brawn of the dead—& raphael.
+Ill-prepared for the weather as you are, you manage to get lost in the forest just outside of the location you’re supposed to be investigating. Part of your group builds a fire to stay warm as the sun begins to sink, while the other sets out to regain their bearings. It’s just as dusk sets in that the trees come alive with low moaning and the sound of something being dragged through the leaf litter. You brace for a monster, but instead you find humans - around half a dozen - with ashen skin and their eyes rolled back into their heads. One swings at someone in your party and sends them flying into a tree, but unfortunately your attacks aren’t so potent. Standard weapons bounce right off of these things. Fortunately for you, Nessie of the Knights of Seiros is with you, and one strike from her gauntlets reveals the monster’s weakness: Relics. [Grants +1 Reason or +1 Brawling]
THE FIRST SIGN OF TROUBLE is a lack of birdsong and the pronounced sound of his and Raphael’s own echoing footsteps.
Dusk had already begun to wane before defeat had settled into their weary camp like the winter’s encroaching chill. Despite aching feet, Lorenz had done his best to maintain a sense of composure, to aid with morale. (There is only so far that composure can carry for those unwilling to receive it; there is only so much walking in circles a party can do before admitting to being lost.)
There is still a task at hand. Lorenz’s feet will doubtless remain uncomfortably calloused for the entirety of the rest of their journey, but he has a duty set before him, and while the rest may be blind to the noble example he is setting, perhaps such upstanding character can be admired should he find their way back. And so, the moment Dame Nessie lifts her head from the burgeoning fire, seeing to its erection with the rest of his class and then, satisfied, asks for volunteers to scout ahead, Lorenz steps forth.
—As does Raphael Kirsten.
He supposes, after resolving that the sudden reserve of strength must be that of his own doing, that there are certainly worse classmates to be stuck in the thickets with. Not that Lorenz could think of any offenders, not when his own thoughts are drowned out by Raphael’s heavy footfalls and voice carrying through the lean spaces between the trees.
But, in the pause, when in a lull of conversation, Lorenz hisses at him to keep quiet, something unsettling comes to mind.
The thrum of Lorenz’s own heartbeat in his ears replaces the expected noise of forest activity. Heels dig into the earth, a halt that has a hand reaching, on instinct, for the lance strapped to his back.
“Quiet,” he hisses, only loud enough for his classmate to get the message, but with enough emphasis (and a look, for good measure) for his point to come across loud and clear.
And then the distinct sound of a twig snapping, carried by a chilled breeze.
