The halls were filled with an incredible amount of splendor. Riches that would make even the most affluent of hearts palpate with envy. Old money, one might say, laced with a classical air that lent the already monumental building a feeling of nearly oppressive power. Rippling red tapestries lined the polished rock walls, smooth and soft as silk, reminiscent of water flowing down the side of a mountain. Expensive paintings, detailed with an expert brush, seemed to watch and follow the passerby with eyes that nearly jumped off the canvas with their own life. They depicted a family line, or so one might deduce, for their noble features were nearly identical in every portrait, the family resemblance rarely deviating in their finely boned elven faces. Crystalline chandeliers hung low from high-vaulted ceilings, catching the light in their mirroring shards and scattering it in iridescent streaks down to the royal blue carpet below. Wide windows, punctuated with stained glass depictions of soaring Pterosaurs and various effigies of the gods, interspersed the stone to make the Gothic masonry somewhat lighter.
It was into these halls that Ariletar wandered. The massive oaken doors opened wide before him with a resounding thud, echoing down through the many cavernous passageways in a way that almost seemed sacrilegiously disruptive of the usual silence. The carvings upon the surface of those doors had bothered him at first; people being mauled by various assortments of animals and battles being fought, all immortalized in varnished wood. Not the brightest nor cheeriest things to recall to be certain, yet one could not help but note the talent of the sculptor whose hands had crafted this piece of functional artwork.
Shifting his leather satchel, the messenger cast wary glances towards the many acrylic visages that followed his traversing the regal carpet. He'd polished his shoes to shining as bidden before even entering, but here in the midst of this copious material wealth, even though he could nearly see his own reflection in the polished boots, it still did not feel enough. He sullied even the floor with his presence.
Deciding it was best to avoid these eternal sentinels, Ariletar moved faster, focusing on the beating of his own loyal heart, drawing ever closer to his destination. His footsteps were muffled by the thick carpeting, but that hardly stopped it from being overly audible in the otherwise empty and seemingly abandoned space. The feeling of intrusion was intense, almost palpable, as though the entire building wanted to heave and retch him from its bowels before he could do any more disgraceful damage. The Ylian's hands were slicked with sweat, especially where one rested on top of the sack that contained his goods, his delivery. Unconsciously his fingers slipped inside to touch the small pouch contained therein, to reassure himself simply of its presence. This calmed him, at least some, though the hair on the back of his neck still prickled in the sensation of being avidly watched with haughty condemnation.
It would not be difficult to lose oneself in this place. The halls were spacious, yes, but they were labyrinthine in design. Door after door lead into varied parlors and bedrooms and dining areas, with little indication on their surface as to what precisely lay behind them. And though each the twin of the other, they still proclaimed loudly the wealth of the owner, for the wood was polished to a dull glow, and the knobs all resembled purest gold.
Luckily this was not the messenger's first time in this place. It had at first tempted his urge to pocket one artifact or other, if only to carry it around with him as a memento of this manor. He no longer had any such urge. In fact, he had a strange and superstitious notion that the proprietor of this establishment would find him out, and that the consequence would be considerably more extreme than simply handing back the looted goods.
Time seemed halted here, and that fact only made his haste more desperate. He counted in his mind the many golden circles he would receive for the delivery of his package, and that alleviated his worry, even as he rounded a corner and stopped before a second set of massive doors. These were wrought painstakingly in cast iron, and upon the surface was rendered images of a monstrous megaras, their wings out at full span, tiny rubies glistening in the carved eye sockets, red as blood. The claws seemed the extend out towards those wishing entrance, coming to a cruel point, and Ariletar had the strangest sensation that at any moment they could rip free of their metal prison and eviscerate him where he stood gawking before he even had the chance to turn tail and flee. Their fangs were three-dimensional and menacing, and if he stepped closer to get a better view, he swore he could see what appeared to be human bones stuck between their teeth.
That was ridiculous of course. Who would want such a grotesque scene emblazoned as a part of their décor?
Nodding to the guard stationed before this last barrier between him and his prize, Ariletar strode through with forced confidence as the doors creaked their way open, inward, allowing access to the dimly lit study that they superimposed themselves before. The pungent aroma of jasmine and other assorted herbs assaulted him instantly, smoke wafting about from jars of incense set inconspicuously in the corners of the room. Bookshelves lined the walls, leaving no spaces between them, thickly bound tomes crowded so closely one wondered how they could even be pulled out and examined. The only light came from a fire place set at the center, the mantle hung with a vast array of dead and conquered game, ranging from trepor heads to ulbernaut arms, so carefully preserved that not even the slightest indication of rot could be seen upon them. Before this generous hearth was a desk, the legs carved into intricate carakas' feet and made from the flesh of ancient pine. In a high-backed chair behind the desk sat one man, a dermorian. His hair was black, which was strange in and of itself, especially for his race. Reaching his shoulders at least, it was bound back out of his pale face, smoothed and gleaming with oil. Bright green eyes peered up over the rims of his glasses, gazing at Ariletar in a dismissive way that left no question as to his personal value in this instance.
“You have what I need,” the man said, his pointed gaze returning to the book opened before him. It was a statement, and not a question, a blatant way to express his impatience in the matter. Occasionally his hand, fingers wrapped lightly around a carakas-feather quill, moved to fill in another line of text. The sound of his writing was the only one to be heard, save for the Ylian's breathing.
“Yes, sir,” Ariletar replied. He meant to sound confident, but instead his voice reminded him of the squeak of a startled mouse or a thoroughly cowed puppy. He cleared his throat and repeated the statement, adding “M'lord” to the end of it to make the title more praising, before he bowed low, his torso bending fully in half.
The elf stood, setting aside his work, moving around the desk. His clothing was bright in color, the tunic he wore stained with a violent red and set with polished brass buttons, his pants as black as his hair and completely wrinkle-free. As he straightened, the Ylian was struck as usual by the man's face: high arching cheekbones and the usual delicate features one would expect of a dermorian, and yet something stretched about them, something off, as though he wore a perfectly fitted mask that could only be noticed through repeated observation. It was so similar to the faces on the paintings in the hall that one had to wonder just how direct this lineage was, for certainly the genetic heritage was unmistakable.
“Well,” he pressed, his tone bored. He looked as though he wanted to swat the messenger away like a pesky and ambitious fly. Already he held a bag of jingling tria in his palm, and though the sum was generous, to him it was like tossing change down a well in the hope of having one's wish granted.
Earnestly, Ariletar dug around in his bags and drew forth his prize: the disintegrated remains of the fenki bard Barsidious had provided him with. He moved to laid this beside the tria and then grab it for himself, but the elf drew his hand back with a hiss of disapproval, lest he be touched by this inferior being.
“I imagine the floor is cleaner than you. Set it there, if you would be so kind, and you shall have your reward.”
Instantly, like a hound well trained to respond to a whistle of command, the Ylian stooped towards the center of the room and placed this tiny pouch upon the ground, backing away from it so quickly that he nearly tripped over the copious carpet. He again opened his hand to accept his payment, and this time the elf dropped the agreed upon sum into his open palms, his nose wrinkled in derision.
“There you are, you have your money. Now take it and go, and bring me the next before the month is up, or you will be deducted starkly on your next installment.”
With that statement made, the elf turned away from his guest, making his way for the tiny bundle of ashes that held his interest with a rapt attention. He stooped and scooped it into his own hands, his long thin fingers cradling it, his eyes shining with a greed that far surpassed a simple love of gold. The expression was akin to the look of a man dying of thirst, stumbling upon a fount of pure water in the midst of an arid desert. But then it was gone, quickly as it had appeared, and the impassive facade that he frequently wore followed to take its place.
Ariletar was more than happy to oblige the request, and had already angled for the door, one foot pressed upon the threshold, when the elf barked at him to stop. The order was nearly physical, the man might as well have tightened a vice around his chest, and a shock of cold shot down his spine. In his head he was carefully reviewing every exchange that had occurred during their simple interaction, and, finding no grievous breech in conduct, he dipped his head once more in a sign of submission.
“My Lord Teeleh,” he murmured, not meeting his eyes as the dermorian strode closer, a letter produced from a pocket in his vest, held lightly between his fingers. He offered it to the Ylian, and he accepted, careful not to actually touch Teeleh's skin in a way that would surely be taken as demeaning.
“You will deliver this to Barsidious,” he said. “I am in need of additional supplies, and expect a larger harvest when next you come to my door.”
Although he was nearly a full head taller than the elf, Ariletar could not help but feel small as the man managed to look down at him, despite the height difference. Indeed, he felt much like a worm, an inconsequential, slimy grub that could be squished quite efficiently with the tip of his boot. The only sad thing about his demise would be the cleaning of the dermorian's souls.
“As usual, your sum will be deducted further if my command is not carried out,” Teeleh stated, his eyes boring into his skull. The contact lasted only for a moment. The effect was profound. Ariletar's heart rate sped up to nearly twice what it had been, and a shudder of sheer and inexplicable terror traveled up and down his spine.
His only response was to clear his head and nod, and Teeleh was already on the other side of the room and studying the display above the fire by the time he recovered. Again, he felt the relief of nearly being free of this place, and was fully outside the doorway when the elf made one final declaration, his eyes still fixed upon the dead and mounted heads that lined the wall.
“I do not need to remind you of the consequences, should you decide to inform others of our arrangement, I trust.”
The thought of those lifeless eyes staring collectively at his back induced another shudder, and his voice was high-pitched in his ears as he replied in the affirmative. No longer able to stand the tangible tension in the air, the ylian scurried off like a frightened rat back down the hall, longing for the entrance, the iron doors slamming shut behind him with a ringing finality.
