It had been months since he had been reborn, or at least reanimated, and although he had taken the time to learn as much as he could about this world there was one thing that Bryn knew above all else, he must reclaim the treasures that had been taken from him. One thing in particular called to him, the iron crown of the Hernystiri, the crown which was given to him when he had been declared chieftain of his people. He had tracked the tomb robbers first to a town, but lost them in the sprawling market, the crown had passed from trader to trader, the value constantly changing as each on sold it on as something slightly different. Finally it fell into the hands of a dealer in magical artefacts, while Bryn had never noted anything arcane about the crown, the dealer did. Soon it was being packed and sent away to the nearest port, and from there across the sea, this was what led Bryn to leave the continent of his birth and death and travel to Parvpora, to the city of Wyllmochvar specifically. 

The journey had been uneventful, passing himself off as a mendicant priest sworn to remain ever cloaked, he had been left to his cabin for most of the passage. The few times he had joined the ship's company he had mostly just listened, gathering more information about the current world. Much had changed in the centuries since his death, iron was now more common than bronze had been in his day. There had been a great war against the gods, an idea which seemed almost laughable to Bryn, but was common knowledge to everyone else. He considered gods to be better left alone, the Hernystiri tribe had mostly looked to their ancestors for guidance and aid, and in a sense Bryn supposed he had become precisely that, an ancestor who could act in the current world, but there were none of his tribe to ask for aid. The passage lasted a full moon and Bryn had to endure thirty long days as the dessicated husk he always became when the sun broke the horizon at dawn, swathed in his black shroud to avoid others noticing his transformation, thankfully they didn't see him when the sun beat down on him fully, and even the shrunken form gave way to that of an animated skeleton, he didn't think his fellow travellers would welcome the presence of a wight among them.

Finally it was over, he disembarked and made his way to the city, the open gates proved no barrier, although he was sure some form of psionic knew that he was far from human. All the same he was waved through without hindrance and was able to procure a cheap room in an inn. Now it was time to hunt down the trail of his crown. That didn't take long, anyone knew that strange magical artefacts only ever ended up in one place, the college.  

That led to tonight.

Pitch black, the sky overcast and both moons on the wane, the perfect time for someone shrouded all in black to enter undetected. He drifted through the college like a darker shadow amongst shades, barely even substantial in the night. His forays into the college had mostly been in the vicinity of its library, posing as a scholar of occult history, particularly the tribal cultures of Canelux. It was during these forays that he'd been told that a relic of that long ago time was being examined and catalogued at that exact moment, and that soon he could examine it for himself.

The library was deserted as he made his was through the stacks of scrolls, books and parchments, young minds it appeared hadn't changed, they still would far prefer other distractions than their allotted work. Finally he came to the archives, strangely these weren't locked or warded, an oversight no doubt. Bryn quickly flitted through the heart of the building, past an unimaginable wealth of knowledge, but feeling drawn, inexorably towards what was his. 

There it was, resting on a velvet cushion, the iron crown, wrought with surprising delicacy, a ring of iron with five points projecting up like curved claws, strong, but delicate enough that two of the points had been broken of long before even Bryn had borne it. As if sensing his presence the crown emitted a blue glow. With eyes for nothing but his crown Bryn came closer to it, reaching out, the cold touch of the iron sent a shock through him, somehow it was colder than the night air, cold as the tomb from which it had been prised. Drawing off his hood with one hand, he exposed his pale gold hair and pallid, though still handsome features, he looked no older than thirty, and even the shroud couldn't mask his broad shoulders. Grasping the crown with both hands he raised it and placed it gently on his head, it fit as perfectly as it always had.

An onlooker would have noticed something that Bryn missed, for for a moment both his skeletal and shrivelled face seemed superimposed over his human countenance. 

Cha'Kwe'Tza was surprised to learn that there were two continents to the lands. Canelux where he originally landed, and Parvpora to the east. This took quite some time to learn while he was aboard the ship making way towards Wyllmochvar. Mostly because the crew kept well away from him and seemed to jump away or shrink the moment he looked at them for fear of what he might do should they anger him. Secondly, of the few that were either brave or sensible enough to talk to him, they all spoke quite fast and Cha'Kwe'Tza had a difficult time understanding them due to his basic knowledge of the language. He had tried to ask in his own language once, but the harsh words and clicks seemed to only frighten the crew even more than his appearance.

Cha'Kwe'Tza counted the sun's rise many time times, and that of the moon once. The system of hours and minutes that one of the crew tried to explain seemed absurd, and made no sense to the Reptilian passenger. Which was fine as far as Cha'Kwe'Tza was concerned. He had come to discover and obtain some of the sacred artifacts that were rumoured to be in these parts by the High Priest from his own lands. As these thoughts drifted lazily through his mind while he stood near the bow of the ship, Cha'Kwe'Tza heard a voice call from high above that there was land ahead. As the ship sailed ever closer to the city, Cha'Kwe'Tza had an odd mix of awe and confusion. To see so many buildings together reminded him of his own capital, Gor-Roq, and made him wonder at how the High Priests here managed to make the workers build so much, and so high.

Pulling up to the pier once the ship was in the port, the crew seemed to explode into activity as lines were tossed about. What hit Cha'Kwe'Tza the most was the overall noise of the city. It had the din of a small skirmish with people's voices everywhere, the sounds of draft animals pulling carts. These confused Cha'Kwe'Tza. He had never seen animals of their kind before, nor the strange wheeled devices that they pulled. Back home everything was carried by howdah or palanquin by a larger beast than these, or the workers themselves in case of the latter. Gathering his few items, Cha'Kwe'Tza left the ship and started walking towards the first line of buildings. A few people here and there screamed as they saw him and either fled, or stood rooted to the spot by their fear. Most were busy conducting their business and took no notice, or didn't care, as there were many other strange things to look at.

For the rest of the day, Cha'Kwe'Tza wandered about the city. Most of the time he received answers that were of no help, or what was said to him was unintelligible. One word that did keep coming up was 'College', so that's what he asked about. Soon enough he was pointed in a direction and kept going until he found himself before a large building, with robed people everywhere he looked. Some of them stood gaping, and openly staring at him. Finally, one approached, quite timidly, and inquired about his business. Cha'Kwe'Tza looked at the tiny man, "Business…Same same to task? This one seeks relics. High Priests inside?" The small man in the robe looked slightly confused, but must've understood the gist of what he was saying, because he then motioned Cha'Kwe'Tza to follow. There were many corridors that they passed through, and even more robed figures that pressed themselves against the wall at his passing.

Cha'Kwe'Tza didn't know how much time had gone by while they walked through the interior of the building, but he was eventually made to wait outside of a pair of large wooden doors that split down the middle and opened into the room. As with everything else, he thought it strange that if these were the doors to the High Priest, that it wasn't made of stone and designed to roll to the side. A very strange tribe in these lands. Standing beside the door, one hand resting on the head of his axe, and the other by his side, Cha'Kwe'Tza took up a passive guard stance that he could hold for up to a few days, his level of hunger depending. The doors finally opened, and the little man came out holding a torch aloft, telling Cha'Kwe'Tza that it was now dark outside. Again, he followed the figure through a few more passages, and stopped outside of another door. The man said Cha'Kwe'Tza was to go through, but he couldn't follow because of the fire which was fine, since he didn't care much for fire apart from cooking a kill and ceremony.

Weaving his way through the room, Cha'Kwe'Tza looked around at the shelves, and all the books and scrolls upon them. They were quite similar to the vaults of his city, but his held plaques and tablets that were made of stone more often, but solid gold was also seen for some of the more important pieces. Looking to both sides, Cha'Kwe'Tza kept moving away from the door, and eventually saw a blue glow come from around the corner of a shelf. Eyes narrowing, he stalked forward, claws clicking lightly on the tiled floor. Peering around the end of the shelving unit, Cha'Kwe'Tza saw a shrouded man with his hood down, placing what looked to be a crown on his head. There was almost a flicker in the man's facial features, but Cha'Kwe'Tza knew that he saw the form of a wraith and a skeleton there at the same time.

Stepping out from where he had been hiding, Cha'Kwe'Tza looked at the man. He now appeared like a normal human, although much more pale than the others he'd seen. The crown that sat on his head looked as if it were made specifically for it's wearer, and the golden hair spilling from under it gave him a powerful presence. Cha'Kwe'Tza knew right away that this man was a tribal Chieftan, and due much respect. Lowering his eyes to look at his chest, Cha'Kwe'Tza stumbled over a few words as he spoke, "Chieftan…This one begs mercy for…in…intervading." Cha'Kwe'Tza stood and awaited his fate, for the man in front of him had all rights to take his life.

A sound emerged from behind a tall stack of shelves. Something rough scraping against old wood and brittle leather. A figure moved in the dark there, slowly and casually. Its shape, seemingly coalescing out of the shadows, gaining solidity as it came into view. Thin tapering wisps of colour rapidly faded from view as the shape of a dark-haired young man, dressed in a simple black shirt and leather riding trousers emerged from around the shelves. He had a knowing smile on his face. Arrogant. Confident. Inviting trouble.

 
Mendean was a lord of Chaos. A god. Here in his native Parvpora, he was less powerful than he would otherwise be in the lands of Canelux, but he was still more than a match for most mortals. Besides, this land was his home and always had been, even before he had taken up his father's mantle in the Conclave. One of the Triune, the trinity of gods who had direct contact with the Voice of the World Tree, he was no stranger to intrigue and conspiracy. How mortals responded to such stimuli was a source of fascination for him.


Emerging from around the corner, the young man eyed the two who had made their presences known. Neither of them human. One a reptile of some kind and the other, something that had refused to die. Something that still laid claim to possessions he had no need of, but his connection to them in life had likely been the event that had raised him from his slumber. A thing that should not be and a thing that should not be here. Both visitors were old. He smiled.

Malo duh i gušter. U potrazi za krunu?” Said the god in his native Wyllmochvarian tongue. From behind his back he produced an ancient iron crown, identical in every way to the one that sat upon Bryn's head. The smile broadened, revealing his teeth as he caressed the artefact as though it were a cat resting in the crook of his elbow. In mock surprise, Mendean feigned confusion when he saw the crown upon the wight's head.

 
“Oh, to ne neugodno. Kako to može biti?” Casually, he popped his own crown atop the tangled mop of his hair, at a jaunty angle. It was clear he had mischief on his mind. He did not know whether the other two could understand him. The lizard had spoken in some broken version of Adeluna's trade language, but that meant nothing. For all he knew the wight might not have understood him at all. But the pair had found their way here, so perhaps they understood some of what he had said. Unfortunately he was not quite so gifted with tongues when in Parvpora. Still, the meaning of his actions was probably clear enough to the pair.

[OOC: Sorry for the wait, uni work has been taking up more time than usual alongside work.]

The thing before him was truly a sight to behold, appearing from the bookcases was what could only be described as a cross between a reptile and a man, all the same Bryn didn't show a flicker of surprise or emotion. He felt a cold certainty and power flowing through him from the crown, like little eddies of necromantic power, whispering of something just at the edge of his hearing, just shy of intelligible. Perhaps when he'd had a little longer to understand how the crown had changed since he'd lived he might understand what it was that it was telling him. Looking closer at the reptilian creature he surmised that it was a warrior, weapons, although of stone rather than metal, were at his side. So not one of the mages or scholars who endlessly swarmed this place. The words he spoke were broken, but the deference and way he conducted himself showed him to be one who knew the proper way to greet a chieftain. Bryn inclined his head towards the warrior and spoke, his voice firm, but without the heat of anger, "Warrior, it has been many years since one showed me the proper courtesies. For that I thank you and greet you well." Although not sure if that was the form that the warrior was used to, it was the way he had greeted visiting warriors from other tribes in his life.

A second figure appearing was far less welcome than the first, who obviously understood Bryn's ownership of the crown, this new presence appeared as if by magic, far more likely to be one of the mages. He also spoke the local tongue, which Bryn hadn't gained more than a smattering of since arriving, he'd had quite enough trouble with learning the common tongue, even with a few words which had been recognisable from his era. The newcomers mode of deportment made it clear that he had no intention of treating either Bryn or the warrior with any kind of respect. The production of a replica to Bryn's crown merely sealed that knowledge. Bryn sighed, although retained his more regal aspect, something about the crown and that cold power made him act more as a chieftain than a man, "Trickster, perhaps you would use the common tongue, at least one of us is a stranger to these shores." Although he doubted that appealing to any sense of propriety would work he would at least try to be civil.

Cha'Kwe'Tza was pleased that the Chieftan in front of him had decided to spare him. The magnitude of his failure would've been immense had he been struck down and rendered unable to complete his tasking from the High Priest. Taking a step forward, Cha'Kwe'Tza raised his eyes and looked at the Chieftan. He could feel a power of some sorts from the crown that adorned the man's head. As much as Cha'Kwe'Tza would've liked to retrieve it for the High Priests, he knew that trying to take it would most likely end with them killing each other. The Chieftan had responded to Cha'Kwe'Tza's earlier statement, but he only understood 'warrior' 'thank' and 'greet'. A time would come eventually when Cha'Kwe'Tza would master this strange language, he hoped it was soon.

A second figure appearing grabbed Cha'Kwe'Tza's attention, and his eyes narrowed as he tried to make out features in the dim light. This one drew a crown identical to the Chieftan's and set it on his own head, but angled to the side. Looking from one person to the other and back, Cha'Kwe'Tza slowly stepped back a little as one hand snuck down to rest on the hilt of the stone sword hanging from his side. Emitting a low growl, Cha'Kwe'Tza wondered if he would perhaps actually get a chance to spill some blood and take back both crowns for the High Priest. That would surely be preferable to leaving here empty handed.

How dare this foreigner insist he speak his own tongue? He was a guest in this land after all and Mendean suddenly found his arrogance offensive. Readjusting the crown, he sneered at the undead thing and his reptilian lackey. The expression on the face of the young man darkened.

The words were unpleasant on Mendean's tongue as he replied in Adelunan. His was a language of culture; of an ancient civilisation steeped in magical lore. The undead and the lizard spoke in the mongrel barks and growls of animals by comparison. A lesson was required. A lesson in etiquette and civilised behaviour. “You. Guest. Arrogant.”

“Thief,” snarled the god as he spread both arms wide, almost as if he were about to hug the unlikely couple. His fingers splayed wide. Timbers in the walls and roof creaked. The air had a greasy quality about it and a metallic aroma assailed the nostrils. He understood that the undead had likely owned the crown in life, but this was Wyllmochvar. The dead had no rights to their mortal possessions, according to law. If he wanted it, he would have to earn it.

They seemed to emerge like shadows from the wood and plaster, solidifying into something that seemed almost alive, inches thick. Mendean glowered at the pair as he returned to his primary tongue, his voice holding a deeper resonance than before. “Ne dolaze ovamo i zlostavljaju našu gostoljubivost. Ne dok sam ja prisutna.” Sticky black tendrils sprouted from the walls in all directions, criss-crossing the room, blocking exits, inhibiting movement.

While Bryn understood the warrior's actions somewhat, while they were not about to spill each other's blood, if he even had any, the reptilian doubtlessly would not consider things too amiss if the chance came to claim his crown. He'd noticed the way the warrior's eyes had lingered on the crown. It wasn't too much of a stretch for Bryn to guess that he'd come to find artefacts of his own, perhaps from his culture, lost by time or thieves, or to acquire new ones for his masters. Obviously he was a veteran, he moved with a confidence in himself that only having faced death brings, but he was not one used to deciding his own fate, a soldier rather than a chieftain, that he'd made clear in the deference to Bryn as a chieftain.

The tricksters words brought a grim smile to Bryn's face, "You name me guest," nodding to the warrior he added, "it is witnessed, and so I claim guest rights under ancient law." If there was one thing Bryn knew, it was the laws of hospitality, to name someone your guest was to give them a place under your roof, food from your table and defence against all comers. In legends of his tribe even the gods themselves must abide by those laws, although often enough they had used them to break those they chose to by demanding greater and greater efforts from their host. The accusation of thievery made Bryn's face darken, ignoring the changes the trickster was making to the environment he stated plainly, "Grave robbing is a crime in all countries, this," indicating the crown, "is the proceed of such a crime. Therefore any institution holding this item other than someone connected with the deceased is a party to the crime of tomb robbing." Simply put the college could not legally hold onto the crown.

Now it seemed the trickster wanted to insult Bryn by continuing to speak an unknown language, to which Bryn simply replied in his own, ancient, musical tongue. "Siarad iaith ystyrir eich gwesteion nid yw'n deall yn anghwrtais. If you continue to speak a tongue I do not know, I will simply reply in kind and consider my host to be forgetting his duties."

Cha'Kwe'Tza thought of them as tentacles, and they sprung from the walls around him. Any sort of opening that may have been used to escape the library was now blocked off. His stone bladed sword was out in a large scaly hand, and Cha'Kwe'Tza wanted nothing more than to cut down these two in front of him. They chattered back and forth like a pair of newly hatched birds discovering that they could make  noises. Most of what was said sounded entirely foreign to the Reptilian, but he did catch guest, witness, and crime. This was certainly one of the most peculiar conversations that he had heard in a long time.

Looking from the newcomer to the chieftan, Cha'Kwe'Tza stepped forward a little and let his sword settle down to his side, but he was hardly going to stow it. There was still the chance that things wouldn't go so well. Tail twitching back and forth nervously, Cha'Kwe'Tza spoke up finally, "We guests here? Why no ceremony or sacrifices?" These were strange folks that he had gotten himself mixed in with. Seriously, who had guests over without having at least a small token sacrifice to appease the gods.

The god that was Mendean paused, eyes narrowing while his fingers continued to weave strange patterns in the aether. Streams of colour trailed from his movements like novelty smoke, yet there was no smell of burning. No smell other than the metallic tang of charged air, pregnant with the possibilities that Chaos might write into them. The tendrils twitched, but remained in place. Their dark sheen ominous in this poorly-lit room. If there was one thing he understood, it was an ancient tongue.

Mendean enjoyed the concept of protocol. Ritualised behaviour, the antithesis of his own chaotic nature. Father had taken great pains to impress upon him as a boy, the importance of structured behaviour. And he had been a good student; but that was before he had embraced the mantle of Chaos, the unpredictability of being. He was longer bound by such rules, but he was entertained enough by them to have his curiousity piqued. So, the old dead thing was attempting to invoke protocol was he?

He took a step back, keeping his hands outstretched, several fingers splayed as they held the thought form of his power in check. The foreign devil had finally used a civilised tongue. One that came with its own synaesthetic appeal. The heaviness of the consonants, the clarity of each syllable. Mendean wanted to hear more of it. Language was everything to him. Each tongue defined the universe in subtly different ways. He opened his mouth into a leering smile, hinting at his daemonic nature.

“Mae'r bwndel o esgyrn yn siarad yn gwrtais o'r diwedd.,” The young god's tone was one of interest, although he pulled in his chin, making his demeanour more threatening than before. The tangle of hair atop his head wreathed his dark brown eyes in shadow. His gaze did not break.

“Rydych yn siarad tafod tebyg i un y ellyllon rhew yn Itjivut” he said, comparing the language being spoken with that of the ice elves of Itjivut. It was closely-related, but different enough that some words did not translate adequately. No matter though. Understanding was closer than it had been, mere moments before.

“Dywedwch wrth eich stori wrthyf , corff sefydlog. Dywedwch wrthyf pam eich bod wedi dod i ddwyn oddi wrth y dewiniaid o Wyllmochvar. Dywedwch wrthyf pam na wnaethoch yn syml gofyn am y goron . Ydych chi'n credu ni fel ffyrnig fel eich bobl ei hun?”

Tell me your story, standing corpse. Tell me why you have come to steal from the wizards of Wyllmochvar. Tell me why you did not simply ask for the crown. Do you think that we are as savage as your own people?” Mendean's gaze shifted briefly to the reptile, by way of an emphasis. He was prepared to give this motley duo a chance, for chance was an innate part of his divine nature. However, he was a fickle being, like most gods. A mood that could change in an instant from placid to severe. If they could hold his attention for long enough, then he might not draw them into the Nexus to serve as garden furniture for a thousand years after all.

It all depended on what happened next.

Emmy hated to admit it, but she was lost. She scowled, knowing that she would have to talk to people, and she disliked it. She knew what people would think when she would ask them for help. As she wandered into the streets of Wyllmochvar, she needed directions. She wish she had taken the other route, but now she would have to make do with what she had. She kept walking until she found an abandoned library. Unaware she had walked so far from the city, she had to stop here for the night. She took out her broadsword, in case any creature would dare face her. Emmy looked at the library, taking the architectural structure into mind. If she battled, this library would be in ruins. She went into the entrance, but stopped as she could hear thoughts from 3 other individuals. She would spend the night in the abandoned library, and go at morning rise. She hoped that they wouldn't find her, oh how she hoped.