Beowulf's footsteps stirred the dust and dirt that had collected on the ancient stone pathway he traveled along. As a trespasser on this deserted and destroyed city, his eyes were constantly shifting around, searching for some hidden threat that lurked in the shadows. The paladin had a slight fear of this place, a fear of what it could hide. Beowulf rested his hand on the hilt of his scimitar, casting Bless Weapon on it's blade.

Finally making his way into the Cathedral of the great city, Beowulf now realized that the journey had been worth it. Most would gaze upon the building as no more than a great pile of rubbles, but through the paladin's eyes, he saw what it once was. Beowulf closed his eyes, picturing the edifice in his mind, but not in ruins. In his mind's eye, peope began walking around the building. Where broken windows now stand, beautiful stained glass windows appear. As he ventured into the main room of the Cathedral, his eyes gazed upon small piles of rotten wood, but Beowulf saw them as pews with artwork carved into them, in ages past.

"It is a shame," The paladin started to speak to himself, " that this city came to such a tragic end." Beowulf's thoughts were no longer on the the possible threats of beasts that lived in the shadows of the city. His hand fell from his scimitar, and skimmed over the surface of the ancient stone wall. He walked to the far end of the room. Beowulf assumed that this was where a priest of some sort spoke teachings or gave blessings. His eyes gazed back to the other side of the room. It was larger than he had initially realized. The main room made over half the cathedral. The paladin then shifted his gaze upwards, feeling the sunlight shine through the broken ceiling of the edifice. He could see great spires stretch up to the heavens. "Amazing..." Beowulf muttered, his mind attempting to search for a reason or cause of why the city came an abrupt end.

Romanus walked slowly through the cemetery for awhile, but found no peace of mind. He was a haunted man, and it showed. He could get only a few hours of sleep each day, and so had a haggard look on his face, his hair getting longer. He no longer seemed to care about his appearance, but he did take good care of his sword. His clothes were ripped in places, from constant running and fighting. But no matter what, the white phantom would not leave him alone. He was constantly followed. He suddenly looked up, and saw the cathedral, tall and broken. Perhaps a prayer to the gods would end the nightmares and visions.

He headed towards the cathedral, slowly still. He got to the great doors, and bowed his head slightly in reverence. He then entered and found that the cathedral was old and decaying. He made his way across the room still, not seeing the other person in there. He almost reached the altar, when suddenly he saw the other person, and halted abruptly. "Um, well, um....." He wasn't the phantom, that much could be seen. "Hello, sir, who might you be?"

From the depths of the cathedral's shadows, Varila emerged, her hair pulled back in a long, high ponytail. She wore a flowing black gown and gazed at the traveler within the cathedral. The blood she had shed such a short time ago still stained the floor before the altar. Crimson droplets were splayed across the old, cracking stone. On Varila's face, there was a design that was entirely black, a mass of curved lines so intricate that one could not tell where one line ended and one began. The frigid blue eye that stared out from beneath the design made it seem all the more beautiful and all the more dangerous.

For a moment, she just stared at the man, her hands hanging limply at her sides. There was a sudden tension in the room though, something intangible. The dark aura that Varila emanated began to seep into the room. Then she smiled a chilling, darkened smile. Those who had known the old Varila would have known that smile. It was the one she had used back when her soul was laden with the bitterness of a terrible past.

"Welcome," she said softly, a sharp contrast to her devilish smile. "I trust you know how to dance?"

Romanus turned when he heard a voice, this time that of a woman. It was soft, and new to his ears. He found himself facing a woman, with her hair in a ponytail and a flowing gown. He was interested in the desing on her face however. It never seemed to end. He was interested in the eye, it almost captivated him, but he shook himself out of it. Her smile made him uneasy though, but it was strangely familiar. He couldn't place it though.

He blinked at her question. "Dance? Weapon, magic, or just....dance, if I may inquire." He knew no magic of course, except how to heal. But weapons, that was a different story altogether. And as for dancing, he doubted that was what she wanted, plus he couldn't dance all that well.

"Can you truly be so blind?" she demanded, and drew her dagger, poised for battle. "Whatever pain possesses you, it can be ended with one stroke." As she leapt toward him, her motions were entrancing in their beauty. It was like a combination of all three options the man had mentioned. Her grace was like a dancer's, the black, fiery aura of her magic surrounded her entirely, and her blade was skillfully handled as she slashed across his middle from the left.

The design pulsated, throbbing almost. She paused after spinning away from the slash she had used, as though she were dancing. It guided her, told her that she couldn't let a witness survive. He would be too much trouble, too much to cover. The last time you let one of them in, you paid for it, the voice told her, and she smirked. "Perhaps at another time, I would have let you live," she smiled seductively, lulling him into a dangerous sense of security. She used her divine power to bend words and slowly advanced once more, her icy blue eyes, boring a hole in his.

Beowulf had been in deep thought, almost a trance, when the stranger's voice interrupted his pondering. The paladin's eyes slowly shifted from the sky to the man. He studied him closely. The stranger carried a sword, but Beowulf had no fear of him. His clothes were tattered, and he wore a tired look on his face. He only assumed that this man had been through a great deal of traveling or running. Beowulf shook his head, realizing the stranger was waiting for a reply. But before he could speak, there was another arrival. A woman. At any other time, Beowulf would have enjoyed someone's company, but these two strangers, he did not trust. Carefully, he lifted his hand and rested it on the hilt of his scimitar, attempting to not draw attention to himself.

The paladin's eyes constantly shifted from the man to the woman. In the back of his mind, he felt that a fight was going to take place, and having no knowledge of the two, it was a fight he did not want to partake in, and hoped that the woman did not intend to fight either of the men. But before he could realize it, the woman had struck out at the man. Beowulf wanted to intervene, and had already drawn his sword, but something else kept him from striking out. His eyes were focused on the woman's lips, and his hands grasped the hilt of the scimitar just strong enough to keep it from falling from his grasp.

When she heard another man moving about, Varila whirled around, her ponytail flying through the air. "Such terror," she commented, almost innocently. "I remember feeling such horror. Yes...all the nights I went without sleep because those who grew close would be harmed. Then I succumbed, and everything became so much easier. You can do it too. Just watch me, don't try to stop me." She sheathed her dagger and drew out the glaive she had used since first coming to Imythess. Her dark skirt swirled about her legs as she walked, rustling softly, blending with her soft, ebon hair.

That intricate design on her face was turned on Beowulf now, and it was like a deep wound on half her face, except it was black as pitch. No darkness was more desperate than that of the mark on her face. "You're not from Leirenne," she continued in a seductive voice, "so I suppose I'll educate you about this mark. It is the mark of Mierwin, the mark of those who are cursed for all eternity. Only once you succumb does the pain stop. Only then will your worst fears leave you. Yet they don't truly leave you....they only become you." This last she whispered darkly, smiling. All the nightmares had left her now, and she felt complete and yet shattered, wise and yet naive. Nothing made sense anymore except to kill those who saw the mark, who could spread the news of her curse.

((OOC: If you guys just wanted to role play amongst yourselves, just remove me from the equation, unless of course you guys don't care I join in?))

Weary footfalls carried his exhausted frame forward, before finally having to stop. Dropping to a knee, his right hand lifted to his chest, planting itself flat against the wounds that plagued it. A soft glow began to emminate from his hand, causing the wounds to enclose themselves, leaving scars in its wake. Slowly rising to an erect stance his eyes shifted around once again, before landing upon the cathedral, it's tall stature and risen spires the only thing that signified itself as anything that still held life in these ruins.

Nodding his head firmly, he made his way towards it, trying his best to keep to the shadows that lined the shattered buildings, making himself near invisible to the naked eye as he moved, except when he stepped into the light. Upon nearing the cathedral he uttered a few words, turning him into a gas form, allowing him to pass straight through the wall of the cathedral and into the dark shade that consumed its conents. Quickly his eyes shifted across the three occupants, unsure of what to take of the current situation. He had almost been certain that this did not bode well for him, but he always had that aire about him. It seemed everywhere he went he had always been in some form of trouble whether he wanted to be or not.

He refrained from even moving in the slightest so he would not draw attention to himself, through making too much noise. Quietly he listened to them converse amongst themselves; however, he had been more interested in the woman. As she spoke of nightmares a light chill ran down his spine, knowing very well that he had became the nightmare he feared as well. What she spoke of was the truth, there was no denying it for what you fear the most will consume you and bend you to the very thing you despise. It will take hold and pull you deep within its dark entrenching grasp, never to release you from its solitude for you are now its servant, it's disciple born to carry on its very imposing will and place it upon those who now were the unwilling.

Uttering inaudibly to himself, he changed from gas to solid, although he was still hidden by the shadows, hopefully unseen to the three before him.

((The more the merrier. =], no one post after this till Romanus posts, we're getting pretty far ahead. =P))

After listening to the woman, the fear inside Beowulf turned into anger. He saw her pull out a glaive, but he disregarded it. His hand grasped his scimitar with renewed strength. Beowulf slowly circled around the woman, putting himself imbetween her and the man. He raised his scimitar up, and put himself in a defensive stance, his eyes glaring at the woman

Beowulf did not know if these two had a history with each other, or if this woman was simply looking for a fight, but as a paladin, Beowulf would attempt to uphold whatever peace he could, even if it meant killing a woman. The paladin shook his head at the irony. "Heh, I find that funny..." Beowulf started to say, commenting on the woman's speech. "You tell this man that the only way to end his pain is to take his life, but yet, out of all of us here, you are the one who seems to be suffering most." The paladin finished. Beowulf was almost eager to fight the woman, whether or not he had a chance against her was of little importance. "You are hard to understand." Beowulf stated, bracing himself if the woman decided to strike him down.