Encounterlogs
Selinas Odd Encounter Sr Saoirse 240828
In a chic studio-style bedroom within a dilapidated village under a haunting curse, Selina, a dues-paying member of The Adventurer's Guild, enters with the mission of confronting a banshee terrorizing the area. Upon her arrival equipped with essential supplies for the beleaguered villagers, she notices a peculiar ceremony in progress. Mistaking this for the banshee's doing, she approaches, only to discover it's a local funeral rite for the recently deceased, who fell victim to the real threat—a draconic spirit emanating decay and destruction. Selina's initial encounter with the village and her observations at the funeral set the stage for a confrontation with a creature far removed from her expectations, pushing her to adapt quickly to the unforeseen menace.
The spectral dragon, an ancient beast killed long ago yet refused to die, unleashes its fury on the villagers, its breath a corrupting force decimating everything in its path. With strategic cunning and agile maneuvers, Selina leads the abomination away from the settlement, towards the mountains, in an effort to protect the inocent. Utilizing her prowess in shadow stepping and her knowledge of Draconic, she engages the beast, seeking not just to elude but to challenge and distract it from returning to the village. The culmination of this perilous dance is a daring and costly ritual, where Selina uses her own blood to bind the undead dragon, securing its imprisonment and sparing the nearby settlements its wrath. Though successful, the ordeal leaves her drained, reflecting on the unforeseen complexities and dangers of her mission, yet steadfast in her resolve to protect those in need from the shadows that lurk beyond.
(Selina's odd encounter(SRSaoirse):SRSaoirse)
[Mon Aug 26 2024]
In a chic studio-style bedroom
The walls are painted in soft pastel hues of blush pink and light lavender, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere. The floor is covered in a plush, white faux fur rug that feels incredibly soft
underfoot. The windows are framed by floor-to-ceiling, luxurious cream-colored curtains that can be drawn to block out the light and provide privacy. An ornate chandelier hangs from the ceiling, providing a glamorous focal point and soft, ambient lighting. Above the bed, a statement neon sign in vibrant pink reads "Glow On," adding a touch of personality and flair. The room features a
canopy bed adorned with fairy lights, a vanity illuminated by Hollywood-style lightbulbs and surrounded by high-end cosmetics and beauty products, and a streamlined workspace equipped with essential office supplies and stylish decor. The room also includes a generous walk-in closet, and a comfortable living area with a sectional sofa and flat-screen TV.
It is night, about 83F(28C) degrees, There is a last quarter moon.
(Your target encounters a ghost who's fixated on some past tragedy from their life, they need to either give the spirit some sense of closure, or send it on it's way through more violent means.
)
The troubles had begun a few days ago, in the Wilds.
A keening wail, sounding through the woods late at night, pursued by many but never truly found; a few hunters had tried, and ended up dead, strung up in what seemed to be a mockery of their own practices, gutted like pigs for the slaughter. Yet curious signs were present upon their bodies, a tell-tale sign of a breath, perhaps of rot or decay, that festered upon the bodies. Something vile and wicked had breathed upon them, and their flesh revolted at its touch, spreading into blackened, gangrenous flesh.
The hunters of nearby villages resolved to not go out and after this frightful thing, whatever it might possibly be, for fear that it could butcher many more of them. Their supplies are dwindling, their tables are going barren, and without the bounty of the forest, they will surely starve.
A call went out, messengers sent off to villages, cities, towns nearby, asking for someone to come and save them from this plight. Scourges of this sort were commonly known as Banshees, foul undead fae creatures that were the result of sidhe maidens that had died horrible deaths, this was common knowledge. All of the symptoms of the problem fit, after all: The keening wails, the tendency to hunt the living, the nocturnal activity. All that was required now, was for the hunter to become the hunted.
Would someone rise to the call?
The Adventurer's Guild is situated in the Godrealm, very near the Gate to Haven to serve just these sorts of notices out to people willing to investigate and handle situations like this, not just in and around Haven, but all around the worlds. One such messenger might have given the notice to a dues-paying member of The Adventurer's Guild. And that member might have brought the notice to the guild hall. Where of course, a blue-haired maiden acting as the Guild Mistress would no doubt have seen it come across her desk.
While Selina would not ordinarily handle a request like this by herself, she would most certainly want it investigated before moving further on it. Being equipped with the agents necessary to run a secret society helps tremendously, especially one as well-established as the Scalebound Covenant or the Knights of the Silver Dragon that replaced them. Once Selina has a little more information to go on, along with perhaps some pictures of the town in question, the bodies, and the figure suspected of doing these things, these Banshees, she can investigate a little more closely on her own.
Pathing into a specific location which one has never been to before can some times be iffy. Especially for an outsider like Selina with no actual first hand knowledge of nearly all of the worlds in this reality. But she can usually manage to get where she is trying to go by the third or fourth jump. Which hopefully brings her out near the village in question. She is kind enough to bring some supplies with her in a backpack, mostly MREs, dehydrated foods, iodine tablets, firestarters and special, long-lasting logs, those sorts of things. She did not pick them out, one of her advisors told her what to bring for the people.
Food, water purifiers, methods to start fires; all of these things and more would be most certainly needed by the village, that much is certain. Emerging out from the jump, Selina finds herself in the midst of one of these villages, worn and dilapidated by long-standing decline. Suspicious eyes peer at her from boarded-up windows, and few people lingered outside, save for a few that seem to lack shelter or the sense to otherwise remain indoors. A distinct wailing, that of lamentation, sounds from nearby the village, the area nearby lit up by torches. A few people in black garb surreptitiously emerge from myriad buildings, heading in the direction of this wailing. They bear rods covered at one end in pitch, the other hand clutching some manner of religious symbol.
The wailing continues unabated, although the voices do not sound like the creation of the supernatural; perhaps this is some manner of ceremony that the locals were performing. Judging by the blackened garb and the seeming sneaking away of the individuals, it may even be a funerary rite of some kind, to honor the passed-on.
Would the intrepid adventurer investigate?
finds one of the people remaining outside and approaches then first, trying to give a quick exchange where she slips the backpack off, sets it on the ground, then crouches down to open it. "Share with the other villagers, and I will see about bringing more next time I visit," she explains quickly in English, the only real language she knows from this world. She then stands and gives a slight bow to the villager. That is probably about the point she would notice the lack-clad figures.
She does not immediately follow them, but she certainly can after ensuring the supplies will get shared with some other villagers. She does not even mind falling behind the group a bit. She can be very, very fast and stealthy when required. In fact, shortly after ensuring the supplies will be shared, she just vanishes.
Selina's elven instincts kick in, bringing her to various trees as she shadow steps along with the crowd heading toward the wailing noises. She packed some ear plugs, so she goes ahead and slips those into her ears. Then she starts drawing in the nearby water vapor around her to cool it off into water, then ice, laying on her armor and forming a weapon. She slips her visor down and proceeds as to skip through different shadows to pace and follow her targets, trying to stay up in the tree branches to avoid being seen.
Many of the people seem more perplexed than anything at the backpack of supplies; they didn't quite understand the woman, nor why she left the pack behind, but after a few of them gathered up the courage to pick at the pack, they found what was within, and searched it, looking for whatever useful materials they could find. Finding what lay within, they distributed the supplies accordingly, a rather solemn affair that was done quietly. These people had endured much hardship, and only through their reliance on each other were they still alive now. Even so, they kept a careful watch on her, as if not fully trusting her.
When she vanishes, the supplies were distributed faster amongst the townfolk; there was less need to watch her, after all, in case of the threat she might pose to the village. Who could blame them; with the predation of the Hand and others, it was hard to tell when visitors were coming bringing joy or sorrow.
From tree to tree she slips, following the black-robed individuals as they proceed deeper into the forest, before they come to a halt at a barrow, dug into the earth with steady purpose. The source of the wailing is revealed, a series of women, dressed in the same robes, surrounded a corpse, a look of utter horror upon its sunken-in face, flesh nipped at the edges by a foul breath that spread a dark and foul pestilence upon it, a corrupting taint that almost certainly sped this victim to their grave. The purpose of this gathering became, then, clear. This was not a cult ritual, or something to honor an Eidolon.
This is a funeral. Perhaps a chance to investigate the effects of the creature first-hand, rather than through second-hand reports, but perhaps disturbing this rite might not be to her best interest.
Her adult human body may only look to be twenty-something, but Selina has the patience of a 300 year old crammed into this form. She finds a place in the trees where she can watch, without interfering. She keeps the ear plugs in, nonetheless, but she watches for signs of weirdness or intrusion (besides her own naturally). Keeping quiet and to herself comes so naturally to her. She touches a foot to the tree she is on and lets her icy equipment melt down that foot and onto the tree to keep its dissipation as silent as possible. Certainly more quiet than the wailing. She leaves a patch of the armor on her stomach, just in case she needs to quickly reform it though. When the visor is no longer in the way of her face, she keeps her eyes darting around, on look out for trouble. Her ears may not serve her to find it right now though. She replaces that seeking sense with her nose, occasionally sniffing the air for any sort of changes that might come.
The wailing of the lamenters continue, as the body was slowly carried by several mourners; a few glimmering golden trinkets are laid alongside the corpse in its coffin as it traveled to its final repose. Almost certainly an archaic way of honoring the dead; after all, you most certainly cannot take it with you when you die, but even so, this was the only way they could think of to honor those who passed. Of course, she was not the only one looking out for trouble.
A ring of watchers stare out into the darkness, holding their pitch torches aloft in order to banish it, even if temporarily. They mutter amongst themselves in an indistinct tongue, perhaps something local to the village itself. All seemed to go as planned, before...
A faint sound came, from off in the distance, like the beating of massive wings on the horizon. The wailing of the lamenters suddenly was drowned out by a much more agonizing, and incredibly loud wailing, like the sundering of the sky itself. The beating of the wings drew closer and closer, but other, odd sounds followed it, a faint drizzle of effluence coming from some massive form, sounding almost like rain from above, along with a horrid, putrid stench that brought to mind the worst festering wounds that one could imagine.
The mourners noticed this too, a scream and raucous din rising up amongst them, as the corpse in the coffin was utterly abandoned, dropped on the ground. All involved begin to run, fleeing for the safety of the village, as the thing, that horrible horrible thing, came into view.
It is a mockery, a dread shame, something that should not be.
A draconic form, spectral in nature yet sickening in design, swoops down upon some of those that were less hasty in their departure, its oozing, rotten maw breathing out balefire that scourges the flesh as true as fire or ice ever could, but instead of wracking those afflicted with the vagaries of temperature, it afflicted them with the deathly nature of rot. Pus and verdigris emerged from its spectral scales, dripping to the ground below and hissing into nothingness; wounds remained in its flesh, impaled several times over by spears that still stuck true into its spectral corpse, many times larger than any that could have been wielded by mortal hands.
This thing is old, old enough to know when giants walked the earth, and mighty men did mighty deeds. It was slain, but It did not die.
With another wail that shook the trees and the ground beneath, its baleful eye scanned the horizon. Searching...
This is definitely not what Selina expected when she came out here. She expected spectral humanoids screaming loudly and the like. What she is coming to face now is... another draconic spirit. Or, in her world view, a nightmare, a plight, a glitch. Something that simply should not exist. As it starts searching for enemies to scan, she shadow steps past it a good distance to another tree and shouts, in a language fueled by hard consonants, grunts, growls, and snarls, "Are you a dragon from my reality or from this reality?" Her use of Draconic in this case would almost certainly only be understood by a dragon from her reality. She tries to keep out of range of the spirit's breath attack, stepping through shadows in the trees to try to keep just outside of that particular path, even as she reforms her armor and weapons of ice to engage with it. Not that they will actually help against it, but it makes her feel a little better.
Apparently she didn't need to try very hard to get it focused on her.
The moment the words left her mouth, its baleful eyes locked directly onto her position; clearly, it heard her, but the only reply was, again, that scream of anguish, of sorrow, and of hate, deep boiling hate. These were less conscious words, more a deep, overlaying oppression that pushed down on the area around it; what animated it was less a necromancer's doing and more its own wrath. What followed was that stream of purplish ranging to the deep vivid green of rot, the branches between her and it beginning to sizzle and foam with the corruptive force of its balefire. What it would do to her, if it hit, is best not left mentioned; she had best get out of the way. More of its rot oozed forth from its scales as its tattered wings once again thudded mightily, carrying it into the air and towards her in a blind fury.
These wings could not, should not be able to fly, but even so, the corpsedragon flew through the air like a harbinger of death upon the world, vegetation underneath withering and turning to waste underneath its very shadow.
She had its attention now; what would she do now?
Selina(argenti draco hybrida) is a queen of mobility, outside of the nightmare. Between pathing, wings, and speed, she takes to the skies, trees, and shadows leading the corpsified dragon on a merry chase. She zigs, zags, flies up, shadow steps down, and generally, keeps the thing guessing entirely about where she will be next, and just tries not to be where it is headed in any of those instances. As she goes, she lets out her own draconic roar of defiance and challenge, making sure that it knows she is still there, and on a draconic instinct level, declaring she is better than it is, even as she is fleeing from it, drawing on its ire. But obviously she cannot keep it up all day. She heads, in her meandering, dodgy fashion, toward the nearest mountains she can find. A place far removed from people, villages, and other population centers. That's where she hopes she can make her stand and at least give the people in the region a reprieve.
The roars of challenge likely weren't entirely necessary; it still follows her into the air, driven by the blindness imposed by the suffering it embodied. It lacked much intelligence, that was clear; it was likely the rot that plagued it and made it into this state had long since stripped its ability to reason to any capacity. Still, it followed tirelessly, not fading, not falling behind in the slightest, occasional plumes of its baleful fire spewing forth and scorching the landscape around them, leaving scars of horrible putrid death in its wake. These rotten areas would likely take a great deal of time to return to their verdancy, if they ever returned at all. Further into the mountains they went, where fewer and fewer people lived, and less and less things could be afflicted by its bilious wrath. It flew, oblivious to her preparations.
Selina(argenti draco) lands in the rocky terrain of those mountains and immediately bolts off to try to find some form of cover to shield from the corpse dragon's breath that she knows has to be coming right behind her. Thankfully, in hatchling form, she is fast as lightning, but also stealthy to boot. If she can manage to get into cover faster than the spirit dragon can track, that will give her even more time to prepare for what comes next. She just needs a little bit of time in order to enact her plan. Even as she manages to get behind some type of cover, she shadow steps to another one, trying to confuse the draconic spirit following her as much as she can manage. All in order to gain those precious seconds.
The split between the shadow of her and the other confused it for a moment, before it swept its maw in a large arc, trying to simply billow out a large arc of its corpsefire across the whole of the area, aiming to smother her entirely with the flames. Rock, thankfully, could not rot, but even so, the flames crept, like tumors growing on healthy flesh, around and towards her, the longer that she took to do her preparations. It did not need to breathe, after all, and could simply continuously spew the substance after her. If she spent much longer trying to prepare, it was likely the noxious pyreflames would overwhelm her, or at least lick across her skin and deliver their taint. Such a thing was survivable.
Probably.
Selina becomes herself once more and uses her rapier to cut her hand with a hiss of annoyance. She lets the blood start to coat her icy armor and focuses for a moment as her world is being engulfed in rotting ichor breath. "By Shemra's will, I bind thee here!" she shouts as she pushes forth with all her preparations from the flight over to here. Unlike most rituals, a binding is instant. It is also still incredibly draining for her. Even as she feels the energy slipping from her to tangle with the corpse dragon, she slumps over to the side behind what ever rocky protrusion she is using for her cover. She pants against the stench of death, trying to recover her bearings enough to look for a shadow out of range of the draconic spirit to shadow step to and catch her breath and steady her feet.
The binding took hold, the howl of the thing's anger echoing and bouncing across the mountains. It is held, barely, by the glowing wards springing forth by the spilling of her blood. The flames, too, are held in check by the binding, the slow creep of their malfeasance halted by the spiritual barriers that, for now, kept her and the villages around safe.
The beast is held, at great cost, but what was to be done now?
The spectral dragon, an ancient beast killed long ago yet refused to die, unleashes its fury on the villagers, its breath a corrupting force decimating everything in its path. With strategic cunning and agile maneuvers, Selina leads the abomination away from the settlement, towards the mountains, in an effort to protect the inocent. Utilizing her prowess in shadow stepping and her knowledge of Draconic, she engages the beast, seeking not just to elude but to challenge and distract it from returning to the village. The culmination of this perilous dance is a daring and costly ritual, where Selina uses her own blood to bind the undead dragon, securing its imprisonment and sparing the nearby settlements its wrath. Though successful, the ordeal leaves her drained, reflecting on the unforeseen complexities and dangers of her mission, yet steadfast in her resolve to protect those in need from the shadows that lurk beyond.
(Selina's odd encounter(SRSaoirse):SRSaoirse)
[Mon Aug 26 2024]
In a chic studio-style bedroom
The walls are painted in soft pastel hues of blush pink and light lavender, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere. The floor is covered in a plush, white faux fur rug that feels incredibly soft
underfoot. The windows are framed by floor-to-ceiling, luxurious cream-colored curtains that can be drawn to block out the light and provide privacy. An ornate chandelier hangs from the ceiling, providing a glamorous focal point and soft, ambient lighting. Above the bed, a statement neon sign in vibrant pink reads "Glow On," adding a touch of personality and flair. The room features a
canopy bed adorned with fairy lights, a vanity illuminated by Hollywood-style lightbulbs and surrounded by high-end cosmetics and beauty products, and a streamlined workspace equipped with essential office supplies and stylish decor. The room also includes a generous walk-in closet, and a comfortable living area with a sectional sofa and flat-screen TV.
It is night, about 83F(28C) degrees, There is a last quarter moon.
(Your target encounters a ghost who's fixated on some past tragedy from their life, they need to either give the spirit some sense of closure, or send it on it's way through more violent means.
)
The troubles had begun a few days ago, in the Wilds.
A keening wail, sounding through the woods late at night, pursued by many but never truly found; a few hunters had tried, and ended up dead, strung up in what seemed to be a mockery of their own practices, gutted like pigs for the slaughter. Yet curious signs were present upon their bodies, a tell-tale sign of a breath, perhaps of rot or decay, that festered upon the bodies. Something vile and wicked had breathed upon them, and their flesh revolted at its touch, spreading into blackened, gangrenous flesh.
The hunters of nearby villages resolved to not go out and after this frightful thing, whatever it might possibly be, for fear that it could butcher many more of them. Their supplies are dwindling, their tables are going barren, and without the bounty of the forest, they will surely starve.
A call went out, messengers sent off to villages, cities, towns nearby, asking for someone to come and save them from this plight. Scourges of this sort were commonly known as Banshees, foul undead fae creatures that were the result of sidhe maidens that had died horrible deaths, this was common knowledge. All of the symptoms of the problem fit, after all: The keening wails, the tendency to hunt the living, the nocturnal activity. All that was required now, was for the hunter to become the hunted.
Would someone rise to the call?
The Adventurer's Guild is situated in the Godrealm, very near the Gate to Haven to serve just these sorts of notices out to people willing to investigate and handle situations like this, not just in and around Haven, but all around the worlds. One such messenger might have given the notice to a dues-paying member of The Adventurer's Guild. And that member might have brought the notice to the guild hall. Where of course, a blue-haired maiden acting as the Guild Mistress would no doubt have seen it come across her desk.
While Selina would not ordinarily handle a request like this by herself, she would most certainly want it investigated before moving further on it. Being equipped with the agents necessary to run a secret society helps tremendously, especially one as well-established as the Scalebound Covenant or the Knights of the Silver Dragon that replaced them. Once Selina has a little more information to go on, along with perhaps some pictures of the town in question, the bodies, and the figure suspected of doing these things, these Banshees, she can investigate a little more closely on her own.
Pathing into a specific location which one has never been to before can some times be iffy. Especially for an outsider like Selina with no actual first hand knowledge of nearly all of the worlds in this reality. But she can usually manage to get where she is trying to go by the third or fourth jump. Which hopefully brings her out near the village in question. She is kind enough to bring some supplies with her in a backpack, mostly MREs, dehydrated foods, iodine tablets, firestarters and special, long-lasting logs, those sorts of things. She did not pick them out, one of her advisors told her what to bring for the people.
Food, water purifiers, methods to start fires; all of these things and more would be most certainly needed by the village, that much is certain. Emerging out from the jump, Selina finds herself in the midst of one of these villages, worn and dilapidated by long-standing decline. Suspicious eyes peer at her from boarded-up windows, and few people lingered outside, save for a few that seem to lack shelter or the sense to otherwise remain indoors. A distinct wailing, that of lamentation, sounds from nearby the village, the area nearby lit up by torches. A few people in black garb surreptitiously emerge from myriad buildings, heading in the direction of this wailing. They bear rods covered at one end in pitch, the other hand clutching some manner of religious symbol.
The wailing continues unabated, although the voices do not sound like the creation of the supernatural; perhaps this is some manner of ceremony that the locals were performing. Judging by the blackened garb and the seeming sneaking away of the individuals, it may even be a funerary rite of some kind, to honor the passed-on.
Would the intrepid adventurer investigate?
finds one of the people remaining outside and approaches then first, trying to give a quick exchange where she slips the backpack off, sets it on the ground, then crouches down to open it. "Share with the other villagers, and I will see about bringing more next time I visit," she explains quickly in English, the only real language she knows from this world. She then stands and gives a slight bow to the villager. That is probably about the point she would notice the lack-clad figures.
She does not immediately follow them, but she certainly can after ensuring the supplies will get shared with some other villagers. She does not even mind falling behind the group a bit. She can be very, very fast and stealthy when required. In fact, shortly after ensuring the supplies will be shared, she just vanishes.
Selina's elven instincts kick in, bringing her to various trees as she shadow steps along with the crowd heading toward the wailing noises. She packed some ear plugs, so she goes ahead and slips those into her ears. Then she starts drawing in the nearby water vapor around her to cool it off into water, then ice, laying on her armor and forming a weapon. She slips her visor down and proceeds as to skip through different shadows to pace and follow her targets, trying to stay up in the tree branches to avoid being seen.
Many of the people seem more perplexed than anything at the backpack of supplies; they didn't quite understand the woman, nor why she left the pack behind, but after a few of them gathered up the courage to pick at the pack, they found what was within, and searched it, looking for whatever useful materials they could find. Finding what lay within, they distributed the supplies accordingly, a rather solemn affair that was done quietly. These people had endured much hardship, and only through their reliance on each other were they still alive now. Even so, they kept a careful watch on her, as if not fully trusting her.
When she vanishes, the supplies were distributed faster amongst the townfolk; there was less need to watch her, after all, in case of the threat she might pose to the village. Who could blame them; with the predation of the Hand and others, it was hard to tell when visitors were coming bringing joy or sorrow.
From tree to tree she slips, following the black-robed individuals as they proceed deeper into the forest, before they come to a halt at a barrow, dug into the earth with steady purpose. The source of the wailing is revealed, a series of women, dressed in the same robes, surrounded a corpse, a look of utter horror upon its sunken-in face, flesh nipped at the edges by a foul breath that spread a dark and foul pestilence upon it, a corrupting taint that almost certainly sped this victim to their grave. The purpose of this gathering became, then, clear. This was not a cult ritual, or something to honor an Eidolon.
This is a funeral. Perhaps a chance to investigate the effects of the creature first-hand, rather than through second-hand reports, but perhaps disturbing this rite might not be to her best interest.
Her adult human body may only look to be twenty-something, but Selina has the patience of a 300 year old crammed into this form. She finds a place in the trees where she can watch, without interfering. She keeps the ear plugs in, nonetheless, but she watches for signs of weirdness or intrusion (besides her own naturally). Keeping quiet and to herself comes so naturally to her. She touches a foot to the tree she is on and lets her icy equipment melt down that foot and onto the tree to keep its dissipation as silent as possible. Certainly more quiet than the wailing. She leaves a patch of the armor on her stomach, just in case she needs to quickly reform it though. When the visor is no longer in the way of her face, she keeps her eyes darting around, on look out for trouble. Her ears may not serve her to find it right now though. She replaces that seeking sense with her nose, occasionally sniffing the air for any sort of changes that might come.
The wailing of the lamenters continue, as the body was slowly carried by several mourners; a few glimmering golden trinkets are laid alongside the corpse in its coffin as it traveled to its final repose. Almost certainly an archaic way of honoring the dead; after all, you most certainly cannot take it with you when you die, but even so, this was the only way they could think of to honor those who passed. Of course, she was not the only one looking out for trouble.
A ring of watchers stare out into the darkness, holding their pitch torches aloft in order to banish it, even if temporarily. They mutter amongst themselves in an indistinct tongue, perhaps something local to the village itself. All seemed to go as planned, before...
A faint sound came, from off in the distance, like the beating of massive wings on the horizon. The wailing of the lamenters suddenly was drowned out by a much more agonizing, and incredibly loud wailing, like the sundering of the sky itself. The beating of the wings drew closer and closer, but other, odd sounds followed it, a faint drizzle of effluence coming from some massive form, sounding almost like rain from above, along with a horrid, putrid stench that brought to mind the worst festering wounds that one could imagine.
The mourners noticed this too, a scream and raucous din rising up amongst them, as the corpse in the coffin was utterly abandoned, dropped on the ground. All involved begin to run, fleeing for the safety of the village, as the thing, that horrible horrible thing, came into view.
It is a mockery, a dread shame, something that should not be.
A draconic form, spectral in nature yet sickening in design, swoops down upon some of those that were less hasty in their departure, its oozing, rotten maw breathing out balefire that scourges the flesh as true as fire or ice ever could, but instead of wracking those afflicted with the vagaries of temperature, it afflicted them with the deathly nature of rot. Pus and verdigris emerged from its spectral scales, dripping to the ground below and hissing into nothingness; wounds remained in its flesh, impaled several times over by spears that still stuck true into its spectral corpse, many times larger than any that could have been wielded by mortal hands.
This thing is old, old enough to know when giants walked the earth, and mighty men did mighty deeds. It was slain, but It did not die.
With another wail that shook the trees and the ground beneath, its baleful eye scanned the horizon. Searching...
This is definitely not what Selina expected when she came out here. She expected spectral humanoids screaming loudly and the like. What she is coming to face now is... another draconic spirit. Or, in her world view, a nightmare, a plight, a glitch. Something that simply should not exist. As it starts searching for enemies to scan, she shadow steps past it a good distance to another tree and shouts, in a language fueled by hard consonants, grunts, growls, and snarls, "Are you a dragon from my reality or from this reality?" Her use of Draconic in this case would almost certainly only be understood by a dragon from her reality. She tries to keep out of range of the spirit's breath attack, stepping through shadows in the trees to try to keep just outside of that particular path, even as she reforms her armor and weapons of ice to engage with it. Not that they will actually help against it, but it makes her feel a little better.
Apparently she didn't need to try very hard to get it focused on her.
The moment the words left her mouth, its baleful eyes locked directly onto her position; clearly, it heard her, but the only reply was, again, that scream of anguish, of sorrow, and of hate, deep boiling hate. These were less conscious words, more a deep, overlaying oppression that pushed down on the area around it; what animated it was less a necromancer's doing and more its own wrath. What followed was that stream of purplish ranging to the deep vivid green of rot, the branches between her and it beginning to sizzle and foam with the corruptive force of its balefire. What it would do to her, if it hit, is best not left mentioned; she had best get out of the way. More of its rot oozed forth from its scales as its tattered wings once again thudded mightily, carrying it into the air and towards her in a blind fury.
These wings could not, should not be able to fly, but even so, the corpsedragon flew through the air like a harbinger of death upon the world, vegetation underneath withering and turning to waste underneath its very shadow.
She had its attention now; what would she do now?
Selina(argenti draco hybrida) is a queen of mobility, outside of the nightmare. Between pathing, wings, and speed, she takes to the skies, trees, and shadows leading the corpsified dragon on a merry chase. She zigs, zags, flies up, shadow steps down, and generally, keeps the thing guessing entirely about where she will be next, and just tries not to be where it is headed in any of those instances. As she goes, she lets out her own draconic roar of defiance and challenge, making sure that it knows she is still there, and on a draconic instinct level, declaring she is better than it is, even as she is fleeing from it, drawing on its ire. But obviously she cannot keep it up all day. She heads, in her meandering, dodgy fashion, toward the nearest mountains she can find. A place far removed from people, villages, and other population centers. That's where she hopes she can make her stand and at least give the people in the region a reprieve.
The roars of challenge likely weren't entirely necessary; it still follows her into the air, driven by the blindness imposed by the suffering it embodied. It lacked much intelligence, that was clear; it was likely the rot that plagued it and made it into this state had long since stripped its ability to reason to any capacity. Still, it followed tirelessly, not fading, not falling behind in the slightest, occasional plumes of its baleful fire spewing forth and scorching the landscape around them, leaving scars of horrible putrid death in its wake. These rotten areas would likely take a great deal of time to return to their verdancy, if they ever returned at all. Further into the mountains they went, where fewer and fewer people lived, and less and less things could be afflicted by its bilious wrath. It flew, oblivious to her preparations.
Selina(argenti draco) lands in the rocky terrain of those mountains and immediately bolts off to try to find some form of cover to shield from the corpse dragon's breath that she knows has to be coming right behind her. Thankfully, in hatchling form, she is fast as lightning, but also stealthy to boot. If she can manage to get into cover faster than the spirit dragon can track, that will give her even more time to prepare for what comes next. She just needs a little bit of time in order to enact her plan. Even as she manages to get behind some type of cover, she shadow steps to another one, trying to confuse the draconic spirit following her as much as she can manage. All in order to gain those precious seconds.
The split between the shadow of her and the other confused it for a moment, before it swept its maw in a large arc, trying to simply billow out a large arc of its corpsefire across the whole of the area, aiming to smother her entirely with the flames. Rock, thankfully, could not rot, but even so, the flames crept, like tumors growing on healthy flesh, around and towards her, the longer that she took to do her preparations. It did not need to breathe, after all, and could simply continuously spew the substance after her. If she spent much longer trying to prepare, it was likely the noxious pyreflames would overwhelm her, or at least lick across her skin and deliver their taint. Such a thing was survivable.
Probably.
Selina becomes herself once more and uses her rapier to cut her hand with a hiss of annoyance. She lets the blood start to coat her icy armor and focuses for a moment as her world is being engulfed in rotting ichor breath. "By Shemra's will, I bind thee here!" she shouts as she pushes forth with all her preparations from the flight over to here. Unlike most rituals, a binding is instant. It is also still incredibly draining for her. Even as she feels the energy slipping from her to tangle with the corpse dragon, she slumps over to the side behind what ever rocky protrusion she is using for her cover. She pants against the stench of death, trying to recover her bearings enough to look for a shadow out of range of the draconic spirit to shadow step to and catch her breath and steady her feet.
The binding took hold, the howl of the thing's anger echoing and bouncing across the mountains. It is held, barely, by the glowing wards springing forth by the spilling of her blood. The flames, too, are held in check by the binding, the slow creep of their malfeasance halted by the spiritual barriers that, for now, kept her and the villages around safe.
The beast is held, at great cost, but what was to be done now?