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Writer: Corron
Date Sun Jun 18 22:31:59 2017
Writer: Mathesan
Date Tue Jun 20 10:51:02 2017
To All Imm Religion Necrucifer
Subject Hunted I
It happened while he was praying.
Mathesan was kneeling before the stern likeness of Necrucifer, deep in prayer,
head bowed and eyes closed. He was not a particularly religious man, but
circumstance had driven him to it. He had always considered himself a faithful
follower, but his faith had rarely been tested as it was now.
Persecuted without prosecution. He'd left his home because he would have been
removed from it anyways. With the petty Queen upon the throne, he would never
see fair judgment. Mathesan would never be allowed to show that the things he
was accused of were untrue.
"I remain ever Your faithful servant." Mathesan whispered, "I shall continue to
strive to see to the futherance of Your kingdom and Your prophecy. But I am
beleaguered by those who would see me in chains rather than to serve You
alongside me. Such disunity and disloyalty must be punished, but I dare not
take from You that which is Yours. Instead, I pray for guidance. I am certain
there are many uses to which I can be put to in my time of exile-"
The sound of heavy, plodding steps crept into his awareness. If it hadn't been
for Mathesan's extrasensory spell, he might not have heard them at all. Which
was odd because, as he continued to listen, Mathesan realized the steps were
clanking, the sound of a warrior in plate mail.
Rising to his feet in one smooth motion, Mathesan whirled around. Framing the
door into this inner chamber was a man, broad of build, heavily armored, and
bearing a bastard sword in both hands. As they stared at one another, the
unknown man set the tip of his sword's blade on the ground to free up his other
hand which lifted his helm's visor.
Piercing green eyes were set in a hard face. Scars littered the man's skin: a
gash over his left eye, two parallel slices down his right cheek, another gash
across the stem of his nose, and another gash down the left side of his lips.
Mathesan knew him now, "Rork. What brings an officer of the Crown's guard to
this temple?"
Rork continued to gaze at Mathesan evenly, showing no sign of hesitation at
the familiarity or the obvious question. Instead, he lifted his free hand and
beckoned with his gauntlet.
From behind the wall and through the frame of the entranceway, there appeared
a young lad, one whom could not have been more than sixteen summers in age.
He showed a fair bit more trepidation, but that was to be expected, the boy
had never seen the things that Rork had. If he'd seen them, Mathesan wouldn't
have seemed so intimidating. Mathesan wondered whether or not the boy would
ever get the chance, it All depended on the outcome of why Rork had been sent
here and what he would do if Mathesan did not comply with whatever demands
the Crown might have sent.
The boy took out a long scroll and began to read:
"Let is be known that the one known as Mathesan Madaur is
hereby wanted to stand trial before the Crown... He has
broken numerous laws of our city... The Soldiers of
Verminasia's military, as well as those of the Guard,
will actively hunt Mathesan until he is captured...
his head will also be a sufficient token to offer our
Queen.
His charges are as follows:
1. Physical and/or mental abuse of a Verminasian citizen,
two counts.
2. Lack of respect for ranked officials of our nation,
four counts.
3. Slander & libel of our kingdom and/or Crown, four
counts."
When he finished, the boy rolled up the parchment and replaced it within its
container.
"Well then," Rork said, finally speaking, "do you surrender to the Crown so
that you might face judgment for your crimes?"
Writer: Mathesan
Date Tue Jun 20 10:52:15 2017
To All Imm Religion Necrucifer
Subject Hunted II
Mathesan smiled thinly. "I'm afraid not, sir."
"You see, as forceful and assertive as your warrant is, I am no longer a
citizen of Verminasia, and as such, not bound by its laws, warrants, or the
like. While I remain a faithful servant to the people of Verminasia, I would
not be able to continue to do my utmost to them were I to surrender on these
terms and become thusly imprisoned, executed, or otherwise."
Mathesan's lip curled into a more sinister-looking sneer. He gazed quietly at
Rork with his icy blue eyes. For his part, Rork did not seem entirely surprised
at the response. Nonplussed, he first directed his words to the boy beside him.
"Please inform the men that the target is hostile. I will need backup." There
was no tremor of fear in Rork's voice. He spoke just as any other man might
speak about the duties of his job. 'Fetch me my broom and mop', or 'hitch up
the horse to the carriage.'
When the lad had retreated to follow-through with Rork's order, the man turned
his attention once more to Mathesan.
"I take no pleasure in this, m'Lord." Rork offered sincerely, "but regardless
of whether or not you feel bound by Verminasia's laws, the Crown wishes you to
answer for your crimes, and so I must do my duty in bringing you in."
With that, Rork picked up his bastard sword into both hands once more. He
glanced over his shoulder, keeping an eye on Mathesan, perhaps waiting for the
requested men to respond.
"Surely All of... this... is not needed for a simple man such as I. I am no
warrior." Mathesan replied calmly.
In spite of his demeanor, Mathesan did not feel calm. He had not predicted this
and so his thoughts were scrambling to rearrange plans, to respond and react to
the reality he now faced, rather than the one he thought he would face.
Sure, his missive about why he left Verminasia was dripping with scorn, and
Ashtiel's pettiness was precisely the reason he was in this position in the
first place. However, he never thought she would stoop so low as to issue a
warrant for his arrest.
By All the gods, that woman was moronic. For as well as she played the game, she
seemed to lack an understanding of life and leadership. Ashtiel's actions were
so erratic and askew that her incompetence couldn't simply be seen as a
malicious attempt to divide the kingdom, but, rather, she had been asked to play
a role and, too embarrassed to admit it, she accepted and was now drowning in
her lack of capability.
She would still pay for it.
Regardless of intent, Mathesan saw what needed to be done as clearly as if God
had spoken the revelations himself. He needed to do everything in his power to
show the rest of the world just how incompetent and petty the new Queen of
Verminasia was. He needed to show Verminasia the danger that she posed to
it.
Several men supplemented Rork now. Some Mathesan knew, vaguely, others he did
not. In all, there were seven of them, one with a shield and sword; another man
held a flail in one hand and naught in the other; there was another man who
hefted a long spear with both hands; one man had a crossbow; another man held
two daggers, one in each hand; and the last man wore robes that signaled that he
was of the Faith. He was the threat that Mathesan needed to attend to first.
In the split second of the next moment, Mathesan released a previously prepared
and held spell. He'd set it up as soon as Rork had entered. A heady sensation
filled Mathesan like too much wine, but it passed and Mathesan simply felt
larger, more vast, not in body, but of thought and mind. More of this thoughts
than usual were clear and lucid, he was able to create threads of thought and
keep dozens of them running at the same time.
With an evil smile, Mathesan prepared to strike.
Writer: Mathesan
Date Tue Jun 20 10:54:34 2017
To All Imm Religion Necrucifer
Subject Hunted III
The only visible sign of Mathesan's magic was a slight change to his blue
irises, which seemed to glow with some unearthly light.
The first step in his strike was for Mathesan to slow down the warriors from
closing distance on him. He was powerful, but not invincible, and casting while
trying to dodge and duck blows from deadly weapons was terribly difficult.
However, the priest, or whatever it was, that had been brought with them was
sure to have protected them from the most common means available: kill words,
fake illnesses, real illnesses, slowing spells or otherwise. Instead, Mathesan
chose something much simpler, something less expected.
With his spell active, Mathesan reached out into the consciousness of the six
soldiers and implanted thoughts of peace and tranquility. Just like that, the
men relaxed, putting down or dropping their weapons. There was confusion in that
moment. It wouldn't last. Once the other caster recognized the symptoms, it
would be a simple matter for him to counter the spell.
What Mathesan's spell did accomplish was the time it gave him to focus on his
first target. The enemy priest's thoughts were distracted from their iron
defense, as he tried to figure out what was going on. It was a chink in the
armor, and All that Mathesan needed to begin his attack.
It was a simple matter to bring the priest's nightmares to life. The warriors he
was protecting shifted and morphed before his eyes into hideous beasts of the
void. Each of them alone would have struck fear into the stoutest of men. They
resembled nothing, if there were words that existed to describe them, they were
lost to memory.
Seeing this, the priest, in his confusion, began to toss demonfire at the
soldiers. This, in turn, roused them from their calm stupor. However, instead
of attacking Mathesan, they began to shred the priest into ribbons. Blood
sprayed everywhere, drenching the warriors, with cast-off decorating the walls.
It was both horrifying and awesome to behold at the same time.
While the warriors hacked into the priest, Mathesan turned his attention to
their minds. Without the priest's protection, the minds of the remaining men
were open to him. It seemed expeditious to simply install in their minds the
same vision he had given to the priest. Each soldier watched in horror as
their comrades shifted, and, desperate for their lives, they All began to fight
with one another.
The explosion of blood was drowned out only by the anguished cries of the men
as they fought in abject fear, while simultaneously being ripped into by the beasts they had watched take the place of their comrades.
Mathesan could have lingered to watch, but he now had other business to attend
to. Necrucifer would act in His own time, Mathesan had done what he needed to
to assure the Father that his loyalty was unwavering. But the only one Mathesan
could trust to rely on was himself. God did not tolerate weakness, and it was
apparent that Mathesan's survival was dependent on his own ability.
As Mathesan walked by the carnage, cast off and spurting from the remaining
men flew onto his face and his robes. However, as soon as he was clear of the
chaos, he flicked his fingers and a simple prestidigitation spell removed the
blood as efficiently as any servant might have.
The boy that had come with the soldiers on this errand stood there, shocked
still. Mathesan could read the fear in the boy's eyes. He savored it, then
spoke:
"You shall live. Run along to your Queen and inform her that her petty, personal
agenda has no authority here." He made a shooing motion with his hand, sending
the boy scurrying as he left.
Writer: Jermichael
Date Tue Jun 20 20:30:00 2017
Writer: Gavriel
Date Mon Jun 26 01:47:19 2017
To All imm roleplay rp
Subject Backstory: Broken
Her words echoed the words of others, from years gone by.
-=-
"Why won't you just tell me, Gav?"
-=-
"Come on, you can say..."
-=-
"I thought you trusted me!"
-=-
"{uThey won't understand, and what people don't understand, they fear."
"But Ma..."
"{uI'm sorry, Gav. You can't tell anyone. Ever."
-=-
Her name was Bekka Carlsdottir. She was slender and sun-kissed, with
sparkling green eyes and strawberry-blond curls. Gav thought she was
perfect. Living in the border village of Southmark, she was the brightest
spot in his young life. He would have done anything for her. So when she
said, "{pIf you love me, you'll tell me..."
She was the first, and last, he ever told.
And when he did, when he shared with her his hidden shame, explained to her
his broken nature with the youthful trust that she would accept him
regardless, his bright spot went dim. Not only did she reject him, she
outed him to the village. He saw the sideways glances, the mothers who
pulled their children away. He knew it was only a matter of time until the
fear gave way to violence.
It wasn't the war with Abaddon that had caused him to move from Southmark.
That only provided a direction to move toward.
Writer: Alexiah
Date Mon Jun 26 12:14:09 2017
To All Arkane Abaddon
Subject Bubble's Galore
Alexia was bored so she decided to go and rummage the storage chest,
there was always something to play with inside. Today that was 30 bars of
soap. After pulling each bar out and dragging them off to the garden the
young girl tossed several bars into the bog with a playful laugh. Using her
wand the bubbles began to grow and fill the garden spiling out into the
streets. As she playfully danced about the bubbles she began to wonder
where else she could spread the bubble joy. As Abaddon began to flood with
bubbles Alexiah tugged at Sierus's arms begging him to take her to Arkane so
she could share with them the bubble fun.
The new pool was a great place to create her gift to Arkane. Dumping
several bars of soap into the pool it began to grow even bigger than the bog
in Abaddon. Soon flooding the pool and streets with large beautiful
bubbles. Laughing with joy Alexiah continued making her bubbles until she
realized it was getting late and she and Sierus headed home leaving behind a
mass amount of bubbles All over Arkane's streets.
Writer: Iscarianth
Date Tue Jun 27 09:36:23 2017
To All ( Immortal Roleplay Storyline )
Subject "Barking" up the wrong tree ( Part 1 )
The Atelier never prepared the Elf for life outside its walls, so it was
perhaps mete that he would founder at truly understanding the world. He had
been gone for some time now, living among various lands with various customs
and various creatures - and while he had always escaped unscathed from his
various misadventures, it was only a matter of time before something
happened. It seems that time was now.
Ever curious, ever searching for something new to look at, to admire, to
taste, to smell, to grind into a powder or boil into a tincture or mash - it
wasn't entirely uncommon for him to be this far from the comforts of a city.
Today found him looking at tree after tree in search of one with, in his
mind, "The right bark". He might not have known -what- he was looking for,
but that never deterred him before, and so it went - he would look at one
tree, strip some bark, grind it, examine it, and repeat the process. If he
had any perception of time, he never let it show - for when the poor Elf was
involved in his work, he lost himself completely in it.
The sun began to set on the scene, finally calling Iscarianth's attention to
the fact that it was getting dark and he'd have to light a fire or return to
more hospitable climes. Not being one for 'roughing it', his ability to
create a fire by way of kindling and flint was spectacularly terrible - but
as with his lack of knowledge in general - that did not stop him from
trying. He began to go through each sample of bark he obtained, seeing what
happened if he introduced a spark by way of striking flint repeatedly and in
an agitatedly comical fashion. Ash? Nope. Pine? Nope. Willow? Nope.
Birch?
The second the spark touched the large pile of ground-up birch bark, the Elf
knew he had figured it out. A massive flare of bright white light made his
eyes water. He could smell ozone and copper. He could hear a low 'CRUMPT'.
He could feel himself being lifted from his place upon the ground. In the
last few seconds of being able to, the Elf thought to himself that he needed
to take note, that he wished his assistant had been here to do so, but more
importantly? He thought this would be a fantastic agent to warm and soothe
bodily aches.
After the flash, there was nothing. A cool darkness that simply came and
eventually went, with the Elf opening his eyes blearily and momentarily
wondering why there was a reddish tinge to everything. The thought quickly
left him once he realized how -loud- everything suddenly was. It was as if
a thousand voices were All talking at once, bits and pieces of words
filtering through but not quite understandable. Blinking back more tears
and curiously noting the more-than-dull ache that suffused his core, the Elf
looks to and fro to try and discern the source of the voices. For whatever
reason, his surroundings didn't look familiar - he knew where he -had- been,
and it certainly hadn't been surrounded by gnarled and twisted-looking
trees. Upon closer inspection, they weren't just old-looking, for some
reason - despite the Elf not being one to anthropomorphize things - they
looked -upset-!
(Cont...)
Writer: Iscarianth
Date Tue Jun 27 09:37:41 2017
To All ( Immortal Roleplay Storyline )
Subject "Barking" up the wrong tree ( Part 2 )
Consent. Idiocy. Burning. Cutting. Loud. Shut up. The last
'thought' came as a start to the Elf. He hadn't ever been told to shut up.
He didn't even think he spoke that much. He wasn't speaking now - so who
would be so rude as to say that to him? Looking about once again, the Elf
began to experience the novel sensation of fear. Usually, there was a naive
braveness to his actions - he just never considered anything dangerous,
until it was. While he -knew- trees weren't dangerous, and that voices in
and of themselves also weren't dangerous, the fact that he was in unfamiliar
territory and suddenly hearing things did not sit well. Biting at his lower
lip, and in a familiar movement of worried fidgeting, began tugging at his
robe - the feel of something there startled him. Bits of bark, stone, and
blood flecked the garment - and when he stopped to think about the taste of
his lip, the coppery tang of blood was present as well. Being naturally
quick, that is where he realized the source of the voices and what had
happened. It was simple. It was sad. His last thought before simply
accepting a fact which was obviously now true, was that he should have
listened to his assistant, his partner, maybe even that Enchantress.
Because now, he was dead. Huh. How strange.
Writer: Blays
Date Wed Jun 28 00:27:57 2017
Writer: Blays
Date Wed Jun 28 00:39:16 2017
Writer: Blays
Date Sun Jul 2 04:50:24 2017
Writer: Blays
Date Sat Jul 8 22:26:26 2017
Writer: Zola
Date Sun Jul 9 16:15:47 2017
Writer: Zola
Date Sun Jul 9 16:15:47 2017
Writer: Zola
Date Sun Jul 9 16:15:47 2017
Writer: Zola
Date Sun Jul 9 16:15:47 2017
Writer: Zola
Date Sun Jul 9 16:15:48 2017
Writer: Zola
Date Sun Jul 9 16:15:48 2017
Writer: Zola
Date Sun Jul 9 16:15:48 2017
Writer: Zola
Date Sun Jul 9 16:15:48 2017
Writer: Zola
Date Sun Jul 9 16:15:49 2017
Writer: Zola
Date Sun Jul 9 16:15:49 2017
Writer: Zola
Date Sun Jul 9 16:18:29 2017
Writer: Zola
Date Sun Jul 9 16:18:29 2017
Writer: Zola
Date Sun Jul 9 16:18:30 2017
Writer: Kyrlynn
Date Mon Jul 10 20:55:46 2017
Writer: Iocaste
Date Wed Jul 12 13:45:13 2017
To All Mezlak Gray_Church Imm ( RP Because-Imm-Wasn't-Enough! )
Subject The Kender's Lamp
"I have something for you," said the Human, speaking in that tone the
Kender was All too familiar with. She could never be sure what exactly it
was, but the manner of the man's speech always struck her as having an
intonation of severity, a directness that made everything leaving his lips
sound serious, and occasionally mildly sarcastic or chiding. It's just how
she saw it, but either way, it never bothered her. The Human was one of her
friends, whether he knew it or not, and whether or not he would ever
acquiesce in turn.
And so she just squirmed a little, excitedly. Excited for being in the
company of her friend, excited that the man who had never given her a gift
before had something for her, and, somehow, excited that the serious tone in
the man's voice made it seem as if the gift would be important, as if it
would be a true treasure. And it seems it was.
There was some conversation, some pleasantry involved wherein the Kender's
excitement only grew, her curiosity piquing especially at the mention that
the man had purchased this item "for her," specifically for her, from a
vendor that had travelled into New Thalos by camel. "Sold a bunch of
strange items," the Human said. "One he claimed as a hookah and a coffee
maker." The Kender didn't smoke, but that sounded delicious. This item,
however, was not a hookah.
He handed it to her with little if any flair - a brass oil lamp, which
appeared dented and battered, and overtly ancient, yet somehow had withstood
time enough to appear usable. "A lamp? Mm? An oil lamp, is it? " The
Kender murmured the thought questioningly while inquisitively studying the
relic, holding it so preciously in her hands. Her attention was divided
between it, and the Human whom had given it to her, who stood with a
companion, while she herself sat in the company of a Yinn and a Felar within
the calming serenity of her temple. "What a strange relic," she went on to
think, but it barely mattered to her. She was more delighted about it
"being a gift" than what it actually was. It didn't matter how dented and
old the thing looked - her friend gave given it to her, and it instantly
because something precious to her just from that.
The man went on, though. "It was told to me that if you desire it enough,
and rub it just right, it will grant you your wishes."
The Kender stared in awe. "Li-Like the stories? Wait, with a genie and
everything? Does something like that really exist?" She asked quietly and
softly while so gently exploring the dented lamp with her fingertips,
touching it as if she were afraid of harming the precious gift, though there
was little doubt that it had endured far more severe things during its
ancient existence. "I never tried it. Personally, I don't want anything I
can't take with my own two hands, because then I know I've earned it," the
Human responded, which the Kender simply assumed was followed by a careless
shrug outside of her vision as she gazed upon the brass surface of the lamp.
And so, it flittered through her mind immediately, naturally occuring to her
that the lamp, perhaps, could be used to achieve her goal, the thing she'd
always wanted so much - to "enter the Snake Temple," to train with the old
monk. But, barely after, other thoughts filled her mind. "It could do
anything, right? He said it so seriously. If it could grant any wish, then
it could revive Kadiya and Turpa, or end the wars, or put an end to Chaos."
It could do anything, grant any wish, and this Human who seemed assured that
it worked, who actually looked like he believed it worked, had bought it
"for her," and given it to her.
What a precious gift. It's impressive she didn't start crying. She was so
happy someone would do that for her. It didn't matter that she, herself,
didn't believe that the lamp would work. The Human did, and he kept her in
his thoughts from the very moment he was told of it.
She'd probably give it a try.
Writer: Ruwen
Date Fri Jul 14 18:39:16 2017
To Abaddon Vyasa Zola Feindahl ( Damion Sierus )( Imm RP All )
Subject [Touched by Greed]
The Seven Deadly Sins.
She had heard about them. Bits and pieces, really. She thought that things
were done with when she'd returned to the Bloodlands from her time away
dealing with her own business. But it seemed things weren't over yet after
all.
It was business as usual today when she arose and dressed. She shuffled
through her papers before greeting the kingdom and then seeking out the
Count as she frequently did. He was in the garden with the Cardinal, and
they were discussing something about gold bars given to Zola by the Sin of
Greed for the lands of New Thalos. The how and why mattered little to her.
She thought the deal was a stupid one.
Her intuition was correct, as usual. She was pleased that Vyasa shared her
feelings on the matter. He was certainly a worthy sibling. And continued
to be worthy of the leadership of Abaddon. She knew that he knew well
enough that if he took a wrong turn, in service to Abaddon and to Fatale,
hers was the first knife at his back. Thankfully, it had never come to
that.
Zola, however.. She was aware of his arrogance to some degree. Mostly in
regards to his desire to take the throne of the Bloodlands, as though that
were his manifest destiny. She also knew that some of his ways and
teachings were unlike what she had learned when there wasn't even so much as
a Bishop of Fatale. In the days before Abaddon's rise. She still
recognized his authority as a Cardinal. Because of that, she was a little
surprised that one of his stature would have fallen for such an obvious
trick.
She would watch. It was what she was good at, after all. She was not so
easily fooled. She would not let the Sins touch her kingdom.
Writer: Zola
Date Sat Jul 15 06:25:43 2017
Writer: Mercerion
Date Sat Jul 15 23:51:41 2017
To Equinox All Immortal Religion Nadrik Knighthood
Subject Sin and Salvation.
Mercerion silently paced the halls of the museum in Gareth, is gaze
moving from item to item as his mind was far from where he stood. As his
eyes moved from iten to item, his thoughts occupied the threats that still
loomed over Algoron. They were far from safe from the Demon aspects, even
if they were locked away supposedly in a bone currently in Nagash'
possession.
Storm seemed to be of the mind that they had to find an answer. Vigilance
was required, and that the world was not safe with the price paid to Nagash.
It seemed to Mercerion, that there was quite a bit of trepidation in the
matter. Three of the most influential people in the Dark faiths now
potentially found themselves at the mercy of Nagash, whom held the demon
aspects over their heads as a threat and a deterrent
Perhaps that was the answer. In their research, it was mentioned that there
was one in the LaFortinas line, long ago whom supposedly had such virtue,
that his blade meant death to these creatures. Though he was killed,
ironically enough, by Nagash, perhaps there was more to this person than
just the virtue of his person.
If these things could be killed, then Nagash' leverage would be removed, as
well as the threat in general. If the key to defeating them was virtue,
there was likely few on Algoron whom could be up to that task. And, if
these components could be used for control as Mercerion suspected, then
Gavriel would be out, as Nagash could enact control upon him as well.
If the key to their defeat would be the weapon... Then perhaps there was a
chance that the weapon still existed, and cold be recovered, or perhaps made
anew. If so, then whom would wield it? Whom would be outside of Nagash's
hold, and trusted enough to carry such a weapon?
Questions without answers...
It was time to pray.
Mercerion turned on his heel, his gaze last resting on Gunnar's blade before
he moved into the war room to descend to the Temple of Nadrik for some
mediations.
Writer: Ruwen
Date Mon Jul 17 15:32:45 2017
To Abaddon Vyasa Zola ( Imm Religion Fatale Feindahl )( All )
Subject [Breath]
He rubbed his forehead a little bit. 'I just wonder how this is all
going to play out. '
She made a small sound of assent. 'At this point, there's not a lot to be
done but to be patient, and watch for what comes. '
Ruwen truly did not understand what Zola's motivations were. She respected
him, of course. But that was why she wasn't afraid to disagree with him
when she felt it necessary. Not that she was really afraid of anything, to
be honest. But most anyone else, she wouldn't have given much thought to.
Even still, the cloaked Cardinal was still a bit of an enigma. She knew
very little about him beyond his rank and service to Fatale. That he'd
married one of Vyasa's siblings. (Though truthfully her understanding of
the Vai'kel lineage was hazy at best.. Not that she overmuch cared. Her
personal investment with their line more or less ended with Vyasa, and even
he had decided to take Vys's name and not Rhyane's.)
She also held great respect for Feindahl, and was glad (for lack of a better
term for someone with such tightly controlled emotions like Ruwen had) that
she had dealt with him rather than Dfedor. Dfedor seemed.. Too passive for
her tastes. Feindahl reminded her of the Emissaries of the old days.
Once Ruwen and Vyasa had parted ways for the evening, she made her way to
the Obsidian Altar. It was her favorite place, truth be told. Much of her
childhood was spent here, learning from her father. It was the place her
mother had died. Sacrificed to Fatale by her father. This place sang to
her blood like few things did. It was one of the places she allowed herself
to feel.
Hoisting herself up onto the black stone slab, she laid herself down along
its length and slipped a woven hide rope around her neck. Tying an exert
slipknot, she slid it tight about her throat and wound the loose end about
her wrist and pulled until breathing became difficult. She had done this
sort of devotional sacrifice from time to time. Each time held a
possibility that she might not breathe again in time. That when she lost
consciousness, the loop might not loosen enough. That was what made it
important to her. She left her fate to Fatale's hands, that whatever the
outcome, His will was done, and she maintained the mindset that she was His
servant, His pawn, and only He could decide whether her service was done.
As the pressure mounted in her head, she mouthed silent prayers and words of
religious ecstasy. Her legs moved restlessly and her free hand clenched and
unclenched as she resisted the instinct to release the rope. Her vision
tunneled, darkness closing in. Her mouth worked in wordless gasps, choked
off noises coming from her.
And then, finally, the world went black and she sank into unconsciousness.
Writer: Alexiah
Date Mon Jul 17 19:36:11 2017
Writer: Nehtur
Date Mon Jul 17 20:50:49 2017
Writer: Nehtur
Date Mon Jul 17 21:51:46 2017
Writer: Wyxle
Date Wed Jul 19 23:33:30 2017
Writer: Zola
Date Sat Jul 22 08:29:51 2017
Writer: Corron
Date Sun Jul 23 11:27:32 2017
Writer: Corron
Date Sun Jul 23 11:33:15 2017
Writer: Ylethsalisar
Date Fri Jul 28 22:24:26 2017
To All Cihuacoatl ( Fatale Dragoth RP )
Subject The Calling Pt. 1/3
The brooding sky sat over the swampland like an old bruise just beginning
to heal. The mass of gray clouds that presaged a coming storm drank in the
purple blush of the sunset. The noxious cloud of decaying plant and animal
life filled the air with a yellowed haze that mottled the purple sky to
further resemble bruised flesh. Even with the sun sinking below the
horizon, intense heat lingered in the humidity choked air like a palpable
cloak. A constant droning filled the air from the clouds of noisome insects
which hovered like speckled mist over the stagnant waterways and
moss-cloaked copses of cypress and alder. The occasional forlorn birdsong
rose above the chirrup of insects and croak of frogs only for a deep,
rumbling bellow to bring a stilled hush as predators began to stir.
The algae-slicked mud clinging to his moccasin boots, dun-colored leathers
clinging to his sweat-drenched form, the wild elven scout moved carefully
along the narrow strip of comparatively dry land between the dark, still
waters in this stretch of the swamp. The scout has long since given up
swatting at the unending hordes of stinging flies that has transformed his
bare face and neck into a mass of itching welts. Of far more pressing
concern were the numerous puckered holes on his legs and feet from the
leeches that had latched onto him unnoticed the last time he had been forced
to wade through one of the massive bogs that frequently blocked his passage.
The scout knew that he would need more than simple field bindings soon.
Trying his best to ignore the ominous call of some swamp bird that sounded
all-too-similar to a curdling scream, the scout listened for the sound of
distant chanting while struggling to inhale in the oppressively dense miasma
of the wetlands. With the arrival of full night and the brooding sky
stealing every trace of light, only the sporadic flashes of swamplights
provided illumination with distracting, vanishing flares across the swamp.
In the reflections of the afterimages, the wild elf nearly missed the
wavering light of a campfire still far from him. Elven eyes narrowed and
fixed on that point while a brief snatch of voices raised in chanting
against the thumping of hide drums reach his ears.
After days of hunting through these trackless mires, his quarry was finally
in sight. Picking a path around another deep pool, the scout tried to
hasten his step while retaining as much stealth and care as he could.
Clambering over cypress knees and skirting the cattails at the edges of the
water, the scout moved onto another narrow strip of damp earth that was the
only dry path available between two pools. So intent was he on maintaining
his visual on the stand of distant tress that largely concealed the
firelight that he didn't notice the bubbles growing in the surface of the
swamp to his right.
The sudden explosion of water startled the scout to such an extent that he
nearly dropped his hunting sword. A blast of heated, malodorous air jetted
up. The gas escaping from decaying matter below the surface had caused the
bubbling blast. Managing a weak smile, the scout said a prayer of thanks to
his goddess that conditions hadn't been right for the gas to ignite so close
to where he crouched. Sheathing his blade, the scout continued onward only
for another eruption of swamp gas and fetid water to startle him a few
strides further down.
Writer: Ylethsalisar
Date Fri Jul 28 22:31:07 2017
To All Cihuacoatl ( Fatale Dragoth RP )
Subject The Calling Pt. 2/3
By the fourth time it happened, the scout had tuned the noxious eruptions
out completely. He was now only several hundred yards from the source of
the fireside chanting. From this distance, his fine elven ears could pick
up three different types of drums sounding in staccato cadence while a
chorus of voices made low ululations in counterpoint to single voice raised
above them in the chant. The specific words were not yet discernible and
the wavering light of the bonfire continued to weave patterns of light and
shadow over the surrounding trees.
When a watery rumble accompanied the next gathering of bubbles, the scout
dismissed it completely as he focused on the path before him and his
destination. He was unprepared for the explosive launch of the lurking
alligator as the beast came barreling out of the swallow water with its
great maw snapping. Sudden, lancing pain filled the scout's left leg as it
was caught between jagged teeth while powerful jaws began to clamp with
crushing force.
Terrified and maddened by pain, the scout couldn't contain the howl that
tore free from his throat. Unable to worry over who might hear or what else
might be drawn his scream, the wild elf could only focus on surviving the
next few moments as the great reptile began to drag him into the water.
Screaming, kicking and flailing wildly at the face of the monstrosity, the
scout didn't have the presence of mind to draw his hunting sword until he
felt the weight of the water closing around his waist.
In the seconds before the alligator submersed itself completely and drug the
scout fully under, a far deeper rumble reached the scout's ears. There was
no bubbling of water this time, no warning other than that too-deep sound
reverberating through the water into the marrow of his bones. In a moment
of perfect clarity, the scout heard the drums again. He could just barely
make out the chanting. He knew it to be a calling.
A dark form exploded out of the swamp, fetid plant matter and dark water
whipping around it. A swarm of swamplights flared nearby threw sickly
orange light across the rippling scales of rich jungle green that covered
the brawny frame of the creature. Lambent jade eyes reflected the light
like mirrors, slit pupils dilating in the instant before the light faded and
the newcomer fell upon the alligator.
Both massive, scaled forms were lost in the murky water and the scout was
dragged under as well. Just as the grimy water closed over his face, the
crushing force on his leg relented. Scrambling madly, the wild elf managed
to drag himself back onto the strip of land. His leg was a mangled ruin of
rent, bloody meat seeping his life force out with each pulse of his
hammering heart. Nearby, the water roiled and frothed from the struggle
beneath the surface.
Transfixed by the sight, the scout lay motionless as moments slipped by
uncounted before the water went deathly still before his staring eyes.
There was no explosive eruption of water this time. No warning growl. A
hush had fallen across the swamps. No insects buzzed. No birds gave
mournful calls. Even the gathering storm was holding its breath. In that
perfect stillness, the sound of the drums and chanting was like a clarion
call. An improbable shape rose silently from the water.
Writer: Ylethsalisar
Date Fri Jul 28 22:37:27 2017
To All Cihuacoatl ( Fatale Dragoth RP )
Subject The Calling Pt. 3/3
Cascading water ran down the figure as it stalked forward from the
depths. A flash of lightning bloomed overhead and for an instant, the scout
saw the alligator slung across the shoulders of the bestial figure. The
reptile's skull was caved in and its neck was torn halfway open, allowing
blood to seep in heavy runnels down the brawny form that carried it. Scales
the color of jungle foliage rippled in tandem with the corded sinew beneath
as the figure lifted and tossed the dead alligator onto the muddy ground as
if the bulk of the twelve foot beast was as insignificant as a sack of
flour.
There was a single, fleeting moment when the scout thought that he might be
truly saved. Then the towering figure issued a heavy, sibilant hiss. An
inordinately long and forked tongue flicked out as the bakali took a step
forward. Lambent jade eyes locked on the wild elven scout and under the
weight of that unblinking gaze, he could not find the wherewithal to try to
limp away. Like a curtain of scaled flesh, a huge hood flared out from the
back of the bakali's head and down the sides of his pronounced neck.
Imprinted into the supple scales of the hood was a second set of eyes, dark
and hypnotic. Another step forward brought the bakali to stand directly
over the man he had saved. As the bakali opened his mouth, long fangs
folded forward from the roof of his mouth, their keen tips primed with
venom. The mouth within the bakali's cobra-like head continued to open
wider to an inconceivable degree giving the scout just enough time for a
final scream of terror before the bakali fell upon him.
Some minutes later, the chanting call was reaching a crescendo while the
drums of hide and hollowed logs pounded a frenetic rhythm. The bonfire of
moss-tangled branches and hunks of peat sent oily smoke into the air and
framed the ritual ring in wavering light. Forms covered in moldering hides,
heavy necklaces and bracelets of bone, bleached skulls worn on their head,
the callers reached the height of their beckoning summons.
The bakali stepped between two gnarled trunks into the ring of firelight.
Diamond patterns rippled in the surface of his scaled flesh with each
sinuous motion. The talons of his large hands glistened wetly with blood.
Blood stained his dense torso, the fine taper his abdomen distended by his
recent, live meal. Lambent jade eyes moved across the gathering with a
slow, unblinking gaze while the bakali's hood flared once more to reveal the
ocellation upon both sides.
The music of the drums ended. The chanting came to a sudden hush. The
marsh itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Then the bakali was among
them in a flash of green scales and glinting fangs. They had called the
Culler, and the Culler had arrived.
Writer: Cihuacoatl
Date Sat Jul 29 13:22:19 2017
To Abaddon Ylethsalisar Vyasa Zola (Obsidian Order)( imm RP Fatale Dragoth All )
Subject The Calling
Cihuacoatl had settled quite naturally into the Blood-lands, pleased to
have found someplace like her ancestral jungle home. The swamps were warm
and humid with the perpetual decay of plant matter, and the waters cool and
murky. The residents were All soft-skins, pink ones, that she had
encountered, but they largely respected her ways, even if they didn't seem
to understand them. She found them to be curious creatures, who liked their
food burned and combined, who covered their fragile hides with cloths and
the hides of other creatures. However alien to her, she found them amusing
to observe and learn about.
The one thing lacking was other Bakali.
The cultist was devoted to continuing the Old Ways, but some of the old
rituals were difficult without others of her people. They required two or
more working together to be done properly.
The swamp outside the city was deliciously fetid, crawling with All manner
of creatures. Cihua's white scales were smeared with muck from under the
garden pond, marring her appearance and scent and deterring unwanted
parasites as she dragged a buck through the trees and the algaenated water
between land hammocks until she reached a shrub-filled clearing with a huge
stone. The carcass she hauled had been gutted, crawling with maggots and
flies when she had retrieved it from a cache. The bakali stretched out the
rotting animal out over the stone and lit two small fires to either side.
Speaking sibilant words of her native tongue, she took hold of one of the
necklaces about her neck and hood, some kind of small humanoid skull hanging
from it and rattled it over the offering. Rasping and hissing, the bakali's
movements became more erratic and frenzied, spitting venom into the flames,
causing them to roar momentarily in a flare. She pulled out maggots from a
flea-bitten fur bag at her side and tossed them on the carcass, and pulled
out bits of decayed guts from inside its chest cavity, holding them up to
the sky with fervency and devotion before hurling the mess into the water
for the waiting alligators.
She then fell upon the carcass, tearing off bits with her teeth and eating
them. When she was sated and the fires died out, she left the remains in
the open to the elements, leaving her scent and her sign at the site, hoping
to attract other bakali to the area.
She was not disappointed.
Writer: Iscarianth
Date Mon Jul 31 13:48:35 2017
To All ( Iocaste )
Subject A tale of Two Turnips
It had happened so quickly, and for a befuddled and simple Alchemist
'quickly' is perhaps the worst way for something to happen. The missive
showed up with a date and a time for his return, it was expected that he
bring back only the things he absolutely needed and to gather All of his
notes in short order. So it went that he focused entirely on that one task:
Find, sort, throw away, keep. By the time several hours had passed he
amassed a large portfolio of sketches, notes, and parchments of dubious
worth. He had given away everything else to those he had last spoken with,
hoping that the Verminasians would find something useful in his other notes.
He quickly made his way to the docks, and while he might have felt like he
was forgetting something, it was such a distant and faraway feeling that he
was able to ignore it. He -couldn't- be forgetting anything: He had his
notes, he had his clothes, he had his assistant - did he? The ship was
casting off, and the blurry-eyed Elf frantically looked about until spying a
short, vaguely white shape. The voice was different, the smell was
different, but he knew his Oaka was often doing 'weird' things so he didn't
question it. He was relieved. Relieved that he was going home. Relieved
that he had done what was asked of him. Relieved that he was going to keep
his promise to the little Kender, that she was going to come with him and
see the wonders of the Atelier.
For an Elf whose sole purpose had been to explore, to learn, to experience
the -real- world outside of books and tales, this was the end to a very
happy chapter in his own book. Reaching out with a hand, he took hold of
his companion's sleeve - wondering only briefly why it didn't quite feel
like the same soft and smooth fabric of the robes he knew she favored. This
was happiness. This was ease. The two conversed merrily for the entirety
of the trip, heading to sleep only when they ran out of things to speak of
or the Elf's eyes grew droopy and his body betrayed him. When he slept, he
dreamed of the Atelier with its gardens and marble hallways. Of the poets,
the singers, the musicians, the crafters - he thought of how much he'd be
able to -contrbute- finally. The sense of pride consumed him, and he would
wake up with a smile tugging at his lips as he'd look over to where his
assistant slept, curiously quiet each morning.
For the Elf, he could not want for more. Everything was finally going his
way. Even the voices that he had been hearing for the past few months had
subsided. For everyone else aboard the ship though, there was a singular
train of thought:
Why was the strange Elf talking to a bag of turnips?
Writer: Juelian
Date Tue Aug 1 13:04:52 2017
Writer: Gavriel
Date Tue Aug 1 19:54:54 2017
To All Damia Kaelissa Jane imm roleplay rp
Subject Fitting Attire
It was hard to overlook the public invitation. Fancy as it was, it
didn't seem the sort of thing Gav would have any business being invited to,
but JR had made it clear he was expected to be there. He read it over
again, his eyes lingering on the dress code of formal attire.
"What's 'at, then?" He wondered aloud to Damia as he stood in the market.
"Probably something like a tuxedo, you know, a jacket, dress pants, polished
shoes..."
"Tucks-edo? Dress... Pants?"
"Or formal dress robes. Clothes worn for a special occasion that you
wouldn't normally wear on normal days."
"So... My best uniform what ain't got holes in. A'right."
"Well... Ummm.... Not, really..."
And then the Duchess showed up to help. Tailors were called for, with
Gavriel's protests about cost being addressed before he could even voice
them.
"I will see it paid for of course, as a matter of state. If you are to
attend this gathering of peacocks, we cannot have our most active and
well-known Sergeant dressed as a magpie, now can we. With no offense to
magpies, of course."
Gavriel had never seen so much of a fuss made about his appearance before,
certainly not about his clothes. As a kid, he'd worn whatever cloth could
be spared, usually made into an overlarge tunic that would be continually
mended until he outgrew it. In the infantry it hadn't been much different.
There was a saying among the troops, "if it fits, it probably isn't what you
were issued."
He'd certainly never had a bevy of seamstresses surrounding him, brandishing
pins and measuring ribbons, taking down notes on every possible dimension of
his form. Given his height, a few stools were brought in for them to stand
on for some of the measurements. Their ribbons ended up in a couple places
that made Gav rather uncomfortable, but they were so quick about it that he
didn't even have time to get properly embarrassed before the girl in
question had moved on and the length was written down.
The whole thing made him uncomfortable, really. The gleam in the head
seamstress's eye, when she'd been told money was not a concern, worried Gav
- not because he figured she would overcharge, but because he didn't know
what sort of creativity had just been unleashed. Gavriel had never seen a
peacock before, and he was hoping, when All was said and done here, that he
wouldn't get his first glimpse of one in the mirror.
Writer: Iscarianth
Date Thu Aug 3 13:16:08 2017
To All ( Iocaste )
Subject A tale of Two Turnips (Part 2)
The Atelier was exactly as he remembered it, if a bit blurrier and with
several 'new' faces he would only ever be able to describe... As
nondescript. It took a full week's worth of sailing, horse-back riding, and
skiing to get there, but he had finally done so. He was finally home. If
home is where the heart is, then there must be something to be said for how
the Elf felt when he was greeted, cheered on, and shuffled from one
interviewer to the next - yet All he wanted was to show his assistant about.
He found it immensely curious that his colleagues insisted on him leaving
her near the store-rooms, but if he had his own oddities and idiosyncrasies
- so did they.
Questions about the rest of Algoron, about the races, the food, the look and
feel - All of questions one could possibly think of were put forth to the
poor Alchemist, each guild master or mistress had their own focus and
demanded answers to -their- questions first. They wanted the answers to be
fresh in his mind since after all, the updates would have to be made to
texts, diagrams, guides, et cetera. Yet All of this just wore the Elf down.
Again, he thought he'd be -happy- to be the 'hero' of the hour, to share
every bit of what he had learned with aplomb - but instead he just wanted to
rest. To take a nap. To see what the Atelier had changed or built or
destroyed since he had been gone. He wanted to -do- something, not just
talk. Moreover, he wanted to see Oaka. It'd been two hol days since he'd
even seen the vague, faraway, 'blur' of his assistant and he was beginning
to think this was more of a bargaining piece than trying to make sure she
was safe and content. They'd probably only let him see her once he'd
delivered All of his lectures, written down All of his thoughts, and
sketched out All of the things he had seen. Yet when he would -ask- about
the Kender he brought with him, he only got blank stares.
It was as if nobody had -seen- him with his assistant, each person he asked
before having to extol the virtues of Yinn muzzle lengths or what Verminasia
used to make soap with, would simply shake their heads and tell him they had
no idea what he was talking about and if he wanted some tea. It began to
grow irksome, not because he -didn't- want tea, but because this whole time
he had -promised- Oaka that she could see the Atelier, that he would show
her the grounds and they could watch the stars or listen to the composers
play a newly created song, yet here he was being told nobody even remembered
-seeing- a Kender arrive with him.
What they -didn't- say is that they -did* see him come in with something,
and while 'strange', the whole of the Atelier's occupants were a little
strange and a little eccentric, so who were they to tell him? Indeed,
nobody would even bat an eyelash when he would ask about a Kender, though it
was strange to them...
Why he never asked about the sack of turnips he had arrived with.
Writer: Zola
Date Thu Aug 3 18:30:20 2017
Writer: Iscarianth
Date Fri Aug 4 12:06:05 2017
To All ( Iocaste )
Subject A tale of Two Turnips (Part 3)
It was far more poignant of a moment than Iscarianth would have thought.
He had read about relationships - there were library rooms full of poetry,
galleries full of artwork, conservatories full of music and songs - but he
had never really experienced the feeling of longing and loss. That was all
changed one week into his stay at the Atelier, by the most unassuming
situation possible.
Supper was being prepared, the chefs taking just as much pride in how they
-made- food than any of the other artists, tradespeople, or guild members.
It was something the Elf was growing fond of, having his own distinct
opinions on what was edible, what was drinkable, and what was a juice versus
a soup versus a potion. The sudden shock of seeing one of the chefs reach
towards his assistant, take a piece of her, and promptly begin to dice and
slice nearly caused him to faint. Some sort of watershed moment was being
had, the creators in the kitchen far less tactful than other guild members
and rudely posited: What, does Iscarianth not like turnips? Why'd he bring
them with him if he didn't?
What followed was a comedy of errors, the Elf utterly at a loss as to what
was going on - what turnips, who brought them, where was his assistant, did
someone lose the Kender? It was -his- turn to ask the questions, to demand
answers. He did not get anything other than being told to calm down, to
drink some tea, to tell them more about Kender and why in All of Algoron he
would have confused them for turnips.
He had already packed, he was already ready to leave - just the same as when
he was coming home. It was almost a strange parody of his adventure thus
far: He had been reluctant to leave, eager to return - and now he was all
too eager to leave and knew he'd be reluctant to return. He had -promised-.
He -had- to return. He -had- to find his Kender. Waving aside questions,
waving aside pleas for more information, for books, for sculptures, for
poetic prose the Elf was all-too-ready to walk out the ornately crafted
gates. But a voice stopped him, the one person who could still the Elf's
congested and clamoring thoughts - the master of the Atelier.
"If you're going to go, get yourself some Draconus-damned glasses. We are
not sending a boat for a lowly student and a bag of turnips again."
With that biting reproach somehow still tinged with kindness, Iscarianth
colored from ear-tips to feet, bobbing his head in agreement. He would.
He'd find Oaka and a pair of glasses so he could really see her. For the
first time.
Writer: Destinai
Date Sat Aug 5 07:18:41 2017
Writer: Brawnwyn
Date Thu Aug 10 19:45:33 2017
Writer: Terces
Date Mon Aug 14 14:15:39 2017
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