As Jesgil followed the sprite, she, too, noticed the man cowering his boots around a corner, placing the pair in a position to quite easily see them. While the sprite's tongue made an attack upon his pride, she merely gave him a smile and wave before walking passed to the other two women who resided just beyond. One was more direct, yet the other was more coincidence to catch as they headed closer. Still, the one's who hair shared a similar shine to Jesgil's made quite the interesting statement. The title she gave out: It rang similar to a messorem, one she heard from Death herself as she hid her identity, but the impact was much higher.

"Does that then make you a Champion for Lady Dalanesca?" she asked boldly, making sure to use a title to go with it (After all, from what she recalled, it should only be not used when its within her presence). "Please do tell me she is holding herself well. Anyways, I am Jesgil Yamar," she told the pair, offering the two a bow after resting the axe's handle behind her feet, "And this here is my dear Tillan," in reference to her axe once she got back to a normal stance. "I have been working with the Rescue and Care team at the entrance and made my way around before I met Young Calcifer here. Quicte the gentleman he was to me," she chuckled. "I figured the undead would not have the power to command such an entity, even one so young, so I figured he would be bounded with one of the explorers down here.

"Well, either way, its my duty to aid those who have delved into these caverns, whether it be a need for food, medical supplies, or tending of equipment. Though unlike the others, I do find myself pretty capable myself." Maybe she would be selling herslef too hard if she also added that Lady Dalanesca complimented her combat expertise…

Thomas was very confused and scared…… did that ball of fire just spoke to him? Di he had just seen a woman wielding a gigantic axe and wearing some realy strange…… "armor?"…. though that was realy forgotten when he heard her, the third voice of wraith woman. She said that she meant him no harm…. yet her voice was so strange to his ears making him more afraid…… yet….. he could try to escape but……..

He gulped, and stood up, because his fear caused him to fall upon his backside. And with trembling feet he stepped out into the light where three women were standing.

In presence of a Champion of Goddess of Death, an Amnesiac Reaper and Draconic Battle Maid one must be either incredibly exceptional or just mundane. Thomas could be described as the latter. His tunic riddled with holes, one sleeve being torn at the elbow revealing an forearm covered in bandage that was never changed. His hair, on top of the head and the face, was long, unkempt and probably never washed. Trousers in similar way to tunic had holes in them, and in similar fashion had their legs torn at knees, showing the world bruised and cut calves. His nose was crooked in manner that suggested that it was at one point broken, he features that weren't obscured by clothes were somewhat gaunt, early sings malnourishment. Overall he looked like begger sraight of the streets with two exceptions.

The Sword he held and gloves which covered his hands.

Gloves were made out of thick, dark hide and looked to be in prisitne condition. Such gloves would normally belong to a blacksmith fo some kind. Sword, which was held within death's grip by the man, was in condition very much like the gloves, prisitine and well maintained and despite lacking any decoration the craftsmanship of it  was impeccable . With it's blade starting out wider and thicker at the base and becoming more narrow and thinner at the point. Not to mention the double fuller in the middle of the blade. Truly a weapon worth it's salt……. so it was even more strange to see it grasped by man like him.

He looked upon evereyone gathered, with brown eyes filled with fear and started speaking.
- I ….am ehm am……- his voice was deep and raspy, as if his throat dried up momments earlier - ehm am i ah i ahm - words were stuck in his mouth, he gulped again in vain hope that it would enable him to speak. - 'am sorry to be creepin' m-m-m-m……… M'lady Mirannda. Was just…….. scared 's all I ….I ehm I am bi-bi-bit bit lost……. ehm. - He then sniffed loudly and rubbed his nose against the sleeve.
- I will be ehm ehh mhmh ehhhhh ……..

The darkness was unnatural. Oppressive. He strained, his eyes aglow in the darkness but they could not pierce it. Usually, he could at least make out something in the shadows of night. Only the deepest of caves had held a darkness that would blind his eyes, and yet he had barely left the square of light marking the entrance and shadow enveloped him. Nothing but the dank reek of mildew and tomb mold assaulted his nostrils. Stagnant air that was neither stirred by the breeze, or sterilized by the sunlight. This was an old place. A place of death. Unfortunately, old places often held interesting mysteries, and Tyren’s curiosity had finally gotten the better of him. It was places like these where he learned the runes he worked into his craft, and to add something ancient to his grimoire always held an appeal.

One hand trailed along the wall. The stone was still smooth. Even lichen craved light to spread, so while the outside crumbled into disrepair, the inside was pristine. His footsteps were even, and measured, barely lifting his boots from the ground. Were there an obstacle or should the floor suddenly fall away, he didn’t want to miss it. That had already happened once, and it had taken him a moment to collect his disheveled self after his tumble down the flight of stairs. He still scolded himself softly for not going back up, and returning with one of the other adventurers and their mage light, but while he had faltered in his journey before, this was not yet the time to go back. The magic in his blood began to tingle, as it did in a foreign place on the edge of memory, and he wondered what he could be awakening to.

Anxiety was beginning to make his scales bristle. The patches were thickest on his forearm and down his back, curling around his sides under his clothing. The outside of his legs and shin were also protected by them, but they were hardly a suit of armor. He pushed back his hood. Aside from the faint echoes of voices he assumed were other treasure hunters, he had yet to detect anything out of the ordinary, but he could feel a difference in the air up ahead. The next step he took, his fingers brushed away from the wall, and he was standing in a larger chamber. He concentrated a moment, feeling his strength well up, and stomped. The stone was solid, and didn’t waiver in the slightest, but the heavy footfall echoed around the room.

Groping for the wall again, he kept following to his right, his heart starting to pick up. His fingers slipped from the stone again, and his palm landed flat on a dusty alcove. A frown creased his features in the darkness, gritting his teeth. It was empty as he searched, although dust and the tattered remains of fabric were, thus far, an unusual find. He shuffled further along, heart pounding in his ears and found another break in the wall. Another long, shallow alcove. He couldn’t reach the back of it, although the top was low, like the first one. The fact it was empty, did not make him feel any better. His stomach dropped as his mind assembled the image of other catacombs he had stumbled into. He knelt down, and there was another hollow like the first two below it. The kind of inclusion where a body would be laid to rest. “Blood and ashes…”

His hand immediately grasped the heavy cleaver that he carried, and tore it free from it’s scabbard. Perhaps it wasn’t a real weapon, but it would hew through flesh and bone with avarice. They were all empty. In a place that reeked of death, why were there no bodies? Did something move? His head whipped to the right. Was his mind playing tricks on him now? So this was the true danger of this place. Like so many others, you wanted your prey in the trap before it was sprung. His other hand found his dagger, and he struck the two together. No sparks flew from the steel in the unnatural black, but the sharp hiss of grinding metal did awaken a commotion towards the end of the room. A part of his brain figured it was the direction he would have gone had he continued straight from the hallway, and presumably deeper into the ruins. The cracking and clattering was not a part of his imagination any longer, and he could hear it over the pounding of his own blood. He took a wild swing in the black and met nothing. Adrenaline was making his spine tingle, and he crouched lower, weapons clenched in a white knuckled grip. If whatever it was got the drop on him, he’d be done for. He could already feel the phantoms of a dozen hands reaching out for him, and as strong as one could be, it was easy to be overwhelmed. That could not happen. He let out a loud roar, throwing his head back in challenge and crashing his blades together again. The clattering was getting louder. How close were they? The muscles in his legs bunched as he tensed to spring. 'Now? Not yet. Now!?' The sound was ringing in his ears, echoing all around him. The door was to his left. He had to go. He put his shoulder low and exploded outwards, ploughing into several decrepit bodies. Another heavy swing from the cleaver bit into something this time, separating it into two pieces he could not distinguish. Were they human? “HELP!” He stumbled forward over bodies as hands grasped at his cloak and shawl. He put his hand out for the wall and staggered as it met empty air. He took several steps forward, hands now outstretched as a blind man feeling around. He had missed the doorway, and was now circling away from whatever it was in the large chamber with him. He swung behind him, nothing, he followed the first swing of the cleaver with his dagger, and knocked a hand away. “Light burn you infernal dead!” He was facing them again, he thought, and took a few hurried steps backwards, gritting his teeth and scowling at the darkness. He had no idea where he was in the room anymore. “Shit.”

Ardea’s words brought forth memories from DaeLuin. Once upon a time, Mirannda had woken up from being buried alive, with no memory as to who she was, or what happened to her. The phoenix’s gaze softened with empathy. There was much more she wanted to say, words of encouragement, but she did not know how the woman would take them. Mirannda turned towards the new woman, making it a total of three in their odd little mix. She was not dressed as the champion would expect, but she knew better than to take things at face value.

Surprise wrote itself all over her expression at the mention of her goddess. Of course, anyone who knew of the current deities and their titles would recognize the Goddess of Death’s title, but she had never introduced herself as the champion before now. ”Yes, it does, Jesgil. It is a pleasure to meet one who has met Mirthadra Din’an. She fares quite well, I shall let her know you inquired.” Calcifer glowed blue at the compliment as Mirannda eyed him with a playful smirk. ”His youth fits his nature well, I think.”

Yet, she watched as Ardea walk over to the stranger, Mirannda could not help but admire the precision. It appeared the woman was a very capable agent for Dalanesca. The male, however, seemed seized by fear. Each step was halting, his entire frame trembled. She eyed him critically, quickly dismissing the tattered clothing a temporary state of being. Something about the women was terrifying him, but he held his weapon as if it was no stranger. That sword was not picked up by a panicked, inexperienced mouse trapped in a corner. It was that fact alone that spawned a slight smile from the phoenix.

She waved her hand. ”No need for formalities. Like Dalanesca, I care not for titles. Mirannda or Mira is sufficient.” Calcifer opened his mouth, inhaling a bit, causing her eyes to snap to him with clear irritation. ”Just Mira or I send you to seek out Elata.” As Mirannda’s mind went two directions, the first to scold Elata for planting that name in Calcifer’s mind, the second to direct the group further in, a single word from a new voice echoed, coming from deeper within. A plea for help. Without hesitation, the phoenix began charging down the hall, Calcifer bobbing in matching pace.

There was no fear of becoming lost in mines, her own safety was abandoned to the wind as she rushed. Her sword was still unsheathed in her hand, mixing its starry glow with Calcifer’s own shining warmth. Just ahead, there was a darker section, suggesting an opening in the wall just outside her sphere of light. Upon reaching it, she paused for just a moment, taking in the scene that revealed itself upon her presence. Mirannda had entered a tomb of sorts, where the miners would bury their kin within the rich earth they spent their life working.

A single, living being was under attack by a plethora of angry souls bound to their decrepit bodies. No direction was given to Calcifer as he flew forward, yelling obscure words in an ancient language as he lit one on fire. Mirannda groaned his name as she rushed into the fray, her sword whistling through the still air as it sliced through leathered skin and brittle bone while she was unsheathing a dagger of deep blue and red metal in the other hand. She stood defensively at the stranger’s back, wondering how she was going to keep the flaming sprite in control and his flames from burning anyone other than the dead. "You okay?"

The two women seemed to recognize each other, indirectly. The maidservant bearing a weapon was amicable and courteous, lending her aid to others less fortunate and in need. Their conversation revealed more useful information–the woman named Mirannda, the Reaper's Hand, was in fact the representative of the deity of death. The rest of their talk revealed minor details, such as the names of personal possessions and familiars. Miss Jesgil Yamar was a good addition to any group, such as their own. Her manner and poise showed an inclination towards cooperation and capability in terms of self-defense. Even if one of them was temporarily indisposed they would be able to cover for each other. The situation did not deem it necessary to provide an introduction again, so this would be put off for a later point in time.

While Mirannda's attentions were drawn away by the sounds of a struggle, Ardea attended to the whimpering man dressed in garments full of holes. A glance told her much; this man was in no condition to continue down here in the darkness without company. Old wounds and poor physical protection abounded, insufficient to preserve his life should his weapon or wits fail him. "You should leave this place." The armored woman advised. "The path will only become more perilous from here. The enemy is one who no longer breathes and feels no pain. Are you prepared to fight for your own life, to give no quarter when staring death in the face?" Her voice held no condescension, level and eerily calm. "To balk in fear is to accept death in these tunnels. Turn back and return to the surface." It was hard to understand what he was saying with his stammering. The way he quaked seemed as if he would fall to pieces at any given moment. Perhaps if she could recall the feeling of fear, she would have shown sympathy. "Should you decide so, Lady Yamar here can assist you to the surface." With a hand she motioned to Jesgil, whose affable demeanor would surely be less intimidating then Ardea's dispassionate coldness.

Jesgil smiled at the stuttering man, stepping forth and to his side before using her free hand to rub his back, as if to calm him down. "It is alright. You are in good company." She allowed Ardea to speak her words, clearly warning him of the dangers that rested ahead and, should he need it, Jesgil would lead him back to the surface. "She is right," she assured, "for it is our duty to rescue those who have become lost or in need of escaping to lead them back to the exit. There, the team will treat any injuries you have gained upon this adventure and a warm stew to fill your belly." Of course, this would not stop her from returning back down after a single rescue, especially with the cry for help coming from another. "If you may excuse me."

Her gaze then shifted away from the tattered man, eyes gaining a hint of gold as they began to slit in the presence of the flame as her tongue clicked, "Awaken, thy blood, and grant me thy ice!" in a Draoncian language. Her ears took a slightly different shape, pointed, but much shorted and bolder than an elf's, and her teeth sifted to bear that more of fangs. With a dash forward, Jesgil leaped into the mound of undead, exhaling a wall of frost from her muzzle, coating the nearby undead in ice. Enough time for her to head over next to the fallen one. "Are you alright? Do you need any healing or aid out?"

Thomas was bit …..overwhelmed. The Champion of Goddess of Death was ……….. someone………. not exactly someone he had expected from listening to tales and sermons provided by priests of that faith that occasionally found their way into his home village. To be frank the wraith woman was one that was a better fit of how Reaper's Hand would look like in his mind. But you know what they say about expectations and whatnot. Still it didn't diminished his fear one bit, for he was still within deep dank caves filled with…. who knows what. Then scream for help was heared and Mirannada charged down the hall quikcer than one can blink. Now he was left with lady in strange armor and scary as all circles of Luxuria Mortiferum combined, wraith lady.

Said lady started speaking again………. if the words she spoke were to come from any other person, then Thomas would snap back with some sarcasm or a retort along the lines of "I wll bloody know that I shouldn't have been here in the forst place but I didn't much have a choice in the matter". But words came from Adrea, more reaper looking lady than actual Reaper's Hand. So he just nodded along though the part about Jesgil filled him with some hope that he would leave this accursed place but in a momment.

But that too was quickly dashed with a quick "Excuse me", some magic he would be never able to understand and a charge down the same hallway the lady Mirannda went into. Thomas was left bit stumped for a momment untill he shook his head and took after the battle maid while screaming.
- WAIT FOR ME, I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO GET OUT OF HERE.

Knife and cleaver held at arm's length in front of him, Tyren continued to take slow steps backwards, away from the shambling, clattering noises that hounded him. Was the door on his right now? Had he turned himself around? If he could keep his head he could get back out, otherwise it would be very easy to wander deeper. It was a very optimistic view considering what he was up against. Something grabbed his arm, shattered bone sinking through the layers of fabric, digging into the soft skin on the inside of his arm. Even with the dagger clenched in his fist, it was his reflex to swing with his knuckles. He felt a jawbone crumble, but the corpse maintained it’s grip, drawing a sharp gasp through clenched teeth from the green eyed man. He took a lurching step backwards, lest he get caught up in more of them, and swung again, feeling the neck snap back, but it still wouldn’t loosen it’s hold.

Were his eyes really beginning to adjust to the intense, impossible darkness that swallowed the ruins? The thought flitted through his mind, as he felt he could almost see the ghost of his attacker’s outline. No, there was light, rapidly getting brighter. An entity of flame darted into the room, immediately setting one of the creatures alight, calling out in a tongue he did not know. Not but a breath behind it, a woman charged in, red hair streaming behind her, sword shimmering with blue starlight. She masterfully parted the creature that gripped him before she spun to his back, a glance over his shoulder showing she had drawn another of her weapons. What a vision she was, he could nearly feel the heat coming off the fiery maiden. “Better now.” It was an honest answer, his heart emboldened by her presence and the glow of her sprite.

The arm still gripped him despite being separated from it’s master, but he knocked it loose and reduced it to dust below his heel. He squared his shoulders, raising his weapons to the three that approached him now. Before he had a chance to strike, another cry in an ancient tongue caught his ear. When he looked, he had just moments to dive to the side, back and to his right, trying to not collide with his new ally, as a second newcomer leapt into the fray with a battle ax. She did not strike them with it though, instead releasing a freezing mist from her maw. As unsteady as the dead were already, they were near petrified in the cold. She approached, asking if he needed aid, and jolt went through him. She looked human, for the most part, but he could recognize in her features the changes he was only beginning to go through.

“No.” It was another truthful answer. Tyren pulled himself to his feet, shaking some of the rime from his clothes and rubbing his forearm. “It’s just a scratch, and I would like to go deeper.” He had a second start with the second woman that had arrived. He’d been too distracted by her draconian features at first, but he realized she was dressed in the strangest manner. It had been a rare occasion for a traveler like him to see the inside of a larger manor, but he was well traveled and indeed he had. She looked like a servant girl for a wealthy Lord, yet, there she was in the derelict ruins wielding a battle ax. He raised his hand as though to say something, then thought better of it, instead opting to retrieve his weapons, and spin them in his hands, joining the newly reinforced line against the dead.