The Scramble [Complete]

[PepsiWhirda]

Whirda sheathed her blades and followed the newcomer's finger with her eyes. The white stretched interminably into the distance, the ground coming together with the sky so subtly, it was almost imperceptible. A bare shade, no sun, no stars - a sky for being diagnosed under, for repenting under. Whoever brought her here, this Omni - she thought she was coming to understand his plan for her, her purpose in all this.

If she squinted just right, she could see what the newcomer saw: a smudge of black on white canvas, the vague outline of a head, shoulders, a figure lying flat to avoid notice. A second, similar figure. Beyond them, what looked like an arch of gray stone.

"Who are they?" Whirda asked, turning back to Eighteen. What sort of a name is Eighteen, anyway?

In the realms, strangers were a double-edged sword. Most often the kind pointed at your throat and poised to plunge. Whirda's every sensibility, every instinct, screamed danger. Unfamiliar terrain, a group of strangers of unknown disposition, tenuous allies at best - in Faerûn, it was the sort of situation to send her running. But what choice did they have? It was hard to imagine any two warriors who could contend with their group, now eight-strong.

"I think we should talk to them," Whirda said. She laughed. If only her mother could see her now.