A plain, almost ramshackle craft ferries two Aeonian Inquisitors across the lands of Nordika, on the northern part of the continent of Ai. It flies no flags of the Temple, for these are troubled times, and for a mission of this sort, recognition of allegiance to Rephidim would cause more problems than any benefits it might give. A fortuitous break in the weather allows good travel time without having to make too many detours, such that the craft touches down at the foothills of a mountain range said to mark the borders of a Forbidden Zone which is almost a nation unto itself.

The Sanctuary of Order, Melchizedek's next stopping point, is located just within the edge of this land known as Bosch, up in the mountains along its fringes. The nature of Forbidden Zones is such that one simply cannot – with any reasonable chance of success – fly into them by airship, and it is nearly as hazardous by wing. Thus, travel by foot (or hoof) will be required, though some aid is acquired from a remote village at the base in the form of some beasts of burden – Dromodons – to pull wagons of supplies.

Turtle shifts a bit uncomfortably in her seat at the front of a wagon, beside the driver. Her usual frown is a bit deeper than normal, perhaps a bit travel weary. Her eyes occasionally scan out over the surrounding country.

The surrounding country is fairly plain, almost bleak, though not devoid of life. Hardy plants clutch to crumbling rock and patches of reddish soil along the winding, upward-sloping mountain pass trail. It is morning, the sky still mostly dark, though that swiftly changes with the dawn. Even so, it seems as though the glow in the east – past the mountains – lasted longer than it should for any normal dawn.

The middle-aged lupine Guard-turned-wagon-driver leans over in his seat toward the Aeonian. "Don't worry about the scenery. It will get much more interesting once we crest this hill."

Turtle adjusts her normal armor, athough it currently is not covered on her legs by her usual green patterned sarong and white skirt, but instead by a fluffy pair of pants, a lush deep green in the pattern of leaves. Her hair is pulled up into a complex bun and half-covered by a brown scarf. "I wish this seat would get softer, too… " She sighs, and moves on to adjusting her scarf.

"It won't," answers the Jupani. "In any case, keep on the alert, but whatever you do, don't panic. We're certain to meet a display of arms by the locals. Just don't fire first – not unless we get the order to. The natives of Bosch are a treacherous lot indeed, but some of them have their own peculiar rules and recognize certain treaties. We just have to hope that power hasn't changed hands recently."

"Very well." Turtle clutches at the strap of her crossbow, currently slung across her back, and part of her uncomfortable seat. She furrows her brows a bit.

Melchizedek, the black Aeonian Inquisitor, walks alongside, his already blandly-colored uniform dulled even more by the trail dust. "There is little need to worry. We will not be venturing far into this territory. Many are the pilgrims who take the journey to the Sanctuary of Order. Of those who fail to reach it, they are typically those who succumb to temptations – or fear or threats – to leave the road."

Turtle stiffens a bit at the deep sound of the other unicorn's voice. She feels uncomfortable for another reason: the emotions she has been struggling with all during the trip through Nordika. "I am not worried," she continues to look around, her face cold and belying. "I have had to face with a place such as this through my many years at the outpost."

As the wagons roll along, and several Guards walk alongside, they begin to reach the aforementioned hill. The sky begins to get brighter with the dawn now … far more fast than it ought. It is now as bright as noon day without a cloud in the sky, although the sky was overcast just minutes ago. However, no sun can be seen … only a sky that gradiates from pink to violet, hues varying in waves.

Melchizedek says, "Aelfhem has its wonders and dangers, but not to compare with Bosch. I pray that we will not see but a mere fraction of what Bosch has to offer." He continues on, walking ahead of the wagon, then steps to one side, up onto a rocky outcropping, pausing there, resting on his walking stick, as he looks out across the valley beyond.

Turtle casts her gaze in his direction, trying to follow his line of vision.

As the wagon continues its climb, cresting the hill, Inquisitrix Turtle can now see the valley beyond. Even though the sky is bright with light and color, the valley is somehow deeply shadowed, the earth blackened, the darkness broken by flame – Here and there, fissures in the earth can be seen, glowing with promises of brimstone flowing underneath. In other places, geysers of flame shoot up into the air, while pools of greenish-blue water burble and bubble with escaping steam.

Turtle wrinkles her nose in disgust. What a horrid place.

At first, this is all that is to be seen – fire and water, light and darkness – but then other shapes come into view. The earth itself is twisted. The rocks on this side of the ridge writhe, looking less like mere stone and more as if they were alive. Faces with mouths wide open in expressions of anguish can be discerned – or at least imagined at first, but as the trail continues, the features are more plainly discerned.

Turtle shudders, and pulls her traveling cloak around her a bit, glancing back at Melchizedek with distress.

The Guards were, to this point, fairly quiet, but even whispered conversations die off as the wolves look out at the blighted land of Bosch. As the group continues, more features of the valley become clear – It is not so barren after all, but full of structures and wilderness of sorts, and creatures moving – cavorting – about. The trouble is, it is hard to tell where buildings end and wilderness begins, or wilderness ends and creatures begin, or creatures end and … so on and so forth. Nightmares dwell here. Here, they reign. This is a place of magic gone wild, where the senses cannot be fully trusted – nor can they be ignored.

Shadowy forms move about amongst what seemed to be rocks or trees earlier. Hulking, twisted creatures, many lopsided, with mismatched limbs, come into view, though not clearly, watching from rocky overhangs to each side of the path. The whole setting has "ambush" written so clearly, and the wolves look about nervously, ready for a command.

Turtle carefully crosses the Star on her chestplate, swallowing hard. Inside, she has always had a deep dislike, even fear, of magic, and now it seems to make this place. She tries hard to cover her agitation.

Melchizedek looks sideways to Turtle, then signs the Star and Anchor across his own chest, walking along, catching up with the wagon. He looks to the monsters gathered about, and shouts out, "You have made your presence known! Now begone and let us be on our way, unless your Overlord's honor be questioned!"

Melchizedek's shout is answered with echoing, quiet laughter from the rocks about the trail. The figures do not move. The wagons roll on, cautiously, the Guards on foot walking alongside just as cautiously.

Turtle flattens her ears as they roll on. The laughing to her seems coming out of nothing almost, coming from still rocks.

A boulder next to the wagon Turtle rides slowly rises from its position, reshifting its form like clay under unseen hands, to resemble something like a troll of fairy-tales of stories Turtle must have heard so long ago as a child. "We have no treaties to follow. Overlord Noshim'a has gotten careless, and has lost the pass to ourselves. Prepare to fill our gullets."

Several of the wolves draw their swords, and the Dromodons begin to bray, threatening to bolt, while the drivers try to calm them. One of the Dromodons pulling Turtle's wagon looks as if he's about to break free of his harness, with how he's struggling and crying out. The pseudo-saurian beast's eyes are wide with fear, its mouth frothing.

Turtle's eyelashes lift up as she gazes widely at the boulder. Her stomach sinks, and her brain fumbles in a strain to reach her weapon. She slings it from over her back and into the position to aim in one swift movement, even as the wagon starts to jerk from the beast. She cries out in surprise, trying to keep her aim.

The driver cries out, trying to calm the Dromodons, but to no avail! The Dromodon twists against the other, stumbling, pulling the wagon sideways and up onto a pile of rocks to one side of the trail. Supplies fall out of the back, and the wagon is about to tip over entirely at any moment. The driver falls out, almost run over by one of the wheels.

The stone troll lets out a bestial roar, showing a mouth full of stalactite-like teeth, as its elongated limbs spread out, sweeping and grabbing for the wagon.

Turtle sways, then loses her balance and stumbles. She half-jumps, half-falls out of the wagon, trying to keep her grip on her weapon.

Melchizedek shouts, "Taste the fury of the Temple, spawn of Darkness!" With a crack, the broad "walking stick" splits down the middle, and he pulls a chitin blade out of it, deep brown in color and almost wooden in appearance with its striations. He meets the attacks of several warped-looking monsters that leap from above – soon obscuring him from view.

Turtle manages to keep clear of the wheels and trampling hooves – and keep hold of her weapon as well. The stone troll is still flailing about, a bit sluggish in its movements … but a very near danger.

Turtle's brain freezes, as she swings herself around to face the horrid monster. She fires wildly several times, her eyes half-closed from fear. Strands of her hair swing tangle down from her bun, but amazingly it still holds.

The bolts fly true, for the target is large and seemingly incapable of evading … but they shatter against the creature as if it were made of stone as solid as it appeared before taking this current form.

The creature's eyes burn, steam rising, portals inside its being, which must be full of boiling lava, by the appearance. It smiles and broken smile, and bellows, "Pathetic little priestess. Do you think to harm me with wood and chitin?" It raises a massive hand, pulling it back to swing.

Turtle grimaces, scrambling and stumbling away. She swings a few times at the air with her weapon, although half-realizing that anything actually hitting the creature would meet the same fate.

The huge hand slams into the ground where Turtle was just moments before, sending up a spray of dirt and debris. The troll laughs as the dust showers him in the face, and rises again, looking for the Aeonian.

The Aeonian in question has scrambled to her feet, and attempts to run, although in her panic, her legs give way often, causing her to fall right back down. She searches her surroundings desperately for anything of help.

Left and right, the sounds of battle can be heard, wolves crying out as they slash at the apparently unarmed but still numerous, frenzied and hard-to-kill attackers.

As the dust clears, for a moment the "sunlight" reflects off of tortoiseshell, finding the Aeonian beside the capsized wagon. One of the Dromodons has broken free, but the other has fallen, its leg broken, and a few slashes across it hinting at the ravages of the attackers. It moans in agony, lying amidst scattered supplies meant for the Sanctuary.

Turtle gasps, then shivers furiously as she notices the wagon nearby.

The spilled supplies include a few closed crates, bags of grain, wax-sealed casks of preserved foods, a couple of kegs, some reams of writing parchment, tubs of ink (the monks use so MUCH of that at the Sanctuary), and all sorts of miscellaneous goods, perishable and not.

Turtle lifts herself up, with some difficultly, and out of desperation and some amount of confusion from fear, reaches for one of the crates, and then for a tub of ink, hurling them at the creature with what strength she has, mostly in adrenaline.

The tub hurls into the air … and shatters at the stone monster's feet, sending a puddle of black spilling out and soaking into the earth. The monster pauses, looking at the mess, then puts its hands at what passes for a waist, rearing back its neckless head in laughter. "Baw haw haw! Is that the BEST you can do?"

Turtle snorts, furrowing her brow into a scowl. "You annoy me very much!!" She reaches for a ream of paper and throws it furiously.

The stone monster laughs as the ream of parchment flies toward the air at him, the slender cords holding it together coming apart in mid-flight. The sheets separate, turning and fluttering about.

As the monster watches in startlement, the paper sheets flutter toward him, then against him … then through him. Swish. Swish. Swish.

The monster's left hand falls off, landing on the ground with a loud thud, shortly followed by several other slices of his stone arm. Bits of lava seep out, but quickly solidify into a black glass. The creature bellows loudly!

Turtle is a bit startled herself. 'Horrified' would be a better word. She clutches for her crossbow, holding it tightly to her chest.

Several of the warped imps stop, staring blankly at their champion – providing ample opportunity for them to be cut down by the wolves which aren't so quickly distracted.

Swish. Swish. Swish. The monster raises his other hand to strike, intercepting a few more pieces of parchment. Two fingers fall off, and another gets its nose. It bellows, clutching at where its nose used to be, with the one hand and the stub of the other.

The fallen lupine driver moans, trying to lift himself. "Don't just stand there, Inquisitrix … Do something!" He fumbles about, trying to find his weapon – or, lacking that, something to take its place.

Turtle's eyes dart at the driver. She considers, then lets go of her crossbow again, to hurl another ream of paper, now straining a bit.

The ream of paper has a similar effect, though the cord holds together a bit longer this time. It passes through the middle of the beast, making … paper-thin slices out of it. It roars as its torso begins to slide sideways across a diagonal schism, then falls crashing to the ground. The lava pours out, and the whole creature begins to lose its shape … in mere seconds becoming nothing but a strangely-shaped formation of broken rocks alongside the path … with a few sheets of parchment inexplicably sticking out of its surface here and there.

Once the stone champion has fallen, the rest of the battle proves to be a rout, the remaining imps going up in sulphurous puffs of smoke as they are cut down by the rallied wolves.

Turtle's head reels, as she looks back to the driver, then around her, stumbling back a few steps as she tries to regain herself from the terror clutching her heart.

Melchizedek staggers out of a few dissipating clouds of foul vapor hinting at imps meeting timely ends at either his blade or another's. Several slashes in his uniform suggest that his defenses have not been perfect, but at least he is still standing. That is more than can be said for several of the guards and some of the beasts.

Turtle gathers her wits, and runs the short distance to the Inquisitor, a welcome sight. Her face is writhed in cold terror as she clutches against him, perhaps instinctively remembering a hug he gave her once.

Melchizedek almost falls back at the unexpected move, his sword landing heavily in the dirt beside him. "Inquisitrix … are you injured?"

"I don't know," Turtle collapses, still clutching at robes near his ankles. She hangs her head wearily.

Melchizedek tries to catch the Inquisitrix, but ends up stumbling, weakened by his own wounds. "Guard!" he cries out. "Someone attend to the Inquisitrix!" He looks about. "And we must move quickly. Others will expect us to be weakened … "

An alarmed Korv flutters in, cawing, landing beside the tortoiseshell-horned Aeonian. "Inquisitrix! Inquisitrix! Oh dear… " He caws quietly. "I'm sorry I was of no help."

Some of the wolves right the fallen wagon, and hitch back up the one living Dromodon from its team, while others try to load in what they can of the scattered supplies – and take advantage of the empty space to load on the wounded and the few dead, not willing to leave any of their comrades behind on this cursed ground.

Turtle gives Neekto a fear-stricken look. "Get my crossbow. Hurry. We need to go as soon as possible. I can help myself." She lifts herself up, and attempts to prove that, walking slowly.

Neekto caws and nods, then flutters over, grabbing the crossbow and fetching it back to Turtle.

Turtle clutches it to herself again, looking around as she makes her way back to the wagon, expecting movement in every direction.

The other wagons are righted as necessary, though one with a broken wheel has to be abandoned – most of its perishable goods scattered and rendered unsalvageable anyway by raiding attempts on the part of the monsters. A wolf offers to help Turtle up into the back of one of the wagons.

Turtle nods politely to the wolf, although very distractedly, and allows him to help her up.

The wagon rolls along, the ride downhill now. More monsters jeer and taunt from their vantage points, but none approach any closer for the time being.

The caravan continues down the winding road, not descending wholly into the valley, but rather stopping at a fortification built upon a steep slope, with a reinforced causeway providing access. Amidst all the twisted and warped scenery, this fortress by comparison looks symmetrical, solid, precise and planned. Flying the banners of the Knights Templar and of Rephidim, it is the Sanctuary of Order … and once the group is inside, the gates close, effectively shutting out the sights, sounds and smells of the chaos outside, making it sanctuary indeed.

Monks move about, several coming to help tend to the wounded and dead, and to unload supplies. A raccoon monk gestures to Turtle. "Here. We will help you to your room. It is safe here."

Turtle shivers quietly, then regains her composure. "Thank you very much," she says politely, pushing her cloak gently behind her, and touching at her bun. "I do hope you have accommodations with a good mirror… "