the shaitan.
What do your agents do next?
[] Explore the barrow alone
[] Try to find an expert of some sort
-[] Write in
[] Try to communicate with whatever is wailing, however gruesome it may be it seems in pain
[] Write in
OOC: Some rather mediocre rolls this time around so not as many answers as there could be.