Dead Man's Blood

[Jade Harley]

And so it begins. The uncertain quest-line! Let's do this BD.

Warning: This story will eventually contain mild violence and blood. The term "mild" is used uncertainly. Reader discretion is advised!

Upon their entrance into the Pale Moors, the verse’s namesake becomes readily apparent; a thin stream of intermingling fog and mist, like a solemn bride’s veil on her wedding day, falls across the gloomy countenance of the landscape. The sky above, lacking in the reassuring and childishly simple light of heaven that is oftentimes tinged with blushing pinks and soft periwinkle blues, is as murky and black as undisturbed oil. The solitary screeching of night crawlers rings out in the darkness, a despondent sound that would send goose-flesh rising up along any wary traveler's arms.

Interspersed in between the sky and wafting mists are the grey and withered fronds of frothy undergrowth and slimily creeping vines, overshadowed by the skeletal limbs of a bleakly leaning tree line. Chilling noises emanate out from the fog— sometimes a raspy cry, other times the shambling footfalls of something drifting, absolutely rootless and without good cause, through the muck.

Kanaya breathes freely here, the glow of her skin dimming down to a more cautious luminescence lest the pair is being surveyed from afar. Her light footsteps that mark her entry into this gloomy verse are quite different than Devon’s, as his feet sink into the accursed ground with a hearty slurp due to his being on unfamiliar ground. It appears that he has plodded into one of the unlucky patches of damp earth that have the unsettling consistency of gummy blood cake.

As he sorts himself out, Kanaya takes the time to summon a dark shawl to conceal her bioluminescence with further, as looking like an ethereal creature is far from ideal when paying a visit to the Moors.

It takes only a moment for the amorphous and virulently shifting glow of an Omnilium summoning to peter out into nothing. As the weight of soft cloth settles over her shoulders, Kanaya is a bit surprised to discover that the fabric has a velvety, dark satin sensation to it when she reaches up to feel of it between her fingers.

With a frown, she turns her head to the side to better see just what kind of silken abomination she has summoned only to get an unexpected high-collared neckline jabbing into the corner of her eye instead.

“What,” Kanaya says, because she will graciously accept eternal damnation if she is wearing a goddamn cape right now. When she attempts to straighten out the annoyingly wide and jutting collar of her cape, her expression sours further. Well, her thoughts were rather preoccupied with things of the stereotypical vampire persuasion. Perhaps she will be lucky and the undead will mistake her for their overlord or some sort of dark agent and be more amenable to what she asks of them.

Still tugging fruitlessly at the cape’s edge before seeming to give up with a frustrated huff, Kanaya turns to Brother Devon. There is a soft vwoosh as the cape mirrors this movement in a flare of silken whispering against the stale air. Kanaya cringes; how outright pretentious.

The young rainbow drinker sighs through her nose. The lengths she will go to for the sake of these undead rapscallions.

“We will have to pass through Darkshire on our way out towards the lower mires,” she informs him, inclining her head towards a faint assortment of buildings cast in greying blue silhouettes in the near distance. Her horns curve gracefully with the movement, as unwieldy as they might appear to be. “Although we should take great care not to disturb the locals— undead and living.”

It is true, unfortunately, that the last time Kanaya had even dared to approach the settlement of Darkshire was around her third resurrection, and needless to say it was not an especially anticipated experience or one that was dear to Kanaya’s heart. She can still imagine the feel of a thick and leaden crossbow bolt sinking into her hip with an unsettlingly thick noise as she had tried to wave to one of the watchmen. She greatly suspects that it may have been because there was a horde of undead milling around her that she was received so ungraciously, but still. What an unreasonable rejoinder.

Her yellow eyes focus on Devon once again; she had drifted off into her thoughts while staring out over the Moors. Perhaps she can use Devon as a meat shield emissary to the long-forsaken citizens of Darkshire. After all, he is splendidly normal in appearance even if his personality is a tad… excitable, and humans do so love to respond most agreeably to those who look similar to them. Whatever happens there, Kanaya should let Devon be the face of the operation.

Now, as for the undead, Kanaya fully intends to take the lead. Her previous efforts to sway them from Count Dracula’s hold may have been for naught, but she is just sure that she saw a faint glimmer of recognition in the infinitesimally-scratched and lifeless eyes that had gaped back at her several weeks before. Maybe this time she will be successful.

For now, however, they had better start walking; Kanaya can hear raspy growling noises and the gnashing of rotten teeth most acutely rising up from some indeterminable place in the underbrush, the disconcerting sounds setting her on high alert. A faint-shining light towards Darkshire beckons, reminiscent of a yellowish sodium vapor lamp.

She waits only briefly for a response from Devon before nodding and setting off on foot for higher ground. The standard undead are slow and especially ungifted when it comes to any steep incline, especially stairs. Besides that, her human companion will be much safer when out of reach of grasping limbs and nauseatingly swollen and pus-riddled nails. Disgusting— once she is in charge she will be certain to enforce some kind of hygiene regulations, or at least some rule that requires her fellow undead to keep their nasty hands to themselves.

The jade-blooded troll steps up onto a more or less even path that leads directly towards the town of Darkshire, a few dew slick pebbles skittering across the way and over into the colorless fog that no scrutiny would ever be able to easily break through. She believes that she hears them strike something fleshy and terribly solid in the darkness. An actual Schrödinger's zombie.

Without sparing even a passing glance towards the darkness, for gawking amazedly at the undead only seems to encourage them most of the time, Kanaya quickens her pace. A few fleeting seconds later, the first precipitous droplets of a rain shower fleck across the back of her cape.

Lips pulling into a displeased look, Kanaya adjusts the cape's collar so that it deflects the worst of the downpour.