Seeking of the Butcher

[Mariana Xiechai]

[This is also in the "fan area" writing section, but it occured to me another proper place for it to be would be here, since I plan to turn it into an ongoing event. So I'll post it in all of it's glorious wordiness. xD]

I.
Another murder, lying there in the snow, the whiteness sorely sullied by the tainted scarlet hue of the man's blood. People had gathered 'round to get a glimpse of the stiffening corpse, rigor mortis making the muscles clench and become permanently tetanic in death. Such a strange, eternally strange thing to see, really. When one expected the body to merely vanish into oblivion, into the Dark Lady's Realm, to be restored to wholeness. But the serrated dagger thrust deep into the merchant's neck, laden with a thick viscous liquid, assured that he would never again walk beneath the dome.

Beside it stooped one individual, carefully and meticulously looking for clues or hints as to the reason for the death. Certainly things would not have been so severe if this had been murder of a simpler sort, one that would result in the victim's resurfacing from the Death Realm at some undisclosed time. This act of malice was entirely different, and the air was now impregnated with the realization of what it meant. Hushed voices whispering amongst one another, frantic tones with impassioned queries. "Will I be next? Who could have done this? What motivation could they possibly possess? "

Running fingers around the dirt surrounding the body and ignoring the growing tension, the klyros swirled the snow in her claws, feeling for something, clues of what had happened. A hood shadowed her face, nestled deeply in the fabric so that her features could not be glimpsed. Her voice was disembodied as a result, as she cleared her throat and spoke in controlled, even tones:

“Did anyone see what happened here?”

Dead silence was the response, infecting the growing audience. The murmuring stopped, and nobody offered a single clue as to what events might have occurred to lead to the Ylian's demise. With a sigh, the klyros woman removed a strip of gossamer fabric from her travel-sack and carefully wrapped it around the hilt of the weapon. She drew it out in one quick motion, encasing it entirely in the silk, bloody blade and all. Replacing this makeshift package amongst her other belongings, she rose to her feet, careful to keep the hood from falling back from her face, and turned to go.

Twelve.

A death-toll that did not sit well in her gut, especially because she knew it had all been done by the same individual. At least, as she surmised. Every time it was the same blow, and the same methodology. She could not find a specific target. The races terminated didn't follow a specific pattern, and thus far none seemed to have been left out at all. The goal or purpose of this killer was nearly impossible to deduce. Mania was surely a player, but even a madman usually had a goal that rang with logic within his own mind...

Screaming halted the thread of thought. There was no reason to turn around and see what the crowd was gawking at, for she knew the results of this particular poison. Withdrawn from the mortal wound, it had still entered the circulatory system, and its passage through the body would allow the unfurling of the stuff that held it together: tendons, ligaments, the millions of fibers and proteins that made up the man's skin and muscles and organs. From a microscopic point outward, this venom would literally shred the victim apart, until it collapsed in upon itself. A sort of burning without fire, an acidic solution that unraveled flesh and blood and bone at its very core. First the smaller things would collapse, the extremities, the fingers and toes and the finer details of the face reduced to so much powdery dust. Then the legs and arms, traveling rapidly upward to collapse the chest cavity, devouring the head and blackened eyes at last. The scent that followed was a potent one, more chemical than anything else, unnatural, cloying. Coughing and whimpering could be heard as the people fell witness to this horror, and the murmurings rose anew:

"Who could use such a thing? Can you believe what just happened? Did you see how it killed him? He's gone, there's nothing but some dirt here now!"

She made quick work of traversing the road, the clacking of her boots the only audible thing. Her robes covered her entirely, and she could feel even her wings wrapped tightly against her body, granting her even the anonymity that disguised her rather distinguishable species.

Stopping before one specific door, the klyros looked about her in a way that bespoke of obvious paranoia, searching for followers that might have taken it upon themselves to seek after her. Satisfied, she put key to lock and triggered the deadbolt, quickly slipping inside and shutting the door behind her. A series of intricate fasteners and chains lined the edge of the door, and she activated each and every one of them in practiced succession, finally sliding the wooden bar firmly into place across the door's width and stepping back with a satisfied nod at the security of the arrangement.

Her next step was to of course make sure that the entire house was truly secure. With only one floor to speak of and sparse space, it didn't take long to search every nook and cranny. Beneath the table, the counters and the bed. Inside the closets and wardrobe. Poking her head into the pantry, where the smell of freshly baked products as well as some fouler alchemical scents assailed her with their familiarity, she was finally satisfied with that she was truly alone.

The cloak came off to reveal her slight frame and simple homespun clothing. Simple, but carefully pressed and cleaned. Everything about herself and her possessions was clean. Her scales were neatly polished and her leather boots were recently shined. The floor beneath her feet had been waxed to perfection, not a speck of dust visible. Every bit of wood was properly finished and shone from the care given. Pots and pans were arranged in neat, orderly stacks, starting with the smaller varieties and ending with the larger. Lines and lines of bookshelves that covered the entirety of the southernmost wall were arranged in alphabetical order, their bindings facing outward for easy access.

Flexing her wings, the klyros folded the dark cloak in half, vertically then horizontally, so that the edges lined up precisely and crisply. She crossed to the wardrobe and her eyes wandered down it until she came to the desired drawer, which she opened to reveal similar articles of organized clothing, one space precisely the right size present where she neatly inserted the cloak. She shut the drawer and turned about, unclasping the pouch from around her waist and gently setting it down on the table beside a supple pair of white gloves.

Donning these, the woman withdrew the knife once more and unwrapped it so that it lay unassumingly amidst the layers of fabric she'd placed it in. Her nimble fingers picked it up and turned it this way and that, noting the different scratch marks upon its surface, namely the hilt that the accost-er had at one point held in their hands. Murky white eyes studied the subtle signs with an eerie, pupil-less attention. Her thoughts rambled in a mostly incoherent pattern.

Deep depressions. The grip was firm, but more than that, pommel grasped with naked palm. Depicts anxiety. No, eagerness more akin the the truth, they're used to stealing life by now. Eager to plunge it into flesh, yes, most likely that is the reason for tensing of muscles. These scratches, they tell something, don't they? Klyran or Enkidukai. No, enki without a doubt, not wide enough to compensate for klyros claws.

To test that theory, she delicately placed the tip of one of her own claws carefully over the slightly scratch marks, smiling with self-satisfaction as she realized this was in fact truth. Bringing the weapon closer to eye level, she studied carefully the end of the hilt, the place where the knuckles of thumb and index finger would have held fast. There in the tight junction where the metal had been welded together, the smallest clump of fur had been caught. Her hand snaked into her pack and pulled out a pair of steel-tipped pliers, which she used to carefully pluck the patch of fur free. She placed it on her palm and gently coaxed the strands to separate, revealing a combination of orange and black furs. A satisfied 'hm,' another smile of revelation.

Enkidukai. Akkaio. Gender yet unspecified.

Placing the knife so that it rested in a perfectly straight line, she shuffled to her feet and disappeared briefly into her pantry. One half set aside for food, the other for an assortment of alternative ingredients. Mixing them up would be quite a problem, and could end in more than some unpleasant indigestion.

Selecting a few packages of sorted, finely ground powders and some vials of labeled solution, she strode back to the table and laid them all out in a pristine fashion across the wooden surface. Using a small, flattened wooden tool, she scooped up what she could of the poison, intermingled with the blood from the diseased, and turned to open the first package. A sprinkling over the solution caused a bubbling and hissing, and the blood was dissolved, to leave a more purified compound that could be more easily tested. This process was repeated, on down the line, one solution after another, separating out each individual part of the poison so that they could be more easily defined. Chemicals reacting with only specific counterparts, a rigorous process of elimination. Ending with a clear, translucent liquid that rested in an unsteady meniscus at the very bottom of the final vial, the klyros looked back at the trail of sorted components. Her gaze flicked over each, and with each, she made a deduction:

Reacted with more acidic properties. Increased propensity for higher polarity. Specifically, yarrow root. Dissolves in like, potentially a hint of dark mushroom with similar properties. This, dissolves more basic, less acidity, more likely some sort of plant. Organic property. Non-toxic, scent aromatic, most likely starphire or daintywhisp. Last compound...

Fingers holding the top of the vial lightly, using only the tips of her claws, she swirled the substance around before dipping the end of the stick into a thick, yellowish liquid and allowing a single drop to misc with the isolated solution. Pressing her thumb firmly over the opening, she mixed the two together and waited, a smile growing wide to show her finely pointed teeth, as they evenly withdrew from one another, as water with oil.

Immiscible in n'ra root extract. Binding agent of dark mushroom and daintywhisp or starphire. Main chemical ingredient in delivering ultimate lethal contaminant. Likely fungus type, relative of the dark mushroom, with slightly altered properties, palana mushroom most likely.

Setting these findings aside on the table and for the moment, painfully ignoring the mess, she scurried over towards her bookshelf while carefully sliding the stained gloves from her hands. She perused the ordered lines of tomes and finally came upon the one she sought, assorted flora of the dome level, and drew it out. Flipping to a specific number of pages, she affirmed her understanding that every piece of the killing poultice could be found upon that level, most commonly, where the radioactive rays of the crystal were most prominent. That could mean that the killer originated from that level, or, more likely, that his provider was stationed on that level, generating the illegal substance and selling it for a hefty sum. Either way, it was her only real lead, and she would follow it as a hound upon a trail. Such an exchange was typically not done by an unwitting salesman or traveler, for the retribution for such distribution was death of the permanent variety, and the cost outweighed far the benefit.

No, such an exchange occurred from the hands of the maker to the hands of the buyer only.

After a cleaning that included a rigorous attention to detail, the klyros quickly packed the belongings she thought most she would need. Countless numbers of tiny vials and packages all situated in their proper places, lining her pouch that was tied tightly around her waist. On went a simple blue tunic, and on a black pair of trousers, concealing the items at least for the time being until she could find her way out of the city. No disguise of the physical was necessary, for she'd found over the years that a change in character threw off most shady followers far better than any mask. Turning to the mirror, she watched as her expression molded into one of anxiety. Shifting eyes, glassy gaze, wringing fingers.

“S'not anything to concern yourself with, you see. I don't matter, not at all. I'm just a writer, and I dabble with alchemy. S'not of import, nothing, nothing, nothing at all.” Her chin twitched in time, glance lowering to the ground, the ultimate image of submissive and shy character. Personality now buried deeply behind this facade, she picked up another, larger set of bags and tossed it over her shoulder. Her fingers skipped lightly over the locks, her ears picked up the clicking sounds of their release, and she slid the door open to greet the dim light of night. A deep breath of air to fill her frail and fragile chest, and she hurried towards the Pterosaur across down.

Towards the killer.

Towards the dome.

[Mariana Xiechai]

II.
The dripping from those blasted cracks in the walls was becoming a form of torture. The condensation became a steady, trickling collection of moisture, constantly replenishing, filling these accursed tunnels with the drip, drip, drip. His subconscious was already counting those subtle patters, following their rhythm, throwing off his train of thought every time he got it back onto the right track. It was utterly infuriating. He decided then that he should add water to his long list of hates. Holier than thou's, dirt and grime, liars, water...

No, no, that wasn't the right place to put it on the list. Liars. Liars was the thing he hated most, the thing he loathed. So many liars and pretenders, little garden snakes with slitted eyes and forked tongues. Beautiful masks upon stress-strained faces. Ready to flick those silver tongues and weave a web of security around their own person. Don't let anyone crack them open and expose them to the sun, you see. The wreak of urine and feces would surely accompany such an exposure, brought about by the rotting ridiculous certainty of their own piety and self-importance. Lost in their own world, stumbling through a vision of charmflowers and crystal shine and all the pretty things that illicit oohs and ahhs from the observer. Because the world was a lovely place, was it not? Yliakum, this insignificant little hollowed rock, was such a pretty pretty place.

But no. That wasn't true either, was it? Delusion was their ally and folly their lover. They couldn't even see the grime that covered them. Couldn't even realize that there was darkness within, an infection, a plague, bubonic in origin. It brought about the wreaking necropsy of mind and soul. And they could not fight it, of course they couldn't, because they'd veiled themselves in this foolhardy notion that they were good, ever so good and righteous and wonderful and special little...

Time to break them of that fool notion. Time to render them incoherent in the face of their own failure. Time to make them stare into their own blackened despicable spirits and send them screaming in horror. Because only in this way could he save them. Surely there was nothing quite so holy as exposing a larvae to its own sickening waste and debris. Only then can it be inspired to dig itself out of its own muck, isn't that right? Send it and inspire it to drive to the leaf, to make a cacoon and chrysalis and emerge a new and truly refined life form. Realize how fallen you are, then reach for the stars. That was how the method would work, that was how he would show the world the truth.

The ylian's hand shook with eagerness. No one suspected him in this town, perhaps the neglect of the octarchy included the reluctance to spread word of his doings. That was good; that meant he could continue his quest in peace. Play the part of the comical jester, the smooth-tongued diplomat. Trust was so easily garnered, anyone who said otherwise thought too highly of their own sense of judgment. No, the trusting was easy. It was the luring that was considerably difficult, but that part was simplistic. A simple plan for the simple minded, and he already had his targets pruned from the lot and selected for their character.

Of course nothing was nearly as fun without the hint of a chase. A good game of enki and mouse, so to speak, though the enki's role in this case was nearly at an end. A worthy opponent he could never find, but the woman came close at least. Had followed him from the lower levels submerged in water all the way to the barn, and now she would follow him here, dutifully chasing after the clues he'd left for her.

Some specially imported ingredients were all it had taken. He figured from the mindless and relatively brutal state of his victims, she had assumed him as little more than a volatile thug. Imagine her surprise when she realized the intricate nature of his schemes! That he was, in fact, a savior rather than a monster! All he wanted to do was bring revelation to these poor hapless creatures. To help them to see the Truth of what they were, of their own depravity. It was a costly thing to be sure...and so very difficult to set up, but in the end he would show them all the Truth. It was all building, growing up, becoming what he needed it to become. Just a few more pieces set in place, a few more bodies, a few more minute pieces to generate the whole and glorious puzzle. Perspiration leaked into his eyes and stung them, and he wiped his quaking hand across his brow. His tongue slid eagerly around his lips and he slowly brought his gaze upwards, towards his newest victim, who had provided him with the vital bait that would bring the klyros hot upon his heels.

The Azure Way glyphs in his pouch shimmered and jumped, coaxed by his prodding to work. Of course, he wasn't obvious about their usage, and he kept them hidden carefully from sight. Only the foolish boasted their prowess in the open, and thus were shipped instantly to the Crystal. He was intelligent. An eagle looking down on a colony of ants, poised to crush just enough to get their attention, and then deliver a final, historic blow. And it surely would be remembered for all time, for once their weeping had ceased, they would revel in the revelation!

Stooping down with a knife held in black-gloved fingers, he smiled at the tightly bound akkaio menki. Caught in the throes of his carefully generated illusion, this newest victim frothed at the mouth, blind folded, mumbling and babbling incoherent words. Now and then it was punctuated with a scream, and he thrashed about, flailing at an unseen assailant—or perhaps being the assailant himself.

“Die!”

The shriek came not from himself but from the enkidukai before him, and he chuckled deeply as his unsheathed claws thrashed against his bonds. Spittle flew from his muzzle and onto the Ylian's face, which caused a scowl and a near back-hand across the furry cheek. But he refrained. It was almost time now, the game had been played out to completion, had been won already. He'd taken the bait and followed the scent of cheese like a good little rodent, only to find the mouse trap at the end crushing down upon his brain stem and severing the synapse signals to the rest of his body. Yes, soon he would be twitching on the floor. Very, very soon.

Expertly twirling the poisoned dagger in his hands, the Ylian carefully gripped the dripping blade between his fingertips and began to speak, the hum of his manipulative magic growing louder to a high-pitched whirr. Eagerness nearly making his voice waver, he spoke to the menki, through him, and into his mind.

“Look at what you have done,” he said, plunging deep into the illusion himself to become a phantasmal voice, his tone ringing out with condemnation. He suppressed laughter at what he saw: the blurry image of the enki, spinning around in circles, paws bloodied with the murders of his own imaginary family. Such a good man he'd been, but so easy brought to his knees. Children and wife slain at his feet. By his own hand, and only at the urging of the prickle in the back of his head, telling him that if he did not carry through, his own life would be forfeit.

Because even the most magnificently meritorious men were so easily swayed to killing!

“You've killed them. They're gone, forever, and look at what you are. A worthless creature. A bloodthirsty hound on the trail of the rabbit. Look at yourself!”

A clanging echoed throughout the vision, as mirrors rose all around the menki. His eyes widened in horror as he was forced to stare at himself, unable to look away, locked amidst these garish images of his own sadistic soul. He looked down at the cherished, beloved people at his feet, and for a moment the shock was too great to register. When it did, he sank to his knees and gripped his ears with scarlet-furred paws and began to wail a low, piteous sound. For this was no illusion to him. Oh no, this was reality, so perfectly fabricated by the Ylian's skill that it was nearly impossible to tear through to reach any stable ground on the other side. His despair sent ripples through the artificial walls founded upon thought, and they filled their builder with indescribable pleasure.

“You're worthless!”

“Worthless!” The menki repeated, voice barely rasping from his parched throat.

“A killer!”

“A killer! A wrathful, violent killer!”

“Tell me what you are!”

Trembling was the only response for a time. Eyes fixed upon the nearest pane of reflective glass, the menki was staring into his own haunted orbs, into his very soul. Ah, this was the part he always cherished the most, this was what it was all about. To see their expression when they were brought to this place, brought to fully understand their own terrible Truth. He could see it now, and surely he understood.

“I am evil,” he said, as if speaking to himself. “I am evil.”

The mirror shattered, sending shards flying out towards him. One landed upon his limp and outstretched paws, sharp as a harsh winter's breath, lethal as any weapon. Looking down at it, so close to himself, it took only a matter of moments to grab it in a harsh grip and thrust it deeply into his own chest.

Simultaneously, his real paw reached out and grabbed the dagger, and repeated the process as he slid it out of the eager, expectant fingers that offered it to him.

Rising once more, he wiped his gloved hands thoroughly as he watched his victim twitch and turn about, the effects of the poison fast-acting. The degeneration would occur later of course, he needed to give the lovely Evirea time to catch up, after all. Time to track down his newest prize and connect it to him. With that reassurance, she would be fully tangled in his web, free to be his pawn to control. And what a wonderful pawn she would be. Perhaps even a bishop, or a queen, if she proved to be worth her merit.

“Evirea,” he murmured, detaching the body from the pole and beginning to drag it along in the sewers. Time to plant it out in the open for all to see. Of course he wouldn't be able to observe there reactions, but it was fun to imagine what they might think when they witnessed what he had done.

He rolled the name over in his mouth again, tasted every syllable. “E—vir—ea...”

Time for you to join in my little game.

[Mariana Xiechai]

Well, that was fast.

Evirea blinked at the body in front of her, slowly raising a scaly eyebrow upwards in dubious disbelief. And of course, the victim just had to be an akkaio enki, which threw her theories off considerably. It meant that the trace fur she had found could very well have been from the victim and not the culprit, and the only defining thing she'd been able to pinpoint thus far was flawed, as far as proof validated. Plain as the crystal, which shined much too brightly on this level to be of much comfort for her, there was her source of information, now very much dead, the all-to-familiar knife thrust deep inside his chest.

Well damn, she thought. Just...damn.

This could also mean that the killer had planted the poison to send her on a merry merry chase. This did not bode well at all, since that would mean he was already rounding the finish line on the track and she was far behind at the starting line. He had a head start, and in this particular race that could end in almost certain demise. Not that this had her edged any closer to a panic. She'd chased these people many times before. Some of them had been excursions when she'd lost the trail of this specific butcher, whose killings and crimes were so incredibly erratic and apparently pointless that losing such a trail was astonishingly easy. But she had a lead now, and whether fabricated or otherwise, she was going to follow it to its end.

Stooping down, she repeated the usual process of wrapping and concealing the weapon, looking around the tower suspiciously. It was shocking, really, that nobody had discovered the body yet in such an obvious place. If they had there would have been an uproar, that was the only reason she knew its presence had not yet been detected. Once she was finished sticking the knife back into her travelsack, she squatted down beside the corpse and gave herself precisely forty-six seconds to decide what her course of action would be.

Scenario: Another corpse has been found, same methodology, killer is present on dome level. Knowledge will cause massive panic, venom extract will take a few days to kick in and dispose of body. Cannot possibly dispose of body without bringing about due suspicion upon my own person. Arrest, not an option. Crystallization, certainly not an option.

Course of Action: Test poison for chemical compounds, and ensure they match the compounds found on the Barn level. Delay suspicion of own person. Act the part of hapless discoverer. Throw self into adamant panic at the discovery, realistic inflection: trembling, wailing, wringing hands, at a loss with oneself.

Her calm and almost callous demeanor instantly shifted. Her face fell in an expression of total and deject horror, her lips parted and trembled and she crumbled physically, her shoulders sloping downwards and her claws digging into the grass. Her wide white eyes showed obvious and believable hints of fear, even though her heard beat steadily and no emotion of the sort lingered anywhere in her psyche. She rose to her feet and pointed downwards, towards the corpse. Drawing in a deep breath of air and hoping that enough people were present at the smithy and on the plaza to hear her voice from behind the tower, she screamed out:

“Gods, Gods! Someone help! Someone has been killed!”

It did not take long for a kore menki, clad in red way bracers and sporting dagger-like claws, to appear. An elderly looking Ynnwn with white, wiry hair was fast on his heels...

[Mariana Xiechai]

For the sake of realism I made it fairly obvious where this perma-dead body is. If you like, (and by some miracle actually read through this post,) I'd love for people to post their character's reactions to finding the "corpse." (It's simply a book, detailing what it looks like. Hopefully it isn't disposed of or picked up too quickly by anyone.)

[Phantomboy86]

Always time to read about a good enki killing!

[Mariana Xiechai]

The First Victim:

[Objects under this label (the first, second, third victim, etc.) are to be regarded as collaborative writings; this is the actual RP from the logs, nothing has been altered save some minor corrections in spelling. That is to say, the character Teshia's actions were written by Teshia herself, and are not writing of my own creation. That being said, thank you for your participation Teshia, it was an excellent role play!  ]

Barsidious moves towards the corner of the small, run down shack. He nods to the dark rogue, who returns the gesture and steps into the doorway, facing outward, crossing his arms. Opening the door to a small barred cell there, Barsidious moves to lay Teshia down inside, and steps back.

Teshia falls limp into the cell, only the barest trace of breathing showing that she is in fact alive still. The Azure spell seems to have put her heavily to sleep, and she gives no resistance at all.

Barsidious moves back outside of the cell and locks it behind him. He strides towards a table: covered in an assortment of strong smelling alchemical ingredients, an overbearing odor permeating from the collection. He reaches up and snaps his fingers once, smiling almost cordially. "Time to wake up, Mrs. Dastrid," he says, and punctuates the statement with a burst of convincing Azure Way.

Teshia blinks, eyes slowly opening to adjust to the dim lighting within the run-down shack. She pushes herself up from the floor of the cell, sitting as upright as the bars allow her. Resting a hand on the cold metal of the cell, she takes a few moments to gather her wits, making a slow inventory of the room, and it's two other occupants.

Barsidious chuckles softly, almost warmly, giving his disposition an eerie air. He begins to mix something together, combining a crushed, powdered substance with a viscous liquid. "Blue and Crystal Way, glyphs I'm assuming you're still in possession of," he muses. "You could try to make an escape now...freeze the bars....but I doubt you'd manage to do any real damage before I put you back under again." He turns his head, breath whistling through his mask. "What do you say, want to give it a go?"

Teshia narrows her eyes, running a fingertip along the bars. She tilts her head slightly, looking between the rogue and the robed, and seems to decide that the robes is by far the more dangerous of the two. After all, anyone can handle a common thug, but a madman, oh that takes skill and patience. One of which she has a little of, the other none at all. She takes stock of her clothing and glyphs, finding nothing amiss, aside from presumably the lack of her dagger. She tips her head down, looking up at Barsidious with a decidedly calculating glare. As she does so, the fingertips on her left hand, the hand not touching the bars begin to glow slightly, only the barest hint of Blue Way magics. She tries discretely to keep them hidden in the folds of her skirt for the time being, choosing to use words at her first weapon "Why have you brought me here?"

Barsidious turns himself slowly, to face Teshia fully. His eyes gleam behind the mask, and something beneath his cloak, around his neck, glows with a faint red light. He lets his arms hang loosely at his sides, and his gaze follows Teshia's every movement, every twitch. A chuckle again, deep, and without menace, resonates in his chest. Strangely, it seems to echo as much in the air as it does in the mind, his presence overbearing. "That is...a complex question, my dear. But rest assured, it will not take long, and you will learn a thing or two from the entire experience. You see...I'm only here to teach you, teach you about yourself. I think by the end you'll be grateful."

Teshia flips her hair, glaring fiercely at Barsidious "What is with you old farts..." of course, she's just guessing and being all-around rude here. "... thinking you have any right to teach me anything?" She glares, and her eyes slowly lighten in color, the very air around her seeming to grow colder. She flicks her left hand up, a dagger made of pure ice held between her fingertips, and she send it towards Barsidious. Most women would at this time be crying, begging, or probably reasoning, but not Tesh. She simply tries to fight back, with whatever faculties are left her.

Barsidious smiles widely beneath his mask, but of course the expression is lost beneath the craggy maw of the wooden facade. He jerks himself to the side, chuckling again, as the blade slices across his arm and leaves a nasty cut across his bicep. The barest hint of red fabric is exposed, and he tsks his tongue softly. "Now, I'm going to have to find myself a tailor." He muses for a moment, "Another method for you...perhaps?" His fingers move in a circle, blue sparks of light glimmering, and he speaks in a deep monotone, eyes boring into Teshia's face. "You're paralyzed," he intones. "You cannot move. An incredible weight is upon you, it weighs upon your hands and feet and makes you feel so very tired. Your muscles are tetanic, immobile."

Teshia's hand drops, and she gives a soft groan, eyelids drooping slightly. Of all the magics she's dabbled in, azure is not one of them, and she has surprisingly little resistance, if any to the spells. Of course, her mind is not completely asleep, and she continually thinks, content for the time being, or perhaps deciding that since there's nothing she can do, fatalistic, she merely sits there, immobilized.

Barsidious moves back to the door, keeping his spell heavy in the air. "Now, I wanted to be a gentleman about this...do forgive the awkwardness, I shall make this as painless as possible." He sinks down to a knee inside the cell, and begins to run his hands lightly over Teshia's body, searching for glyph pouches and hidden weaponry.

Teshia makes a hissing sound, the only way she can express her displeasure. Of course, her glyphs are almost all contained within the small pouch lurking under her skirts, tightly bound to one thigh. There are no weapons, visible or hidden anywhere along her person. She just seems to have been caught well off guard. The intrusion of his touch, enough to infuriate her mind has the effect of partially reviving her senses, and she merely glares under the weight of the spell.

Barsidious quickly slips his hand under Teshia's skirts to undo the strap that binds her glyph pouch. His touch is feather-light and shockingly respectful as he draws back out again, quickly, and rises to his feet, the pouch held tightly in his gloved fist. "There now, not so bad?" He laughs. "Your aura is absolutely seething, Mrs. Dastrid. That's good, very good." He turns around and exits the cell once more, closing the door behind him and turning key to lock. He flips the latter in the air and catches it, moving towards his table and letting the pouch drop carelessly to the table. "Tell me, Mrs. Dastrid," he says, whirling his hand to relieve the spell and the ylian from its effects. "How do you feel?"

Teshia snarls softly, throwing herself against the bars and reaching as far as she can through them, trying to grab hold of the edge of his robe "come closer and I'll show you."

Barsidious looks at the grasping hand, at the slightly curled fingers. "My," he says. "Feistier than I imagined, truth be told." He turns back and continues his mixing of potions, adding more ingredients, allowing them to misc. "I'm not sure I even need this part, truth be told. You're strong physically, but your mind...paper thin. Fragile, like a piece of glass. So easily..." He turns, holding the powdery substance in his palm, and blows it through the bars at Teshia's outraged face. "Shattered."

Teshia stumbles back, falling against the other side of the cage, blinking rapidly and rubbing her eyes fiercely to try and get the powder out of them. Of course, she wouldn't be able to do much more than force it further into them, but she tries none the less. She growls in her frustration "what would you know, you irritating pig? you kidnap me from my love and drag me out here. Goddess help you if you don't kill me, for I swear by Him that I will gut you, and stitch your wounds back together with your own entrails you sack of ulber feces!"

Barsidious laughs, his head jerking back from the force of it. He grips his stomach. "Oh, you poor, poor, pathetic little creature," he says. His voice almost sounds truly remorseful, though not for what he has done. Perhaps for what he thinks of Teshia. "Tell me now, what do you think of yourself, hm? Do you think yourself so much better than I?" He begins to walk around the cage, flicking his fingers upon the bars briefly. "Do you think yourself so much better, hm? Because I assure you by the evening...I'll have broken you of this illusion. As I said, you're here to learn, the cards are set, and we're almost ready to begin."

Teshia laughs suddenly, eyes watering, tears streaming down her cheeks in her body's attempt to free the hallucinogen from her eyes and such. She blinks rapidly, staring at Barsidious. It takes her a moment to reply, as she's having trouble focusing on her thoughts, beyond the double vision she sees of him. Her lips part, and she licks them faintly, watching him, seeing hazes and auras around him. "You consider yourself so smart, so very wise and learned. But you've wasted your time if you think to break my mind, to lower my confidence. One cannot break what doesn't exist, one cannot lower what is already base."

Barsidious seems to grow intrigued by the statement. He turns back again, a thinking 'hm' issuing from his throat. Running his fingers along the bars to generate a metallic chiming, he watches Teshia through his mask, waiting perhaps for something, but he remains silent for a time. Then, just as it reaches an unbearable point, he attempts to drive himself, knifelike, directly into her mind, a burst of potent and searing magic following through.

Teshia screams, a high-pitched sound of fear and loathing. She trembles, body wracked with an almost epileptic jerking. She moans, whimpering softly, her mind laid bare to Barsidious. Within it's depths, he would see many things, predominantly an almost overwhelming presence of Caraick, her thoughts and emotions seem to dwell on him far too often; other thoughts seem to slide in and out of her mind, like fish through a stream. Her children, her guild, Travosh. They all seem to flit back and forth, and at the very heart of her consciousness, an overwhelmingly black pit, full of despair and self-loathing.

Barsidious prunes through the torrent of images with harsh and plucking fingers, shifting through Teshia's mind without care to privacy or cordiality. The mental realm is his, it seems, and what little respect he had before appears to be gone. Wrapping it in a vice-like fist, Barsidious claims it wholly, wrenching it downward into an illusion that he has pre-depicted and woven. If successful, he brings Teshia's thoughts to a whirring and abrupt halt, surrounds her with the realm of a dark and almost otherwordly forest. Crickets chirrup, and a breeze travels through the foliage, letting the shack and the man inside of it melt away to make this perfect little world. Plucking at pictures and feelings like strings, he makes a rustling sound come from one of the bushes, nearly invisible in the dark, and plants a glinting dagger in Teshia's hand. The feelings of hysteria and panic descend like a tangible force.

Teshia falls prey completely to the illusion, her mind's self crouched down. She deepens her defensive stance, shifting the daggers back and forth between her hands. Right hand... or left... one's faster, one's stronger... Each time she moves the dagger, she wipes the other hand down along her tunic. Of course, in the forest she'd not be gowned. A plain tunic, supple leathers, boots that let her walk silently to avoid.... notice. Her eyes widen as the rustling grows nearer. her gaze darts about wildly, and she flips the dagger back, blade resting along her forearm, hilt held tightly in her left hand. Slashing, thrust with the hilt, backhanded stabbing. She creeps to the side, eyes always locked on the bushes, pupils dilated to enormous size, nothing but the sounds... the forest... nothing but the fear.

Barsidious suppresses his giddy joy at seeing how easily Teshia is manipulated, how deliciously malleable her mind appears to be. Continuing to make fear and anguish emanate, he begins to move his phantom menace around in a circular pattern, unseen, rustling the bushes and the undergrowth to the right and left of her over and over. Whatever it is, it seems to feed upon her fear, and soon the scent of wreak and decay can be detected heavy on the air, potent enough to leave a revolting taste upon the tongue. The sound of heavy, ragged breathing, akin to that of a large wild beast, rings out. "Teshiaaaa," it rasps, calling out the name in a broken, rusty tone. It creaks out of the unseen throat, and the sound of breathing draws closer, closer still. The very manifestation of horror. "Teshiaaaaa."

Teshia drops to her knee, rolling quickly to the side, diving, darting, turning constantly, always looking, always searching for the source of the sound. She hefts the dagger higher, keeping it in front of her, lashing out at shadows. As the stench grows stronger, she gags, choking on it as the putrid fumes fill her nostrils with the aura of despair. She spits, trying to get the taste out of her mouth, and inhales shallowly through her mouth. Trying her best not to scent it, she ends up almost hyperventilating with the fear and odor, finally shrieking aloud "What do you waaant!"

Barsidious's body begins to tremble with eagerness as he continues to weave the illusion, faster and faster, making it all the more believable and consuming. Just at the moment when he feels Teshia's fear the strongest, the most potently, he makes the image dart out in the darkness: a blur of black that is nearly indecipherable in the pitch black wood. Sticks crack beneath its claws and it stretches its arms out towards the prone Ylian, fingers groping towards her throat, still panting as the fear reaches a heady crescendo. "TESHIA!" It shrieks, closing the gap between them with incredible speed. Three paces away, two paces, one...

Teshia waits until the last moment, her mind paralyzed with fear, but her body, even the mental body, trained and honed in combat. She darts out with a slashing moment, drawing the side of her arm, and the dagger blade along the blur, aiming for just below the head, where a neck should be. Her heart practically stops beating with the shock and fear of the claws and snarling and shrieking. She screams as she slashes again and again, not pausing to truly look, simply trying to destroy the source of her fear, ever ounce of her mind and body reeling against being hunted.

Barsidious is nearly rendered to a state of euphoria at his success. A light dawns upon the illusion, brightening the forest, leaking through the canopy and flowing down between the leaves with an almost audible twinkle. The creature stops moving, its cloaked and hooded body dangling limply off of Teshia's daggers, one plunged deeply into its neck and the other into his chest, where his heart beats its last. The hood falls back, and Caraick's dying eyes stare into Teshia's golden ones, the blue electric tint losing its ferocity. "Teshia?" He rasps, blood pouring out of his muzzle and dribbling past his fangs. Eyes rolling back in his head, he stares blankly up at the sky above them, body crumpling to the ground, bleeding from the wounds delivered by his wife's sullied daggers.

Teshia stares at the body, dagger falling limply from her hand. Caraick's blood trickles down her hands, the warm, red fluid caressing her fingertips and staining the sleeves of her tunic. A splatter of red has sprayed across her face face, and she raises her empty hands, staring at the blood. She grabs at her cheeks, nails serving as claws to rip down the soft flesh. She shrieks, again and again, calling steadily his name "Cariack! Caraick!" the scream grows louder and louder, never ending in it's intensity, a wail of utter anguish. Without warning, she drivers her fingertips into her eyes, seeking to pluck out the offending organs, that she may never again have to look upon that last visage.

Barsidious smiles, and his voice reverberates throughout the trees, sinking into Teshia's head as though to dig into her stream of convoluted thinking. "Look at what you have done, Teshia," he whispers into her mind. "Look upon him, now. Look into his eyes, they will never again see the light of the crystal. Look upon his face, see what fate has come to him. A price for loving you, your wretched self. For loving the worm that you are. LOOK AT HIM!" The last is a shriek, a demand, willing the ylian to open her eyes and face her own homicide.

Teshia whimpers, falling to the ground atop the lifeless body. She clings for a moment to the corpse, before digging her fingertips further into her own eyes "Never... never! I'll never see again!" The weak orbs would give way, blood and viscous fluid pouring down her face, caught in a cry of utter hopelessness. Blinded of her own hand, she feels about for the dagger...

Barsidious turns towards the table and reaches for a knife there, suppressing again the need to hum with a giddy celebration. He uncorks a vial of black fluid and coats the blade fully in it, turning again, slipping it through the bars...towards Teshia's grasping fingers. "You know what you have to do," he whispers to her, his voice almost seductive. "You know what you are, what you need to..." The voice stops, and a crash is heard, a shout. The smell of burning flesh, acidic and chemical in nature, fills the air, and a thump against the ground shakes the floor. There seems to be a scuffle; blurred images as Barsidious' illusion falls away, the walls becoming transparent and then melting like paint upon a canvas. A vehement curse is heard, and running feet slamming into the wood floor, towards the direction of the door. Another figure stands before Teshia, eyes flashing to the knife as it tries desperately to pry open the door of the cage. "Mrs. Dastrid, NO!" It shouts, sprinkling something upon the bars and then slamming a fist into the corroded, weakened metal.

Teshia gasps, a whimpering sob, as her fingers slip around the daggers handle. Her eyes are wide, yet the depth of the illusion was so stunning, that she cannot even reason that she is once again able to see. The overwhelming guilt and shame of the illusion, the lingering effect of the hallucinogen, and the weakened belief that she is in fact destined to be the death of her beloved cause her to try and slice the blade across her wrist, determined to join him.

Evirea lets out a guttural hiss as the blade draws an angry red line. She darts forward and grapples with Teshia, managing to get the knife out of her quaking, weakened grasp, and tosses it aside, out of the cage. Moving to shove Teshia down to the ground, she begins to speak, though she keeps her tone low and croaking, almost masculine. "You don't get to die on me Dastrid," she growls, tearing at some hidden compartment in her clothing. A vial of gooey green fluid tumbles out, and she moves to pour it out over the small injury, massaging it into her skin deeply. "He doesn't get another!"

Teshia trembles, falling limply to the ground, tears streaming from her no longer destroyed eyes. Her gaze behind them is vacant though, and she merely murmurs "let me die with him..."

Evirea finishes, studying the wound coldly, impassive to Teshia's words, only intent upon saving her life. She watches as the poison is sucked forcefully out, and to aid in the process she squeezes tightly, making the foamy residue seep out faster. She wipes this aside and finally looks at Teshia's face. Not one for kindness or shows of compassion, she simply reaches up and tries to slap her, HARD. "Snap out of it," she grates.

Teshia's head flies back with the force of the blow, but there's nothing behind them aside from despair at what she believes she's done. Her body may heal, the poison may be removed, but she's a shell of herself, not speaking or meeting the klyran's gaze.

Evirea hisses from between her teeth. "Fine, damn you. Damn you. I'll carry you." This would be a rather comic statement, compounded by the figure's slight frame, but she moves beside Teshia and grabs hold of her, gripping her shoulders and dragging her towards the dead body of the dark rogue, a dart sticking out if his neck. She pulls her outside and whistles shrilly, grinning beneath her mask as a Rivnak comes galloping towards her. With a grunt, she moves to heft the comatose Ylian onto the creature.

Teshia is dragged along, giving neither resistance nor aid to the klyros.

[Phantomboy86]

lulz, always fun to see Caraick murdered.

[Aramara Meibi]

How did Teshia get herself into this situation? Why was she targeted? and what led Evirea to finding them?

[Mariana Xiechai]

@ Travosh: You like it when any enki dies
@ Aramara: I plan to fill in the gaps involving my characters and answer those questions with additional writing

[Phantomboy86]

@ Travosh: You like it when any enki dies
@ Aramara: I plan to fill in the gaps involving my characters and answer those questions with additional writing

I'm allowed to take special interest in individuals!

[Aramara Meibi]

ah yes, I should never have doubted you. I apologize for my impatience. ;P

funny little observation here, of the things that ran through Teshia's mind, Travosh earned a special mention.

Travosh takes special interest in the death of Teshia's husband.

hrmmm...

[Mariana Xiechai]

  appology accepted. Also, don't get him going Aramara, things might explode in fiery pieces.
Literally.
 

[Aramara Meibi]

* Aramara Meibi presses together the tips of her fingers, wearing a wicked grin, "Excellent..."

[Mariana Xiechai]

* Mariana Xiechai gets the nice white jacket and the shot of sedative. "Heeeeere, kitty kitty kitty..."

[Phantomboy86]

*Travosh bursts into the room and fly-tackles Mari before exploding spectacularly.

Like a boss