At the wind, neither Attis or the hooded man reacted. The latter kept his eyes on Dagan, while the former was still seemingly frozen in a moment of shock, which just kept being compounded upon.

"I see," the hooded man replied again.

He shoved his hand into his pocket, then.

Attis's shock remained the same. Now, he felt as if there was a second gray hair on his head. He also felt as if he were going to fall over like a statue, stiff as a board, not even moving in reaction to the floor, just teetering back and forth as if on a curve. That didn't happen, of course. Gravity may have wanted him, but it didn't have him.

More than likely, Attis hadn't personally seen many abilities outside of those he was around the most--the hooded man, for example. In the end, it seemed that he didn't really have to worry about Dagan nearly as much as he felt he had to originally.

"We'll leave in thirty minutes. Be at the north gate by then, and be prepared," the hooded man ordered as he turned and started towards the western exit of the great Hall, "Or you'll be on your own."

“Yeah, yeah.”

Dagan replied unenthusiastically, he had actually been serious about going by himself, but maybe that wasn’t for the best, after all. At any rate, the hooded man could at least back the air of elitism, intended or not, that seemed to surround him and his every action.

“You okay? Hello? Attis,” Dagan asked in a concerned tone. “You, uh… Are you breathing?”

Dagan walked around the man for a moment, looking at him, the way he seemed stuck, this was probably not healthy, no; not at all.

“Know where I can get a weapon? Something… Like a lance, -- yeah, that feels right. A lance or, or maybe a spear? I haven’t really seen any place that… Had weapons, isn’t that odd? Wait, do I need money for that … Well, you have a job, and so you can spot me, right?”

Do we even use money in this city, he thought, as he waved a hand in front of Attis’ face.

“Eh, I need to go prepare; pick me one up and bring it to the north gate. Thanks!”

And so Dagan left, leaving Attis standing there, tasked with finding Dagan a weapon, a lance, or spear; it had apparently been a one-sided thing, though, as Attis had no input in the matter.

Attis was quiet. He didn't react to Dagan until it was too late, in fact. Far too confounded by what happened, he was lost in his own mind to make sense of it all. He hadn't even been able to keep his eyes on either target, Dagan and the hooded man both! When they moved, it was practically instantaneous!

It was only after Dagan left that Attis creaked out of his stance. He took one small step forward, before finally sulking with his shoulders and hanging his arms limply before him.

"Y-yeah . . ." he whispered, defeated, and sighed, ". . . one spear, coming right up . . ."



The north gate-- it was a sturdy place, made up entirely by a clock tower. It was at the end of a main road, surrounded by structures all built close together, so close that there weren't even alleyways for at least half of a mile approaching the north gate. The clock tower that marked it was tall, practically reaching up into the sky. It was one of the taller structures in the unreal city.

The tower itself had an alcove at the bottom, leading the main road into a wide breezeway capable of fitting about twenty people across, and probably ten people long. Only one person stood in it, of course. His whole body this time was shadowed over by the cover of the breezeway, but his silhouette was visible enough: the hooded man from before, waiting at the breezeway for Dagan's arrival. Chances were he'd been waiting there for longer than just the official thirty minute mark; even if Dagan came early, he'd probably run into him first.

After leaving the Grand Hall, Dagan had immediately gone home, his initial plan was to prepare, prepare for what, though; that was the question. He’d never been outside of the city, not that he remembered, at least, and so he had no idea what to expect. Predators had been mentioned, which was why he tasked Attis with obtaining a weapon for Dagan to fight with, a weapon that he felt comfortable with, whether or not the man did this, though, well; that remained to be seen. Regardless, Dagan had almost left his quaint home the second he had entered it, the only difference was that when he went in, he had not been wearing a jacket, but when he left; he was.

The jacket was a simple thing; it was made out of a durable material, blue, coarse to the touch, but comfortable and had a bit of room for unlikely growth in the not-so-foreseeable future. The jacket’s inside had a pocket, which was empty, and the inside of the jacket, itself, was made out of wool; for optimum warmth, not that it was all that needed, of course.

Having forgotten his hat at the hall, Dagan had nothing else to prepare, and honestly did not want to double back and waste valuable time; he had instead opted to head to North Gate, arriving maybe ten minutes before the designated time, but he was surprised to see that the hooded man hard already arrived.

Dagan offered a greeting to the hooded man, a knowledgeable nod, a gesture of the hand, and then stood just outside the shadow that had been cast by the breezeway; indeed, he stood just before the gate and seemed to be waiting on something or someone.

The hooded man addressed Dagan with a likewise nod of his head. It was minor, really; the same type of minor acknowledgment that Dagan gave him. He observed the way Dagan stood, too. He didn't look ready to leave, not yet. No, it appeared as if Dagan was still waiting on someone or something-- and so, the hooded man said nothing at all. There were still ten minutes left to wait; if Dagan didn't seem completely prepared by then, the hooded man would have just been content to walk away.

And so, the two stood in silence for nearly five whole minutes.

It was at the conclusion of those five long minutes that Attis arrived, nearly collapsing at the gate. He was winded-- exhausted already. It was no wonder that he couldn't go out in this type of search and rescue with the hooded man. Intelligence may have currently been his only asset-- but even that wasn't too terribly tested. Though, there was a good chance that his memory was far superior to anyone else's in the unreal city. Who else would get the job of a census, a single handed job to keep track and record of the citizens of the city?

Although he couldn't say much in a winded state, he was able to breathlessly hand his payload over to Dagan: a long wooden pole, with a long blade securely roped to the northern end of the pole.

". . . g-got . . ." he wheezed, hunched over before Dagan and panting, ". . . th-this . . ."

Dagan took the pole-weapon from Attis, appreciating it by getting a feel for the weight, dipping its forward end towards the ground, bringing it up, and then tapping the hind end against the surface of the ground.

“Thanks, Attis! You’re a life saver.”

It was true! Dagan would have had no idea of where to get anything like this in the city, no idea at all, really, but Attis had really come through. That was commendable, respectable, even, but maybe Dagan had gone a bit overboard with the request …

“I’ll have to repay you for this,” Dagan said, and then turned his attention to the hooded man. “I’m ready to go.”

Dagan was new to this, he really was; the hooded man would have to take the lead, but it was getting tiring not knowing this man’s name.

“Uh, before we leave… What should I call you? Do you have a name or something you prefer?”

"Y-you're welcome . . ." Attis replied breathlessly.

He was smiling, though. Exhausted as he was, he was still happy he could help out. It was so much better than seeing desperate faces or hearing unanswered pleas for help. Really, Dagan's thanks was enough for Attis, but he didn't say that. Who knows? Maybe he'd have a small favor to ask Dagan later on down the road or something?

"B-be careful, you two . . ." Attis heaved.

The hooded man didn't answer Attis, nor did he even appear to acknowledge his existence at all. Instead, once it seemed that Dagan was ready-- prepared to go now that he had a weapon on his person --the hooded man began to walk forward. Hands still buried in his pockets, he trudged along, shoulders forward, head low.

Beyond the city was desolation-- not ruin, mind you. No, ruin would have been a logical thing. This was worse. This was an illogical, irrational thing. This, no one could really put their fingers on. It was like . . . a plain. An endless stretch of cracked and dry earth, flat, for the most part, with only a few cycling variations of hills and basins, none of which one could see. The truth of the matter was that no one could see in this. The fog was momentously worse out there, and it all seemed to carry on a dry wind that howled through and pushed the fog along like an eternal cloud of gray.

"I haven't got a name," the hooded man would reply once they were clear of the city-- and Attis, "But if you must call me something, 'the Seeker' will suit your needs just fine."

Dagan rested the weapon that Attis had gotten for him, upon his shoulder, he kept pace with the hooded man, but wasn’t nearly as solemn about it. Dagan stood straight, his shoulders broad, head held high, and he continued to walk with an ever-present energy about him; that was how he always was, when outside his “sanctuary,” his home.

Regardless, being outside of the city was a bit overwhelming, to say the least; this had been the first time Dagan had ever stepped out of the city, that he could remember, at least, but he wasn’t afraid, either. It was an odd, adventurous feeling that he felt, and it was almost hard for him to remember why he had even left the city, in the first place, but he hadn’t completely forgotten it; he knew there was something more important than enjoying about the desolate, dystopian looking scenery.

“Seeker, it is!” Dagan replied, leaving off the, that seemed just a tad excessive, and he wasn’t going to address the man like that, that was just weird.

“So that thing you did,” he seemed hesitant to ask, but pushed on anyways: “back there in the hall, the way you got behind me, yeah? How far can you go with that? Do you always have to walk to these, uh, new arrivals? I guess, I mean; there is a bit of a distance to travel, isn’t there?”

Maybe The Seeker’s teleportation or whatever it was he did, took a bit out of him, Dagan honestly didn’t know, his stamina, for lack of a better way to phrase it, was infinite, and it never depleted itself. He could run at a full blown sprint, his top speed, and [I]never[I] tire; however, he had never had a chance to discuss anything like abilities, or other stuff like that before.

The Seeker addressed Dagan's questions, initially, with a half turn of his head.

"Neither," he replied, "I run to them."

This wasn't quite the response Dagan was searching for, but it was the most he was going to get. The Seeker clearly wasn't going to elaborate on the nature of what he did, but this was enough to at least suggest some things about it. Perhaps he couldn't use that skill from a distance? That was the most likely scenario, as it would be easiest to just 'port to a person, collect them, and 'port back. Chances were, though, he was keeping that talent of his a secret. Perhaps it was for the best-- at least for him. If everyone knew your secrets, and somehow, everyone became your enemy-- you just weren't safe.

Walking wasn't an option, currently, especially under these circumstances, where they had hundreds of miles to travel, it seemed. Thus leaving running the only option. The Seeker looked to the side, at Dagan, before looked forward again. Obviously, the hooded man knew which way to go.

"And now, we run."

"Neither."

That ... -- That was not the answer Dagan was looking for; that wasn’t even a real answer to his question! But he didn’t pursue that line of questioning any further, if Seeker didn’t want to give any detail, that was fine, he must have had his reasons, regardless of what they were, and really; -- who was Dagan to judge?

“O~~kay?” Dagan said, adding emphasis to his words.

This Seeker fellow was definitely the strangest person Dagan had ever met, or maybe it was Dagan who was strange. At the very least, Attis was a much more likable person, and Dagan really could not see himself getting along with the hooded man, this Seeker, any time soon..

If The Seeker did break into a run, though, Dagan would be right behind him, and not because he couldn’t keep up; The Seeker was merely the obvious leader of this little expedition, Dagan had no idea where to go, and little clue as to how the hooded man did.

Dagan was in the middle of his drawn out reply when the Seeker took a step forward.

At first, it seemed like he was walking briskly-- one foot sharply placed in front of the other, and again-- but this lead to something more. He bent forward with his back, pushed his left foot forward, and his right back as if bracing. He removed his hands from his pockets . . .

And then he was gone.

Left behind were footprints, of course. They were heavy footed, perhaps on purpose, and left footprints behind. Dagan would easily be able to follow these, but it was unlikely-- oddly --that he'd actually catch up with the Seeker.

This was high time for Dagan to test his own stamina. Before, he'd clearly been limited only to the unreal city. One could only run so much there, at least not without causing a ruckus and a hassle for others. In reality, there couldn't be much proof as of yet that Dagan was unable to lose stamina when he ran. Here, he had the opportunity to test himself. They had hundreds of miles to go, and there was a fair chance that the Seeker wasn't going to stop for a break . . .

Immediately after The Seeker sped off and disappeared, Dagan slipped into his own sprint, following the trail that The Seeker was leaving, and even if he didn’t catch up; he would still remain behind the man, running at his top speed without slowing down, this would occur regardless of how long he ran, too; this man really did not tire, ever. It was true, he had never had to push himself, really, but that fact was ultimately inconsequential; although unknown to Dagan, his body did not produce fatigue poisons in the least, there was no build up of the substance, he could perform in high gear for as long as it took, and his only limitation in this respect was whether or not he believed he could keep going.

At the moment, though, he really believed he could keep running all day, and so he would. The barren landscape of Purgatory would become a blur, as he pushed onwards, and forwards. It was, perhaps, for the best that the landscape didn’t require too much navigation, Dagan’s eyes could keep up, his reflexes were perfect, but he had very limited -- almost nonexistent -- experience when it came to running.

Oddly, the thought of sprint-jumping came to mind, as he ran, wondering if he’d ever catch up to Seeker, or not. He could jump pretty high, and at this speed; there may have been a chance for pseudo-flight. That might have been taken as showing off, though. He didn’t want that.

The world would seem ever emptier as Dagan ran. The dense fog didn't allow him to see much more than twenty feet ahead of him in the best of conditions. He'd see outlines sometimes, lines in the fog that might have indicated higher elevations, hills, or even drop-offs. The Seeker was clearly avoiding them, and taking the flattest, most open route available to them. There was something else in the fog, too, though.

Silhouettes . . .

At first, they might be passed over without a thought. They were just shadows, right? Just specks where the fog was layered thicker than it was everywhere else, giving the impression of a darker patch in the fog, a patch that eerily took the shape of a humanoid figure. At first, there was only one, perhaps a flash and a blur to Dagan, but then, those flashes and blurs became more and more frequent over time.

If Dagan looked at these dark patches that he passed by, perhaps even slowed to see better, he'd find that they weren't patches of thicker fog in the slightest. These were bodies; standing bodies, wavering to and fro, their howls the same as the world's hollow and empty melody. Dagan was faster than them; enormously so, in fact-- perhaps even fast enough that the shadows did not even realize he was there.

It was for the best . . .

Moving at such a speed as he was, Dagan’s senses were already stretched, they weren’t quite at their limit, as that wasn’t a particularly defined threshold, but with his inexperience it was simply impossible for him to really measure and study things without slowing down a bit, and he wasn’t all that fond of that idea. Likewise, this was his first venture outside of the city, despite being able to see some things, these silhouettes, and other such outlines; that didn’t mean he knew they were something to watch out for, he wasn’t nearly as alert as he should have been, he knew there were predators, but not anything specific about them, let alone that they had the same shape as himself.

It would take a first-hand encounter to teach him otherwise, and right now he was apparently and thankfully moving too fast for the humanoid figures to really do anything about him. Not without some form of preparation to slow the man down, or the ability to stop him outright.

Even so, Dagan was prepared to move into an offensive form, if it was needed, and yet he couldn’t quite explain why he was ready to do so. He wasn’t aware of any hostility directed towards him, nor was he expecting to run into anything; it was perhaps the fog or maybe he was actually keeping track of the silhouettes subconsciously, and his body or instincts were more reactive than he gave them credit for.

Dagan’s grip upon his weapon became tighter as he ran, the fog obscured the majority of the scenery, it may have been his imagination, for all he knew, but it really did seem to thicken quite a bit since he had started running.

Damn, he thought. I’ll never catch up to Seeker at this rate.

And time passed . . .

An hour? Four hours? Eight? At some point, time seemed to blend together as the task at hand almost began to border on mundane. The images were the same, the fog retained its same thickness, and the outlines in the distance moved and differed in time; at one point, even, they completely disappeared. By that point, there was the faint sound of water lapping gently against a shore, but it was hollow, empty, and nothing more than a passing sound and a passing image--

--a distant memory. Contrived. Influenced. Made up. A lie. A thing that never should've existed. A thing that never existed a lie.

The Seeker's footprints curved and winded over time. He was moving in a specifically planned path. One time, there was a large outline in the distance, one that gave birth to a vast number of other outlines. Whatever it was, they were close to it, but the Seeker had evaded it entirely. He went around it, like evading a speed bump in the road. A massive speed bump . . .

Sometime during the meld of time, though, there was a massive change-- and then, that melding of time and space all came to a halt. The change?

The Seeker's footprints stopped . . . but the Seeker himself wasn't anywhere to be seen.