[Celestial Arms Quest 2-4] Roads Long Forgotten

[Fletcher]

In a flash, The Trickster was gone. Everything was gone; nothing of the mansion remained aside from the lingering voice of The Trickster still echoing in his mind. He groaned, feeling his head and finding himself feeling faint from the whole trauma of being whisked to and fro about the world. He was looking forward to this day being over and getting a few days rest. Surely if other adventurers were taking up the mantle for the Messier Order than he could argue that a little vacation time was necessary to still continue to do a good job. On the other hand, was doing a good job for some shady sages in celestial garb really the right way to spend his time? He was frustrated, seemingly more questioned popped up than answers were provided and he was getting sick of it.

Sark seemed to have been brought here with him, the convenience of teaming up together in a party. Where they were, however reminded Fletcher of the time that he had ventured into the sewers with Sark and Jane a while back, finding themselves lost amongst a potential swarm of problems which they narrowly escaped. It was dank, dark, and small streams of light filtered down from the ceiling high above; they were underground in a place long since left alone, potentially forgotten by those that walked above. Sound echoed from the surface, they were beneath something, a town of somesort, but nothing gave away which town exactly they were under, how, nor why. It was all a show of ‘go to the place for reasons’. ”How’re you holding up, kid?” Fletcher grunted, stretching his back and looking around the cavernous pocket in which they stood, searching for their way forward. ”Damn Trickster giving us no help. Let’s get out of here, Sark. Something’s happening on the surface.”

Something had happened up above, and the volume levels had become elevated, the sound of destruction echoing through the tunnels of the catacombs in which they traversed. The words of The Trickster resounded within the forefront of his mind, urging him to hurry and stop an event from happening. What if they were too late and what they were needing to stop had already happened? Could they potentially get a do over from The Trickster if they asked nice enough? Depends entirely on the nature of the quest Fletcher figured, depending where the dividing line between real and game constructs sat.

Word Count: 409
Sark

SPOILER: Click to show

{Spoiler}4. Navigate the Catacombs [Lonsdale Catacombs].
- Post threads within the Lonsdale Catacombs subforum, label the thread with the prefix [Celestial Arms Quest]. To better differentiate this quest from the Chapter 1 counterpart, you may wish to label it something like [Celestial Arms 2-4].
- This step of the questline is gated behind thread requirements.
- For every 3 posts you make in this subforum (total of 750 or more words), you will contribute 20% toward the total completion rate. These posts do not have to be in the same thread; consider making open threads for others to give their contribution.
- Step 5 of the questline is unlocked when total contribution reaches 100%.
- If the total contribution is already 100% by the time you reach this point in the questline, you only need to post 3 times in this subforum.
- Summary:

You find yourself in the catacombs underneath Lonsdale's main city with the Trickster's voice in your mind. It tells you that you must find your way to the surface and stop a certain event from happening. You will likely find others along the way as you search for a way out. They also possess Pebbles of Philosophy of their own and many of them have experienced very similar events as you, although no one has experienced the same history as one another.

[Sark]

Sark and Fletcher moved quickly through the tacky glamour of the Purple Mansion. The dancing pumpkins, the workers in the male & female 'sexy witch' uniforms and the overgenerous amount of cobwebs took the mickey of the whole Halloween affair. As a Britishman Halloween had never been a particularly large event, with many of the older folk scoffing it was "some Yankee thing" and refusing to give both tricks or treats. This culture had trickled down to an impressionable, younger Sark who now had the same scorn that a British world would so greedily support the custom.

A mysterious voice had guided them to a room, where a curious figure had revealed itself. It called itself "The Trickster" and Sark forgot his holiday snarkiness. The creature was sly and witty, charming and mysterious. Was it a monster, an adventurer, or something else? Finally; it gave them a quest. Save the city, through relying on time flux. By changing the past they could change the present, making the world a better place. Just like the Trickster, it was something that inspired Sark.

He would finally be a hero.

That the world faded away then snapped back in a new reality felt right after the Tricker's stirring speech. It was how a hero would travel. The samurai hero stood tall and proud during the transition, and looked comfortably about his new surroundings. The area was poorly lit, with only indirect light to show their surroundings. It seemed to be a dry, dusty corridor which had numerous doors leading off from it. The corridor ended in a staircase at each end, and all of it was covered in the thick layer of dust.

”How’re you holding up, kid?”

"Super!" He cried in his best hero voice.

"”Damn Trickster giving us no help. Let’s get out of here, Sark. Something’s happening on the surface.”"

"Never fear, friend" He boasted in a deep, heroic voice. "My trusty flame companion, Mr Magic Light, shall guide our way while we explore! And we shall escape like the hero with the cowdude from that labyrinth !"

He drew from his bag a ball of yarn and held it aloft. With a dramatic flourish he let some of the yarn out, which floated in the invisible air currents. The hero waited a moment. Nothing happened. He continued to wait, and jiggled the yarn about. Nothing continued to happen. The hero hurled the yarn down one the hallway.

"Look! It leads us on!" He boasted. It was at that point that he spotted the footprints. In the thick dust they looked fresh, so the hero squatted down to better peer at them. As his magic light drew closer to the footprint, a large smile burst across Sark's lips.

"A fellow adventurer has been this way! Hark! Forsooth, his sole of boot doth show ... um ... a sigil of most fortune?" He paused for a second, trying to gather his thoughts. "It doth show signs of ye guild most new and bold; for its autograph is of Londinium!"

Taking needlessly large steps Sark began to follow the footsteps, which had coincidentally gone in the same direction of the yarn. As his companion had pointed out; with danger sounding above they needed the reach the surface as quickly as possible.

Samurai: ______ 20 Tailor:_________ 20 Acrobat: ______ 01

Word Count: 549  x1.3 = 713 (Oct Art + 2 person CA)

Pokes: Fletcher

OOC:

Skill Descriptions:

Chain 01: "Lightspeed" Denkosetta, "Steel-Cutting Blade" Zantetsuken Chain 02: "Flashwave" Shunsen, "Vacuum Slash" Izunagiri Chain 03: "Blade Clone" Tsuguri Bunshin, "Divinity Slash" Seinaru Shinken Adventr.: Spear Break, Aura Swing Miscella.: Emergency Suture, Magic Light Party Up: Unyielding Spirit

[Fletcher]

Okay, now Sark was either delirious from the amount of travelling, or he’d been bewitched by something the Trickster had done. Hell, he could’ve just hit his head on the impact of them landing here, but at least he was still around. He’d decided to adopt a much lower voice, but Fletcher could’ve sworn that the boy was old enough to have his voice break, perhaps he missed the memo on them needing to speak in different tones while they were here; wherever here was. Sark made a declaration and lifted aloft a ball of yarn from his back, saying something about a Magical Light. Fletcher paused and looked back at the kid, confused and slightly worried about his mental state. Sark jiggled the yarn about, expecting a response the older dwarf let him do his thing before. ”Hey now, when you say ‘cow dude’, do you mean the minotaur?”

He wasn’t listening, but instead his attention was drawn to the floor instead of what the older dwarf was saying. Then he cried out that another adventurer had passed this way and that thanks to the ball of yarn it had led the way forward. Fletcher looked around, and from where he was standing he could see the ball of yarn sitting down an adjoining hallway, with Sark taking large exaggerated strides towards it, following a set of tracks on the ground. It wasn’t a bad thing by any means that he’d found signs of other people nearby, as it was probably that The Trickster had been the one to send them here as well. If the footprints led out that way, it was likely the way out. Fletcher scrambled, either to make sure Sark was going to be alright or to get out faster, he couldn’t say. He ran ahead, past the ball of yarn laying on the floor and looked down the adjoining corridors leading off the end. It was right or left, breathing growing heavier.

There was something spurring him on now. Some kind of familiar feeling, or dread, he couldn’t tell. Something deep inside was crying out in pain and fear at something happening to them. Them. Fletcher dug in his pocket and pulled out his Pebble of Philosophy, holding it in his hand and feeling it cry out to him in desperation. It was glowing softly, and slightly warm to the touch. When he held it closer to the corridor in front of him the feeling grew; compared to the one further way, it faded, as if leading them onwards to their confrontation. ”Come on, Sark. This way.” The footprints led down this corridor as well, but it was nice to know that the people that came this way didn’t just meet a dead end.

Word Count: 460
Total Word Count: 869
Sark

[Sark]

"Ha ha!" Sark cried in his best Brian Blessed voice. "Bollocks!" He added for good measure.

The hero's bold steps echoed down the hallway. Large clouds of dust were raised with each (comparatively) titanic step. In the murky false darkness of the tunnels, Sark felt more than saw Fletcher squish past him and jog ahead. It may have been the dust that spurred his friend on, or perhaps a pressing need to explore the city above. It was at that point he noticed a muted shine coming from his pants pocket. Curious, he ducked his hand in and felt about. As his oversized fingers came into contact with the Pebble of Philosophy a bolt of feelings struck through him. The tailor gasped and straightened, his eyes wide as he stared at the ceiling. He didn't know how, but he knew here. Am ominous feeling had washed over him, replacing his inspired joy from before.

Being within the Lonsdale catacombs felt wrong. He didn't know why he felt that way, but he did. He felt that he should be out on the roads, appreciating the sparkling beauty of the ocean on his way to a Purple tinkerer near the bay. It was a queer feeling, that. He examined it, wondering why 'purple' had been such an important identifier, and how he knew that he was within a catacomb. Fletcher's murky shadow was fading into the eternal twilight of the catacombs, so with newfound urgency the hero Sark summoned forth his magic light.

A pale radiance grew over his shoulder, until a basketball sized glow hovered there. It had the look of a content cat about it, and glowed with a cool blue light. It cast strong shadows against the doors, which now looked aged and forgotten.

"Fletcher, wait up!" He cried, and jogged after his companion. They moved down several halls and up 2 staircases, and all the while Sark felt that same anxiousness. He was in the wrong place. He had to get to the bay.

Within several minutes they came across a labouring adventurer. They were leaning against a doorway, looking defeated. The feeling of foreboding was only growing with each passing minute, but Sark sqashed it down to squat down next to the person. They were a bard, judging from the set of drums fastened to the waist and bells to their extremities. The samurai tried to nudge the bard into conversation, but the third adventurer was just staring blindly into the middle distance.  Finally, the figure spoke up.

"I was too late. ... I'm ... dead. I was killed, with the sound of my screams silent in my ears ... I felt myself die. I felt my last thoughts. I'm dead, but I'm still here ..."

The bard opened a white-knuckled fist, revealing a pebble of philosophy. It no longer glowed with the same urgency as Fletcher's or Sark's, looking much like it had back in Londinium.

"Please ... just go. You're not dead yet, you can still do something."

The bard whispered, before curling up more tightly.

Samurai: ______ 20 Tailor:_________ 20 Acrobat: ______ 01

Word Count: 511 x1.3 = 664 (Oct Art + 2 person CA)

Pokes: Fletcher

OOC:

Skill Descriptions:

Chain 01: "Lightspeed" Denkosetta, "Steel-Cutting Blade" Zantetsuken Chain 02: "Flashwave" Shunsen, "Vacuum Slash" Izunagiri Chain 03: "Blade Clone" Tsuguri Bunshin, "Divinity Slash" Seinaru Shinken Adventr.: Spear Break, Aura Swing Miscella.: Emergency Suture, Magic Light Party Up: Unyielding Spirit

[Fletcher]

They ran down corridors, taking a turn here and there, snaking their way closer to the surface. Sark called for him to slow down, and he did until the younger dwarf joined him. The pair than set off together, but it was only another couple of minutes before they ran into what would be their next apparent roadblock. But yet it wasn’t one, instead it was an adventurer like them, morale gone from their eyes as they slumped against a doorway, suffering what would be mortal wounds if the rules of mortality didn’t apply to adventurers. They were dazed, shell shocked, and no amount of nudging from Sark was making the conversation progress. Then in a voice no louder than a whisper, the bard said that they were too late, and that they were dead. Fletcher couldn’t bring himself to point out the contradiction in the bard’s statement and continued listening.

What they described was morbid beyond belief, sending a shiver down the dwarf’s spine as he turned to Sark, wanting to say something but the words falling short of his breath. The closer they got to the surface it seemed, the closer he knew that they weren’t meant to be down here, and felt that a part of him was up above. It was a strange feeling, and one all too explained when the bard opened their hand. In that hand sat a pebble not unlike the ones carried by the two of them, although dull and silent to the world, as dead as this bard was describing. But surely if these were crystallised memories of the ones lost so long ago, then it wouldn’t matter if they died now, right? That’s how time worked; you can’t go and change events preordained from the future, for going back and interfering ensures their occurrence in the first place. Everyone had to die at some stage, and for the Landers that were lost either now or later to become the pebbles they carried, how did this work?

The bard curled up even more, almost in the foetal position before weeping silently for the loss of one whom they almost were. Fletcher clutched the stone in his hand tighter before growling at the misfortune cursed upon anyone that was to take this quest. The loss of lives here were real, or real enough to evoke such a strong reaction for the bard to be paralysed from moving because of it. Fletcher did not want to become like him, and felt an unnatural rage well up inside him as if he were already fighting against that which would threaten to extinguish the candle of life. Up above he could feel his strength being riled up by the beast whose pacts he carried, calling out to him to be summoned. It was just like back in Ultima Thule; no, it was less vague than that, he was reliving this fight but he was only half there. He got up and made a run for the tunnel they were heading towards, the voices from the Pebble of Philosophy urging him on, deaf to any pleas or cries aside from those from his summons.

An explosion sounded from up above and through a gap in the rubble above him he could see a swath of flame streak through the open space. Where were they specifically? What was attacking the city? Fletcher’s breath grew heavy as he slowed down to a jog, the bright light of the sun almost blinding him from the darkness of the cave from which he was to emerge. He could not believe his eyes and stopped dead in his tracks, merely calling back for Sark, regardless of how far away he was, to catch up. “Sark! You’re going to want to see this! We’ve got to hurry or we’re going to end up the same!”

Word Count: 643
Total Word Count: 1512
Sark

[Sark]

Time was pressing, so the pair of dwarves left the grieving bard behind. Leaving someone behind who needed help like that made Sark's stomach twist in regret. He stared longingly at the man, hesitating about helping and hesitating just as much to abandon him. It was only with a few choice words from Fletcher that Sark was able to tear himself away. The older dwarf was right; comforting this individual would not help the city. Every moment they spent with the bard would mean other lives permanently extinguished.

They dashed headlong through the corridors. The sound of shrill screams and the shattering of glass filtered through the grilles, egging them on faster. The magic light wove drunkenly behind the, throwing their racing shadows about the halls. Sark's chest was tight with anxiousness while his heart beat with the anticipation of battle. He'd never died in Elder Tale, and never wanted to find out what might happen.

There was a deafening explosion which threw out of a cloud of dust. It washed over the pair, temporarily blinding them as it raced further down the hallways. After the dust came a wave of heat, drying the sweat that coated Sark's brow. The heaped rubble from the explosion blocked the hall, but had also created a gaping hole in the ceiling lead the way to the sky. The blue of the sky was strongly contrasted with the dull, grey finger sof concrete that stretched a short distance into the hole. With a bit of determination the pair would be able to climb to the surface. 

Fletcher slowed down to a jog to gauge the danger. 

Sark! You’re going to want to see this! We’ve got to hurry or we’re going to end up the same!”

Without a word Sark ran past Fletcher. With the danger near his expression had turned grim. With people dying there was no time to clambour about on rocks; they needed a way up. Relying on the natural aptitude of an acrobat the miniature fighter leapt towards the ceiling and carefully timed the draw of his sword.

"Ace Move: Steel Cutter" He whispered. 

Nearing the hole in the ceiling he drew his blade and twisted his entire body behind the blade, much like a front-flip. The sword cleaved through a pair of cape like structures. As Sark landed he whispered his next technique.

"Ace Move: Lightspeed"

Just as the mana arced up from the ground to invigorate and speed up his limbs, the long, thin sections of concrete crashed to the ground. They rested against the rubble like a pair of slides, allowing quick access to the surface. An unusually serious look sat on his face as he turned to Fletcher.

"Let's go."

Samurai: ______ 20 Tailor:_________ 20 Acrobat: ______ 01

Word Count: 454 x1.3 = 590 (Oct Art + 2 person CA)

Pokes: Fletcher

OOC:

Skill Descriptions:

Chain 01: "Lightspeed" Denkosetta, "Steel-Cutting Blade" Zantetsuken Chain 02: "Flashwave" Shunsen, "Vacuum Slash" Izunagiri Chain 03: "Blade Clone" Tsuguri Bunshin, "Divinity Slash" Seinaru Shinken Adventr.: Spear Break, Aura Swing Miscella.: Emergency Suture, Magic Light Party Up: Unyielding Spirit